Your Wish Is My Command (3 page)

Ree came over and stroked a light hand down Jamie's arm. “Are you doing okay with that? Are you sorry that you're here, stuck in this sweat oven of a city, instead of hoppin' about the globe with your daddy, racin' those death traps of his?” She tenderly brushed Jamie's damp bangs off her forehead. “Tell me true, Jamie Lynne.”

Ree Ann was a natural toucher, whereas Jamie was not. Ree would hug, pat, and fuss over people. And after all her mother-henning, she usually got a truthful answer to her question. She made a person feel he
or she owed the truth to her. Her concern was sincere, so even Jamie ended up giving in.

“I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss the unbelievable rush of racing over the water, Ree. The need for speed is in my blood. You know that.” She covered Ree's hand with her own, knowing Ree needed reassurance too. Lately, things hadn't been so easy for her either. “But I don't miss the rest of that life—the struggle to keep on top, the jerk-offs who try and push you down, the sheer exhaustion of it all. Right now I wouldn't be anywhere else on earth but here.” She nodded to Marta, who was talking with Jack. “Did you see that look on her face?”

Ree answered with a warm smile. “Almost made me cry. This is so good for her, Jamie.” She suddenly pulled Jamie into a tight hug. “It's good for all of us,” she whispered fiercely before setting her back. “And don't you go forgettin' it!”

An hour and two empty champagne bottles later, Jamie figured she was doing well to remember her own name. She drained the last drop of her last glass and ceremoniously stuck the champagne bottle upside down into the bucket. “I think we've celebrated enough.”

Jack shook his head. “Oh, no, sister. This is just the beginning. It's time to take this show on the road. Hit the clubs. Really celebrate!”

“It's Sunday night,” Jamie argued. “Time to really go to bed and sleep.”

“Oh, you're always the party pooper.”

Jamie propped her hands on her narrow hips. “I out-partied you on five continents by the time I was eleven. I'm over it, okay?”

“True, true. We can't all be jet-setting goddesses.” Jack tossed his head back and smiled devilishly. “But
I've been doing my fair share of catching up.” He turned, swung Ree into his arms, and spun into a deep dip that he'd practiced on Jamie earlier in the evening. “What say I take you out and make all my straight friends jealous?”

“I say you have a date.” Ree turned to Marta. “Come with us. Come on!”

Marta shook her head. “I've got a million things to do before we open tomorrow.”

Jamie shook her head. “Oh, no, you don't. It will probably be quiet in here tomorrow, which is good since I'll regret that last glass of champagne, around seven A.M. when I wake up with a pounding headache. You'll have plenty of time to bury yourself in the back office while I tend shop. Go on. Or I'll make Jack annoy you until you say yes.”

Jack shot her a mock wounded look but turned to Marta expectantly.

She sighed, then shocked them all by shrugging and nodding. “What the heck. Sure.” She straightened her shoulders, as if going into battle. And for the seriously nonsocial member of their group, it likely seemed that way to her. “But I have to be home by midnight.”

“Sure thing, Cinderella,” Jack said. “We truly can't con you into joining us, cuz?” he asked Jamie.

Jamie was tempted, if for no other reason than to bolster Marta's commitment. But Ree could handle that. After all the frivolity and consumption of adult beverages during the past hour or so, Jamie realized she'd actually forgotten what had transpired in the attic earlier.

She wanted to tell them about it, but what exactly would she say? If it had been a joke from Jack, he'd have been bursting to share a laugh over it. No, she wanted to do a bit more exploring before she said anything.

If she ever did. It all seemed hazy and unreal now.

“I'm beat, and I have to find a way to blow some of that heat out of the upstairs so I don't swelter all night. Although maybe sweating the champagne out of me isn't such a bad idea.”

“I already have a call in to the repairman and a note in my Day-Timer to follow that up first thing in the morning. Of course, that expense will set us back another—”

“Say good night, Cinderella.” Ree took Marta's arm firmly in hand and steered her toward the front door. She grinned and waved back at Jamie. “You may owe me for this!”

And with a bang of the door and a clang of the brass bell attached to the handle, the shop was suddenly empty.

Jamie looked from the door to the rear stairwell, then back at the front door … and had the fleeting urge to run after them.

But she didn't. Instead, she sat back down at one of the café tables and tugged apart another chunk of sticky roll. She groaned as she chewed. Damn, but that girl could cook.
A few of these every day and I won
'
t have to worry about racing again.
The boat would sink. The grueling pace of racing hydroplanes burned calories in a way that the grueling pace of selling books did not. She'd have to figure out something. Because she was not giving up eating. New Orleans might be hellishly hot and humid, but the food more than made up for it.

She licked her fingers and looked around the shop. It was an incredible piece of architecture. It had first been an apothecary, then—with many renovations along the way—a variety of retail operations, finally ending up as an antique emporium before falling into disuse. The first floor hadn't been used in almost ten years, so they'd had their work cut out for
them when Ree took possession of it. And the battle hadn't ended there.

Edgar Santini had left a single heir, his grandson, Angelo, who had made out quite handsomely in the will but still hadn't been happy to learn of Ree's be-queathal. “Greedy bastard,” Jamie muttered, picking pecan pieces from the remaining sticky bun and crunching them. It hadn't helped that Ree let the moron believe she'd been nothing more than a ditzy gold digger. The truth was that what Ree knew about cooking was rivaled only by what she knew about investments and business management.

