The Satyr's Curse (The Satyr's Curse Series Book 1) (6 page)

Kyle gave a sly smile. “I’m not a monk, Jazz. But none of them ever meant anything to me.” He paused as the pain in his eyes retreated. “So, what is it you like about Julian?” Kyle softly asked.

Jazzmyn shrugged and leaned her hip against the side of her desk. “I guess his smile, his charm, the way he makes me feel when he talks to me. All I know is that I want to get to know him, Kyle. To find out if there is more or if this is just some silly flirtation.”

Kyle uttered a long heavy sigh that made Jazzmyn feel absolutely awful.

“Fine, go and have your date with the asshole, and I promise I will behave from now on,” Kyle pledged, sounding more frustrated than encouraging.

Jazzmyn stepped away from the desk. “Thank you. It will make me feel better knowing you will be watching out for everything while I’m away.”

Kyle gave her a hint of a smile. “Just be home at a reasonable hour, and whatever you do, don’t sleep with him,” he warned, shaking his finger at her.

Jazzmyn felt all of her worry ease. Kyle had been appeased, for the time being anyway.

“Thank you, Kyle. Thank you for being my friend.” She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

Kyle’s body stiffened as her lips brushed against him.

“Your friend?” He pulled away from her. “Yeah, I am that, Jazz. I guess I’ll always be that.”

Jazzmyn was suddenly put off by the nearness of his body. The smell of him sent visions of their night together rushing across her mind. She quickly pushed the lurid thoughts aside.

“Better get back to your lunch prep,” she directed, backing away from him.

Kyle grabbed at the towel over his right shoulder and nodded. “Yeah, time to get back to work.”

Jazzmyn noted the way his wide shoulders sagged and how the light in his blue eyes dimmed. She wanted to soothe his disappointment, but feared her good intentions would only be interpreted as encouragement. It was at moments like this that she regretted their night together. She found it odd how something meant to bring two people together could also drive them apart.

Kyle gave her one last strained smile and dashed out the door.

As she heard his heavy footsteps heading back toward the kitchen, Jazzmyn let out a sigh of relief. She just hoped that when the time came she could show just as much restraint with the seductive Mr. Devereau.

Chapter 7

Prior to Julian’s arrival on Sunday morning, Jazzmyn was in her pale pink bedroom on the second floor of her home, trying on outfit after outfit. She stood before the long antique mirror next to the walnut fireplace with images of cherubs carved into it and stared at the cream slacks she had on. She looked back at the pile of clothes that lay scattered about her king-sized, four-poster bed and sighed.

At first she had wanted to wear a casual pair of slacks and a shirt, but she thought a man like Julian, who dressed so formally, would want to see her in something stylish. She tried on a few of the old sundresses she had in the back of her closet, but decided they were better suited for a young girl of twenty and not a woman on the verge of hitting thirty. After half a dozen changes, she went back to the cream slacks and a gray silk top.

She arched her stiff neck back and stared up at the plaster ceiling decorated with interwoven olive branches. “I hate picking out clothes,” she grumbled. 

After a few more minutes of debate she snatched a blue blazer from the pile of clothes on the bed. She went back to the mirror and nodded at her image. Jazzmyn then disappeared into her blue and white-tiled bathroom to pull her hair into a ponytail and apply some lipstick.

At precisely ten o’clock, Jazzmyn heard her front doorbell ring as she was applying some finishing touches to her makeup. She quickly headed down the stairs, and when she opened the front doors, she found all of her careful planning for the appropriate outfit had been in vain.

“What?” Julian asked, looking somewhat confused by the way her eyes were dissecting his brown loafers, blue jeans, and white button-down shirt.

“You wore jeans,” Jazzmyn anxiously voiced. “I’ve never seen you in jeans. You only wear suits at the restaurant, and I thought you would want me to get dressed up, but I wasn’t sure what to…how you—”

“Jazzmyn,” Julian softly said, stopping her. “Take a breath.” After closing the leaded glass doors behind him, he placed his hand on her shoulder. The knots that had been twisting in Jazzmyn’s stomach all morning tightened when she felt the weight of his hand.

Julian slowly removed the blazer from her shoulders and handed it to her. “You won’t need this; it’s a warm spring day,” he stated, nodding to the blazer. “You look wonderful.”

Jazzmyn took the blazer, avoiding his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s been a while since I did this.”

“Did what?”

She stared fearfully into his face. “Date.”

He let his eyes linger over her round cheeks, pale skin, and deep red lips. “Don’t be nervous. We are just two friends spending the day together. I have no expectations, Jazzmyn. I don’t want to play games with you, and I have no plans to take you to bed at the end of the day. I simply want to be with you. That is all.”

