“Fine.” Travis’s expression was one of stone. “Would you do me the great honor of coming out and sharing a plate of beignets?”
Billie laughed despite herself. Travis Sinclair was one surprise after another. “Why?”
He sighed as if exasperated by her. “Because I’m hungry. I feel like beignets and I know how much you like them. Are you coming or not?”
Part of her knew that going anywhere with Travis Sinclair would be a very bad idea indeed, but she couldn’t help herself. They’d gotten off to a bad start but he was making the effort to be civil, and she could sense how difficult that was for him. Shouldn’t she meet him halfway? Maybe if they got to know each other, she’d be able to convince him not to sell the gallery. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d asked her out for gumbo; they were talking beignets and, having been unable to eat all day, she was quite literally starving.
“Okay.” She tightened her grip on the sheets and nodded toward the door. “If you let me get dressed, I’ll come.”
“Go ahead.” He didn’t make a move to go.
“In private,” she clarified as she gestured to her bedroom door.
“Right, sure.” He chuckled as he backed away. Then, “Not like I haven’t seen it all before, sweetheart.”
Ignoring that comment as the door shut behind Travis, Billie dressed quickly in jeans and a light sweater. Was she crazy to be going out with this man in the middle of the night? Possibly lack of sleep was affecting her judgment. Pushing that thought aside, she grabbed her bag and went out into the kitchen, where Travis and Baxter (who had followed him out) were waiting.
“We taking the mutt?” Travis asked gruffly.
“Yes.” Baxter went almost everywhere with her and, despite the fact that he seemed to have chosen Travis as his new best friend, she felt certain if she were in danger Baxter would do his best to protect her.
“In that case, let’s go.” Travis gestured to the door, holding it open for her to walk through. As she did so, he brushed his hand against the small of her back and she shivered, feeling more alive, more female, than she ever had before. She swallowed and continued on, neither of them speaking as they walked out onto Bourbon Street.
“Where’d you get that key?” Billie asked as Travis locked the gate behind them.
“Pilfered it,” he informed her with a wicked spark in his eyes.
She shook her head; she supposed it was better than him breaking and entering. They walked past The Priory, Baxter trotting like a chaperone between their feet. Travis didn’t even glance inside the bar, and a number of questions bubbled on Billie’s tongue about his connection to the biker gang. But no conversation could be held in the middle of all the noise and partying of a still crowded Bourbon Street, and Travis was liable to tell her to mind her own business, so she continued on, soaking up the sights, which always fascinated her, as they turned onto St. Ann Street in the direction of Café Du Monde.
Billie had been a regular at the famous café when she’d first arrived in New Orleans, but she’d always come during the day. It looked spectacular at night, its bright lights making the place appear like something out of a fairy tale. While it wasn’t crowded, there were enough people sitting at the tables to keep the waitstaff busy, and the smells wafting from the white and green building made her mouth water. Travis led them to a table on the sidewalk only a few yards from the street.
They’d barely taken their seats when a dark-skinned waiter, dressed in the café’s black pants, white shirt and white paper hat, arrived beside them. “How y’all doing?” he asked. “What can I get for you?”
“An order of beignets,” Travis said, his tone saying this was the stupidest question ever. He looked to Billie. “Do you want a drink?”
She nodded. “I’ll have a hot chocolate.”
“Right.” Travis looked back to the waiter. “A hot chocolate for the lady and a black coffee.”
Lady? Billie tried to ignore the warmth that flooded her having him, of all people, call her that.
“Coming right up.” The waiter beamed happily despite Travis’s less than friendly vibe. And then he walked away, leaving Billie and Travis alone. Well, Baxter was there, too, but he’d already curled up under the table at their feet.
Billie smiled tentatively at Travis, not because she’d forgiven him for being a jerk, but because she wanted to pretend this was just a normal outing of friends. Not a date, because that would make her think of the things that sometimes come at the end of dates and thoughts like that were unhealthy, to say the least. “So, you grew up round here?” she asked brightly.
He stared at her unnervingly, and for a moment she thought he might remind her that he didn’t do conversation, but then he nodded. “Yep.”
“Is your family still here?” she asked, undeterred by his one-word answer.
“I don’t have a family.”
Oh. Something inside her squeezed at this blunt statement, but she guessed he wouldn’t want her sympathy. “Did the stork deliver you to the French Quarter, then?”
The hard line of his jaw shifted slightly as his mouth curved up at one end. His near-smile touched her nether regions, and she couldn’t help but imagine what expression he might make when he was in the throes of passion. Thankfully, he spoke before that image had time to take hold. “No. I had a mother, briefly, if you could call her that, and I guess I had a father too, although my mother had no fucking clue who he was.”
She honestly didn’t know what to say to that, but luckily their sunny waiter arrived with the beignets and their steaming drinks.
“Enjoy,” he said, putting the bill down on the table.
Travis nodded at the guy—Billie guessed this was the closest he got to an actual thanks—and then he pushed the plate toward her to take the first one.
“Thank you.” She picked one up, the sugar spilling down onto her sweater as she lifted it to her mouth. His gesture was almost gentlemanly. Maybe deep beneath that hard-core interior there was a softer side to Travis Sinclair, a little like the fried dough that melted in her mouth.
