by Liz Talley
“I don’t like to get dirty. Besides, Dez is too—” Eleanor clamped her mouth closed because as she glanced into the store, Dez Batiste stood next to the chiffonier wardrobe with the speckled beveled mirror.
“Gorgeous,” Pansy finished for her, craning her head around Eleanor’s for a look.
Eleanor swallowed. “Exactly.”
“And you should totally have sex with him.”
CHAPTER FIVE
DEZ TOOK A HARD LOOK around Eleanor’s store, and decided he liked the rambling, homey feel of the place. Many of the antiques dealers on Royal Street had a fussy aloofness that made passersby steer clear, expecting prices higher than a cat’s back, but the Queen’s Box exuded warmth trimmed with the scent of beeswax and eucalyptus—like his great-aunt Frances’s parlor, but not as stuffy.
“Hey,” Eleanor said, stepping out of her office with a cautious smile.
Another woman followed and he assumed her to be an employee, since he’d seen her come and go each day. She was almost as tall as he was, with sloping, thin shoulders, an endearing gawkiness and a wide smile full of the devil.
“I’m Pansy McAdams,” the woman said, stretching out a hand and giving him a once-over. Appreciation shone in her eyes, and he decided he had an ally in Pansy. “I saw you play Tipitina’s with the New Birth Brass Band back in ’04. You were such a baby.”
He took her hand. “Good to meet. You caught that gig? That was one of the ones that got me noticed.”
“You were brilliant on that Dixieland rag you played. Spontaneous and inspiring—I was blown away,” Pansy said, dropping his hand and spinning toward Eleanor. “Hate to go, but I don’t want to be late.”
Dez held out a flyer. “Before you go, take one of these. Late notice so I’m trying to spread the word.” He handed the purple paper to Pansy.
She scanned the flyer. “You’re playing with Trombone Sonny at the Priest and Pug before the Endymion parade? Meow.”
“That’s what it says,” he joked, pointing to the heading. “Yeah, I’m trying to drum up some excitement for Blue Rondo before we open the doors mid-March, and with that many people lining the street before the parade, it’s a perfect time. The owner’s a friend and offered to front the cost as a welcome. Several other New Orleans guys will be there. Gilly Sanchez may drop in. Goin’ to be jammin’.”
He watched Eleanor as he put special emphasis on the “welcome” part of his response. He really wanted her to relent on her position regarding his nightclub.
Eleanor held out her hand and he gave her a sheet.
“So this is music for the entire family?”
He gave her a flat stare. “You have been to a bar before, haven’t you? It’s not exactly family-friendly, right?”
“Of course,” she said, her eyes flashing a color somewhere between the shade of emerald glass and the soft fir trees sold at Christmas, “but being that you want to create an image the association—”
“Really? You think I’m into pandering to stuffed-up old goats afraid to let go of their outdated ideas?” He stopped admiring the woman’s eyes and gave his full attention to her argument, which was as thin as tissue. Disappointment soured his stomach. The past few days had shown him a different side of Eleanor, one he hadn’t anticipated, based on the letter to the city council he’d snared. In his mind, he’d repainted her the opposite of an uptight, obtuse business owner, thinking she’d let go of the idea Blue Rondo was a mistake for the neighborhood.
“Look, I respect your ambition, but the other merchants and I have worked hard to come back from obscurity after the storm, some of us from near bankruptcy. Maybe we’d all feel better if you go to the next merchants’ meeting in a few weeks and tell us more about your business. This isn’t personal—it’s about the community. There are significant ramifications to having a bar in a historic building within these particular blocks of Magazine.”
“Now I see it,” he said.
“What?”
“The politician’s wife.”
Pansy laughed. “You got her pegged. Sometimes a skunk forgets it stinks.”
“I do not stink.” Eleanor’s frown deepened in conjunction with the narrowing of her eyes. “And I’m not a politician’s wife any longer. I’m merely trying to do the job for which I was elected, and that means not allowing my personal preferences to color my actions on behalf of the elected board.”
