The Lady of Royale Street

by Thea de Salle

  SIXTEEN

  SON OF A bitch. Bastard. I hope his dongle falls off and Freckles eats it.

  She didn’t cry in the shower, but it was a close call, especially as she scoured him off her thighs. He must have left as soon as she’d fallen asleep: no word, no warning, no nothing. She’d woken not too much later, and waited twenty minutes hoping for the best, but he’d pulled a Houdini vanishing act on her. He’d probably slunk off to kick rocks or pray or cry to the heavens that once again he’d given in to his baser human instincts.

  If he even played the temptation-fruit-of-the-garden card with her, she’d use his nuts as a hacky sack and not think twice about it.

  When she walked out of the bathroom, body pink from scrubbing, a towel wrapped around her, she was greeted with a face full of the apology flowers. She promptly dumped them into the trash and screeched, a high-pitched noise that could have broken glass had she indulged it too long. A punch to a pillow later and she was slightly more in control of a whole lot of emotions she had no desire to ever feel again: namely rage, embarrassment, confusion.

  Just like Scott. Lesson learned, I suppose.

  Why do I learn everything the hard way?

  Only she could have the best sex of her life—twice—with the world’s most clueless arsehole.

  She fished out fresh clothes from her suitcase, not wanting to wear anything he’d touched. Checked pajama pants, a T-shirt she’d picked up when she’d done a photo shoot in Brussels. The outfit was as good as it was going to get, and tomorrow, the day of Rain’s last dress fitting and bachelorette party, Theresa would get laundry service so she could purge all things tainted by Alex DuMont from her life.

  Well, save for the man himself, whom she had to tolerate a few days more.

  Unless I kill him first.

  She was shoving dirty laundry into a canvas sack when there was yet another knock on her door.

  If this is him . . .

  She peered out the peephole. There he stood in the hall, his face distorted long and wide, like she was looking at his reflection in a mirrored funhouse.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “I brought dinner.”

  Shit.

  Okay, so maybe I leapt to conclusions. In my defense, he’s been a donkey to this point and doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt.

  She pulled open the door with a ragged sigh.

  “You could have left a note,” she snapped. “I assumed things.”

  He paused at the mouth of her room, blinking and frowning. Clasped in his mammoth hands was a long tray with two plates covered by silver domes. There was a bottle of wine, two crystal glasses, and two slices of what looked like key lime pie. He glanced at her. He glanced down at the flowers in her trash can.

  “I suppose you would assume I’d abandoned you. I’m sorry. I’m apologizing again, aren’t I?” He slid the food onto the coffee table before her couch. “My friends arrived after you fell asleep. I didn’t want to keep them waiting, and I figured you’d nap awhile. I . . . Maddy’s here, Sol’s ex-wife?”

  “The billionaire,” she said flatly.

  “Yes, her. She came in on her yacht. Well, it’s more of a private cruise ship, and it occurred to me on the way down—she has a function room on the ship.”

  Theresa had been divesting her floor of soiled linens while he talked, but hearing that, she stopped and perked right up. “Is she willing to—”

  “Yes. And Sol feels like a moron. He was so intent on restaurants and function rooms that a floating palace never occurred to him, in part because he wasn’t sure if Maddy was flying or sailing in. She’s effectively moving back to the city, so docking the Capulet was in the works already.”

  “But she came in on her boat,” she reiterated.

  “Yes.”

  “And it’s big enough and nice enough to host the wedding.”

  “Oh yes.” Alex smiled. “Maddy does nothing without splendor. The ship is pristine.”

  Oh thank God. Thank you, God.

  “Rain will be so happy. Alex, you genius.” She crossed the room in three strides and hugged him tight. Her annoyance was gone, replaced by palpable relief that manifested in a series of tiny kisses on his ear, his cheek. He turned his head to capture her mouth, and she let him have it, meeting his sweetness with some of her own.

  He might be an inconsiderate arseface, but right this minute, he’s my inconsiderate arseface.

  “I’m sorry I barked at you,” she said. “I’m comparing you to my ex, Scott, and that’s not fair.”

