He really hoped his dick wasn’t hanging out.
A quick glance down said he was in the clear.
“Thank you! I didn’t mean to insult your river stench. Maybe it’s an acquired taste. Like foie gras.”
Foie gras? What the actual fuck?
“Oh, I wouldn’t recommend tasting the Mississippi. It’s likely rank.”
“I was told there was a pool?”
Connecting the dots took a moment. Why would she ask about a—oh, right. Swimming in the river if she didn’t have access to a pool. That made an odd, sideways sort of sense, he supposed.
“Of course. The Seaside’s equipped with an indoor pool, with French doors to let the fresh air in.”
She beamed up at him, looking like she was going to say something else, but the blond man—most likely a brother, by the resemblance and by the slightly rough but affectionately familiar way he was handling her—ushered her inside by the elbow. She managed a wave before disappearing from Sol’s sight with her fluffy dog.
Sol dumped the last of his mimosa into the potted ficus tree and stalked inside.
“Cylan!”
The accountant usually floated around by now, a dark shadow offering business acumen, snide affection, and coffee whenever it was needed. He let himself into Sol’s suite at nine every morning unless Sol was, as Cylan liked to say, “hosting mattress Olympics.” As the sheets were lacking foreign DNA, Cylan was on his cell phone in Sol’s office, threatening to drown someone in their own bathwater for negligence.
“Cylan, get off the phone!”
There was a sigh, a squealing hinge of a filing cabinet, and the creak of an opening door. “What do you want? It’s your brother.”
“Alex?”
“No, Nash. Chicago had a kitchen fire.”
“Come here. I need pants.”
Sol darted into his closet, rummaging through a rack full of nearly identical slacks. Did he want white, gray, white with gray stripes, or gray with white stripes? Gray, definitely gray. He lifted his arms to snag a pair and caught a whiff of Poor Life Choices.
“I need a shower,” he murmured, abandoning the clothes in search of a clean towel. It was amazing that in one of the French Quarter’s finest hotels he couldn’t find a goddamned towel for the life of him.
“Your hotel’s on fire, I said,” Cylan repeated.
“Make a new one. I need you to do me a favor.” Sol stripped off his robe, not caring whether or not Cylan saw his bare ass. What was a little incidental nudity between old friends?
“. . . no permanent damage. They just need to replace the fryer. The sous chef responsible has been let go.”
“Excellent! Go spy on the blondes who just walked in. They look familiar, but I can’t put my finger on why.”
Cylan paused long enough for Sol to duck into the bathroom and start the shower. The accountant wavered in the front room, and deciding not to subject himself to Sol’s naked ass any longer than was absolutely necessary, he retreated downstairs. The slamming door telegraphed his displeasure at menial labor that had absolutely nothing to do with the burning property nine states away.
Sol smiled to himself and scrubbed.
”She’s the Barrington heiress. Well, both of them are Barringtons,” Cylan announced, venturing a peek into the bedroom to ensure underwear was part of Sol’s repertoire. Sol had done some better; he was already in his white shirt and clipping his cuff links. Pants, socks, shoes—everything was in order save for his vest and tie. His hair was slicked back and tied at his nape, the ends towel-dried enough that they wouldn’t wet his collar.
“As in the Baby ’Burtons?”
“Yes.”
That’s where he knew her from. Her father was in defense contracts and a notable conservative lobbyist. They weren’t Maddy money, nor were they quite as well-off as the Halliburtons they were invariably compared to, but they were more her flavor of riches than Sol’s. The six sons and one daughter were media darlings from the time they could take their first steps. They were entrenched in Washington and entrenched in society; if it was a fancy rich-person party, they were invited, and if they weren’t, their dragonlike matriarch was scrotum-shrivelingly vindictive.
Sol shouldered into his vest, his fingers nimble on the pearl-finished buttons.
“I’ve read she’s with the Harwood heir, if that makes any difference,” Cylan offered.
