1
Red Letter Nights: When desire is too hot to be kept secret…
WHEN IT CAME to seducing a man, Chloe Matthews was not fainthearted at all.
In fact, nothing about Chloe Matthews was the least bit predictable. She didn’t run Café Eros in a traditional way, nor did Chloe dress to impress. She didn’t wake up at a regular time, nor did she go to bed according to a timetable.
At six o’clock in the evening, she watched from Café Eros across the court as the new owner walked up to Number 10 Court du Chaud and paused at his door. Chloe felt her excitement tighten to a fine edge as he reached out and removed the red envelope tacked to the door with a little Santa pin. He winced, brought his finger to his mouth and sucked.
Of course, it would have been impossible in the dimming light and the distance for her to make out the Santa pin. She knew what kind of pin it was because she’d tacked up the envelope with her own bold hand.
Since Chloe never did the expected, it wasn’t exactly a letter. It was a verse of poetry. Poetry she’d written last night after she’d seen him standing with his back against his front door, illuminated in the pool of light from the wrought-iron carriage lamp.
He’d been looking up at the sky. From her balcony at Number 9 Court du Chaud, the town house next to his, she’d seen his dark, mysterious eyes framed by thick, luxurious lashes. It had been his eyes that had captured hers. Soul deep as if he possessed all the knowledge of the ages and it sat squarely on his broad shoulders. His haunted expression begged for peace, for just a small measure of tranquility.
In that moment she lost her heart to him. His dark hair, shaggy and ink-black in the lamp’s glow beckoned her fingers. Dressed in a white T-shirt, the ridges of his collarbone glistened in the Big Easy’s uncommon late December heat. A barbed-wire tattoo encircled his left bicep, making him look tough. And she would have believed he was tough if it had not been for that beseeching look.
Even though Chloe thought of herself as unpredictable, one small thing about her always remained the same. As a former nurse, she knew all about wanting to help, heal, nurture. But the sadness that came with that medical profession was too much for her to bear. She’d decided that running a café would allow her to care for people and sleep at night.
She stood in her little courtyard while her waitress, Tally Addison hurried around the tables, setting up for the dinner rush. She watched as the man opened the envelope, watched as he removed the scarlet paper and unfolded it. He turned it slightly toward the light, showing his magnificent face in profile, the beautiful bone structure, the glimpse of those full lips that made a woman want to grab his chin and turn his face toward her so that she could get a full view of that luscious mouth.
Chloe held her breath as if waiting for her lover’s kiss. He brought the paper to his nose and inhaled. His shoulders relaxed from the tense way he held them. She expelled trapped air on a soft sound from her throat as he closed his eyes. He ran his fingertips down over the written words and she saw his chest expand and release. Gently with his big, male hands, he folded the paper and tucked it back into the envelope. He didn’t look around, but stepped into his town house and closed the door.
She turned away with a secret, satisfied smile. His reaction had sizzled through her, lightning trapped in a jar. His fingers had touched the scarlet paper as if he could absorb the words into his skin.
“Chloe, I need to speak with you.”
Chloe pulled her eyes from Number 10 to focus on Madame Alain, a sweet little woman who was the court’s resident busybody. She was quite French with a lovely accent and had taught French at a private girls’ school until she’d retired last year. She’d lost her husband to a heart attack and Chloe suspected the loneliness prompted her to get into everyone else’s business.
“Yes, Madame Alain. What can I do for you?”
“I’m having a get-together for my women’s bridge club tomorrow and would love a dozen beignets.”
“By what time?” Chloe asked, running through her enormous list in her head looking for a place to slot Madame Alain’s bridge club goodies.
“Nine-thirty.”
“I’ll have them for you,” Chloe promised. She would have to give up her yoga class. But that was all right. Madame Alain was a good friend and patron.
“Could you deliver them? Merci.” She followed Chloe’s eyes and with a sly grin, she said, “He’s a fine man, oui?”
Chloe gave herself away and blushed.