  His hand looped around her waist and then dropped down to affectionately pat her ass. “I’m sorry I didn’t leave a note. I didn’t think I’d be gone that long. I figured you might be hungry by the time I got back, though.”

  It wasn’t until she looked back at the dinner tray that she realized how long it’d been since she’d crammed food in her face. She motioned at the terrace she’d been too busy to enjoy until then. “My view is good, if we’d like to eat outside.”

  Alex pulled away from her to drift over to the glass French doors. “That it is. My room faced the same way when I was a kid.”

  “I forgot you grew up here,” she said, grabbing the tray. He tried to do that chivalry thing that was in some parts endearing and some parts annoying, but she shooed him off and headed outside. Grudgingly, he followed her onto the balcony.

  “I miss it sometimes,” he said. “Not the river smell in late August, but the rest of it. You won’t get better food anywhere.”

  “I’d be careful with that claim. You’re talking to a world traveler.” She winked at him, placing their dinner tray on a wrought-iron bistro table with a colorful mosaic tile top fashioned like a sunburst. Their chairs had weatherproof cushions that were surprisingly comfortable despite their vinyl exteriors. To the left were window boxes full of colorful blossoms. To the right was a pair of Adirondack chairs aimed at the courtyard with its lush, overflowing flower gardens.

  They sat across from each other at the table, both taking a silent moment to pray in thanks for their meal and blessing themselves before spreading their napkins across their laps.

  “Where’s the best place you’ve eaten?” Alex asked, sliding a plate her way. She pulled off the top, smiling when she saw the jambalaya. He visibly relaxed. “Oh good. I didn’t know what you liked. This is all right?”

  “Perfect, love. And the best place? It’s a bit like apples and oranges isn’t it? They’re all so different, but . . . hmm. Okay, there’s this place in Chicago that does German and Turkish fusion. They have a restaurant, too, but I fell in love with their food truck. DönerMen, it’s called. Loved it. It was just the right combination of sweet, savory, and spicy. And”—she paused to think—“France is nice but a little too obvious. Japanese sushi, but only if you’re in the hands of a master. I’m terribly spoiled. South Africa is good. I had some amazing goat curry in Pakistan once. It’s . . . I don’t know!”

  He smiled and tucked into his food. “You’ve been everywhere.”

  “Not quite, but getting closer all the time. What about you? Do you ever travel?”

  “No.” He frowned and glanced up at her, fine lines surrounding his eyes. “My father died in a plane crash. I’m not . . . I don’t like flying if I can help it. I drove here from Dallas. Almost eight hours, but I’d rather not deal with the nerves I get at the airport.”

  She almost countered with the whole You’re far more likely to die in a car crash thing, but fear wasn’t logical, and trying to use logic on it often came across as callous. Instead, she said, “I understand. I had flying nerves, too, but I had to get over it with my profession. It’s funny, my agent—she’s out of New York—has been trying to get me to put together a photo series for a book, but I haven’t sat still long enough to do it. She thinks we could sell a proposal to a publishing house, for good money. I�
��ve done a lot of shooting in the Middle East, less of the war-torn stuff you see on TV and more of the beauty of the common markets and everyday life. Americans don’t know what it’s like over there, not really. I’m considering doing the book for that reason more than anything else, though I won’t deny it’d be nice to settle down awhile, too. Twenty-five cities last year alone. It gets exhausting.”

  “So why don’t you?” Alex wiped his mouth with his napkin and gestured out at the river. “Park somewhere nice, breathe, get your collection together.”

  She wasn’t sure quite how to articulate her answer. She took a few bites of food, chewing while she mulled. “Hmm. Don’t know, really. My parents are busy—Dad’s a career professional, Mum’s raising my siblings—and I don’t want to intrude, nor do I want to baby-sit instead of work, which is what would happen. Rain was with her family until a few months ago, and I’d rather wrestle scorpions than spend extensive time in the Barrington House. Her brother Mitchell is awful—her mother and father, too. Here, she has Sol. Visiting is fine, but they’re about to start their life together, just like the rest of my friends, who are all getting married or having families. It’s . . . being busy has kept me from thinking about where I’d land, or when. I know that when I settle, I don’t want it to be alone, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

  Alex looked thoughtful. “I get that. Darren—my best friend—was the person I spent the most time with, but then I introduced him to Maddy and really haven’t seen him much since. And I’m a little afraid of the—what do they call it? Third-wheel syndrome? I’ve got my mother, but if I didn’t have my job, I don’t know where I’d be, either.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “And so I travel.”

