Goes down easy: Roped into romance (3 page)

“Yeah? What’s that?” he asked, his heart beating so hard in his throat he couldn’t even swallow.

“You need brunch.” She patted his knee as if he were a child, then got up to finish cooking.

All he could do was sit there and battle the urge to walk out the door.

W
HAT
P
ERRY WANTED
most of all was for Jack to go away. He disturbed her, and she did not like being disturbed. Especially when, after living a rather disturbing life, she was finally feeling the calm of things going her way.

She stood at the register in Sugar Blues, having just rung up a customer. It seemed a good place to stay, what with the long, glass-topped counter between her and Jack. Because now that the two of them were alone, her senses were ringing high and loud.

He closed the book on Reiki training through which he’d been leafing and made his way to the rear of the shop. Of course, she had to notice his walk, how he moved, all lanky and long and loose. She wasn’t supposed to notice that about him, and she sure wasn’t supposed to like it.

She sighed, obviously having listened too much to Sugar singing the blues, waxing eloquent about the handsome men who’d broken her heart. Jack stopped at the counter and picked up a tiny gold incense burner. Funny how he always had to have his hands on something, stroking, fondling.

Perry groaned, catching the forward progression of her thoughts one stroke too late. “If you break it, you’ve bought it.”

“Yeah,” he said, running his thumb over the Buddha’s belly. “I saw the sign on the door. Do you really sell enough of this crap to stay in business?”

“Do you insult everyone you meet or is this special treatment only for me?”

“I just say what comes to me.”

“Open mouth, insert foot?”

He shrugged. “Guess that’s one way of looking at it.”

She barely managed to keep herself from rolling her eyes. “But not your way.”

“Sorry, no,” he said, returning the burner to the counter and reaching for her blue-plumed pen.

She moved it out of his reach before he could grab it. “Do you think you could limit your touchy-feely habit to items you’re going to buy?”

He laughed then, the sound deep and resonant like that of a bass guitar, one that vibrated through her, tickling, taunting, one she knew she was going to have a problem with if he stayed around for long.

Or not, she amended moments later, when he said, “There’s nothing about this place that I buy. Horoscopes and healings and protection charms? What a bunch of—”

“A bunch of what?” She bristled further, not quite sure why she was letting him get to her when his opinion was one she’d run up against too many times to count. “A bunch of crap? A bunch of, what did you call it earlier, hocus-pocus?”

“You’re going to tell me it’s not? That you believe—” he glanced at the cover of the book and read the copy “—I can learn how to create an electromagnetic balance all the way to the cellular level in the physical body? Just by taking a couple of classes?”

She pruned her lips, then forced them to relax. “I believe there are many things not easily explained by conventional reasoning.”

“Let me guess. You’re a big
X-Files
fan.”

This time she gave in, rolling her eyes. “Just my luck, stuck entertaining a smart-ass.”

“Smart enough to know the difference between what’s real and what isn’t,” he said, a brow going up and drawing her gaze to his lashes again.

“You think Detective Franklin would be here if Della’s visions were fabricated? If he didn’t have proof that what she sees is real?” Gah, but she hated finding intelligent minds closed.

“You tell me.”

“What, and waste my breath? I think I’d rather show you,” she said, having heard the faint croon of a female voice drifting down the stairs behind her.

He snorted. “I’ve been around the block, sister. I’ve pretty much seen it all.”

“Ah, but have you listened to it?”

“Listened to what?”

Perry narrowed her gaze. “If I let you come around here, do you think you can keep your hands to yourself?”

The words left her mouth before she could stop them.

His eyes flashed, specks of silver bright in the deep dark gray. He let his gaze drop from her face to her shoulders before she glared and moved behind the cash register to hide.

He laughed again, shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and walked his lazy, loose and lanky way around to where she stood.

“Better?” he asked, once he was close enough to touch…if only she had the guts to reach out.

What would be better would be to start this day over and not have him show up to disturb her. “Yes. Now listen.”

She backed toward the staircase and motioned him forward. Wariness in his expression, he did as she asked, stopping when she held up one hand.

“Listen,” she whispered, standing on one side of the stairwell opening as he stood on the other. “Tell me what you hear.”

He propped a shoulder against the wall and hung his head; she leaned into the corner, her hands stacked behind her.

The days just ain’t the same…

The walls of the stairwell that rose to the second floor were brick, and on them hung framed photos of Sugar. At clubs in the old Storyville district, performing with Jelly Roll Morton and Johnny Dodds.