He gave her a slow smile. “So your personal preferences have changed?”
A strange look crossed her face. “What? Oh, well, that’s not what I meant. In any situation—not just yours—I have to be unbiased and act in the best interests of the merchants.”
“So you haven’t changed your mind?” he asked.
“I have—” Eleanor snapped her mouth closed. “I hate when people twist my words.”
“Just wondering where I stand is all.” Irritation made her somehow more desirable. Maybe he could kiss the exasperation away.
Pansy, a grin as big as a tuba on her face, waved. “As interesting as you two are, I have to jet. Eddie’s show’s at six o’clock and I have to pick up the cookies for the reception.”
Eleanor nodded. “Fine. I’ll be by after I close.”
Pansy hiked a canvas bag onto her shoulder and addressed Dez. “Why don’t you stop by if you get the chance? My husband does fantastic glass art. His show is at Marvel’s gallery over on Maple.”
She pressed her hands against the front door. “In fact, why don’t you escort Eleanor? It’s not dressy or anything.”
Before he could answer, Eleanor’s assistant disappeared out the door.
Eleanor rolled her eyes. “She’s been trying to fix me up with any man who walks through the door.”
“Lucky I’m the last one through for the day,” he said, walking over and flipping the Open sign to Closed. He turned around. “Just in case there’s some other man thinking he’ll get to do the honors.”
The ever-present attraction fired between them. A flicker of pleasure played at her mouth. Ah, sweet lips he wanted to taste again. No…needed to taste again. Her eyes slid to his lips as if she’d maybe had the same naughty thoughts. Then she jerked her gaze away. “Who said I wanted to go with you anyway?”
Eleanor turned from him and busied herself with something at the register. He got it. The thing they had going between them—a wisp of something new and exciting—was scary, almost too much to take in. Eleanor wasn’t anything silly as a nervous mare or a skittish virgin, but somehow she felt close to one of those ancient depictions. She was a woman who teetered on a decision, torn between what she wanted and what was expected.
And maybe needed a little convincing…
He set a few flyers on the desk, longing to reach out and slide a hand along her stubborn jawline, wanting to trace his tongue along the delicate shell of her ear, bury his nose in hair that smelled seductive, like mandarin and vanilla.
In his head, music started.
Dez froze as the almost-forgotten feeling came back. Words, desire, music. Was he getting his muse back? Years upon years, the little inner voice inside him, his guide who brought forth the perfect lyrics, had been defiantly silent. The loss of his album had weighed him down, unyielding and tainting his creative consciousness.
But just now—those realizations about Eleanor and wanting to kiss her—had appeared to him like music. He could hear the notes to accompany the words.
Hope sprang loose inside him. Maybe it wasn’t merely being back in New Orleans…maybe it was in the curve of Eleanor’s cheek, in the slight dimple in her chin, the hollow at the base of her neck, or the depths of those mysterious eyes so full of uncertainty.
She stared at him, her eyebrows arched. She waited for him to speak.
“So will you hand these out to interested customers?”
She eyed the stack he’d set down. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’m as conflicted about Blue Rondo as I am about you.”
“About me?”
Pu
shing her hair behind her ear, she swallowed. “This thing we’ve got between us, whatever it is, I think we better stop it before it gets out of hand, you know?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” She grabbed the cash from the register, shoved it in a bank bag and slammed the drawer shut, twisting a key and pocketing it in the fuzzy cardigan she wore. Ignoring him and the stack of flyers, Eleanor took the bank bag and disappeared into her office.
He followed.
She closed the safe in the wall as he walked in. He went to her, not giving her room to maneuver. “Why are you putting definitions on flirtation? On the possibility of what could happen?”
“Because we need them. I need them.” She turned to him, her eyes pleading. “I’m not used to doing this. It’s like I’m parking my ass in foul-ball territory, knowing I’m going to get smacked in the head.”