  “I understand.” He smiled tightly. “Well, if you ever want to come to Dallas for your work I’d be happy to . . . we could—” He cleared his throat. “The Diamond is a fantastic hotel. I’d be happy to show you around.”

  Show me around. His hotel.

  I’m not sure how to take this.

  “Yes, we could do a tour. Of your hotel. And then work. That is exactly why I’d come out to Dallas. Nothing else,” she teased.

  He jerked his face up to hers. “I didn’t mean—I’d love to have you.”

  “But you already had me. Twice, and it was fantastic both times.”

  She grinned. The poor man turned the same color as the andouille sausage in their dinner, and she reached across the table to take his hand, giving it a squeeze.

  “If I go to Dallas, it won’t be for the hotel. The owner, however? Maybe. That depends on how much jambalaya and Glenlivet he brings me.”

  “All of it,” he blurted. “You can have all of it.”

  She whistled appreciatively. “Now that is a tempting offer. Dallas might be in my future after all then.”

  While there wasn’t another talk about what they could or could not do together in the face of their Catholicism, he didn’t offer to stay in her room that night. She wasn’t angry about it, mostly because she’d been awkward broaching the subject, too. “You can stay here,” seemed like four easy, innocuous words, but she couldn’t manage to get them out. Not when he took his leave of her after dinner with a sweet-but-not-too-sweet parting kiss.

  “I have to see what I can do to reroute the vendors to Maddy’s ship. Calls to make and such. I’ll see you at breakfast?”

  “You will,” she’d said, reaching behind his head to pull him back down again. The second kiss was more heated than the first, ending with her wrapped to his front, but somehow she peeled herself away and backed into the room. She waved. He waved back. It was dumb, and kind of adorable, and then the door closed between them.

  The only reasonable thing to do at that juncture was to go to bed, and that’s what she did. A half hour later, unable to sleep because she couldn’t stop thinking about him and the absolutely glorious coupling they’d had against the wall, she rolled onto her belly, slid her hands down into her pajama pants, and stroked herself into a mewling, bucking mess pile again.

  It was a lovely way to fall asleep.

  What was not a lovely way to wake, however, was the incessant buzzing of her phone telling her it was eight o’clock and she was expected at breakfast in an hour. She dressed in a navy blue sundress with big white flowers and a pair of sandals, smiling every time she ached in the good way. The way that reminded her she’d gotten well fucked the day before.

  That’s filthy, she thought. Then she smiled.

  She grabbed her key card and headed for the elevator. Halfway down to the restaurant, doubt reared its ugly head. It was frustrating that she didn’t trust how good she felt in that moment to last. She wanted to relish her giddiness, but her history with her ex and Alex’s various struggles meant he proxy-splashed anxiety onto her.

  This could be such a delightful fling . . . if only he’d let it. If only we’d let it. I’m complicit in fucking it up, too.

  That was the thought she took with her into the dining room.

  It wasn’t difficult to find her table. It was a sea of blonds with Nash—whom she hadn’t met but she knew because he was Sol’s twin—Sol, and Rain respectively occupying one side. Nash was in suspenders and a bow tie that were oddly appealing considering she associated both accessories with old men and hipsters. Sol had on a white business shirt he’d rolled up to his elbows and a pinstriped seersucker vest. Rain leaned into his side, all golden curls and a peach-colored blouse. Across from her was an empty seat, where Theresa would sit, with Alex in the middle in yet another polo shirt—black this time—and, on the end, a woman Theresa had yet to meet.

  The DuMont matriarch, Serena.

  Theresa approached the table with a smile. “Did you eat all the brunettes?” she said in greeting.

