Breathe. Suck it up and breathe.
He continued driving. It was how he spent the bulk of the day. Four shops in Metairie carried Swarovski, and with the six they had, that brought their total up to twenty swans—still a far cry from the seventy-three needed, so they continued on to Baton Rouge. Forty-one swans. More driving, almost all in silence, because any words they shared devolved quickly into a sniping contest. It was so at odds with the heated kisses from the night before. There’d been chemistry—enough chemistry that Alex deviated from his chaste lifestyle. How could it get so topsy-turvy so fast? They’d started off on the wrong foot, but he’d fixed it, and now . . .
Extend an olive branch. Be the bigger person.
If someone slaps you on your right cheek, turn to him the other also.
“I’m hungry,” he said.
That’s not an olive branch or a cheek. That’s a sandwich request.
Do better.
“So stop somewhere.” Theresa was looking out the window, half of her face hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. She looked better than she had, less green anyway, and she was no longer shriveling in her seat.
“What can you eat?” he asked.
“Nothing probably, but I’ll try.”
He fidgeted.
She probably doesn’t want my advice, but one thing guys are good at is giving women their unsolicited opinions. In for a penny, out for a pound, I suppose.
“Grease helps cut the acid in the stomach after alcohol. Seems counterintuitive, I know, but it works,” he said.
“Fine, then find grease.” She still sounded as friendly as a marauding bear, so he stopped talking, easing off the highway when he saw a sign for Popeyes. Food acquired, eaten, and fortunately not regurgitated, they continued on their quest. Baton Rouge became Lafayette. Afternoon became early evening. Forty-one swans became sixty-four after one particular shop had bulk swans in the back room.
Nine more to go. That’s it. Nine swans and we can put this debacle behind us.
“I’m pushing to Lake Charles unless you have objections,” he announced after refueling the car. “It’ll be tight, but we can try to get there before the malls close. And then it’ll be four hours back to New Orleans.”
“Lovely.” If possible, her answers were more clipped than they’d been when he’d been crotchety that morning. How? How was that possible?
“Theresa.” He didn’t put the car into drive. He didn’t pull out of the gas station. He sat in the seat, cramped because he was a large man in a tuna can of a sports car, and stared straight ahead at the long expanse of highway and the last vestiges of sunglow along the horizon. “What do I have to do to fix this? We’re stuck together for the rest of the week. We need to make this work.”
“Apologizing would be a good start! For being miserable all day.” Her head whipped around, her brown eyes flashing fury. “Do you think I let just any man kiss me? Well, maybe you do because you don’t know me very well, but I don’t. I’ve dated five men in my entire life. I’ve only ever slept with my ex, who was my fiancé at the time. I don’t engage lightly, so not only was I sick all morning, I felt stupid about what we did last night. I hate that we did it and I hate that it reminded me that I’m better off keeping my hands to myself.”
It was a whole hell of a lot more of an answer than he’d bargained for. He didn’t know what to say to it, either, so he said nothing, putting the car into drive, his jaw clenched. He wanted to shout back that he was in the same boat she was—he didn’t just randomly kiss women. He hadn’t touched anyone since college, and that was more years ago than he liked to admit. Hell, when they’d started touching, he was terrified he’d forgotten how, that he’d come off as passionate as a dead catfish, but he’d quickly discovered it was like riding a bike. His lips had fastened to hers like they belonged there, and by the pleasing, gaspy moans she’d made, he hadn’t lost his touch. But he’d been afraid. And to hear her posturing like this was a burden only she carried?
But that’s not why she’s upset. She’s upset because you got frustrated about the swans and you took it out on everyone, including her when she was sick and vulnerable.
“I am . . . sorry,” he said. “I was . . . I’m sorry.”
He didn’t feel great about the day, but an apology was the least he could do, even if a petty part of him thought she needed to consider his feelings in all of this, too.
“Fine,” she threw at him. “You’re sorry. Good. Thank you. Keep going.”