All Jazzmyn’s nervous energy slowly abated. The tone of his deep voice seemed to have a calming effect on her. Instantly, that same feeling of being safe and protected from the world descended over her.

Julian raised his eyes and took in the grand foyer around him. He browsed the beaded-crystal chandelier above their heads and the intricate plaster swirls in the ceiling.

“It’s still as it was,” he whispered, moving toward the wide oak staircase.

Jazzmyn followed his eyes up the stairs.  “What do you mean, ‘as it was’?”   

“That you have kept the original décor of the house,” he explained. “Many of these antebellum homes have the same grand foyer, wide staircase, and opulently decorated first floor rooms to entertain guests and highlight wealth. The rooms on the second and third floors are much more modest and designed for comfort.”

“It’s uncanny how you know so much about my home,” Jazzmyn joked. She nodded up the staircase. “There are four bedrooms on the second floor, and the rooms on the third floor were converted into offices and a small recording studio by my father years ago.” Julian’s face seemed to grow a little distant, as if he were lost in thought. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?” she inquired.

Julian smiled and once again focused his attention on her. “Another time, perhaps.”

Mr. JP appeared, trotting down the stairs from the second floor. When he came to the last few steps before the first floor landing, he stopped and began to growl.

“Mr. JP, behave,” Jazzmyn reprimanded. “Julian’s a guest.”

Mr. JP’s hair rose on his back as his big, yellow eyes continued to inspect Julian. Julian took a cautious step back from the staircase while keeping his eyes on Mr. JP.

“I don’t know what has gotten into him. He is usually all over everyone who comes in the door,” Jazzmyn assured him.

Julian appeared intrigued by the cat’s reaction. “I have that effect on cats, I’m afraid. They hate me.” He motioned to the front door. “Maybe we should go and leave him to settle down.” 

Without warning, Mr. JP gave a horrid hiss and fled up the stairs at breakneck speed.

“That was rude, Mr. JP,” Jazzmyn called up the stairs. She frowned apologetically at Julian. “Sorry about that.”

“Not to worry.” He took the blazer from her hands. “I’m sure a day in the French Quarter will help me get over Mr. JP’s cool disregard.” He tossed the blazer over the thick oak banister and asked, “Why do you call him Mr. JP?”

“I had this friend when I was a little girl; well, actually he was a friend of my father’s. He would come over to visit my father about business, but would spend hours talking to me. I simply adored him. I always called him Mr. JP. I can’t recall his real name, but I never forgot about him. I decided to name my cat after him, sort of as homage to our friendship.”

Julian grinned at her. “I am so glad to hear that.” He glanced down at his gold Rolex. “We should get moving. I will take you to lunch at one of my favorite vegetarian restaurants, and then I can show you my home. How does that sound?”

Jazzmyn’s body hummed with excitement. “That sounds great, Julian.”

He took her hand. “Let’s go and have some fun.” 

***

They strolled down the sidewalks of the French Quarter and Jazzmyn listened as Julian told her odd stories about the former inhabitants of many of the old Creole cottages that filled that part of the city. He seemed to know quite a bit about every famous house in the French Quarter.

“Madame John’s Legacy was built in the French Colonial style rather than the Spanish or Creole style like the other homes in the French Quarter,” Julian stated as he stood below the long green balcony of the historic home on Dumaine Street. “The family who lived here was reputed to be somewhat eccentric. They were known for locking themselves in their house for most of the year. The only time they would open their doors was for Twelfth Night, and even then old Augustine senior had a deathly fear of yellow fever carrying off his family. But in those days everyone feared yellow fever.”

“You’re surprisingly well-versed on all these old families who once lived in the French Quarter, Julian,” she reflected as they traipsed down Dumaine Street toward the Mississippi River.

“A lifetime of study. I grew up running about these streets as a child,” he declared with a nod of his head. “I sometimes think learning about the people who once lived in this city is just as interesting as the city itself.”

“But where do you get these stories?” Jazzmyn asked, examining his profile. “I’ve done a lot of research on New Orleans, but I never found any of the stories you mentioned today. Like when we walked by Brennan’s Restaurant, the site of the old Morphy Mansion, and you knew so much about Paul Morphy, the great chess player. You knew things about him and his life that I had never read before, like his love of apple brandy and how he was terrified of women. My father read a great deal about the man. He was something of an idol of his.”

“Your father liked chess?” Julian questioned.