Jamie felt the stirring of a headache and turned her attention back to the shop. A sense of awe filled her. The cypress floors shone, the elegant molding around the fourteen-foot-high ceilings gleamed with fresh white paint. The antique chandelier glittered. As well it should, she thought. Her elbows were still sore and she swore her fingers would forever smell of vinegar from cleaning the room. The walls were lined with oak shelves, with attached rolling ladders positioned on each wall to reach the higher levels. Browsers could select a volume or two, then make themselves at home in the café or in one of the overstuffed chairs tucked here and there around the shop. The coffee counter had come from a bar over on Bourbon Street, complete with brass counter and foot railing. Jamie's find had been the antique cash register. She smiled thinking of the major battle she'd had—and lost—with Marta over using the register day to day. But she'd compromised: She used the computerized one Marta had insisted on, positioned discreetly to one side, and kept lollipops in the antique one, giving their pint-size customers a thrill by making the bells ring when she gave them their “change.”

She leaned back and grinned. They'd really done it. Happily Ever After was a reality.

You name your shop Happily Ever After because you do not believe in them?

Sebastien's words blew a hole in her warm, fuzzy cloud. A small shiver raced down her back. She went outside and locked the slatted shutters that covered the ten-foot windows and closed the iron gate that covered the big double doors facing the corner. She could hear the raucous music and the crowds from one block over on Bourbon Street. Laughing couples and small boisterous groups drifted down the street. One of the things she loved about the Quarter was that it was like this every night of the week. But her mind was no longer on celebrating.

She stepped back inside and bolted the doors. All alone. She hoped.

I will showyou that there is a true mate for every soul.

Sebastien's words continued to haunt her. Soulmates. There was no such thing. Or at least there wasn't for her. Or Ree, or Marta. Well, maybe for Marta, but her happily ever after had been cut tragically short and she wasn't willing to risk trying for another. Jamie couldn't blame her.

She shut off the lights, then closed the door between the shop and the rear stairwell. She checked the side door to the alleyway and courtyard, then found her gaze drawn upward. Her hand lingered on the switchplate, not sure if she wanted to plunge the vestibule into darkness. “You're being silly.” She flipped the switch but quickly flipped on the one for the second floor before climbing the stairs.

It was hot upstairs, and she wished she'd taken the time to open the transoms over the doorways and the windows. The heat made her think of the stifling closeness in the attic. Or maybe it had been Sebastien who had made it feel so stiflingly close. Had she really imagined the whole thing? She looked down the hallway to the curving wrought-iron railing that led to the
attic. It was either go up now and prove to herself no one was up there or toss and turn all night.

She climbed the last flight of stairs and pulled the chain for the light, belatedly thinking she should have armed herself somehow. But, then, she'd faced him once before. Of course, she'd had the sword. For a short time anyway. And there had been people downstairs then. Within screaming distance.

There was no one to hear her if she screamed now.

“Okay, I'm spooked.” But she made herself enter the attic and look around. The antique chest still sat in the middle of the mess, open, with its glittery contents spilled out into the lid. But no sword. For all the junk piled in here, there wasn't much of anything big enough to hide behind, or in. Which made her shiver in a clammy, sweaty kind of way. Because if there was no place to hide, then where had Sebastien come from? Had she been so distracted that she hadn't noticed him walk up the steps?

Somehow, she doubted that. Sebastien was incredibly … noticeable.

Of course, the alternative was believing he was actually … well, exactly what he claimed to be.

“Yeah, right, sure. A pirate genie with a cupid complex. Not.” She swore under her breath but took one more look before pulling the chain and retreating—quickly—to the second floor.

She headed to her bedroom. She loved this room. It was elliptical in shape and sat directly over the shop, with French doors opening onto a balcony that sat out over the corner below. It had likely been used as a salon in a former life, and she loved the unique shape and view of the Quarter it provided. Yet, rather than sit down at the small table and chair she'd put out there and absorb the sounds and smells as she'd done many nights before, she went directly to the chiffonier, opened the top drawer, and slid off her earrings
and watch, dumping them in the small inlaid jewelry box she and her father had haggled for in a bazaar in Madagascar.

She unwound her dark-blond hair from the single thick braid she usually wore it in and brushed it out good and hard. When she was finished, she wound it right back up again. It was so damn hot. She debated fighting with the water pipes for a cool shower but didn't feel like losing, so she peeled out of her clothes, kicked the duvet off her bed, and flopped onto her cool linen sheets. It was going to be a long night.

She stared at the ceiling, then crawled back out of bed and put a thin nightshirt on. She hadn't hallucinated that kiss. No way.

She forced her thoughts away from Sebastien and his insane claims and began to plan her attic workshop. She drifted into a heavy sleep—where dreams of model ships, buried treasure, and hot, fiery pirate kisses took over.

One pirate in particular stole into her room—and kept a watchful eye on his mistress through the long, restless night.

S
ebastien Valentin loved women. Having dallied with a fair share of them over the ages, he considered himself quite the connoisseur. Of course, it was that very appetite that had gotten him into this eternal fix. Not that he was complaining. He had been in his prime when Oriane hexed him, and now he existed eternally as such, able to adore women for centuries instead of mere decades. Not such a bad destiny, all in all.