It wasn’t fine for either one of them. It was tense and miserable all the way to Lake Charles. It wasn’t until they dashed into Jamal Jewelers at five minutes to nine that things became bearable. The woman behind the counter, a lovely heavyset black woman in a red suit with matching lipstick and a name tag that read Gloria asked what she could do for them.
“Swarovski swans, if you have them,” Theresa said with a weary, manufactured smile. “Sorry to barge in right before closing.”
“No apologies needed. We’re open until we’re not. Just a minute.” Gloria disappeared into the back room of the store, rummaged around, and two minutes later emerged empty-handed. Alex’s stomach sank. They could and would venture out farther if they had to, into Texas if absolutely necessary, but he wanted to be done. He wanted to let Theresa escape his company. He wanted to maybe maintain some semblance of his dignity, because apparently he turned into a raging asshole when his temper got the best of him.
You know, you never pull that with the clients at the hotel. You learned how to cloak the anger. There’s something about her that’s letting you feel familiar, and familiar means exposing her to your sometimes indelicate disposition.
Distance yourself. Treat her like a customer. It’ll spare both of you.
“We have them,” Gloria announced. “How many did you need?”
“All of them,” Alex blurted. “Or, pardon, as many as you have.”
“You’re certain?” Gloria glanced behind her. “We have a dozen.”
A dozen.
Sixty-four and twelve makes seventy-six swans.
We needed seventy-three.
“I could kiss you right now,” Theresa said, her plastic smile becoming genuine. Her eyes widened, her cheeks flushed pink, and she showed off a row of straight teeth. “That’s the last we’d need for the wedding favors. We’ll take ’em all, okay? Thank you, Gloria. Thank you!”
She’s happy. It’s cute.
Distance, Alex. Distance.
“Yes, thank you,” he managed to say, voice choked. “We’ve been on a hunt all day.”
Gloria smiled at them both, grabbed a box from the floor of the jewelry shop, and returned to the back room to end a journey more epic than a couple of short hairy Hobbits walking to Mount Doom with a ring.
Now if we can survive the ride back without Theresa killing me . . .
Well. That’d be a real feat.
EIGHT
THERESA EYED THE boxes of swans in the back of the Porsche mostly because she was delaying climbing back into said Porsche. It wasn’t a comfortable car to be in for an hour, never mind many hours, and she wasn’t exactly a tiny girl. Tall, leggy, with hips and shoulders and a width that went along with them. She couldn’t even imagine what Surly Giant was going through.
If I’m uncomfortable, he’s doubly so.
She glanced his way. He stood next to the driver’s side door with a woebegone expression on his face. He also hunched a little like he was sore, but he never complained. It made her regret lashing out at him earlier. Sure, he’d been an ass when she was sick, but she hadn’t exactly been a day at the beach, either, and he had his own hangover plaguing him.
Takes two to tango, takes two to fight. He apologized. Your turn, girlie.
“Sorry for being cranky today,” she said quietly. She leaned against the car, her hand on the red hood, the sleek, lo
w-to-the-ground metal a divide between their bodies. Around her, the Louisiana night sang. A night bird whooped from her left, crickets wailed from the right. There were so many bugs swarming around the lights in the mall parking lot that she heard a soft buzz.
It was pretty gross.
“Forgiven. We weren’t at our best,” Alex said tightly. He opened his door, stooped to climb inside, and winced. “I hate this car.”
“Seconded.”
The idea of being in it for another three hours was enough to turn her stomach. She groaned, looked past Alex at the highway just beyond the tree line, and immediately spotted the Holiday Inn Express. It wouldn’t be anything like The Seaside, but it had beds and hot water and a reason to not be in the Porsche half the night.
“You know, we could head back to New Orleans tomorrow morning,” she said. “Give our backs a rest, maybe?”
He stopped trying to insert himself into the Porsche to eye her. She pointed past him at the hotel, and he turned his head. She didn’t think Alex DuMont could ever appear boyish, but the delight on his face at the realization that he might not have to drive what was an aesthetically pleasing torture device cast a sweetness to his features.
