Bourbon Street Blues (2 page)

As her fingers stirred her damn tea, he imagined those long red nails scraping against his skin, and it was all he could do not to reach out and grab her hand.

“You’re prettier now,” he said.

Amusement flickered in her eyes. “Thanks again, I think.” Leaning back in her chair, she studied him for a long moment. “So, Parker James, what brings you to the Hotel Marchand bar in the middle of the afternoon?”

“Your voice,” he said simply.

“Another compliment.” She acknowledged it with a nod.

“I love jazz,” Parker told her. “And you really know your stuff.”

“I’ve been singing for my supper for a long time.”

“How long have you worked at the Hotel Marchand?”

“Two or three years,” she said, sliding her fingers up and down the damp sides of her glass. “I rehearse here every day, work here four nights a week and sit in at clubs around the city the rest of the time.”

“Busy woman.”

“Idle hands.” She countered with a smile, then said, “I noticed there’s a new jazz café opening up a few blocks over. Sign reads Parker’s Place. That wouldn’t be you, would it?”

“It would,” he said, and smiled just thinking about his new business venture. It was something he’d wanted to do for years. Run a place that
offered his family’s dark, rich coffee and the cool, smooth sounds of the jazz New Orleans was famous for.

“Looks interesting,” she admitted. “When’s it open?”

“In a few days, hopefully. And then,” he added almost to himself, “I won’t have to deal with…” He stopped abruptly. Hell, he hadn’t come in here looking to talk about his problems. He’d come here to forget about them for a while.

“Deal with what?” she asked quietly, her voice a whisper in the darkness.

“Doesn’t matter. You don’t want to hear about it.”

“Parker James, if you knew me a little better, you’d know I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t interested.”

He studied her eyes for a long minute or two, and then nodded. Taking hold of his still-cold beer bottle, he idly ran his thumb across the microbrewery label. He’d come into the bar to forget about what was bothering him for a while. To take his mind off the continuous machinations of his almost ex-wife and the demands of his family’s coffee business. Yet now he found himself wanting to talk about it.

“I had a meeting with Chef Le Soeur,” he said, pausing to take a drink of his beer. “There’ve been some problems lately with my company’s coffee de
liveries and the chef was threatening to cancel my contract with the hotel.”

“That sounds bad.”

He gave her a half smile. “Could have been,” he admitted, allowing himself to breathe a little deeper. “But I think I’ve talked him into giving us another chance.”

“That’s good then,” Holly said. “So why the long face?”

He laughed shortly. “You sure you want to hear all of this?”

She gave a little shrug. “Rehearsal’s over and I have nowhere to be until tonight.”

Why he was glad to hear that, he couldn’t have said. “All right, then. You know I’m in the middle of a divorce.”

“All of New Orleans knows that.”

“Right. Well,” he said softly, “in the settlement, I signed over my share of the import division of the family company to Frannie. But with the higher tariffs on importing, the money’s not good enough to suit her. She’s trying to say I’m sabotaging my own company to keep her from getting the money she was promised.”

“Well, that doesn’t make sense,” Holly said, confused. “If you sabotage your own company,
everyone
loses.”

He tipped his beer bottle at her in salute. “You realize that. Unfortunately, Frannie doesn’t. Now my coffee deliveries are being screwed up—delayed or just plain disappearing. For all I know, my soon-to-be ex is behind the problem in an attempt to get back at me.”

“Seems like that’d be cutting off her nose to spite her own face, but okay.” She stirred her tea again, keeping her gaze on his. “So what do you do?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” he admitted. “I had a big promotion lined up with the Marchand family—using James Coffees as the new house blend, but the chef’s so pissed off now, I’m going to have to work harder to make that happen.” He blew out a breath. “With the shipments getting screwed up lately, it’d probably be better all around if I back out of the family business entirely and let someone else run the deals. That way, Frannie can’t try to get at the company because of me.”

When he stopped speaking, the silence seemed profound. Only then did he notice that Holly’s accompanist had stopped playing the piano and slipped out the side door, leaving him and Holly alone, but for Leo the barman.

“So you’re just going to give up?”

He frowned at her. “What?”

