Darling Remy,
Do you remember the early years, my love, when we first opened the Hotel Marchand? We were so busy chasing after our dream of creating a world-class hotel for visitors to our beautiful city of New Orleans. While you were working your magic in the kitchen, building up a restaurant that would put Cajun cooking on the map, I was scouring estate sales searching for just the right pieces to make our guests feel as if they had stepped back in time. And all the while our daughters just kept coming. We had fun, Remy, because we had each other and our dream.
I think of those days often, now that the hotel is having so many problems. I console myself by remembering that we made it through those tough times. There is a wonderful jazz singer at the hotel. Her name is Holly Carlyle, and when I hear her sing her beautiful songs of love, I know that even though you are no longer beside me, your spirit is with me, making me confident that the hotel we built together will always survive.
All my love,
Anne
Dear Reader,
Writing a book set in the city of New Orleans was a pleasure. The city itself has a personality and a character that you won’t find anywhere else in the world. Walking down narrow streets and looking up at bright splashes of flowers tumbling from window boxes, you can almost pretend you’ve taken a step back in time. Until, that is, you hear the jazz streaming from the clubs that crowd the French Quarter.
In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, the city itself was battered, but the people who make up that amazing city are undefeatable. In this series, I believe we’re honoring New Orleans and its citizens and I hope you enjoy my little corner of the Hotel Marchand.
Love,
Maureen
MAUREEN CHILD
Bourbon Street Blues
Maureen Child is a native Californian, still waiting for a change of seasons. As the author of more than sixty books, Maureen loves a happy ending and still swears that she has the best job in the world. When she isn’t writing, she’s reading or traveling with her husband. Maureen lives in Southern California with her husband, two children and a golden retriever with delusions of grandeur. Visit Maureen’s Web site at www.maureenchild.com.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
HOLLY CARLYLE GAVE HER accompanist a grin and leaned across the gleaming black surface of the piano top. Swinging her long, auburn hair back away from her face, she tapped out an echo of the song that had just ended with the tips of her red-polished fingernails. “Tommy, that was fabulous,” she said. “If we can keep it together that tightly tonight, we’re so gonna rock this place.”
Tommy Hayes winced as his long, mocha-colored fingers slid along the piano keys, sending a chirrruupp of sound into the still air. “Jazz the place, Holly,” he said, shaking his head. “We don’t rock, we jazz….”
She laughed, straightened and stacked the sheets of music together neatly. “Yeah, but when our jazz is smoking, we really rock.”
Tommy sighed and stroked the keys gently, as he would a lover’s body. The overhead lights shone down on his dark hair, liberally laced with gray. He wore two silver rings on each hand and his black suit hung on his lean body. Tommy swore he’d been playing jazz piano in New Orleans since God was a boy. And nobody played it better.
Holly had been working with him for nearly fourteen years and she’d never been happier. The older man had become almost a father to her—something Holly relished since she’d been on her own most of her life. Tommy’s wife Shana and their children were the only family Holly had ever known. And she was more grateful for them than she could say.
“Looks like you’ve got a fan club,” Tommy muttered quietly, his deep voice hidden beneath the sweet chords his fingers continued to create.
“What?”
He jerked a nod in the direction of the bar.
A lone man was sitting in the far corner, a bottle of beer in front of him on the table. Even in the dim light Holly could see the stamp of frustration on his features. “Who is he?”
“Can’t see from here,” Tommy admitted. “Shana says I need new glasses.”
Holly chuckled. The room was full of shadows, even with the late-afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows overlooking the street. A gleaming, mahogany bar ran the length of the room, with bottles of every size and shape on the counter behind it, directly in front of a mirror that glittered with reflected sunshine. A second counter ran along the window wall, with plenty of seating for people who wanted to watch the world stroll by as they enjoyed a quiet drink. But mostly, the patrons at the Hotel Marchand bar preferred the small, round, glass-topped tables that crowded the dark wooden floor.
“Doesn’t seem like a fan to me,” Holly whispered, turning from the man in the corner back to Tommy. “Looks more like Mr. Misery in need of company.”
The older man’s mouth quirked in a half smile and he winked at her. “You didn’t see him when you were singing.”
She leaned back against the piano, both forearms braced on its cool, sleek surface. “Liked it, did he?”
“Looked at you like you was the last cool spot on a hot day.”
Holly gave him a brief smile. “Flatterer.”
“So why’nt you go say hello to the man?”
“Trying to get rid of me?” she teased.
“Yes,” Tommy said. “Need a little time to myself, girl. Between you and all the women I’ve got at home…”
She’d heard Tommy’s “I’m the only poor male in a household full of women” speech way too many times. To listen to him, a person would never know how much he adored his wife and three daughters.
“I don’t know,” she said, hiding a smile, “maybe I should just stay here and help you go over the arrangement for the opening song again.”
His mouth quirked. “I believe I can manage without your help.”
“Possible,” she allowed, then narrowed her eyes on the man she thought of as a father. “What I’m wondering is, why all of a sudden you’re so willing to see me talking to a man.”