The sun hangs low and hangs dark…

More Sugar Babin memorabilia remained stored in the attic. LPs and costumes. Even her famous gold cigarette case and gnarled walking stick.

The nights never end, never fade…

Perry didn’t know how Jack—how anyone—could deny the interaction between this world and those that lay beyond, when hearing Sugar sing.

Black is the color of my heart…

Nor did she understand why he wasn’t saying anything. “Well?”

Still staring down at the floor, he shrugged. “Your aunt left a radio playing?”

“No.” Perry shook her head. “That’s Sugar.”

“Another aunt?”

“This used to be where she lived. This building. She was a famous blues singer.”

“So you pipe the music into the shop for old times’ sake.”

“No. That’s Sugar singing.” She waited and waited, but his expression never changed. “She died after a suspicious fall down the stairs. These stairs,” she added, pointing.

“Then the piping’s about exploiting the legend?”

It took all her control not to stomp her foot. “Jack, there is no piping. That singing you hear is Sugar’s ghost.”

W
HAT A LOAD
of hooey. “You’re kidding me, right? A ghost?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t hear her.”

“I hear music.” He shrugged. That much was true. “It doesn’t mean I buy into any ghost story.”

Perry sighed and closed her eyes. “I should be used to this by now. I don’t know why I let it get to me.”

“Hey, it’s got to be good for business.” Jack backed up against the wall, keeping his hands in his pockets since she seemed bothered when he used them. “Adds to the woo-woo flavor of the place.”

Perry pushed away from the corner and paced the length of the counter twice before she stopped to face him. “Believe or don’t believe. It’s no skin off my nose that you’re lacking an open mind.”

His mouth twisted to the right. “Guess I played hooky the day they passed out the gene.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you played hooky several days in a row.”

That made him smile. “You think?”

“Yeah. I do.” When she tossed back her hair, the strands of colored crystals dangling from her ears
twinkled, speckling her cheeks with dots of blue and gold. “You missed good manners day, for one.”

“Actually, that gene’s only loose.”

She gave him a measured glare. “There’s a toolbox on the floor of the pantry.”

“Thanks. I’ll see what I can do about tightening it up before I head out.”

“And when will that be?”

“I was hoping for brunch, at least.” He wasn’t really, considering he was still burning up inside from the gumbo. He just wasn’t ready to leave. “And maybe more time with your aunt once the detective is through.”

“I doubt she’ll be able to tell you anything useful. Her visions aren’t exactly newsreels.”

“What are they?”

Perry boosted herself up onto the stool at the cash register. “It’s hard to explain. Even to believers.”

“The listening gene?” When she arched a brow, he went on. “I was there that day. It was handed out at the same time as the one for paying attention.”

Her smile was slow to come but when it did, Jack felt as if he’d been poleaxed. It wasn’t even about her mouth—though she did have a great one that sent his mind south—as much as it was about her eyes.

They were deep and dark, more black than brown, and they were sucking him down in a hurry. They were eyes he could drown in, dangerous and dazzling, which his experience told him meant deceptive as well.

“In that case, all I can tell you is that she sees flashes,” she said, the smile fading. “Bits and pieces
of clothing. Or a location. The last time she helped Book, she saw chickens.”

O-kay. “Doesn’t sound like a lot of help.”

“Oh, but it was,” she insisted, crossing one leg over the other. “The chickens she saw are only raised at two area farms. The police were able to close in quicker with that one bit of information added to what they already had.”

Interesting. And legit enough that he could easily check it out. But he still wasn’t buying the ghost. “Close in quicker on what?” When she hesitated, he prodded her with, “What was the case?”

She hopped down from the stool, turned to the counter and began to straighten the chains on a display of jeweled silver pendants. “It was infanticide, and it was ugly. If you want details, you’re going to have to check newspaper archives.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Fine. Just don’t say a word about it to Della. She doesn’t need to relive any of that.”

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. “I won’t. I promise. Pinky swear and everything.”

Her hands stilled on the pendants, and it took a minute for her to respond. When she did, it was to turn slowly and face him, to wrap her arms around her middle, to take him in from head to toe—twice—and say, “I’m not so sure I want to make a pinky swear with you.”

“Why not?” He pulled his hands from his pockets, hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, drawing her gaze.