“Oui. I see you have noticed. I know all about him.”
She left Chloe hanging and the little frisson of frustration gave way to curiosity.
“Madame. I have a fresh batch of chocolate almond croissants and some café au lait.”
“Do you now? A tête-à-tête? How lovely.”
Chloe climbed the stairs with Madame Alain trailing her. It gave her great pleasure to walk into her aromatic café. Opening up to the French Quarter, her home and business was a hop and skip from Jackson Square. The “hot” court, roughly translated in French was boxed in by French Colonial town houses gracing the gardened courtyard. At the mouth of the wrought iron gate sat Café Eros with its own little courtyard, brick walls, a gray flagstone patio and a nonworking fountain used as a circular planter, thick with daylilies, iris and aster. Close to the juncture of the café and the stairway that led to the upper café, ruby-red passion flower vines entwined lovingly around a white trellis. For the Christmas season, she’d covered the tables, set around the small courtyard with red tablecloths. The wrought iron chairs, with round seats were already covered in red, part of the allure of the hot court.
The outside and inside seating, combined together, accommodated about twenty-four people comfortably and was as cozy and friendly as a living room. She offered good food, friendly service and beignets that made grown men weep.
Painted in shades of sepia and ocher, the walls were covered with old jazz posters and hand-painted with couples in amorous embraces. On the wall behind the counter was a full-length mural of Gabriel Dampier, the pirate who had made the court famous with his bawdy exploits there.
The tables inside were small and also covered with red tablecloths. Big fans hung from the hammered tin ceiling, and a long mirror stretched down one wall. Through the day the patrons enjoyed songs from Etta James, Dizzy Gillespie and Louis Armstrong. During the Christmas season, she played lively Zydeco Christmas music. A set of French doors stood open under lace-covered windows, allowing her customers to experience the French Quarter as they dined.
For the holiday season, Chloe had strung white Christmas lights around the windows and in the back corner of the café, set a five foot Christmas tree all decorated in red from its garland to its bows and its many ornaments.
Her café was everything to her and she took loving care of it, just as she took great care in the food she prepared.
Food made people forget their worries.
Sugary beignets that melted on the tongue made customers sigh with pleasure and think of decadent Sunday mornings eating breakfast in bed with naked lovers.
Her coffee was rich, aromatic, drawing people in by the smell alone. Lonely people would strike up conversations, make friendships, make a connection.
Nothing gave Chloe more pleasure than to see the lonely become whole again.
Number 10 had that look about him.
Her curiosity piqued, she settled Madame Alain at a table close to the counter in case she had a customer come in. Setting the croissant and coffee in front of her neighbor, she said, “So?”
“His name is Jean Castille, but everyone calls him Jack. He has a sexy Cajun accent and was born and bred in Bayou Gravois,” Madame Alain said in a conspiratorial whisper, even though there was no one else in the café.
“I found out from the paper boy that he got the tattoo on his arm when he’d been in the military,” Chloe said in the same whisper with amusement tickling her insides.
Madame Alain nodded vigorously as she ta
sted her croissant. After taking a sip of her coffee, she said, “Laura Sue at the dry cleaners said he was a hostage negotiator. He brought his NOPD uniforms there to be cleaned and pressed.”
But no one could tell her what had put that look in his deep, dark eyes.
That was Chloe’s mission. Well, one of her missions. The first was to seduce him into her bed where she could find out what the other half of his magnificent body looked like beneath the tight, faded jeans.
That was the reason for the red-hot envelopes.
She left Madame Alain to her treat, and stepped behind the counter, walking into the hot, steamy kitchen. She switched on the fan and stirred the gumbo she’d been simmering for an hour. Her dinner customers would be here soon, along with her night help.
Returning to the exterior of her café, she stopped dead. Jack Castille stood at the counter. He’d changed into a white T-shirt and a pair of jean cutoffs that frayed against his muscular thighs.
She looked at Madame Alain who had a rapt look on her face and a sly smile on her lips. She glanced at the bell over the door and then at him. “Sorry, I didn’t hear the bell.”