“None whatsoever! I met him once, at a Paula Deen gathering before the racism party scandal. He’s a cockweasel.”
Cylan watched him dart around, his glower darker than usual. “You know that saying about shitting where you eat.”
Sol returned to his closet and a wall of ties. “Mmmm! Shit!”
“Sol.”
“What?”
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know, but it’s nice to be excited about something. Lavender or royal blue?” He walked out with two ties, putting both against his vest and eyeballing his reflection. “Lavender,” he answered himself, because fashion opinions from a man dressed as Gomez Addams were worthless.
“This is a terrible idea.”
“I’m just going to introduce myself, offer to show them around my hotel. They’re Barringtons. They’re used to a certain level of ass kissing, and I, my friend, am prepared to pucker up.”
“No comment.”
Sol’s smirk curved up a notch. “Honestly, you walk in on one rim job and you’re ruined for life.”
“For Christ’s sake.” Cylan stormed from the suite, out the front door with a slam, and into his own suite with another slam. He was a master of making big noises with clapping wood.
“You had your chance, peaches. Don’t be jealous!” Sol couldn’t help himself. Cylan was so obviously uncomfortable with the flirting that anytime the opportunity arose to needle him, Sol had to take it. He’d only been hit once. Twice. Three times at the very most.
Worth it.
He knotted the tie and stuffed a handkerchief into his breast pocket, three perfect folds fanning out like a seashell. A last glimpse in the mirror to ensure everything cut just so and he headed toward the glass elevator that would bring him to the front desk. The hangover doldrums had been replaced by a revolting good mood brought on by a roly-poly hat-chasing heiress with a wiggly puppy and a solid jab at Cylan. Really, it didn’t get any better. His hands locked behind the small of his back as he descended from the top floor, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. A smear of fingerprints marred the front pane of glass, and he flourished his handkerchief to wipe them away.
Ding!
Bottom floor. The Barringtons were still at the front desk, the overloaded bellhop crushed beneath their luggage. They should have been situated in their rooms already, but if they didn’t have a preexisting reservation, the staff would have been scrambling to place them.
And they knew enough not to allow a Barrington to walk out the door . . .
The brother was at the counter, talking—flirting?—quietly with Amanda behind the desk. The sister whispered to her dog like they shared a great secret.
“Welcome to The Seaside!”
The Barringtons turned toward what Sol hoped was dulcet charm. He extended a hand to the man first, offering a firm shake, but his attention was fixed on the cupcake. Her eyes were the color of the sky—a rich, warm blue swimming in a sea of beaming face. A few soft freckles kissed the bridge of her nose and cheeks, a spray of them splashing ginger over her bare shoulders.
She’s adorable.
She offered her hand as well, and he lifted it to his lips and kissed the knuckles, catching a hint of soft, floral perfume in the process.
“You’re the man from the terrace,” she said, smiling.
“I am. Sol DuMont, welcome to my hotel. Miss Barrington, yes?”
“Yes. Nice to meet you.�
� She blinked at him, her lashes long and thick and as delightful as the rest of her.
“Vaughan Barrington, in case you give a shit. This is Arianna.” Vaughan collected his key card from Amanda and motioned at the elevator. “Third floor, droplet. I’ve been told we have a good view of the river.”
“Good. Excellent.” When she made no move to pull away from Sol’s loose grip, Vaughan slung an arm over her shoulders and guided her along. She craned her neck around, a bright smile on her plush mouth. She inspected Sol, perusing him from head to toe, like he was a department store display. She must have liked what she saw, because she lifted her gaze to meet his and never broke it.
She sees me seeing her.
That’s it, kitten. Here, kitty kitty.
“Do call if you need anything. A tour, perhaps. Miss Arianna mentioned the pool,” he said as they passed.
“That’s not necessary,” Vaughan tossed over his shoulder at the exact same time Arianna said, “That’d be lovely.” Vaughan cast his sister a look. She ignored it.