“You know, surrender? Throw in the towel? Fly a white flag?”

“I know what give up means,” he said tightly. “And I don’t see where I have much choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Holly told him with a shake of her head. “And it seems that right now, you’re choosing to let your ex-wife win.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, you’ve already decided that your promotion won’t work.”

“I only said I’d have to work harder to swing it—”

“And you seem ready to leave your family’s business because of her—”

“If I do, she can’t—”

“When I would think it’d be better to stand up and fight back.”

“Is that right?” His hand tightened on the beer bottle. “And you’ve come to these deep and thoughtful conclusions after—what, three
minutes?
”

“I’m a big believer in going with your instincts.”

I
NSTINCTS
.

Granted, her instincts hadn’t always been great, but generally speaking, she’d done better listening to them than ignoring them. Those gut feelings were what had kept her so solitary for the last while, nursing a broken heart.

And at the moment, Holly’s instincts were telling her to reach out to Parker James. She could hardly believe it herself, since her track record with men had been so abysmal that she’d avoided any kind of relationship for the last few years. But there it was.

Something about the man called to her. Maybe it was the flash in his blue eyes when he talked about the jazz café he’d soon be opening. Maybe it was the way he seemed to need a friendly ear. And maybe it was because of what she knew about the woman he’d married ten years before.

Instantly she wondered if she should tell him
about what she’d seen on that long-ago night. Would the information help him in his divorce battle? Or would the decade-old truth only serve to hurt him?

Staring into his deep blue eyes, where she could still see the shadows of pain, Holly decided to keep quiet. At least for now.

“Instincts, huh?” he asked wryly after a moment or two. “You may be on to something. If I’d listened to my instincts, I never would have gotten married.”

“Why did you?” Holly had, over the last ten years, often wondered what kind of marriage he and Frannie had had. She’d wondered if Parker had ever realized that the woman he supposedly loved wasn’t very interested in him. For the first couple of years after their wedding, the two had been staples in the society section of the local newspaper. Then they’d sort of faded from public view. “I mean, why did you marry her?”

He frowned. “That’s a long story I don’t want to think about.”

It was as if a shutter had dropped over his eyes, closing her out, ending this quiet little chat that had given her such a brief insight into a man who’d fascinated her for years. Ever since she’d sung at his wedding…ever since she’d seen his wife-to-be betray him the night before taking her vows, she’d felt a sort of…connection to him.

Silly, but true.

“Sorry,” she said, and she was. She’d been enjoying talking to him and already she could see him pulling away, emotionally if not physically. He folded his arms across his broad chest in a classic pose of withdrawal.

“Don’t be,” he said, but he clearly didn’t mean it.

Whatever closeness they’d shared was now over. Holly felt it. Felt that previous connection dissolving. Felt the ease between them fade away, and she was sorry about it. There was just something about this man.

“Well, Parker James,” she said, picking up her iced tea and scooting her chair back from the table, “it’s been nice talking to you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it was.”

“I suppose I’ll be seeing you around?” Reluctant to leave, Holly stood beside the table, looking down at him, and wished she could stay. Wished he would ask her to stay.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said, standing, too.

He was taller than her, but since she was only five foot five, that wasn’t difficult. His open-collared blue shirt displayed a vee of tanned chest that made her want to see more, and Holly knew that she could be in big trouble with this man.

He stretched out one hand and she took it. His long fingers curled around hers and sent a jolt of something electric dazzling up her arm. Butterflies took flight in the pit of her stomach and breath was suddenly hard to come by. Pulling her hand free, Holly found a bright smile to give him and hoped to high heaven that it was enough to cover the sudden fluster she was feeling.

“I’d better move along,” she said, and turned to leave—while she still could.

A
LONE
, P
ARKER WALKED
down Royal Street, still trying to figure out what exactly had happened to him. He hadn’t talked so much in years. Scraping one hand through his hair, he shook his head and winced as he thought back on everything he’d confided in Holly Carlyle. He’d told a perfect stranger more about his marriage than he’d ever discussed with his family.

What was it about her? Kind eyes? Easy smile?