Her throat worked as she swallowed. “With that
hands-on thing you have going, I’m not sure you can keep it to just a pinky.”

She believed in ghosts and psychics and whatever the hell rune stones were, but the idea of holding his hand was too much for her? He took one step forward, offered her his little finger without saying a word.

He could tell by her hiss of breath that she was as bothered by his dare as by the thought of making physical contact, yet he was certain that what bothered her most of all was the quirk in her makeup that wouldn’t let her walk away.

Thing was, it got to him, too—her hesitation, her unease—but in a way he’d bet cold hard cash was the polar opposite of hers. Even more so, however, he was caught off guard by her eyes and her mouth, and the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had looked him over with such intensity.

She took a step toward him and lifted her hand, pinky extended. An inch and no more separated their fingers. At least an inch of actual, measurable space. What couldn’t be measured was everything else keeping them apart. The unspoken words and the private thoughts and the truth of this step they were taking.

Then, before he could say anything or form another thought or even define what this particular truth was, she hooked him, her finger grabbing his and pulling tight. He grabbed harder, holding her there even when she gave a half-hearted tug for freedom.

“See?” She glared. “I knew you couldn’t keep up your end of the bargain.”

“Remind me again of the terms,” he said, close
enough to see the spattering of freckles on her nose that she’d powdered away.

Close enough to smell the herbs in her shampoo, the coffee she’d had in the kitchen, her skin. “I’ve totally forgotten what—”

A loud crash came from the rear of the building—breaking glass, a thud—followed by Della’s sharp cry, the detective’s sharper curse and the
whack
of a door bouncing open on its hinges.

Perry nearly took off Jack’s arm as she jerked her hand free from his and ran through the beaded curtain toward the kitchen.

He was right behind, and he heard her gasp when she stopped. He also came close to mowing her down. His hands on her shoulders steadied them both as they stared at the scene that had her shaking.

The back door stood wide open, the window shattered, shards of glass scattered across the floor. Detective Franklin was nowhere to be seen, while Della was in the process of boosting herself up onto the counter beside the sink to rinse blood from her foot.

“Oh, my God, Della.” Perry rushed forward, broken glass crunching beneath her ankle boots. “What happened? Where’s Book? Are you all right?”

“There. On the floor.” Her hand shaking, Della pointed to the kitchen table. Jack saw what appeared to be a brick wrapped in newspaper. “Book said to leave it. He ran out to look for suspects.”

“Why would anyone throw a brick through our window?” Perry’s voice vibrated with anger and righteous concern. “Let me look at your foot.”

Della turned on the water, sucking in a breath. “I jumped to dodge the brick, lost my balance and misstepped. I’ll be fine. But I’m quite sure when Book unwraps it from the newspaper, we’ll find this morning’s headline inside.”

“Someone is taking the story seriously,” Jack said, feeling powerless when he was used to being in charge. “Where’s your broom?”

“The closet next to the pantry,” Perry said, waving him in that direction. “This is going to need stitches.”

“Book said not to touch anything,” Della insisted, though that didn’t stop Jack.

“He can sweep up the glass,” Book replied, coming back in through the door and snapping open his handkerchief. “I want to bag the brick and the paper in case we luck out and pick up any trace.”

Trace? On something as innocuous as a broken window? Jack wondered how deeply the detective thought this case ran. Or if his attention was also personal.

“You think someone involved in the kidnapping is trying to keep Della out of the picture?” Perry asked, pulling a first aid kit from the drawer next to the sink.

“At the very least,” Book said, dropping the brick into the paper bag Jack handed him from the pantry and turning to Della. “A patrol car’s on the way. The officers will interview for witnesses. I want to get this bag to the lab, and the sooner I get it there—”

“Go, Book. Do what you need to do,” Della said, grimacing as Perry wrapped her foot in gauze. “Perry can take me to the clinic to get this taken care of.”

“Let me lock up the shop,” Perry said, hurriedly heading that way. “Kachina is scheduled to come in today at two. We’ll just close up until then.”

“Kachina?” Jack asked.

“One of my employees,” Della said, holding her injured foot in her lap as she waited for her niece to return.

Detective Franklin crossed the room, wrapped his arm around her and helped her down. “I’ll have one of the officers stay here until you get back.”

“No need,” Jack said. This he could do. “I’ll stay and get started on prepping to replace the glass.”

“Jack, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” he said, cutting Della off. “I want to.”