“I wouldn’t intrude?” Sol slipped his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels, doing his best not to look too toothy. He didn’t want to scare her off, after all. She was young. Midtwenties, and so very fresh. She didn’t look like she had a jaded bone in her body, and heaven knew he was overdue for a bit of fun.
“Don’t shit where you eat, Sol.”
Why does my conscience sound like Cylan?
Whatever. Fuck off, Head Cylan.
“Oh, you’re not intruding at all,” she called. Vaughan shoved her into the elevator with the bellhop, and as the doors closed, she shouted, “Room 315!”
Ding!
FOUR
“YOU REALIZE SHE’D have an aneurysm.”
Rain was in the middle of her usual hotel routine: check the towels in the bathroom, ensuring there were four big ones for morning and evening showers, one for face, one for each body wash. Toothbrush in the holder, toothpaste beside it along with her hair and cosmetics bag. She unpacked her clothes, organizing them by function in the dresser and hanging in the closet all fabrics that could at any time require steaming or ironing. She set up her laptop on the desk, placing a pen beside her mouse—she preferred the mouse because touch pads annoyed her. The bed was checked for proper pillow-to-linen ratio. The temperature was set to sixty-eight because that was neither too hot nor too cold.
She liked certain things to be just so. It made her feel secure. She could at any time find exactly what she needed when she needed it.
Unlike Vaughan, who was gross and picked the cleanest of his dirty clothes to wear and called it a day.
She stopped unpacking to glance at him. He lounged across the silk chaise in the corner, the beer in his hand freshly pilfered from the largest minibar she’d ever encountered. Vaughan blended in here—a painted man in a painted room. One wall was brick and part of the old construction, an antique mirror with a black studded frame occupying half the expanse. Photographs of Jackson Square, plantations, and open-air markets filled the gaps, extending all the way from the ceiling to the Oriental rugs decorating the hardwood floors.
Two of the walls were painted gold with dark-stained dentil molding along the top. The style was aesthetically pleasing clutter, the bureau, bookshelves, and lamp tables covered in oddities that complemented the antique décor. The bed was a four-poster affair with mountains of fluffy pillows and a hand-hooked lace coverlet. A matching lace canopy and a snoring corgi completed the ensemble.
The last wall was floor-to-ceiling windows with red velvet drapes so heavy they required three brass rods to support them. French doors led to a private terrace with a thriving potted flower garden, and among the flora, nestled in for privacy, was a pair of Adirondack chairs pointed at the Mississippi.
A good view indeed.
Mr. DuMont did say so.
He’s handsome.
“Rain?”
She jerked out of her reverie. “What?”
Vaughan smirked. “I said she’d have an aneurysm. I’m not telling you what to do, but you know how she is. Take it easy.”
She stared at him blankly.
His beer hovered in front of his mouth. “Mr. DuMont?”
“What about him?”
“Oh, you’re bad.”
“What? He seems nice.”
Very nice, in fact. He had a lot of white teeth, rather like a shark, which wasn’t the most favorable comparison to make considering sharks killed and ate people. But a man that well groomed wouldn’t do that. Well, Ted Bundy had been rather well groomed, and that had been a spectacularly awful, murdery affair, but they’d electrocuted him years ago.
It’s hard to believe he’s the same hobo from the terrace.
Mr. DuMont, not Ted Bundy.
“What was that?”
“Nothing!”
It’s not nothing at all. That man likes looking at you.
And you like being looked at.
She concentrated on the dress in her hands in lieu of an awkward explanation Vaughan didn’t want to hear, about sharks, or serial killers, or how much she liked DuMont’s attention. A handsome man admiring her would be intriguing either way, but it was how he did it that was appealing. It made her nervous all over, a little itchy in her skin, but not in a bad way. More of a run-and-see-if-he-chased way.
Which would be hard to explain to her brother. Not to mention weird. So she didn’t.
“You should come on the tour,” she said. “I’d like to see the amenities.”