“Hell if I know,” he muttered, walking around a small knot of people staring up at the back of St. Louis Cathedral. He turned right on St. Ann and headed away from the river and Jackson Square. In no hurry to go back to the office, he decided to drop in on the construction crew at his nearly completed café.

But thoughts of Holly kept nibbling at the edges
of his mind as he stepped off the curb and loped across the street. He paid no attention to the smattering of honking horns or the shouts of irate drivers. Instead he hurried his steps as he skirted the crowds wandering down Bourbon Street. He hardly glanced at the stores as he passed. No time to stop and have a beer, and since he lived here, he wasn’t interested in any of the proferred tacky souvenirs. He smiled, though, at the clusters of people wandering up and down the narrow street and sidewalks.

There had never really been a “season” for tourists in New Orleans, except for Mardi Gras, which would reach its climax in a few weeks. Generally speaking, there were always tourists wandering through the French Quarter and the Garden District. Craning their necks, snapping pictures…and, most importantly of all to the economy, spending money.

After Hurricane Katrina, the world had wondered if New Orleans would bounce back. If it
could
bounce back. But Parker had never doubted it. The old city seemed indestructible. Of course, heavy winds and rising waters and breaking levees could leave her wounded and just a little shattered.

But the heart and soul of the city would never be destroyed.

And, Parker thought with a jolt, he’d be opening
his own place in time for the height of this year’s Mardi Gras season. Most people thought Mardi Gras only referred to the free-for-all on Fat Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday. But ask any local and they’d be happy to tell you that Carnival lasted for weeks, with the celebrating heating up in the last two weeks, when the parades and parties kicked in. And this year, Parker would play a part in welcoming visitors, in making them feel like they belonged—if only for a day or two. He smiled to himself as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched in a phone number.

“James Coffees,” the receptionist answered smoothly.

“Hi, Marge,” Parker said, watching the people stream past him. “Is my father in?”

“No, Parker. He and your mama went for an early lunch.”

He smiled to himself at the mental image of his parents. Still holding hands whenever they were together, still crazy about each other, his parents had set a high bar for marriage. He’d hoped to find that sort of happiness once. He’d married Frannie more or less as a business arrangement. But she’d been fun and flirty and he’d hoped that they would grow together and build a solid marriage. Then he’d dis
covered just how miserable a
bad
marriage could really be.

“You get everything all straightened out with the chef at the Hotel Marchand?”

Marge’s voice brought him back from idle speculation. Frowning, he said, “Tell my father I think it’s going to work out. I have a little more convincing to do, but,” he added, unwilling to accept defeat, “I think I can pull it off.”

“He’ll be pleased,” she said. “You coming back in now?”

“No. Got a few things to do yet. I’ll be an hour or so.”

“Take your time, Parker. I’ll give your daddy the message.”

He closed the phone, turned and headed toward the corner of Dauphine and St. Peter. Here the businesses were clustered together, crouched along sidewalks lined with potted flowers. Scrolled ironwork defined balconies on the second stories of the old buildings and brightly colored flowers spilled from boxes and twined along the rails. The blooms scented the cool afternoon air. Jazz drifted from a window and played lightly on a breeze sliding off the river.

Near the corner, a wide front window glittered in the sunlight. Parker’s Place was written in scrolling
gold letters across the glass, and the front door stood wide open as if in welcome.

The old building had come through Katrina like a queen. She was far enough from the river to have escaped the flooding, and most of the wind had passed her by, for which Parker was grateful. So much of New Orleans had been tested during that storm. So many lives lost and so much of the city’s heart broken.

They’d been lucky with the family business, too. Sure, the offices had taken a beating and they’d lost a fortune in inventory that had been stored on the docks. But considering what others had lost, the James family had come through with only a bad bruise or two.

He stepped into the cool interior of his new place and paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The whine of saws and the conversations of the workmen washed over him. He nodded at a couple of guys as he wandered through what would be the jazz café he’d been dreaming of opening for years.

A hand-carved chair rail ran around the circumference of the room and shone with the careful application of several coats of varnish. A century ago, talented hands had found the beauty in the wood, and
Parker took real pleasure in bringing it back to its original glory.

