She deserves better.
He dressed quickly, throwing on a pair of slacks and an undershirt, and scribbled a note on the pad on the bedside in case she woke while he was gone. It would only be a few minutes to grab something from her room, but he didn’t want to compound her stress with waking up in a strange place alone.
He wanted to take her out for dinner. Gustav’s? No, top of the line. Restaurant R’evolution down on Bienville. It had a beautiful view and the best crawdads in the city. He smiled as he meandered toward the elevator, thumbs in his pockets, bare feet padding over the carpets.
No shirts, no shoes, no service only applies when you don’t own the hotel.
He used his security clearance to get into her room, leaving the door ajar when he ducked inside. He didn’t want to invade her personal space any more than he had to, so he chose the first thing hanging in the closet—a pink sundress with white polka dots. A pair of panties, a bra. He headed toward the bathroom to grab her toothbrush only to come face-to-face with a black, tan, and white corgi.
A wiggling, staring corgi.
“Freckles?”
Wiggle. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.
I can’t leave the dog here if Rain’s with me for the night.
Sol’s retrieval mission went from taking a few clothes to grabbing an over-the-shoulder bag for clothes, toiletries, dog food, dog dishes, and a selection of squeaky dog toys all shaped like animals much fiercer than the corgi himself. Sol was pretty sure he’d collected everything he could possibly need when he spied Rain’s cell phone on the sideboard. He snatched it up and was about to abscond with the dog when the door swung open, Vaughan Barrington standing on the threshold, looking confused.
“Where’s Rain?”
No real way to get around it, is there?
“Asleep upstairs. I was getting a few things so she’d be comfortable.”
Vaughan processed this information. Sol wasn’t sure what to expect, but he also hadn’t dealt much with the Barrington brother. The worst-case scenario wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle: a death threat or two, maybe a punch to the face. Vaughan was larger than he was, and Rain had mentioned something in passing about Krav Maga and semper fi—of course I’d pick the girl with an ex-marine for a chaperone—but really, why worry about having all the bones in your body snapped to bits at the hands of an overprotective sibling?
“Huh.”
That’s it?
Vaughan pulled out a cigarette from his pack, offering one to Sol. It was tempting, but he didn’t want to dally any longer than necessary with a fragile miss upstairs to attend to, so he hoisted the dog.
“I’d love to, but my manager insists that I decline.”
Vaughan stared at the dog.
“She’s a good girl.”
“Freckles is a boy, I thought.”
“Not the dog. Rain. She’s good. I know most brothers say that about their sisters.” Sol almost pointed out that Vaughan couldn’t smoke the cigarette in the hotel, but he liked his face and so far this had been an amicable exchange. Vaughan lit it and inhaled. “But she’s actually good. Nice. I’d tell you that even if she wasn’t my sister.”
Vaughan gestured vaguely. “You look like you’re taking care of her. That’s good. I don’t care if you two fuck around, but if this is just for jollies on your end, you might want to pick another girl. She might say she can do casual, but I’m not sure she can do casual, if you know what I mean.”
It was a reasonable thing to say, and at no point did Vaughan snap off any of Sol’s limbs and suck the marrow from his bones, so that’s a plus.
“Mr. Barrington—”
“Mr. Barrington’s my father. Or Richard is a Mr. Barrington, but that’s because he’s the oldest forty-year-old on the planet. Vaughan. Please.”
“Vaughan, then.” Sol smiled. “Rain’s special, and if I may be so blunt . . . ?”
In for a penny, in for a pound.
“I hope she chooses to stay awhile. We’re having fun. We’re going to Restaurant R’evolution together this evening if you’d like to join us.”
Invitation extended, he waited to see what Big Brother would do.
Vaughan shrugged.
“I’m going out with Amanda, but thanks anyway. I’ll be honest: you seem like an asshole, DuMont, but you might be my type of asshole.” That proclamation was followed by a faint smile. “I’m trusting you to not fuck this up. Tell Rain to call if she needs me.”
