'I'll keep him busy.”
'Why don't you come back into town with him?' she said as she headed out. She wanted to lock her arm around his and tug him through the door and away. 'We'll have some dinner, go out to the movies.”
'Stop worrying about me.”
'I can't help it. I think about you way out here, alone in this house, with that room up there.' She glanced uneasily up the staircase. 'It gives me the shivers.”
'Ghosts never hurt anybody.' He kissed her forehead. 'They're dead.”
But in the night, with the sound of the wind and rain, and the bang of spirit bottles, they didn't seem dead.
He gave himself Sunday. He slept late, woke to a sky fighting to clear, and spent another hour in bed with the books Effie had brought him.
She'd marked pages she felt would have the most interest for him. He scanned and studied old photographs of the great plantation houses. And felt a thrill race through him as he looked at the old black-and– white picture of Manet Hall in its turn-of-the-century splendor.
Formal photographs of Henri and Josephine Manet didn't bring the same thrill. With those there was curiosity. The woman had been undeniably beautiful, very much in the style of her day with the deep square bodice of her ball gown edged with roses, and the high, feathered comb adorning her upswept hair.
The gown, tucked into an impossibly small waist, gave her a delicacy accented by the sweep of the brocade skirts, the generously poofed sleeves that met the long white gloves.
But there was a coldness to her face, one Declan didn't think was a result of the rigidity of the pose or the quality of the print. It overwhelmed that delicacy of build and made her formidable.
But it was the photograph of Lucian Manet that stopped him in his tracks.
He'd seen that face, in his dream. The handsome young man with streaming gold hair, riding a chestnut horse at a gallop through the moss-laced oaks.
The power of suggestion? Had he simply expected the face in the dream to be real, and was he projecting it now onto the doomed Lucian?
Either way, it gave him the creeps.
He decided he'd drive into New Orleans and treat himself to a few hours' haunting the antique shops.
Instead, less than an hour later, he found himself walking into Et Trois.
It did a strong Sunday-afternoon business, he noted. A mix of tourists and locals. He was pleased he was learning to distinguish one from the other. The jukebox carried the music now, a jumpy number by BeauSoleil that do-si-doed around the chatter from tables and bar.
The scent of food, deeply fried, reminded his stomach he'd skipped breakfast. Recognizing the blond tending bar from his second visit, Declan walked up, tried a smile on her. 'Hi. Lena around?”
'Back in the office. Door to the right of the stage.”
'Thanks.”
'Anytime, cutie.”
He gave the door marked PRIVATE a quick knock, then poked his head in. She was sitting at a desk, working at a computer. Her hair was clipped back and made him want to nibble his way up the nape of her neck.
'Hi. Where y'at?”
She sat back, gave a lazy stretch of her shoulders. 'You're learning. What're you doing at my door, cher?”
'I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd see if you'd let me buy you lunch. Like a prelude to tomorrow night.”
She'd been thinking about him, more than was comfortable. Now here he was, all tall and rangy and male. 'I'm doing my books.”
'And I've interrupted you. Don't you hate that?' He came in anyway, sat on the edge of the desk. 'Bought you a present.”
It was then that she noticed the little gift bag he carried. 'I don't see how you could've fit a new car in there.”
'We're working up to the car.”
She kept her eyes on his a moment longer as she took the bag from him. Then she dipped in for the box. It was wrapped in gold paper, with a formal white bow. She took her time with it, she'd always believed the anticipation was as important as the gift.
The bow and ribbon she tucked neatly back into the bag, and after she'd picked at the top, slid the box out, folded the paper precisely.
'How long does it take you to open your presents Christmas morning?' he asked.
'I like taking my time.' She opened the box, felt her lips twitch, but kept her expression sober as she took out the grinning crawfish salt and pepper shakers. 'Well now, aren't they a handsome pair?”
'I thought so. They had alligators, too, but these guys seemed friendlier.”
'Are these part of your charm campaign, cher?”
'You bet. How'd they work?”
'Not bad.' She traced a finger over one of the ugly grins. 'Not bad at all.”
'Good. Since I've interrupted you, and charmed you, why don't you let me feed you? Pay you back for the eggs.”
She eased back in her chair, swiveled it as she considered. 'Why do I get the feeling, every time I see you, I should start walking fast in the opposite direction?”
'Search me. Anyway, my legs are longer, so I'd just catch up with you.' He leaned over the desk, lifted his brows. She was wearing a skirt, a short one. His legs might've been longer, but they wouldn't look half as good in sheer stockings. 'But you could eat up some ground with those. How come you're dressed up?”
'I'm not dressed up. Church clothes. I've been to Mass.' Now she smiled. 'Name like yours, I figure you for a Catholic boy.”
'Guilty.”
'You been to Mass today, Declan?”
He could never explain why a question like that made him want to squirm. 'I'm about half-lapsed.”
'Oh.' She pursed her lips. 'My grandmama's going to be disappointed in you.”
'I was an altar boy for three years. That ought to count.”
'What's your confirmation name?”
'I'll tell you if you come to lunch.' He reached over for the crawfish, made them dance over her desk. 'Come on, Lena, come out and play with me. It's turned into a nice day.' 'All right.' Mistake, her practical mind said, but she got to her feet, picked up her purse. 'You can buy me lunch. But a quick one.' She leaned over, saved her file, and closed down her computer.
'It's Michael,' he said, holding out a hand. 'Declan Sullivan Michael Fitzgerald. If I was any more Irish, I'd bleed green.”
'It's Louisa. Angelina Marie Louisa Simone.”
'Very French.”
'Bien sъr. And I want Italian.' She put her hand in his. 'Buy me some pasta.”
From his previous visits Declan knew you had to work very hard to find a bad meal in New Orleans. When Lena led the way to a small, unpretentious restaurant, he didn't worry. All he had to do was take one sniff of the air to know they were going to eat very well.
She waved a hand at someone, pointed to an empty table, and apparently got the go-ahead.
'This isn't a date,' she said to him when he held her chair.
He did his best to look absolutely innocent, and nearly succeeded. 'It's not?”
'No.' She eased back, crossed her legs. 'A date is when we have a time arranged and you pick me up at my house. This is a drop-on-by. So tomorrow, that's our first date. Just in case you're thinking of that three-date rule.”
'We guys don't like to think you women know about that.”
Her lips curved. 'There's a lot y'all don't like to think we know about.' She kept her eyes on his, but lifted up a hand to the dark-haired man who stopped at the table. 'Hey there, Marco.”