  Sol grinned. “They’d be so lucky.”

  “Sol. Honestly. Your mother is right here,” Alex griped before standing and pulling out Theresa’s chair. “Good morning, Theresa.”

  “Mama knows what I’m like. Theresa, this is our brother Nash and this is our mother, Serena. Mama, the fairest in the land and Alex’s new partner in crime, Theresa. She was Rain’s college roommate and is our maid of honor.”

  Partner in crime? Is that what we’re calling it now?

  “Hello and good morning,” Nash said, raising his grapefruit juice.

  “Lovely to meet you,” Serena said. If Rain was a compact Disney princess, Serena was a fairy godmother stretched out long and blessed with high cheekbones, a narrow nose, and a lush mouth. She was a lovely woman, as fair haired as Sol and Nash, and Theresa could see hints of the boys all over her features—even Alex, who’d gotten her eyes.

  She also dressed to the nines. Her white pantsuit was perfectly tailored and paired with a string of pearls. Her kitten heels with the tiny bows on the side were as flawless as the rest of her.

  “Hello, ma’am. A pleasure to meet you. You must be proud of your boys,” Theresa said.

  Serena smiled. “Exceedingly so. Rain has been singing your praises.”

  “I should do the same about Rain, I think. Your son’s marrying one of the good ones.”

  Serena nodded. “I suspect as much, yes.”

  Theresa sat and six-way chitchat commenced. A few minutes in, Rain grinned at her and leaned across the table, damned near inserting an entire boob into her café au lait as she reached for Theresa’s hand. “We have a dress fitting with Lucia, then Maddy’s got plans. I don’t know what they are, but it’s Maddy, so ready your butt.”

  “Ready my butt. What exactly does that mean?” Theresa asked.

  “It means Maddy’s a force of nature. The last bachelorette party Maddy threw involved actual monkeys. I don’t remember why, but you’ve been warned,” Sol quipped.

  Lovely. I’m now terrified.

  “I’ll hold on to my butt, I guess, then,” Theresa said.

  S
he turned to look at Alex, intent to ask him about his plans for the day, but then she noticed the expression on his face. It was the “tight upper lip gone white at the edges, worry line full in attendance” glower.

  She leaned over so she could whisper to him. “Are you all right?”

  “Mmm. I . . . it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “What shouldn’t?”

  Alex sipped his tea and straightened up in his chair, his fingers drumming the snow-white tablecloth.

  “I forgot to plan a bachelor party,” he confessed. “I didn’t mean to, but it got lost in the—I forgot.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh, that’s not good. He knows it, too, the poor bastard.

  Think fast!

  She forced her most brilliant smile and squeezed his knee beneath the table. “You’re in New Orleans, the capital of fun. How hard can it be to pull it off last minute?”

  Please don’t let these be famous last words, Theresa. For Alex’s sake.

  But seriously, how hard indeed?

  SEVENTEEN

  THE FIRST ORDER of business when throwing an impromptu bachelor party was figuring out who should be invited to said bachelor party. Cylan was an obvious choice, even though he glowered at Alex the moment he brought it up.

  “Do you remember his last bachelor party?” Cylan asked.

  “No.”

  “That’s right. Because you didn’t go. But I did. It involved a disappearing Rolex and a very patient exotic dancer named Peaches and four hours in the emergency room.” Cylan paused. “I’ll come along because he’s my best friend, but I am drawing a hard line at hospitals and police stations. You’ve been warned.”

  “Noted.”

  Vaughan Barrington was also an obvious choice, being Rain’s big brother and the head of The Seaside’s security, and he proved to be a little more helpful in the bachelor-party-planning department. Vaughan was about Alex’s height, with a medium build, and sleeves of tattoos on each arm—lots of skulls and roses and Celtic knot type things. He had longish hair on top of his head that he tied back, with the sides of his head shaved. His Harley Davidson T-shirt, jeans, and combat boots made it easy to forget he was a former marine with extensive Krav Maga training, but if Sol’s stories were true, the Barrington brother was a walking, talking murder machine who just so happened to work for the good guys.