Usually, Tommy was more protective than a mother hen fussing over her last chick when it came to any of his “girls.”
His long fingers caressed the piano keys, teasing out a soft melody. “I didn’t say you should slip off with him. I only said you could go on over and talk to him for a bit. Wouldn’t hurt you to meet people.”
“People?” she asked, one eyebrow lifting, “or men people?”
He frowned and hit a quick riff of bass notes. “Not like I want to see you cozying up to a man. But Shana’s worried about you.”
Holly sighed. So she’d been a little on the celibate side for the past three years. That wasn’t anything to worry about. But telling Shana Hayes not to worry was absolutely pointless.
“I know,” Holly said. “She’s even been threatening to set me up on a blind date.”
He shuddered. “Seems like talking to this fella would be a lot easier. On all of us.”
“Seems like,” she said. Focusing on the solitary man at the back of the room, Holly inhaled sharply and told herself that walking across the floor would be a lot easier than living through one of Shana’s setups.
She stepped off the raised platform that served as a stage and slowly wound her way through the empty tables. Catching the bartender’s eye as she went, she asked, “Could I have
some sweet tea when you get a minute, Leo?”
“Sure thing,” the burly older man called. “Be there in a sec, Holly.”
As she approached the man in the shadows, Holly felt the slam of recognition jolt her. He leaned forward in his chair and she noted his pale blue eyes fixed on her. His wavy jet-black hair fell across his forehead in a tumble and his tanned, muscular forearms were braced on the tabletop.
Parker James.
Holly’s stomach jittered a little and she half wished she’d stayed on the stage to bother Tommy. Heck, even thinking about a blind date was a lot better than talking to this particular man. Parker James was New Orleans royalty. His family had been here since…well, forever.
Parker himself spent a lot of time in the local papers, but that wasn’t the only reason Holly knew him. She’d sung at Parker’s wedding ten years before. It had been one of her first paid gigs, and she’d been way more nervous than the bride.
Of course, she remembered, the bride hadn’t been nervous at all….
HOLLY HAD GONE to the reception venue, a restored plantation house on the river, the night before the wedding. She hadn’t had to attend the rehearsal at the church, since she’d only be singing at the reception, and she’d wanted to get a good look at the sound system and to leave a copy of her music with the wedding planner.
As late as it was, she’d had the place pretty much to herself. After meeting with the planner, Holly decided to take a stroll outside to get a feel for the place before the big day and, honestly, to enjoy the surroundings in solitude.
Lush and beautiful, the grounds were quiet on that hot summer night. Birds called softly, crickets chirped and river water lapped at the bank. As she walked, she heard muttered whispers and headed toward the sound, curious. Maybe maintenance staff making sure everything was in order for the next day?
She rounded a large planting of magnolia bushes that bordered a flagstone patio where tables and chairs were already set up for the next day. A woman’s soft sigh of pleasure, followed by a muffled groan, swept through the air.
Holly stopped dead, but it was way too late.
There in front of her was the bride, Frannie LeBourdais, skirt hiked up, panties off, stretched across a table. But the person making Frannie groan wasn’t her groom to be—it was her maid of honor.
Stunned into embarrassed silence, Holly only stood there for a moment or two while Justine DuBois caressed Frannie’s abdomen then dipped lower. Holly took a step backward, trying to disappear quickly and quietly. But her foot hit the rung of a chair, which scraped against the flagstones.
Frannie’s eyes flew open.
She spotted Holly instantly.
In a blink, passion died, replaced by fury. Shoving Justine to one side, Frannie practically leaped off the table, straightened her skirt and stalked over to where Holly stood, still speechless.
It wasn’t that Holly was naive. At twenty, she’d been on her own for four years. She’d seen everything there was to see in New Orleans—but still, she was surprised. Parker James seemed to be everything a woman could want in a man. Clearly, though, Frannie didn’t want a man. So if she was a lesbian, why the heck was she marrying Parker?
“What the hell are you doing here?” Frannie demanded, then quickly spoke again without waiting for an answer. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is this. If you so much as breathe a word of what you’ve seen here tonight to Parker…I will make your life a living hell. Do you understand me?”
Holly looked into the woman’s cold blue eyes and believed. Though it sounded practically medieval, Frannie’s threat was all too real. In a city where family lineage carried a lot of weight, Frannie could make it very difficult for Holly to earn a living with her singing. She could have Holly shut out of private parties, fashionable clubs…anything, really.
Shooting a covert look at Justine, Holly saw the other woman glaring at her with such venom in her gaze, she almost shivered.
“I understand,” she said to Frannie. It irritated her to have to bend to one woman’s icy will, but the fact was, Frannie had a lot more power than Holly ever would. And if she wanted to make any of her dreams come true, then she had to play the game that was handed her.
Lifting her chin, Holly added, “The threats really aren’t necessary, though. It’s none of my business what you do or who you do it with.”
