Tristan on a Harley (Louisiana Knights Book 3) (14 page)

It appeared she was going to have an official token of their engagement whether she wanted one or not. Zeni wasn’t sure why the idea disturbed her so much. It wouldn’t make this fake engagement any more real.

Or maybe she did know. The whole thing was so false. To accept a ring she’d have to return in a matter of weeks made it worse.

If only she could bring herself to be honest with Trey, then all need for a ring would likely disappear. Problem solved.

If only.

She’d almost blurted out the cold hard facts, back there in the parking lot. What kept her from it she wasn’t sure, unless it was the anger she’d sensed still simmering inside him. She couldn’t stand the thought of having it directed at her.

It wasn’t that she feared it; she’d made him angry dozens of times before. Yet being the center of his attention and protection for those few moments felt good, and she couldn’t bear to see it change.

He’d threatened Derek. Watching the actor crawfish in the face of it had been amazing. It really had, even if she was fearful of what Derek might do to salvage his damaged pride.

Someday soon, maybe tomorrow or the day after, he’d throw what he had discovered about her in Trey’s face and laugh about it.

She had more than one option to remove that possibility. Beyond revealing her past, she could tell Trey their fake engagement was off, that she was hell bent on being in Derek’s movie. Then she could show up at the actor’s motor home to rehearse for the part. Or for something, anyway.

It wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

God, yes, it would.

But if she came clean with Trey, would it be any different? Leaving would be so much less painful than staying. What then? She could see how easy it might be to wind up in Derek’s motor home on her way to L.A., anyway.

All right, but she couldn’t just sit tight, do nothing and wait to see what happened.

Could she?

No. She had to decide what she was going to do, then get on with it.

In her preoccupation, it was some time before Zeni noticed they had left Chamelot behind. She was well aware there was a jewelry store in town. It was perfectly adequate for most gift occasions, and had a bridal area featuring china, crystal and silverware, as well as a decent selection of engagement rings. What did Trey have on his mind?

“Are we going to New Orleans?” Surprise was strong in her voice as she glanced at the houses and land that flashed past on either side of the road.

Trey met her eyes for an instant. “That a problem?”

“This is Gloria’s full day, but I don’t know how late she can stay.”

“It’s okay. She’s got it.”

“But if she needs to study—”

“She doesn’t. It’s all good, don’t worry.”

It seemed he had the situation under control; the coffee shop was in good hands. That should have been a relief. Instead, it made her question what else he had taken care of today. Had he changed the delivery date for the food supply order that was due this afternoon, or made payment arrangements for the guy who stocked the restrooms?

Had Trey made a reservation at one of New Orleans’s many boutique hotels?

That possibility wasn’t nearly as disturbing as it should be. A stolen afternoon, or maybe a whole night, with dinner at a nice restaurant followed by champagne, strawberries and chocolates from room service? Even if he was taking her for granted, she could think of worse endings for a high-handed shopping trip.

“No, it’s no problem,” she said at last.

The traffic was incredible once they reached the interstate, a steady barrage of kamikaze truck drivers, guys in Beamer’s and Jags with Formula One aspirations, and women intent on serious shopping. To add to the problem, it began to rain, a steady downpour that cut visibility to less than 100 feet. Few of the drivers slowed for it. Trey decreased his speed somewhat, but still stayed in the flow.

Zeni might have been nervous with anyone else, but Trey was a good driver, his every move smooth and steady in spite of their speed. As the minutes passed, she was able to relax and even enjoy the patter of the rain on the truck’s windshield and roof.

As she leaned against the headrest, admiring Trey’s concentration on what he was doing, her gaze moved to his hands on the wheel. They were suntanned, long-fingered and capable, with a scar here and there; strong hands on a strong man. They had touched her, held her, given her such exquisite pleasure that she turned warm and moist just thinking about it.

She had never seen them caked with dirt or grease, though she knew he worked on his bikes and other vehicles, just as he intended to work on his grandfather’s old house. Considering that was a lot more comfortable than her first thoughts.

“How many vehicles do you own?” The question was random, just something that wandered through her mind.

He sent her a surprised look. “What brought that on?”

“There’s your dirt bike, the Harley, the small RV that’s in the garage and this truck,” she plowed on without answering his question. “Is that all?”

“You left out the 1970 Plymouth Road Runner Super Bird, the muscle car I restored and set up to gain in value.”

“Not exactly a family car. But then none of them are.”

A thoughtful look crossed his face. “You’re right. They’re not.”

She wasn’t quite sure what he meant, whether it was a lack he meant to remedy or something he had no intention of ever correcting. She wasn’t about to ask, as some things were better left alone. Turning her head, she gazed out at the rain soaked trees that sped past while trying not to think at all.

The downpour had passed over New Orleans by the time they reached the city. It was a good thing, as they had to park some distance away from the mall jewelry store Trey selected. Brightly lighted, with long rows of glass cases, it was typical of its kind.

The selection of engagement rings was vast, and the saleswoman helpful and knowledgeable, with a nice patter on cut, color and clarity. They were shown tray after velvet-lined tray of beautiful diamond engagement rings in an endless selection of shapes and cuts, from normal to the unusual, merely valuable to the outrageously priced.