Freckles acclimated himself to the suite while Arianna slept. Sol was slightly concerned that rampant canine urination would occur and he’d have to call housekeeping—lucky Stephanie—but no, the dog was simply interested in sniffing everything. And once he’d sniffed everything, he hopped onto the couch and sprawled.
“Shy, aren’t you?” Sol rubbed the corgi’s ears. The corgi contorted with delight.
Much like your mommy, aren’t you?
Except I don’t rub her ears.
Sol grinned.
He left the dog to his nap and put Rain’s dress on a hanger, her lingerie draped around the top wire. He hooked it onto the front of his dresser so she wouldn’t miss it when she woke. Her toiletries were in the bathroom, her phone on the table. He silenced it after seeing a list of Missed call from: Mom. On the off chance Mrs. Dragon Barrington still intended to ruin all their fun, Sol wanted to be sure Rain had enough sleep to handle her.
He was actually humming when his pocket began to vibrate. He took out his cell, intending to turn it off, but then he saw the name Alex DuMont on the screen and knew, without question, that if he ignored it, he’d have a list of Missed call from: Alex on his phone to rival the mom calls on Rain’s.
Alex wasn’t a patient man. He was a humorless pain in the ass. A loving, humorless pain in the ass, but still.
“We have a situation,” Alex said as soon as Sol took the call.
“How are you?”
“Not good.” By the angry female voice in the background, the not good was business related, not personal, because Alex didn’t do women. Or, well, Sol didn’t think he did women. Sol developed a theory years ago that Alex was a eunuch. If not a eunuch, then the straightest gay man in the history of the world. Sol hadn’t seen him with a girl since early college, which was ten years ago, despite Alex being a brick of a blond man who could, if he developed a personality beyond Severely Disapproving, drop panties from East Coast to West. But instead of pursuing the fairer sex, he pursued Mass at St. Patrick’s in Dallas five days a week, his rosary beads perpetually dented into his palms.
Nash, in a rare funny moment, called him the Super Catholic. Then he ruined it by explaining the joke and why it was funny. Nash didn’t do funny. For that matter, Nash didn’t do a whole lot beyond talk about boring things and attend hotel conventions so Alex and Sol didn’t have to.
“There was a bat,” Alex continued.
“A bat. Like a baseball bat?”
“No, like a flying rodent.”
“Okay?”
Sol waited.
Alex sighed.
“It must have flown in when the cleaning staff opened the fourth-floor windows. We’re painting the east wing.”
“And?”
“And it got in Mrs. Cotton’s room.”
“Alexander.” Sol couldn’t decide if he was amused or annoyed because who the hell was Mrs. Cotton, why should he care, and what the hell was he supposed to do about a Dallas bat when he was in New Orleans? So he decided a bit of both covered the bases. “Have someone get a broom and shoo it outside. It’s a bat.”
“No, that’s not it. It’s already outside.”
“So what is it?”
“It got in Mrs. Cotton’s hair.”
Oh.
Well. That was a problem.
“And it’s out now?”
“Yes. She
’s very upset.”
Sol heard rustling in the other room. He poked his head into the hall, looking through the open bedroom door. Sure enough, small-and-yellow was rising from her nest to rub at her eyes with her fists. The blanket dropped to her waist.
Those tits are just so very yes.
“Sol? Are you paying attention?”
“Yes!”
No.
“I called Brutus but he’s already on his way back to New Orleans. He said he’d call me when he lands.”
“Good. You’ll want a lawyer. Did she get bitten or scratched?” Rain looked around, spotted him in the hall, and waved. And jiggled. Oh, that was nice. He waved back.
“Not that any of us can tell. She’s off to the hospital to be sure. She’s citing emotional distress.”
“Ah. Well, there’s not much I can do about it considering the five hundred miles between us, but I trust you to handle the bat lady. Maybe Mrs. Cotton will develop superpowers. That’d be a change.”