“Or maybe it’s like knowing that the dance will end but enjoying the time on the dance floor. If you want comparisons I can do this all day. Ultimately what it boils down to is you’re one of two things—either embarrassed because I’m a little younger and my skin’s a little darker, or still in love with your cheatin’-ass husband.”
Her eyes widened but she didn’t respond.
“So which is it?”
“Neither one of those and a smidge of both,” she said, rubbing her fingers against her eyes with a huge sigh.
“So that means…what?”
“I don’t know. I’m ready to start over again, but I’m not sure my debut can be with you. We’re not even remotely from the same world and—”
“You can’t handle someone who’s not white and younger than you?” He couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice.
She stepped toward him, her eyes deepening. “You’re almost too beautiful to be human, but I’m afraid of you.”
“Afraid?”
“Of this turning into something I can’t handle. I’ve got shaky legs and it feels like a new world. But, Dez, wanting you is not the issue.”
“But what’s life without taking chances?” He closed the gap between them and traced one finger down her cheek. Her breath quickened.
“I don’t remember,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes, refusing to make that connection he craved. “But being totally honest, I don’t think I can handle being hurt right now…not when I finally feel strong enough to want something more than my empty bed each night.”
He slid a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head up. Finally, her gaze met his. In those depths he saw the fear. “I won’t hurt you.”
“That’s what they all say,” she whispered, an ironic little smile tilting her lips. “I don’t want to be a victim, and I don’t want you to have to protect me. Doesn’t seem fair to—”
“Let’s make a deal.” He cupped her jaw, studying those delicious lips. “If things feel too much, too serious, we walk away.”
Eleanor closed her eyes with a harsh laugh. “Now here’s where my age gives me the upper hand. You can’t walk away when the heart gets involved.”
“We won’t let our hearts get involved.”
“Sure. You can tell yourself that, try to trick yourself, believe you won’t fall to pieces…because things are just casual. But suddenly, it’s not. And if one person doesn’t feel the same then—”
“You’re thinking too damn much,” he said, lowering his head and kissing the pulse fluttering above her collarbone.
She exhaled and her head fell back as a small shudder trembled through her. He slid his arms around her, pulling her into an embrace. He was tired of talking. There were better ways to convince Eleanor this thing between them was worth exploring.
Her hand found his shoulder, and she held on tightly to him as he kissed his way up to the ultimate goal.
By the time he’d made it to her mouth, he knew the convincing was over.
She wanted him.
Her mouth met his, hungry and demanding. She slid one hand up to his jaw, the other to his belt.
Well, then.
But it wasn’t his belt she was after. Her hand dipped under his T-shirt and slid over his stomach up to his chest. Her hand was cold against his heated flesh, but he didn’t give a rip-roaring damn—Eleanor had touched him. Everywhere her hand went, heat followed. He cupped her ass and pulled her against his hardness, grinding his hips a little, showing her how absolutely crazy she made him.
She pushed against his chest, making him step back, hitting the corner of her desk. He stopped a pencil box from falling and when he returned his attention to Eleanor, she’d tugged the fluffy cardigan sweater from her shoulders, dropping it to the floor, giving him bared shoulders to taste.
He pulled her to him, and worked on touching the deliciousness of her bare skin while she did remarkable things with her tongue, stroking his lower lip before returning to the depths of his mouth. She tasted like toothpaste, fresh and warm.
And then she broke the kiss again.
Gazing up at him, she smiled sexily. “Well, aren’t you good at convincing a girl to shut her mouth?”
“I don’t want your mouth shut,” he said, tugging at the camisole tucked into her pants.
She helped him, grasping the soft cotton hem and lifting it, revealing a light orange-colored bra and a vista of soft honeyed skin. After whipping it over her head, she said, “Okay, no more thinking.”
He reached for her, but she stepped back. “Go up front and lock the door. That shirt better be off when you come back. Jeans, too.”
He dropped a kiss onto her shoulder blade. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her answer was to unbutton her pants and slide them down smooth legs, giving him a tease of matching postage stamp–size panties.