“No problem. I haven’t been waiting long.”
For a moment she savored the soft Cajun accent of his voice, a spicy rhythm that called to something restless and female inside her. She smiled at him and extended her hand. “Chloe Matthews.”
With a slow, deliberate move, he stepped closer to her and slipped his big hand into hers. “Jack Castille.”
Direct contact with that dark gaze unnerved her. Her, Chloe Matthews, a woman who wasn’t afraid to look a gator in the face and spit in its eye. No haunted look shadowed his eyes tonight, only a blatant self-assurance that Chloe immediately liked.
This was a take-no-prisoners kind of guy and his deep, fathomless gaze pulled at her with a mesmerizing quality she’d never, ever felt before. Gosh his eyes were absolutely, out of this world gorgeous.
“I’ve only lived here for a short while and I’ve already heard a rumor about this place.”
“You have?”
“Uh-huh. Heard you make the best gumbo in Louisiana.”
“She does,” piped up Madame Alain.
He turned to Madame Alain and smiled, “Bonjour, madame. I believe it was you who told me this.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Castille, and you have a good memory.”
“Please, call me Jack.”
“I shall.”
Jack turned back to Chloe and the impact of those eyes was like a physical caress.
“You ain’t Cajun.” He looked her up and down. “And you sure don’ look like mon père.”
“Your father? What does he have to do with gumbo?”
“In Acadia, cooking is a man’s thing. To cook your first gumbo while your friends are playing bourree, a Cajun card game, well—it’s sort of a rite of passage.”
“Maybe someday I’ll have to taste your gumbo, Mr. Castille.”
“Maybe you will.” He grinned like a pirate, a wickedness that warned her he was a charming rogue. “Call me Jack.”
“Only if you call me Chloe.”
He leaned in, his mouth close to her ear, setting off a shower of sparks inside her. “Chloe.” He said her name as if she were spun silk.
This close to him she could see the lushness of his lashes, the aching brown of his eyes, the stubble along his hard jaw.
She smiled into those eyes and he blinked. Ah, he expected her to jump back like a scared rabbit. Chloe didn’t scare easily.
Reaching out, she ruffled his hair. “Have a seat. I’ll get you a bowl of gumbo.”
He grabbed her wrist in a sudden, lightning move. His striking brown eyes smoldering with a heady beguiling smile that made her insides turn to jelly. He raised her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her palm. The jelly inside her went liquid, hot scalding liquid.
“I’ll take a table outside.”
He let go of her wrist and she stood there for a moment, her palm tingling with warmth and the memory of his soft lips.
This only made her eyes fall to his clever mouth, wondering what carnal joys awaited a woman bold enough to declare herself to him.
All in good time.
She nodded, turned and slipped through the kitchen door.
CHLOE MATTHEWS enticed him, Jack admitted, taking a sip of his coffee. But her powerful allure was more than the sum of her parts, more than her fragile, heartbreaking beauty. Or her sensual, candid eyes, the green of a seductive verdant forest. His awareness went deeper than the sculpted kissable mouth, beyond her long curly strawberry-blond hair. Chloe didn’t find him intimidating. Jack chuckled to himself as he remembered how her fingers had felt against his scalp when she’d mussed his hair. Like he was a mischievous boy!
She looked like a fey creature who had just stepped out of an enchanted garden. He’d been here only a couple of weeks, but he’d seen her with her herb garden on her balcony of her town house, the air sweet with rosemary and thyme. He’d breathed deeply of the heavenly aroma of beignets, croissants and other sweet things she baked in the early morning before he went to work. He’d seen the way she’d mothered the people in this court. The wounded part of him longed to feel the soft touch of those healing hands.
He’d smelled the elusive scent of her as he’d been pressed against the counter, so close to her he could have kissed those tempting lips.
He went down the stairs and chose a table close to the heady fragrance of the red flower vine.