“Oh, bless you, you wonderful woman,” he said, looking relieved. “I’d like that very much.”
“Good. All right, I’ll drive then. Give you a rest.”
It wasn’t much of a rest with the hotel already in sight, but he didn’t argue, silently handing her the keys and swapping sides with her. Climbing into the passenger’s side wasn’t any easier on him than the driver’s side, but at least he could lean back in his seat for a few minutes. She guided the Porsche out of the parking lot and onto the highway, following the GPS instructions to get her to the proper exit and on the proper route. They pulled into the parking lot at half past nine, and she turned her head to eye their stash. They had no luggage, but they did have nearly fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of swans with them. She wasn’t about to leave them outside, not after everything they’d gone through to get them.
Steal the car, fine.
Steal the swans, I’ll kill what you love.
“Go ask for a luggage cart so we can load the swans?” she asked, unfurling from the vehicle.
Alex walked stiffly to the hotel, reappearing with the requested cart a few minutes later. Neither he nor she were particularly nimble as they loaded up the swans, but they persevered, careful as they stacked the boxes into neat rows.
“I can finish if you want to check us in,” she said, watching him cringe every time he bent from the waist. She wasn’t comfortable, but she wasn’t hurting to the degree he was. He looked like his spine had turned to iron.
He paused. “You’re sure?”
“Go.”
Alex tottered off and she finished the job alone, grabbing her purse and setting the Porsche’s alarm before oh so gently guiding her pile o’ swans into the hotel foyer. Alex awaited her by the front desk, his arms crossed over his massive chest, his back to the wall. He looked tired and unkempt, his hair mussed, his shirt wrinkled. She doubted he ever let himself go like that, but circumstances being what they were, there wasn’t a whole lot he could have done to prevent it.
He took over swan-wheeling duty, leading her to the elevator, then to the fourth floor, and finally down the hall to a room. The check-in clerk hadn’t said anything about returning the luggage caddy, so Theresa didn’t offer to bring it back. Neither did Alex. He tucked it against the wall, kicked off his shoes, stared at the two double beds, and promptly walked over to the right one and face planted in the pillows. His groan was nigh pornographic.
She smirked, hovering by the foot of the second bed, and waited.
He didn’t seem to notice.
She didn’t want to be rude, but . . .
“Can I have my room key?”
She didn’t think it was possible for Alex to get any more rigid, but she was wrong. Every muscle in that big, wide body flexed before he rolled himself off his bed and to his feet.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“Eh?”
“I’ll go. I didn’t think. I just got the one because the girl at the desk said two double beds and there are two of us and I’m tired, but you’re right, you need your own room. I’ll go down . . .” He let the sentiment trail as he found his shoes and, instead of tugging them on, maneuvered them around on the floor to jam his feet into them so he could avoid bending.
“Stop. It’s fine,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He paused his fumbling to look at her.
“No, it’s not. I was inconsiderate.”
“No, you’re tired. I’ll go shower. Just don’t mind my unmentionables by the sink, all right?”
“No, I’ll go,” he insisted.
“No, it’s fine,” she insisted back.
His jaw worked, clenched, a muscle flexing and unflexing in the side of his face. “It’s no big deal, honestly.”
“You’re right, it’s not. So I’ll stay.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but he sighed and closed his eyes instead, shoulders sagging in defeat. “Whatever you like, Theresa.”
Damn right whatever I like, she almost said, but she figured he was tweaked enough that adding fuel to the fire was a bad idea. He returned to his prone position on the bed and she slipped into the bathroom with her purse and stripped, hanging her bra from the back of the door and dropping her panties into the left sink, filling it up and sudsing them down. She didn’t mind wearing the same clothes two days in a row, but the underwear had to be hand laundered at the very least. In no universe was Theresa Ivarson Queen Commando.