They were all too glitteringly bright, too symbolic of every day engagements and weddings with their bridal gowns, bachelorette parties, bouquets and limousines; their hope and promise. They were also too expensive.

“Don’t you see anything you like?” Trey asked when Zeni had shaken her head at everything the salesperson presented.

“I like them all, but I just don’t know.”

“Then choose something to make a start, whatever grabs you at first sight.”

“You choose, since this was your idea.” She carefully avoided the saleswoman’s raised-eyebrow curiosity.

“You’re the one who will be wearing it.”

“Yes, well, but they’re all so—so bridal.”

Trey gave her a harassed look. “So I should hope.”

The saleswoman cleared her throat. With a carefully neutral expression, she said, “We have other selections that are less traditional. A lot of brides these days are choosing colored diamonds or gemstone and diamond mixtures.”

Trey looked at her. Zeni shook her head. The saleswoman looked at both of them. They all stared down at the tray of diamond rings on the counter between them.

It was then that inspiration came to Zeni. With a glance at Trey from under her lashes she said, “I once knew a girl who found a beautiful ring at a pawn shop.”

The saleswoman’s sniff of disdain was perfectly audible. Trey ignored it, though he frowned while he held Zeni’s steady gaze.

Abruptly his face cleared. “I have an idea.”

He touched Zeni’s arm, turning her toward the door, while thanking the saleswoman for her time. Moments later they were back in the truck and headed toward downtown New Orleans and the French Quarter.

Trey found a parking place in a small lot on Chartres Street. As he opened the truck door for her, Zeni said, “What are we doing here? We passed two or three pawn shops.”

“I know,” he said, smiling down at her.

“The only one I remember in the Quarter used to be on Rampart Street, over on the Quarter’s far side.”

He shut the door behind her. “How long has it been since you were down here?”

“A while, really, but my mom and I rented an apartment in a small house on Dumaine until she died; she was a street artist, displayed her paintings on the railings of Jackson Square. I used to clatter up and down the streets of the Quarter by myself, knew nearly every shop owner and member of the police patrolman by their first names. I learned to cook by hanging around the back doors of restaurants.”

“I didn’t know that—you don’t usually talk much about yourself.”

No, she didn’t, though it wasn’t so much deliberate omission as a habit. She should change, starting now, since it was as good an opening as she was ever likely to find. She could save them both the time and effort of more ring shopping, and save Trey the money, too.

She met his eyes, clear gray and warm with something so much like affection that she felt her heart swell inside her. She scanned his face feature by feature, seeing the strength and dependability, and even a trace of nobility. Her gaze lingered on his lips, and her resolve wavered as she thought of the way he had kissed her, tasted her skin.

Words evaporated from her mind. She couldn’t find the right ones, wasn’t sure there were any.

“Are you hungry?”

He gazed down at her, waiting for an answer to that simple question. It was a moment before she could give it to him. There were, she knew, many kinds of hunger.

“Always,” she said. “Always.”

She had almost forgotten the rich layers of smells in the Quarter, the aromas of frying seafood and caramelizing sugar, old books, custom blended perfume and the scents of flowers from hidden gardens. She breathed it all in deep as she and Trey walked, while half-forgotten names, faces and happenings flitted through her mind.

There was the time she and her mother had danced in a sudden bath-water-warm summer shower that drenched them to the skin, and another when they bought shrimp the size of small lobsters fresh off the boat, boiled them with spices and lemons and dumped them in the sink to drain. The artsy clothes they couldn’t afford, but bought anyway because they made them feel amazing. The Mardi Gras parade where Bacchus himself had thrown them whole handfuls of pearl necklaces. And more, so much more. The two of them had been unfettered and a little wild, until it suddenly ended. Though her mother was gone, Zeni was still all those things, she knew. Or she had been and would be again, if she could find the courage.

The wide-open French doors and thrown back shutters of a corner restaurant beckoned. They stepped inside where it was dim and cool, and the lazily turning ceiling fans stirred the aromas of frying onions, browning flour, chopped garlic and fresh-baked bread. They ordered typical French Quarter fare of gumbo and French bread served with chilled white wine, then topped it with bread pudding soaked in a buttery rum sauce.

Replete and strangely happy, they strolled on, winding up on Royal Street. Zeni noticed a pawn shop some distance ahead of them. That seemed most likely to be Trey’s destination.

As they passed an antique shop, he glanced at the black and gold lettering on the window. “Let’s look in here a minute,” he said with an agreeably casual air. Without waiting for an answer, he stepped inside and held the door for her.

Zeni didn’t mind. Anything worked for her as an excuse to delay choosing a ring. If it also gave her the chance to pretend a short while longer that she really was his fiancée, what was the harm?

The store seemed familiar. She realized after an instant that she had stood outside with her nose pressed against the glass when she was eleven or twelve. For a few moments of childhood yearning, she had gazed at all the treasures that once belonged to people who had extended families to know and love, and who had lived with and enjoyed all the beautiful and permanent furnishings for untold generations. Yet they were gone and their belongings discarded, becoming no more than the detritus of past lives.

Something of that same feeling remained inside her, though her thoughts went to the stored furnishings from Trey’s granddad’s house. It must be comforting to live with those things when they held your family’s memories. Yes, and when the memories themselves had special meaning, as they did to Trey.