“Adored it. Taught me how to play when I was five, and made me play with him every Sunday afternoon until I was in high school and found out that boys were more interesting than chess.”

Julian stopped walking. “You play chess?” His warm, musical laugh made people on the street around them turn in their direction. “We must play sometime. I warn you though, I was taught by one of the best, and I’m a ruthless opponent.”

“Who taught you chess?”

He smiled slyly. “An old friend who had an uncanny gift for the game.”

Jazzmyn stood before him as the afternoon sunlight sparkled in his eyes. She shook her head, turned away, and started back down the street. 

Julian hurried alongside her, making sure to place his body between her and the curb of the street. He took her hand and squeezed it.

“What is it?” he softly probed, inching closer to her.

“How do you know all of these interesting facts about people who used to live in the city over a hundred years ago?”

“Over a hundred and sixty years ago, actually,” he corrected.

Jazzmyn giggled as she walked beside him.

Julian furrowed his brow at her, appearing a little perplexed. “What is so funny?”

She waved her hand at him. “You. You’re a walking contradiction, Julian Devereau. You have such an old-fashioned manner about you, like you’re out of place in today’s world, and then at times you can be so casual…so modern.”

Julian frowned and glanced down at his jeans and starched white shirt. “How am I old-fashioned?” 

Jazzmyn pointed to the sidewalk. “The way you insist on walking between me and the street, for one.”

“That is what a gentleman did in the olden days to protect a lady from the mud splattered by passing carriages,” he clarified.

“I suppose men in olden days ordered lunch for a lady, like you did for me at that vegetarian café. You even pulled out my chair for me, and stood whenever I left the table. Even the way you used your knife and fork when you were eating your sprout salad, and how you held your cup of herbal tea, seemed formal.” She gave him a curious side-glance. “Men don’t do things like that anymore,” she added.

“The good ones do,” he insisted.

Jazzmen smirked. “Maybe that’s my problem…I haven’t been with any of the good ones. The men I’ve dated couldn’t tell the difference between their shirtsleeve and a napkin.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Julian roared. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Jazzmen glanced about the busy street. “I’m not.”

“I would think your father would have insisted you court only upstanding gentlemen suiting the social station of a woman such as yourself.”

Jazzmyn laughed again as she pointed at Julian. “There! That is what I’m talking about. You almost sound as if you’re from another time. ‘Upstanding gentlemen suiting my social station.’” She laughed once more. “I don’t think people have talked like that since the turn of the century.”

“Oh, I’m sure further back than that,” he mumbled.

They walked for another block to the end of Dumaine Street and turned down Decatur Street. Jazzmyn noted the way Julian’s eyes took in the tourists scattered about the restaurants and small shops along the way, and then she saw a touch of sadness spoil his pleasant features.

“What are you thinking about?” she inquired.

He cocked his head thoughtfully to the side as he watched a couple leaving a souvenir shop to his left. “How much simpler things must have been when this was a small town. No technology, tourists, or sense of urgency filled these streets back in those days. I bet people appeared less frazzled, too. Life moved at a slower pace, and the world was not so…cluttered.”

“People also died of infections, fevers, and plagues back then, Julian. Information could take months to get from one town to the next, and when you were cut off from the world there was no FEMA or National Guard coming through the floodwaters to save you. Technology may have its problems, but it has saved more people than it has hurt.”

“Spoken like a true child of your time. You have been raised to live longer, move faster, and absorb more than any other generation before you, but are you truly better off, Jazzmyn? Are the members of your X, Y, or generation Z any happier or more fulfilled than the inhabitants of this city from so long ago?” He turned to the people passing on the sidewalk next to him. “Technology may change, but people don’t. Everyone today still wants what individuals wanted over a thousand years ago.”

“What is that, Julian?”

“To be loved. In all my travels it is the one constant that never changes, across continents or across time.”

“You speak like a man who has known love and lost it.”

“What makes you say that?” he asked, his voice wavering with curiosity.

Jazzmyn stopped and looked up into his handsome face. “Because only a man who has lost someone they love would speak so reverently about finding them.”

Julian stared longingly into her eyes. The noise of the busy French Quarter seemed to still around them, and Jazzmyn could only hear the beating of her heart. Then, slowly, a smug grin crept across Julian’s lips.

“You are a walking contradiction as well, my dear Jazzmyn. You are a woman who listens with her heart and not with her head. I think you might have enjoyed living in the past when time was not treated as a commodity to be hoarded, but as a luxury to be savored.”

Jazzmyn dropped her eyes to their joined hands. “If you could go back to the past, to any time, where would you go?”