“This way he’ll have a legitimate excuse to snoop,” Perry said, walking back into the kitchen, keys jangling in one hand. She stared at him, daring his denial.

He didn’t give her one. All he said was, “The only thing I’ll be snooping for is the toolbox. Which I remember you telling me was on the pantry floor.”

“Listen, Jack. How about measuring to replace the whole door?” the detective asked after a telling pause. “The hinges and knob are shot. The wood is warped, and the whole thing is barely hanging on the frame.”

“Not a problem.” Jack swept the glass into a dustpan, dumping it into the trash. Perry was right, even while she was wrong. The repairs
would
give him a reason to hang around, which would give Della—hopefully—incentive to talk. “I’ll pick up what I need when everyone’s back.”

“Jack, I can’t ask you to do that,” Della protested as both Book and Perry helped her to the door.

“You’re not asking me to do anything.” He stored the broom in the closet, pulled out the canister vacuum to give the floor a thorough once-over, raising his hand in an answering farewell to Book’s nod of thanks.

Then he turned his attention to Perry, who had lingered behind. “I won’t leave the kitchen while you’re gone. I won’t answer the phone. I won’t snoop in cabinets. I won’t touch a thing but the door.”

He laughed to himself at the suspicious look with which she left him. But she truly had nothing to worry about. Getting the door replaced before nightfall would take all of his time. Besides, he’d much rather get the goods he needed directly from the women involved.

Especially the wild-haired gypsy.

H
AVING SETTLED
D
ELLA INTO
her room’s chintz-covered chaise lounge with a pot of tea, a romance novel and a pillow beneath her foot, Perry headed back to the kitchen to check on Jack’s progress.

Three hours after leaving, she and her aunt had arrived home from the clinic—Della with eighteen stitches across the ball of her foot—to find him anxious to hit the hardware store. Giving him directions to the store she used, Della sent Jack on his way with her credit card, then called the manager to tell him to expect him.

Jack’s having arrived in New Orleans driving an SUV meant Perry hadn’t needed to find a truck to borrow, or wait to have the store deliver the new
door—not to mention the fact that his being in the right place at the right time meant no exorbitant bill for emergency labor.

Jack Montgomery was turning out to be handy to have around, and she wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Her father had been the only man she’d ever had in her life, and she’d lost him when she was ten. She’d come here to live with her aunt after her parents’ death, and Della had ignored her childish whining and constant pleas to send her to public school.

Instead, her aunt had honored her parents’ wishes, and Perry had spent the next eight years attending an all-girls private academy. After graduation, she’d taken a few courses at Loyola University, but never felt as if she and higher education made a good fit.

Hardly a revelation, considering the instruction she’d received from Della. Growing up under her tutelage was like sitting and learning at a master’s feet—the main drawback being the social isolation and the lack of opportunities to mingle with men.

Stepping from the stairwell into the shop, Perry found herself puttering behind the counter instead of returning to the kitchen—a classic case of avoiding the man she’d left there. At least she was honest in not trying to fool herself that it was anything else.

She hated her obvious attraction to Jack because she wasn’t sure what to do next. The men she had dated while attending university classes—boys, really, weren’t they?—had given her a rather lopsided look at the opposite sex. Dating for them had been about how far they could get her to go.

With her aunt being a veritable French Quarter legend, Perry had earned the status of trophy lay once her name had become known. Even more humiliating had been finding out that because she wasn’t laying anyone, she was ranked number one on the campus virgin watch.

And that was funny because she’d lost her virginity the summer before her freshman year to the only good man she’d ever known. Gary had not seen her as anyone but who she was. He’d loved her. He’d made love to her. He’d taught her about herself, things she could never have learned from her aunt because they were all about her enjoyment of sharing her life—and her body—with a man.

They’d spent a wonderful six months together—the best she’d even known. But then a job offer had taken Gary, who’d been eight years older, to Seattle. They were at different places in their lives, he’d told her. Devastated, she’d risen to the occasion with a surprising maturity, reminding him of her obligation to Della keeping her in New Orleans and wishing him all the best while her heart crumbled.

Allowing herself to dwell on what might have been with Gary, or later, on the bets being made behind her back, had been a waste of time. University had been the same, and so she’d moved on. For ten years now, she’d managed Sugar Blues, a full circle that brought her back to a life spent in the company of women—not such a bad thing, she supposed. Della didn’t seem to have suffered for living her life alone.