From this vantage point he could see right down to the end of Court du Chaud. His gaze fell to his town house door. His thumb rubbed absently against his forefinger at the pin prick from the Santa tack that had been used to secure the red envelope.
Her perfume was similar to the sweet one that had clung lovingly to the paper he’d slipped out of the envelope. The smell had gotten onto his fingertips and stayed.
That short verse written with silver ink in a beautiful calligraphy had hit him square in his libido, firing his blood and giving him a raging hard-on.
I like to watch you
I like to watch you and think about
doing wild, tempestuous things to you
eager and willing to explore dark desires
and forbidden fantasies.
It had been signed simply, Santa’s Sexy Elf. His cock twitched and tightened just thinking about dark desires and forbidden fantasies.
Chloe appeared at his table almost as if by magic. But he knew it was the carnal thoughts that had distracted him. She set the steaming, fragrant bowl of gumbo before him. She leaned across him to set down a basket of homemade biscuits, pressing against him to snag his silverware that had been pushed to the edge of the table.
She smiled at him as she handed him the silverware. “Enjoy, Jack. You’ll let me know what you think of my gumbo, and if it’s not as good as your father’s, lie.”
He looked up at her face, her kind and gentle heart mirrored there. All he could do was think about how much he wanted to encircle her waist with his hands and drag her down on his lap. Push his throbbing erection against the tantalizing heat of her soft woman’s flesh. Absorb some of that gentleness that he hungered for deep into him, a balm, a boon to his soul.
He pulled his gaze away and reached for the silverware, forcing his charming smile to hide the darkness swirling inside him. “Ah, sugar, for you, I’ll lie.”
“Maybe you won’t have to.”
“Maybe I won’t.”
“Enjoy your meal and when you’re finished, the dessert of the day is crème brûlée. I also offer other treats and they’re in the glass case near the counter.”
Her husky voice slid over him making him think about what tantalizing treats she could offer him. The slick heat of her body, the taste of her skin.
Her tongue slicked over her lips and he thought about it against the hot taut skin of his body, the wet slide along the rapidly forming hard-on that hadn’t quite subsided.
The rumbling of a
motorcycle made Jack look away from Chloe’s face. A leather-clad biker used his booted foot to set the kickstand.
The biker dismounted and looked up at Jack’s town house. Jack called out and the helmeted head turned, nodded and came his way.
Chloe looked up as Jack called out. She watched the biker’s progress and as soon as he got to the fountain, he pulled the helmet off. Chloe gasped and stared. It was uncanny how much he resembled Jack. This man had the same dark hair only longer and pulled off his face in a short queue at the back of his neck. He had the same tough guy look about him, but with a slightly more dangerous edge. He also looked like he needed healing. Chloe saw it in his brown eyes.
“I’ll take him,” Tally said as she rushed past Chloe. Chloe studied her waitress avidly as she greeted the man who could only be Jack’s brother and he in turn indicated the table where Jack was sitting.
Tally handed a menu to the new customer and Chloe felt the rush of emotion so thick and heavy, she took a deep breath.
Wondering where the feeling had come from, she eyed the three people in front of her. Jack and his brother were deep in conversation and Tally was busy cleaning up a nearby table.
Shrugging her shoulders, Chloe went back up into the kitchen and prepared the crème brûlée. As soon as the top of the dessert caramelized, she picked up the bowl and returned to the lower café. Approaching Jack’s table, she noticed that his shoulders were tense as he spoke to his brother.
“I don’t like it any better than you do, Chris. I think you might want to bring this to the police. You know better than that—you were once a cop, too.”
“Right. But now I’m a P.I. and I do things my way.”
“I know, but when you’re over your head, you should admit it.”
“I hate to agree with you, but I think you’re right.”
She set the bowl in front of Jack.
She turned to Jack’s brother and he smiled at her. Ah, interesting, same almost-black eyes, same mouth with the luscious lips. But if Jack was as straight an arrow as she believed him to be and played by the rules, she had a feeling this man liked to break them.
Red Letter Nights Page 8
