She looked just as good as he remembered. Just exactly as good. She wore blue tonight-a shirt that was unbuttoned low and rolled to the elbows. Her lips were still red, but she'd scooped her hair back on the sides with silver combs. He could see the glint of hoops at her ears.
She set a tall glass in front of him. 'Where y'at?”
'Ah, I think I'm right here.”
'No.' She gave him that quick, smoky laugh. 'Don't you speak New Orleans, cher?
When I say `where y'at,` I'm asking how you're doing.”
'Oh. Fine, thanks. Where you at?”
'There you go. Me, I'm fine, too. Busy. Let me know if you want anything else.”
He had to content himself with watching her. She worked her third of the bar, filling orders, having a quick word, slipping into the kitchen and out again without ever seeming to rush.
He never considered going home. When a stool freed up, he climbed on, settled in.
It was like being studied by a big, handsome cat, Lena thought. Steady and patient and just a little dangerous. He nursed his Coke, took a refill, and was still sitting when the place began to thin out.
She swung by again. 'You waiting for something, handsome?”
'Yeah.' He kept his eyes on hers. 'I'm waiting.”
She wiped up a spill with her bar rag. 'I heard you went by to see my grandmama.”
'A couple of days ago. You look like her.”
'They say.' Lena tucked the end of the rag in her back pocket. 'You go over there so you could lay on your Yankee charm and she'd put in a good word for you with me?”
'I was hoping that'd be a side benefit, but no. I went over because she's a neighbor. I expected she was an old neighbor-elderly woman, living alone-and thought she'd like to know someone was around who could give her a hand with things. Then I met her and realized she doesn't need me to give her a hand with anything.”
'That's nice.' Lena let out a breath. 'That was nice. Fact is, she could do with a strong back now and again. Dupris, honey?' she called out with her gaze locked on Declan's. 'You close up for me, okay? I'm going on home.”
She pulled a small purse from behind the bar, slung its long strap over her shoulder.
'Can I walk you home, Lena?”
'Yeah, you can do that.”
She came out from behind the bar, smiled when he opened the door for her.
'So, I hear you're working hard on that house of yours.”
'Night and day,' he agreed. 'I started on the kitchen. I've made serious progress. Haven't seen you near the pond in the mornings.”
'Not lately.' The truth was she'd stayed away deliberately. She'd been curious to see if he'd come back. She strolled down the sidewalk.
'I met Rufus. He likes me.”
'So does my grandmama.”
'What about you?”
'Oh, they like me fine.”
She turned toward the opening of a tall iron gate when he laughed. They moved into a tiny, paved courtyard with a single iron table and two chairs.
'Lena.' He took her hand.
'This is where I live.' She gestured back toward the steps leading to the second-floor gallery he'd admired the first night.
'Oh. Well, so much for seducing you with my wit and charm on the long walk home. Why don't we-was 'No.' She tapped a finger on his chest. 'You're not coming up, not tonight. But I think we'll get this out of the way and see what's what.”
She rose on her toes, swayed in. Her hand slipped around to the back of his neck as she brought his mouth down to hers.
He felt himself sink. As if he'd been walking on solid ground that had suddenly turned to water. It was a long, steep drop that had a thousand impressions rushing by his senses.
The silky slide of her lips and tongue, the warm brush of her skin, the drugging scent of her perfume.
By the time he'd begun to separate them, she eased back.
'You're good at that,' she murmured, and laid a fingertip on his lips. 'I had a feeling. 'Night, cher.”
'Wait a minute.' He wasn't so shell– shocked he couldn't function. He grabbed her hand. 'That was practice,' he told her, and spun her stylishly into his arms.
He felt the amused curve of her lips against his and, running his hands up her back, into her hair, let himself drown.
Whoops! That single thought bounced into her head as she felt herself slip. His mouth was patient, but she felt the quick flashes of hunger. His hands were gentle, but held her firmly against him.
The taste of him, like something half remembered, began to seep into her blood.
Someone opened the door of the bar.
Music jumped out, then shut off again. A car gunned by on the street behind her, another blast of music through the open windows.
Heat shimmered over her skin, under it, so that the hands she rested on his shoulders trailed around, linked behind his neck.
'Very good at it,' she repeated, and turned her head so her cheek rubbed his. Once, then twice. 'But you're not coming up tonight. I have to think about you.”
'Okay. I'll keep coming back.”
'They always come back for Lena.' For a while, she thought as she eased away. 'Go on home now, Declan.”
'I'll just wait until you get inside.”
Her brows lifted. 'Aren't you the one.' Because it was sweet, she kissed his cheek before she walked to the steps and headed up.
When she unlocked her door and glanced back, he was still there. 'You have sweet dreams now, cher.”
'That'd be a nice change,' he muttered when she closed the door behind her.
Manet Hall
January 2, 1900
It was lies. It had to be lies, of the cruelest, coldest nature. He would not believe, never believe that his sweet Abby had run away from him. Had left him, left their child.
Lucian sat on the corner of the bed, trapped in the daze that had gripped him since he'd returned home two days before. Returned home to find the Hall in an uproar, and his wife missing.
Another man. That's what they were saying. An old love she'd met in secret whenever Lucian had gone into New Orleans on business.
Lies.
He had been the only man. He had taken an angel to wife, a virgin to their wedding bed.
Something had happened to her. He opened and closed his hand over the watch pin he'd given her when he'd asked her to marry him. Something terrible.
But what? What could have pushed her to leave the house in the night?
A sick relation, he thought as he rose to pace and pace and pace.
But he knew that wasn't the case. Hadn't he ridden like a wild man into the marsh, to ask, to demand, to beg her family, her friends, if they knew what had become of her?
Even now people were searching for her, on the road, in the swamp, in the fields.
But the rumors, the gossip, were already rushing along the river.
Lucian Manet's young wife had run off with another man.