“Damn, you’re one sexy woman.”
Pleasure shone in her eyes, urging him to hurry. He exited the office, cursing himself for forgetting to twist the lock on the front door in the first place.
Just as he reached for the lock, a woman reached for the doorknob from the outside. Quickly twisting the lock, he pointed to the Closed sign.
The blonde looked surprised then shook her head.
He jabbed his finger at the sign and mouthed, Sorry.
Again, the young woman shook her head.
Twisting the lock again, he opened the door about a foot.
“We’re closed.”
“Who are you?” she asked, crossing her arms, clearly perturbed.
He didn’t know who the chick was or why she was so adamant. “I’m Dez and the store’s been closed for almost fifteen minutes now.”
The blonde’s clear blue eyes slid down his body before her gaze traveled back to his face. She was incredibly lovely with long legs clad in tight jeans, and blond hair tumbling over thin shoulders. She had a sort of elegant confidence in the way she carried herself, and a face that likely made angels weep at her beauty. If he hadn’t already held the most interesting, sexy, challenging woman in his arms moments ago, he might have been more appreciative…even if she were too Erin-like.
“Where’s my mom?”
“Pansy?”
“No. Eleanor Theriot. She owns this store,” the woman drawled, sounding annoyed and much younger than he’d previously thought.
“I didn’t know she had a daughter.” Color him shocked. Color him very shocked. Eleanor had a full-grown daughter? How had she forgotten to mention that?
“Well, she does. Is she here?”
“Dez,” Eleanor called from the back.
Shit. Eleanor was in her underwear.
He slammed the door closed, twisting the lock. The girl started banging on the door as he lurched toward the back of the antiques store where Eleanor stood in her underwear, looking like a gift from the freaking gods. Bitterness choked him. Frick.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your daughter’s out front.”
Her face paled. “Blakely? She’s here?”
“If she’s an angry blonde chick who sa
ys her mother is Eleanor Theriot, yeah.”
“Oh, shit.” Eleanor grabbed her pants, and while hopping on one foot and jabbing the other into the leg hole, she looked for her tank top thing. It was inside out, on the floor. He picked it up and flipped it right side up as Eleanor buttoned her pants. “What’s she doing home? She’s got class tomorrow.”
“I didn’t know you had a kid.”
Eleanor shoved her foot into the clunky-looking shoes she’d kicked aside. “I never told you about Blakely? I swore we talked about her and Ole Miss.”
“She’s in college? When did you have her? In high school?”
“I thought I told you.” She shook her head before tucking strands behind her ears. She grabbed the cardigan from the floor. “How do I look? Do I look like I was about to have sex with a guy I’ve known for, what, five days? Oh, my God. I’m the worst mother ever.”
He made a face. “You look fine.”
The banging on the front door got louder. “Oh, my God. Did you lock her out?”
“Yeah. You were in your underwear and I had a hard-on.”
Eleanor brushed past him, muttering a mantra of “shit, shit, shit.”
He adjusted himself before following behind her, not knowing whether to laugh at Eleanor or be pissed she hadn’t even bothered to tell him she had a daughter who looked at least twenty years old.
Eleanor swung open the door. “Blakely!”
“What the hell, Mom? That dude locked me out,” Blakely said, stomping into the store and dumping her oversize purse onto a random dresser-looking thing to her right. Then she swept back her hair and hit him with a pissed-off glare. “Who is that?”
“That’s Dez,” Eleanor said, clutching the cardigan between her breasts and knotting up the fabric. “He’s opening a bar across the street.”
Blakely ignored her mother, who gestured weakly at the door. “The piano guy you pitched a fit against a month ago? That’s him?”
Eleanor nodded. “Yeah, we’re—”
He started to fill in the blank with the word lovers but knew Eleanor would probably stroke out if he did. Besides, they were almost lovers, and if he wanted to make it more permanent, he better keep his mouth shut.