“Sol. It’s not funny.”
“Of course it’s not.”
“Prick.”
Alex was gone.
Sol pocketed the phone, and with it, all worries about Mrs. Cotton, Alex, bats, and Dallas, and stalked toward the bedroom. The nearer he got, the bigger her smile got, and didn’t that warm him in all the right places. He slithered onto the bed, crawling over the coverlet, until he loomed over her, a fringe of silvery blond hair in his eyes.
“I brought you clothes from your room. And a corgi. And a toothbrush. I was thinking we’d go out to dinner. You could stay with me tonight, if you’d like.”
She looked surprised, then pleased, her fingers stretching up to trace along the top of his ear to his cheek and down to his chin. Her touch was featherlight and perfect, and he snagged her fingertip in his mouth, teeth holding her hostage so he could lash his tongue across the tip.
“You’re very considerate,” she whispered.
He gently sucked before releasing the digit. “You make it very easy to be considerate. I talked to your brother.”
“Oh?” She didn’t look necessarily pleased with the announcement, but he supposed he couldn’t blame her. It was obvious Vaughan had been sent as a chaperone.
“He said he’s supportive as long as I’m not playing games.”
She tilted her head to the side, sending curls tumbling past her shoulders. He threaded his fingers through them, Rumpelstiltskin with his gold.
“And what did you say?”
He settled down on top of her, bracing his weight on his elbows, his lips dancing sweet kisses across her face.
“That we’re having fun. I like having you around, kitten. You make me happy.”
FOURTEEN
RICHARD OFTEN SAID that in business, things that looked too good to be true often were. Rain thought of this as she put on her dress for “fancy dinner.” Sol DuMont seemed heaven-sent. He was handsome and funny and sexy and sweet, which meant, by some cosmic joke, he probably had dead bodies stored in The Seaside’s freezer. Or maybe he sniffed socks when no one was looking. Or maybe he had a back-hair fetish.
Or maybe he’s the rare good guy and you just happened to be in the right place at the right time.
That was the most pleasing of the scenarios, and Rain took it with her when she disappeared to her room to gather her makeup, hosiery, and shoes. The dress Sol had picked was fine, but not with sandals, so she collected everything she’d need for a night out on the town. The diamond earrings Daddy got her for graduation. A platinum cross her brother Desmond brought home from Ireland after studying abroad. Perfume Mitchell regifted her at Christmas, because apparently he’d forgotten the difference between his mistress’s scent and the one his wife preferred, and wasn’t that awkward when he gave Demi a perfume she hated because ha-ha, oops, you and Leah are interchangeable.
Rain had been oddly satisfied when the mistress dumped Mitchell for an Iowa senator after the caucuses. Mitchell was an annoying douchebag. Pardon her French.
Rain applied an extra layer of mascara and a smear of magenta lipstick. She almost wiped it off, recalling Mama’s decree that only prostitutes or Kardashians could get away with vibrant colors, but Mama wasn’t here and Rain wanted to look as sexy as Sol made her feel. She assessed her pinky-red mouth in the mirror and smirked. It definitely made her feel sexy.
What didn’t make her feel sexy was the clutter left out on her counter. She cleaned up quickly, knowing Sol was waiting for her call so he could have the car brought around. It took a few extra minutes, but when everything was where it ought to be, she felt better. Grabbing a lace shawl, she called Sol’s cell and locked her room behind her.
“Ready, sweetheart?” he asked in greeting.
“I am.”
“Good. You’ll be happy to know Freckles is merrily gnawing on a duck.”
“Thank you, Sol. You’re considerate.”
“I have my moments.”
Five minutes later, a stretch limousine circled the corner, a back window rolling down. Sol’s face peeked out from the gap between tinted window and roof.
“Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.”
She smiled as he threw open the door and stepped out onto the curb. “Flies are disgusting.”
“They really are, and thinking about them will ruin your dinner. Have a seat.”