Frannie eyed her for a long heartbeat or two, then nodded. “Good. See that it stays that way.”
AS THE MEMORY FADED away, Holly wondered if Parker had ever discovered his wife’s secrets. Maybe he had, since his divorce had been all over the papers lately.
She stopped at his table, looked down at him and smiled. “Hi,” she said softly, “want some company?”
ACTUALLY, PARKER HAD slipped into the nearly empty bar to be alone. His day so far had pretty much been a downhill slide and he wasn’t looking to chat. Drawn into the shadows by the lovely redhead’s smooth, clear voice, he’d lost himself in the dark, forgetting about the mess his life had become.
Now, though, she was standing in front of him, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask her to leave him alone. He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest and looked up at the woman who only moments ago had enthralled him with her singing. She had gentle curves designed to make a grown man weep, and soft gray eyes that made him wonder what they’d look like in candlelight. A few gold freckles dotted her pale skin, and when she smiled, he noticed a slight dimple in her right cheek.
“I like your singing,” he said simply.
“Thanks.” She pulled out a chair and sat. When the bartender delivered a tall iced tea with a sprig of mint, she gave the older man a smile that lit up the shadowy room. “And thank you, Leo.”
“Sure thing,” he said, sliding a glance at Parker. “I’ll be at the bar if you need me.”
As the man walked away, Parker let out a slow whistle. “Your knight in shining armor?”
She smiled and shrugged as she reached for her drink. “Leo’s a sweetie. He looks out for me.”
“Not an unpleasant job.”
“A compliment? How nice.”
Parker felt the black mood he’d been carrying around slip off his shoulders. Hard to stay pissed when looking at a woman like this. “I’m guessing you get your share.”
“Some,” she admitted, “but until today, none delivered by Parker James.”
His smile faded. “You know who I am?”
Of course she did. But just for a minute or two, he’d been hoping for a brief, anonymous encounter with a beautiful woman. He should have known better. Ever since he’d filed for divorce from Frannie a few months ago, the local papers had been filled with rumors, gossip and outright lies.
She laughed and stirred her tea idly with a clear straw. “Please. Anyone living in New Orleans would know you. You spend a lot of time in the papers.”
“Especially lately,” he said ruefully.
“But it’s not just that,” she said, taking a sip of her tea and shooting him another smile that made her gray eyes actually twinkle. “I met you once before. Ten years ago.”
He thought about it for a long moment or two, then it came to him. Looking at her as she sat there smiling at him, he wasn’t sure how he could ever have forgotten her. Even briefly. But he hadn’t noticed her name on the board outside the bar, and she’d done some maturing since they’d last met. “Now I remember.”
She nodded. “I sang at your wedding.”
He winced. The wedding he never should have gone through with. “Holly Carlyle. The one bright spot that night. You’ve…changed.”
“Have I?” Her fingers held the straw gently and stirred slowly.
A coil of something hot and unexpected rushed through him, and Parker had to make an effort to get a grip. It had been a long time since he’d felt that punch of need. Certainly he’d never felt it for his wife. Frannie had made it more than plain almost from the first that she wasn’t interested in sex. And making love to a woman who
showed all the enthusiasm of a board having a nail pounded into it was less than appealing.
Though they’d been married now for ten years, they’d been living separate lives for nearly seven of them. He hadn’t bothered to get a divorce because it hadn’t seemed necessary. After all, it wasn’t as though he were anxious to marry anyone else. Frannie had pretty much soured him on the idea of women in general.
But now, looking at the woman sitting opposite him, Parker felt the first stirrings of real attraction. Hell, he’d been in such a long drought, just flirting felt like a cool drink of water on a hot day. He’d been intrigued watching her walk across the room to join him. Her long legs in those tight black jeans had moved slowly, deliberately.
As her fingers stirred her damn tea, he imagined those long red nails scraping against his skin, and it was all he could do not to reach out and grab her hand.
“You’re prettier now,” he said.
Amusement flickered in her eyes. “Thanks again, I think.” Leaning back in her chair, she studied him for a long moment. “So, Parker James, what brings you to the Hotel Marchand bar in the middle of the afternoon?”
“Your voice,” he said simply.
“Another compliment.” She acknowledged it with a nod.
“I love jazz,” Parker told her. “And you really know your stuff.”
“I’ve been singing for my supper for a long time.”
“How long have you worked at the Hotel Marchand?”
“Two or three years,” she said, sliding her fingers up and down the damp sides of her glass. “I rehearse here every day, work here four nights a week and sit in at clubs around the city the rest of the time.”
“Busy woman.”
“Idle hands.” She countered with a smile, then said, “I noticed there’s a new jazz café opening up a few blocks over. Sign reads Parker’s Place. That wouldn’t be you, would it?”
“It would,” he said, and smiled just thinking about his new business venture. It was something he’d wanted to do for years. Run a place that offered his family’s dark, rich coffee and the cool, smooth sounds of the jazz New Orleans was famous for.
Bourbon Street Blues Page 1