She wrung out the panties and toweled them off before laying them flat on the counter. At least it was a new lacy black pair; it was bad enough a strange man would see them, but had it been one of the white pairs that had gone gray over time with holes along the elastic top band, she would have been mortified. She could just see herself trying to explain that those panties, while ugly, were staples in the collection because they could withstand the sanguine onslaught of period time. Alex would have been horrified, she would have been valiantly trying to present the old cotton undies as warriors—it would have been a disaster.
Theresa hosed off her body in the shower, rubbed herself dry, and slipped back into her sundress. It reached to her knees, so she wasn’t too afraid of any accidental nudity, though she’d have to be mindful of bending over. She thumbed through her purse and pulled out a hairbrush, a miniature deodorant, dental floss, and a small bottle of Scope she carried everywhere.
She pushed open the bathroom door.
“Good news. I have Scope and floss. That’s almost as functional as a toothbrush and toothpaste.”
She stepped out from the bathroom and immediately stopped cold. Alex had moved. More than that, he’d pulled off his shirt and was standing in front of the TV, bare from the waist up, trying to get the remote control to work. He was the most physical human she’d ever seen—all that breadth was sculpted muscle. There was no fat, but there were abs, and sometimes, when he moved a certain way, she saw veins bulging against his skin.
He’s strong. So very strong.
“I could try to find a convenience store,” he said, not looking at her. He muttered and flipped over the remote, prodding the batteries. “For toothpaste and toothbrushes. I hate the disposable ones. This remote isn’t working.”
“Don’t worry about it. I have gum, too,” she said before dashing to her bed and settling down amid the pillows. “We can worry about toothbrushes tomorrow. We just shouldn’t breathe on each other in the morning.” She raked the brush through her hair and concentrated on not staring at her roommate. “Can you use the buttons on the TV instead of the remote?”
“Probably. See, this is a perfect example of getting what you pay for. Our staff always checks the TVs and remotes during
turndown service. It’s a simple enough thing to do,” he groused.
“Mmmm.”
She didn’t care about the TV. She cared about keeping her eyes inside of her head.
He tried to get you a second room. You insisted he not. This is your own damned fault. Maybe if you weren’t such a harpy . . .
Alex fussed with the TV another moment and it blazed to life. He sank down onto his bed slowly, like a statue moving for the first time, his hand traveling to the back of his neck to rub. Theresa tore the brush through her hair, hard enough she thought it’d come out by the roots, but she wouldn’t ogle no matter how easy he made ogling. She was made of stronger stuff.
And remember, he’s been a prat all day.
But then he groaned. Oh, how he groaned. It wasn’t a pleasured groan, nothing at all like those illicit noises he made when they were kissing the night before, but pained groans. Action preceded thought. She abandoned her hairbrush and crossed over to him, her hand going to the back of his neck to massage away the hurt. She thought only to offer relief, but he moved fast, a cobra striking at a mouse, his big hand manacling her wrist and pulling her away from him.
“Don’t,” he croaked, breathing deep. His eyes lifted to hers, his brows knit together in a thick line of gold.
Heat flooded her face. “I only wanted to help.”
Alex didn’t answer right away, nor did he release his hold on her. It didn’t hurt, but it was firm. Their gazes remained fixed, blue on brown, his expression pinning her to the spot and robbing her of thought, never mind the capacity to break away.
Oh, he’s appealing.
“There’s a reason we should have gotten you your own room. I . . . Theresa.” He gently disengaged, his fingers brushing over the back of her hand as he pulled back. She could see the pulse at the base of his throat hammering like a drum and she wondered as her toes curled in the stiff carpet of the hotel if hers looked the same. “It’s been almost ten years since I’ve touched anyone sexually. You said earlier, when you were angry, you didn’t engage that way. Neither do I. Faith, opportunity—I don’t. But you make me think of things I shouldn’t. I’d never compromise you, and I hope you realize that. You’re safe with me, but I desperately . . . I . . . want.”
The Lady of Royale Street Page 7