The stage against the far wall was raised only a few inches off the floor. Low enough that the musicians would feel a part of the crowd and high enough to showcase their abilities under the lights strung along the ceiling. Floor-to-ceiling windows fronted the street, and he hoped that passersby would be enthralled by the view and step inside.

Opposite those windows sat a bank of antique, brass espresso machines. In the overhead light, the brass gleamed like a new promise. The main floor was crowded with small round wood tables, and chairs were turned upside down atop them, their legs jutting into the air.

Just another few days until his grand opening. His stomach pitched and fisted into a tight ball of nerves. He’d been dreaming and thinking about this place for as long as he could remember. Now that the time was here, he had to fight the panic. What if it tanked? What if no one was interested in one more jazz house? What if…

“Okay,” he muttered thickly, shoving one hand through his hair distractedly. “No point in worrying about all of that just yet.”

Besides, it
would
work. He knew it. Felt it. Already,
Parker could see customers crowding around the tables. He could almost hear the sigh of jazz sliding through the air. And without even trying, he heard Holly’s silky voice whisper through his mind.

And just like that, his brain was focused on the pretty redhead again. She’d gotten to him, he had to admit, jamming both hands into his jeans’ pockets. Somehow or other in the span of one short conversation, that woman had slipped beneath defenses he’d spent years putting into place.

He remembered her smile, the cool gray of her eyes, the grace of her walk and the way she stirred her iced tea with concentration, as if it were the most important task in the world. Everything about her intrigued him, and damn it, he didn’t want to be intrigued.

He’d spent an awful lot of time trying to ignore one woman. He was in no position to get mixed up with yet another one.

Didn’t matter that Holly was different from Frannie. They were both female, and the one thing he’d learned over the last ten years was that trusting a female was a sure way to get your teeth kicked in.

Still, his insides tightened and something hot and pulsing roared up in his gut as he remembered the deep, throaty sound of Holly’s voice caressing the melody of the song. He remembered how that voice
had drawn him into the hotel bar. How he’d been mesmerized enough that he hadn’t been able to leave even after she’d finished rehearsing.

“Parker?”

The woman had something. Something he hadn’t known he was looking for. Something he didn’t
want
to want.

“Yo, Parker!”

Startled out of his thoughts, he turned with a frown to face the contractor. A bull of a man with a barrel chest and hands the size of dinner plates, Joe Billet was staring at him, impatience flashing in his eyes.

“Sorry,” Parker muttered. “Just thinking.”

“Not real happy thoughts, by the look of it,” Joe noted.

“Not particularly. What’d you want, Joe?”

“It’s the ladies’ room,” the other man said, already turning toward the back hall. “We got those brass fittings in there like you wanted. Thought you might want to have a look.”

“Right.” Parker nodded and followed. Much safer to keep his mind on the café than to let it wander down roads that would only lead to trouble. He ignored the mental image of Holly Carlyle smiling at him and followed his contractor.

L
ATE-AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT
slanted through the kitchen windows of the Hayes’ house, making the pale green walls shine with warmth. Holly sniffed the steam rising from the huge stainless-steel pot on the stove and gave the shrimp gumbo a stir.

“Oh, my,” she said on a blissful sigh. “Shana, you are the best cook in all of New Orleans.”

The woman at the sink laughed, tossed a dish towel over her left shoulder and shook her head. “You’re easy to please, missy.”

“Not at all.” Holly turned from the stove, took a seat at the round, pedestal table and looked around this so-familiar room. White-painted cabinets lined the walls and brass-bottomed pots hung from an iron rack over a center island. The granite counters were scrupulously clean and empty of everything but the ingredients for tonight’s supper.

Shana Hayes had no patience with clutter.

Holly looked at Tommy’s wife. Her smooth, café-au-lait complexion was unlined and her wide brown eyes sparkled with laughter. Her hair was cropped close to her head and thick gold hoop earrings dangled from her ears. Tall and slim, she wore a pale yellow blouse tucked neatly into the waistband of her black skirt. Her sandals clicked merrily on the
linoleum as she walked from the sink to the stove and back again.

“As long as you’re sitting there,” she said with a quick look, “you can shell some peas for me.”