“What about you?” he asked, lifting his mug to his lips, not touching the beignets.
She blinked and then, realizing he was referring to her family, swallowed her mouthful before speaking. Her family was normal to the point of boring and couldn’t understand why she always had to make waves—her mother’s words when she’d finally announced she was leaving Saxon. “My family are all in Western Australia—my mum and dad, my two older brothers, their perfect wives and angelic children.”
He smirked, telling her he hadn’t missed her sarcasm. “Your parents are still married? To each other? That’s unique.”
“They’re still together because they are stubborn and don’t want to halve their assets, not because they can actually stand to be in the same room together.”
He chuckled. “And what’s this husband of yours like? Perfect like the rest of the family?”
She rubbed at the sugar she could feel dusting her upper lip. “Firstly, he’s my ex-husband, and yes, my family does think he’s perfect, but I know better. He’s selfish, materialistic and manipulative; got jealous whenever I so much as talked to another man; was controlling about what I wore, where I went and who I saw, and unsupportive of the things that mattered to me.”
“He didn’t appreciate art?”
“No.” She glared at him. “You and he have that in common.”
“I appreciate art. See?” He pushed up the sleeves of his long-sleeved T-shirt one after the other and she sucked in a breath at the sight of his tanned, sculpted forearms covered in ink.
“Do they all mean something?” she asked, her fingers twitching to touch them. She could see a dagger through a heart and a fleur-de-lis cross, which surprised her considering he hated New Orleans, and lots of other scary-looking things. He was more ink than skin, and if she’d met him in a dark alley alone at night she’d probably have been terrified. Instead, she was curious. Intrigued by this man so di
fferent from anyone she’d ever known.
“Pretty much,” he told her.
She ignored the letters that spelled TRUST NO ONE across his knuckles and reached out and touched a finger to the dollar sign on his wrist. “Has this one got something to do with ‘Cash’?” she asked, trying to ignore the warmth that shot up her arm at the connection. Whoops. She’d resolved not to let him touch her, and then she’d gone and touched him.
He took a moment, staring down at her fingers on his arm, and for some reason she couldn’t drag her hand away. He felt good, soft yet hard. Hot. Exactly like his lips had felt earlier that day. Goose bumps sprouted on her skin at the recollection and she fought the urge to run her hand even higher.
“Yeah,” he said eventually, looking down into her eyes, his expression unreadable.
“And?” she prompted him, finally removing her hand and using it to pick up another beignet. Eating was much safer than touching.
“It means I’m good with numbers, money, computers and shit like that. The brothers appreciated it and yeah, that’s how I got my road name.”
“The brothers? I thought you said you didn’t have any family.”
“I don’t. I meant the Deacons.”
“Oh right, so what? You’re the Deacons’ treasurer?” She took a bite of the beignet, thankful for television, which had given her a tiny insight into the MC world.
“Was,” he corrected. “I’ve been elsewhere for the best part of a decade. We all have.”
She didn’t care about the others. “What have you been up to?”
He raised an eyebrow as if he wasn’t used to answering to anyone. “I’m a security analyst.”
“What does that entail?”
He chuckled, as if he could tell she didn’t know whether that was a real job. “I show big companies how insecure their computer programs are, how easily they can be hacked into, and then I create a solution for them. Some people call what I do penetration testing.”
“So basically you’re a glorified computer hacker?” She didn’t know whether to be impressed or appalled. Lord knew where he’d learned the tricks of that particular trade.
He shrugged, his expression giving very little away.
“So you work for yourself?” she asked, ridiculously curious. “You contract your services out?”
He nodded.
“What kind of training did you have to do for that?”
“I’ve always been good with computers and taught myself a lot of what I know.” She guessed she knew what he meant by that, but his next words surprised her. “But I’ve got an MBA as well.”
As she digested this information, garnering the courage to ask him more and maybe question the meaning of some of his more menacing tattoos, he reached across the table and wiped his thumb slowly across her lip. Her whole body stilled, her heart feeling as if it were beating outside her body, and she completely lost her train of thought. Someone who’d practically just admitted to a past life of crime should not be so attractive to her.
“Sugar,” he said, holding his thumb up in explanation, and she saw the evidence a moment before he opened his mouth and licked it off.
She gulped and, barely able to breathe and totally incapable of taking her gaze from his mouth, forgot she’d planned on thumping him the next time he put his hands on her. Because now she wished more than anything that he’d do it again.
“Why have you suddenly started being nice?” she asked, unable to withhold any longer the question that had been weighing on her mind since he’d marched into her bedroom.
Travis frowned. “Trust me, I’m not nice at all.”
She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. Ever since we met you’ve been doing your damn best to aggravate me and now we’re suddenly playing a different game. It’s almost civilized.”
He looked at her so intently, she felt her cheeks flush. “Didn’t your mom ever tell you boys pick on girls they like?”
She swallowed. He liked her? She bit down on the grin that wanted to twist her lips. “I thought you were just an asshole.”
He laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle that was perhaps the sexiest sound she’d ever heard. “Sweetheart, don’t be fooled by this pretense of civilization. I might like you, but it doesn’t mean I’m not an asshole and it doesn’t mean you should like me back.”
His words were a warning, but they did nothing to cool the fires burning within her. Until he’d waltzed into her gallery, she’d thought herself happy with her new life in New Orleans. Happy to be man- and commitment-free. But Travis’s attention had reignited long-buried needs, and she was finding it hard to concentrate on anything but the thought of satisfying them. Very soon, if her hormones had any say in the matter.
“Is anything in the gallery yours?” He leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands behind his head, seemingly unperturbed by touching her or admitting his attraction. Perhaps he was bored of her already? Perhaps the kiss that afternoon hadn’t done for him what it had done for her. Perhaps that’s why he was acting different all of a sudden. Surely if he were still interested, he’d have dragged her into bed rather than out of it to head down the road for a post-midnight snack. He didn’t seem like the type of man to waste time with formalities.
He looked at her quizzically as if he’d just asked a question and she realized she had no idea what it was. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
He smirked knowingly. “I asked what artwork in the gallery belongs to you. Are you an oil paints kinda girl, watercolors, abstract?”
“Oh.” She shook her head and dragged her hot chocolate toward her, taking comfort from its warmth. “None of them. I used to draw with charcoal, but I haven’t done so in years.”
“What?” he scoffed. “You’re so passionate about everyone else’s stuff but you don’t make time for your own?”
“It’s not that…” She sighed, not wanting to admit the truth. That her family and Saxon had made her feel as though art wasn’t a worthwhile occupation. She’d been told so many times to get a real job that she eventually had. And while she’d enjoyed teaching, it had left little time for her own pursuits. And Saxon never liked her painting in the evenings or on weekends when he was home. Eventually it was the thing that had finally pushed her over the edge. If he couldn’t accept her art, then how could he really love her?
She’d packed her art supplies when she’d left Australia and had tried to draw again while she was traveling, and again when she’d settled in the French Quarter, but it was as though her family’s disapproval had paralyzed her.
“I’m not really very good.”
“Bull. Shit.” He looked right into her eyes as if he could see everything she wasn’t saying out loud. “I bet you’re far more talented than everyone else you showcase. Who told you otherwise? Your ex? Your family?”
“All of them,” she admitted, lifting her hot chocolate to her lips. She took a sip and it tasted sweetly delicious, but it didn’t eradicate the bitter memories of not being good enough.
“Fuck them,” Travis said, again reaching over and this time touching her cheek and turning her head to look at him. Her skin burned beneath his touch. “Life’s too short to live for anyone but yourself. If drawing makes you happy, then draw.”
He kept his fingers on her cheek and right now his touch was making her very happy. Other than his excessive use of the f-word, this man almost seemed liked someone totally different from the guy who’d waltzed into her gallery on Thursday afternoon. He was almost likable. In fact, she was beginning to forget what it was that annoyed her about him.
“You know,” she whispered, “for someone who says he doesn’t do conversation, you’re pretty good at it.”
—
Travis tried to ignore the funny feeling in his chest. Should he be pleased or appalled by her observation? This was so out of character for him, as close to a normal date as he’d ever had in his life, and he didn’t know what to think about that. As a member of the Deacons he’d s
lept around plenty and lived from one lay to the next, because he was young and that’s what you did until you found an “old lady.” Since leaving NOLA and the club, he’d had a string of one-night stands that occasionally turned into something that lasted a little longer, but he’d always ended it at the first sign of the woman wanting more. He’d never “dated,” that’s for sure. He was far better off on his own.
Billie she took another sip of hot chocolate. He forced himself to tear his hand from her face, despite wanting to slide it around the back of her neck into her hair and pull her lips to his again. She was right, at least in that he’d talked to her more than he’d spoken to any woman not related to his work in…forever. Why the fuck? He had no clue.
He’d never rated conversation very high before, preferring to get straight down to business whatever the situation, and talking to Billie had done nothing to douse his desire for her. If anything, it was the opposite. Only now that he liked her as a person, he wasn’t sure messing with her would sit right.
Everything about her screamed sweet and good, which was pretty much the opposite of everything he was. But it was the first time he’d actually given a damn about another person’s feelings since he’d rode out of the French Quarter and turned his back on everything he thought had mattered.
“Hey, are they members of your gang?”
Billie’s words jolted his thoughts and he followed the direction of her gaze to a row of bikes cruising down Decatur Street. Every muscle in his body tightened as five Ministry cocksuckers parked right in front of Café Du Monde. He kept his eyes on the men climbing off their bikes.
“I wouldn’t be caught dead with them,” he said under his breath.
Sure, the Deacons hadn’t been angels, but at least they’d had some scruples, something no one would ever accuse the Graveyard Ministry of having.
“And the Deacons are a club, not a gang,” he told her, sharply.
“There’s a difference?” Her tone said she found that amusing. She had no idea what kind of danger they might be in if he was recognized. Even without his Deacons colors, he was an enemy; perhaps even more so because he was no longer an active club member and they’d think that made him weak.
Fire Me Up Page 8