“Is that what we’re calling him? An amenity?” Vaughan abandoned his beer bottle to the coaster on the coffee table.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rain insisted, but she absolutely did, and she tried to hide her smile by turning her back and resolutely folding a sweater she’d brought in case the nights turned chilly.
“Ah, yes. The doe-eyed innocence. Because I haven’t seen that before.” Rain snickered and went back to her unpacking. It was a proven fact that neither their father nor her brothers could say no to her when she had a certain look on her face—it was the wide-eyed, innocent pout that reminded the Barrington men of the precocious child she’d been not so very long ago. Even Vaughan didn’t do well in its presence, and he was fully aware that she wielded it like a weapon.
She could still pull it off when she had to, but she was smart enough not to abuse the privilege. The last time she’d deployed it was when her mother insisted Rain go to Harvard, but Rain favored Wesleyan’s psychology program. She managed to persuade her brothers and father to throw in with her so the scales tipped in her favor. Mama was totally immune to Rain’s charm, of course, because she’d have to have a heart for it to melt, but the boys had fallen into line and Rain and her cuteness had eventually gotten the school of her choice.
“How’s Brian going to take it, knowing one day you’re polishing his rod and the next he’s replaced by a good ol’ N’Orleans boy?” Vaughan asked.
“It’s Brett, and he won’t care. It was an interlude, nothing more.” A moment later she sniffed and added, “Not that it’s any of your business.”
He guffawed and pushed himself up from the chaise, sauntering toward the door with an elaborate stretch. “I’m teasing you. It’s a time-honored tradition among older brothers. Enjoy yourself on your tour, droplet. I’m going to shower and see about my own strange. I think she likes me.”
“What strange? Who likes you?”
“Desk girl, and never mind. You don’t want to know. I’ll see you later.”
She stared at the now-empty doorway, confused and sweaty. It really was hot as Hades, and she’d been crammed into a small plane, then a limousine, and then an elevator. She dropped the rest of the laundry and spared a kiss for Freckles before ducking into the bathroom to freshen up.
She turned her cell phone to music
and let the sweet sounds of Céline Dion rock her world. She was warbling along to “I’m Your Lady” when she heard the knock. It wasn’t a convenient time. She’d pulled her arms inside her dress to wash her armpits, and now she looked like she was trapped inside a pink potato sack.
“A moment!”
Only her guest must have not heard, because Mr. DuMont opened the door and walked in, stopping short and tilting his head at the sight of a fattish blonde hopping around with her arms stuck inside her dress.
She went still, dropping the washcloth to the tile floor and hoping she didn’t look nearly as stupid as she suspected she did. It struck with a wet plop. She stared at Mr. DuMont, he stared back, and she excused herself, waddling into the bathroom to right herself out of sight. There was something that sounded vaguely like a pained yelp behind her and then a flurry of fleeing feet.
“Mr. DuMont. A moment. I’m sorry!”
Céline picked that exact moment to let loose with a nasal battle cry, drowning out Rain’s voice. She shut off the music and threw on deodorant, rushing to meet her host before he went downstairs and told everyone what a fuckwit the Barrington girl was.
Laughter, loud, from outside her room. His? She hoped? She snatched her purse and floppy hat and ventured into the hall. He was bent double, and by the purplish hue to his face, quite likely suffocating to death.
“Do you need help?”
He held up a single finger, wagging it back and forth as he wheezed for air, wet glistening at the corners of his eyes.
“I’m good. Good. Just . . . I’m quite good. A moment.”
“I’m sorry about that. I said a moment but you must ha—you’re sure you’re all right?”
“As rain, Miss Barrington.”
“Please, call me Rain.”
“Only if you call me Sol.” He pushed himself upright, unfolding like six feet, three inches of perfectly cured man steak.
Well that’s random. He’s not a steak at all.
But if he was a steak, I’d want to eat him.
The King of Bourbon Street Page 3
