Authors: Heather Graham
The Cursed (31 page)
A lady in an elaborate feathered hat swept by to gain Niles’s attention; he excused himself to Danni, winking as he did so. “I’ll save one!” he promised.
“Great. Lovely. I can keep it with the coffin and guillotine and shrunken heads down in Dad’s collection,” she muttered to herself.
“Hey, Danni.”
As she turned to leave, she almost crashed into Mason Bradley, Niles’s sometime-salesman and sometime-artist. Mason’s forte was restoration and he was very good at it. Like most artists, he worked on learning his own style by studying the masters and occasionally making copies. He was thirty-eight, tall, blond and handsome, and was working on establishing himself and making a name in the French Quarter by painting cemetery scenes. He had a special style, realistic yet slightly exaggerated, that made his paintings both poignant and eerie.
“Mason, hey, how are you?” she asked.
“Great, thanks. How about you? Are you doing any work? I know it’s been hard for you since your dad died.”
“I’m doing okay.”
“I see you’ve got the dog—Wolf, right?” Mason smiled at the dog but made no attempt to touch him. She wondered if he was afraid of Wolf or simply wasn’t fond of dogs.
“Yes, Wolf.”
“Well, I guess you got something out of the relationship when Quinn left. If you need to talk, get some coffee, go for a drink—have a shoulder to cry on—well, I’m here,” he told her sympathetically.
She bent her head and couldn’t help smiling. “I don’t need to cry. Honestly. Quinn and I... He’s in Texas.”
“I’m glad. You deserve someone who...well, someone who’s a little more...stable.”
“I’m just fine, Mason.”
“Enjoying the art of Hubert, I see.”
“There’s...nothing quite like it, is there?”
Mason stared at the giclée and nodded. “The story is that it was Hubert’s entry into the ‘ghost’ contest that went on during the summer that wasn’t a summer—that Lord Byron challenged him to paint something as frightening as anything they could write. He did a damned good job.”
“I agree. Oh! Mason, I’m seeing more and more of your cemetery prints out there! You’re doing great. The paintings are wonderful—and I’m delighted that the prints seem to be everywhere.”
“Yes, but the paintings themselves don’t always sell. People don’t necessarily want to pay for an original. So I’m still a struggling artist, you know how that goes,” Mason said. “But at least I’m not a starving artist.” He took her empty champagne glass. “I guess I should get back to selling. I know we’ll keep one of the Hubert giclées for you. Hey,” he told her, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence. “There’s a rumor that the collector who bought the piece is here—right here in New Orleans!”
“Niles mentioned that.”
“It’s such a unique object,” Mason said reverently. “Anyway, my dear friend, remember we love you, Niles and I. And don’t forget, if you need me, I’m here!”
“Thank you.” Danni smiled as Mason hurried away to attend to another customer and then found herself turning back to the giclée.
It was surpisingly difficult to tear herself away from
Ghosts in the Mind
. Determined, she finally did. Billie McDougall—her Icabod Crane/Riff Raff lookalike and helper in all things—had been running the store alone. Bo Ray Tomkins, their clerk, hadn’t been with them long, and generally worked on their bookkeeping and inventory, although he also assisted with sales when necessary. Billie didn’t care if he manned the counter on his own, but still, she’d been gone for a few hours.
Danni waved a goodbye to Mason, who returned the gesture, and stepped out onto Royal Street, Wolf at her heels. The sun shone down on handsome balconies, some still wearing their Mardi Gras apparel or banners and ribbons and signs. Some sported chairs and plants with vines that seemed to trickle down, adding to the faded elegance that was so much a part of the French Quarter.
But just as she started to head back to her own shop, Wolf began to bark frantically and pull at his leash. He was very well trained, but so excited she was afraid he’d drag her across the street.
“Wolf!”
Then she realized that a figure was standing there, watching her.
He was wearing a light casual coat, perfect for the spring weather. It hung nicely on his six-four frame. He wore sunglasses and a brimmed hat, which hid his short sandy-blond hair and hazel eyes. But he smiled slowly, and she’d know that smile anywhere...just as she knew him.
Her heart quickened, and she felt exhilaration sweep through her.
She was deliriously happy to see him.
And yet...
His appearance made her tremble.
Was he back because he lived here, because he wanted to see her?
Or was something about to happen?
Quinn.
Quinn had returned.
Copyright © 2014 by Heather Graham Pozzessere
ISBN-13: 9781460332900
THE CURSED
Copyright © 2014 by Heather Graham Pozzessere
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