His suit was slate blue, the shirt white, the tie silver with navy pinstripes. His hair was tied back and it just . . . yes. It worked. Oh, it worked. Rain nearly walked into the side of the car looking at him, but he guided her with his hand on her back, preventing a collision. She settled on the leather bench and crossed her legs. The privacy window was up between the driver and the backseat.
Sol snuggled in next to her, the door slamming shut. A bottle of wine chilled on ice to his right, the cork already popped thanks to a chrome corkscrew with a crystal knob at the top. He poured her a glass as the car glided down the street.
“My twin picked this up on his last trip to Bordeaux, I think it was? I spend as little time as possible listening to Nash, though, so it could be Cleveland. He prattles.”
“You have a twin?”
“Identical, yes. Physically we’re the same. Disposition-wise we’re about as opposite as you can get.”
There are two of you?
That’s just not fair.
She sniffed the offering. It was fruity and tinged pink. She dared a sip. Dry but not too dry, sweet but not too sweet. She smiled appreciatively as his hand slid to her knee, rubbing the dress against her silky nylons. Tan fingers against fake hosiery tan. The contact made her think of earlier, all of earlier, with the lunch and the spanking and the couch and the . . .
Dear God.
Heat climbed her face. Matters didn’t improve—or maybe they improved drastically?—when he leaned over and kissed her neck just below her ear. No tongue, but the brush of lips was enough to make her squirm. Her eyes swung his way. He was studying her profile, clearly amused by the effect his casual touches had on her body.
“I like you,” he said.
“I can tell.”
“Oh? Can you? How?”
He tugged at the dress. Up, just an inch, exposing more knee. Tug, tug. Up another inch, and then another. He stopped when it hovered midthigh, his fingers tracing circles over the exposed leg.
“You like to touch me. You like to look at me,” she croaked, certain she must sound like she was trying to cough up a hairball.
“It’s true. I do enjoy both those things.”
The limousine took a sharp turn and jostled her farther into his side. The wine sloshed up, over the rim of the glass, to splash her shawl above her right breast. She tutted and reached for a napkin, but he snatched her wrist and leaned down to capture the drops for himself with a flat pink tongue.
“Mmm.
Linty.”
She was so bemused by the gesture, by the memory of what his mouth felt like when it tasted her, that she couldn’t muster a reply. His smile widened, practically touching his ears.
“Kitten?”
“Yes?”
“You look . . . something. Tense. Are you tense?”
Yes.
“I’m fine!”
“I’m afraid I don’t believe you. Poor thing.”
There was something obscene about how Sol DuMont moved. One moment he was on the seat beside her, the next he was sliding to the floor before her, to his knees, as liquid as flowing water. Or maybe a loping panther. One movement fed the next with nary a hitch between.
His hands went to her dress, inching it up. Farther. And then they were at her feet, removing her shoes one by one.
“Oh,” was all she managed.
“ ‘Oh,’ she says. Aren’t you adorable?”
Shoes flung over his shoulder, hands disappearing under her dress to stroke over her hips and the outsides of her thighs, his bare skin touching hers. Before she could glean his intent, he slid her to the middle of the bench before him. She whooped and clapped a hand over her wineglass to prevent another spill. He eyed her, then the seat belts to either side of her. He reached over and across for the seat belt on the left, fastening it into the buckle and testing its stretch. Satisfied, he did the same to the right belt, forming two gray loops with no bodies inside them.
“Sip your wine, kitten.”
She sipped her wine because following directions had to that point worked out quite well for her, if well meant loud, screaming orgasms. And if this would be another sordid memory to add to her pile?
Yes, please.
She gleefully followed where he led.
“Up, up,” he said, lifting her leg. He worked quickly, bending her back, gently, looping her left leg in the buckled seat belt on the coordinating side. Her foot left the floor of the limousine, dangling around the bench, the thick nylon band bisecting the meat of her thigh.
The King of Bourbon Street Page 10
