His Uptown Girl Page 6

  “If you remember, Blakely and I already have plans. The cottage in Seaside I booked for a long weekend? I can’t—”

  “You’ll have to cancel, of course. The parties will begin in the summer, and since I’m chairing the benefit for St. Jude’s this year and Justine’s getting married, I won’t have another chance to get away. We must have Blakely looking her best. She’s—”

  “My daughter,” Eleanor finished, steel creeping into her voice. Eleanor knew very well Blakely was a Theriot and didn’t begrudge her grandparents that disclaimer, but Blakely was also a Hastings. Eleanor’s family was intelligent, hardworking and didn’t suffer put-on airs. Eleanor would be damned if she let Margaret turn Blakely into a soulless, snobby bitch. “I don’t mind you spending time with your granddaughter, but I’m standing firm on this. Ask Blakely about the last half of the break. Perhaps you can work something out.”

  For a moment there was nothing but cold silence on the line.

  “I should have called Blakely in the first place,” Margaret finally said with a sniff.

  “No, you were right to call me.”

  “But she’s old enough to make her own decisions, isn’t she?” Eleanor knew there would be trouble. And probably a new Valentino handbag on Blakely’s arm as part of the bribery.

  “Maybe so, but we have to keep what is best for Blakely in mind.”

  Margaret sniffed. “I always keep what’s best for Blakely in mind, Eleanor. It takes a village.”

  What should have sounded reasonable sounded snide. Margaret liked to be thought a strong Christian woman, a philanthropist, a most judicious person, but beneath her well-moisturized skin was a despot, tripping on her own power and determined to organize the world according to her wishes. Eleanor had learned long ago Margaret got what she wanted.

  “I have to go now, Margaret. Pansy has her hands full.”

  “Really? I heard you had little business these days. The antiques market isn’t what it used to be,” Margaret said, feigning camaraderie but driving her barbs in all the same. “I’ll give Blakely a call. Bye.”

  Eleanor didn’t bother saying goodbye. Just clicked the button to disconnect.

  “How’s the devil incarnate?” Pansy asked from the doorway.

  “Still alive,” Eleanor said, grabbing her keys. She needed a drink and then maybe a walk down the back of the Target store to shop off the bargain end caps. Retail therapy and booze cured anything. “Can you close for me today? After last night and dealing with family, I need a—”

  “Afternoon in bed with a hot guy?” her friend teased.

  The image of Dez Batiste popped into Eleanor’s mind. Good gravy, she was deranged to think about the hunky pianist.

  But was deranged such a bad thing anymore?

  Last night while lying in bed, she had mulled over Dez’s words about seeing life from a new angle, and had decided that she would burst out of her safe box built of tasteful linens and blouses that covered her from throat to waist. Of course midnight decrees looked different in the light of day.

  “So order him up,” Eleanor cracked with a smile. “Until then, I’ll console myself with vodka and extra olives.”

  *

  DEZ HAD SPENT the entire morning and half the afternoon working on the tile in the bathrooms, stopping only because he’d run out of black tile. Which was just as well since his stomach growled with the intensity of a wolverine.

  Dropping the boxes of alabaster tiles he’d need to return on the bar, Dez brushed off his shirt and searched for his cell phone. Across the street a flash of color caught his eye so he moved toward the newly installed thick-paned glass. Never before had he looked for movement across the street.

  But then again never before had he known a beautiful woman that ran an antiques store across from him.

  Eleanor Theriot had been on his mind for the past twenty-four hours, and he couldn’t figure out why.

  Sure, she was beautiful.

  But not his usual type.

  In fact, she was about as far from his usual type as possible. His type wore hoodies, motorcycle boots and big earrings. He liked dark, overblown beauties who drank straight from the beer bottle, wanting a good time and little else. Erin had been the grown-up version of this party girl—spoiled, sexy and three years younger than he. She’d been his match, or so he’d thought, until things crumbled beyond repair. He was man enough to shoulder the blame for the demise of their relationship because he never should have tried to hide from himself.

  Opening the door, Dez found the flash of color was indeed Eleanor, clad in black pants, a bright green cardigan and high-heeled boots. “Eleanor.”

  She turned, her purse over her shoulder, keys in hand.

  “Wait up.” He didn’t know why he’d opened the door and called out. Couldn’t think of a good reason to stop her from wherever she was heading other than he wanted to see her…maybe touch her. He definitely wanted to taste her.

  Turning, he spied his phone, grabbed it and locked the door before jogging across the street. “Where you headed?”

  “For a double martini.”

  “That bad of a day?”

  “It’s always a bad day when I have to deal with my former mother-in-law.”

  “If you’re drinking, I’ll join you,” he said.

  She paused as if thinking about it. “Not sure I should be seen consorting with the enemy.”

  “Is that what I am?”

  She shrugged. “Well, I am the president of the Magazine Merchants Association, and there has been opposition to the nightclub.”

  “But the association can’t stop me from opening.”

  “True, but we don’t have to like it.”

  Did that mean they would cause trouble? He couldn’t see Eleanor clasping a torch and leading villagers armed with pitchforks to the club door. “No, you don’t.”

  “Ah, well. I’m heading to the Bulldog.”

  “Should I be the designated driver?” He held up his keys.

  She shook her head, looking a little trapped. Maybe he shouldn’t press her, but something in him wanted to spend more time with her, wanted to figure out why the attraction was so strong.

  Dez put his hand on the passenger door. “It’s smart to know your enemy better, right? So let’s see, I already know you’re divorced and civic-minded.”

  She clicked her key fob and the Volvo SUV chirped to life. “Civic-minded? Yes. Divorced? No.”

  “Wait, you’re still married?” His hand fell from the door handle.

  “No.” She gestured he should climb into the passenger’s seat, waving at the strange dude who owned the stationery shop. “See, I’m already busted.”

  He hesitated to open the car door because he drew the line at messing around with married women. Once he’d slept with a barfly he hadn’t known was engaged and it had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  She gazed across the top of the car at him. “You do know I’m widowed?”

  “Was I supposed to?”

  Pressing her lips together, she shook her head. “My husband was Skeeter Theriot.”

  “Skeeter? You don’t look like a Skeeter’s wife.”

  “He was a New Orleans Theriot. Actually he was running for the U.S. House of Representatives when his mistress killed him and then herself. You didn’t see it in the papers…for, like, weeks on end?”

  For a moment he could only stand and stare. How did one respond to an admission like that? “I don’t pay attention to politics much. Sorry.”

  She stood still as a puddle, her face unreadable. “I am, too.”

  Then she opened the door and slid inside. Dez stared at the streetlight festooned with a Mardi Gras mask, grappling with that tidbit of information. Eleanor had been married to a man who had cheated on her and then been killed by his mistress. Heavy shit.

  So did she still love her husband? Was she grieving? Or maybe mad as hell at the bastard? He couldn’t read her enough to guess.

  Leaning over, she peer
ed up at him from inside the car. “Are you coming or not…? ’Cause I really do need a drink.”

  He climbed in. “Think I need one, too.”

  Pulling away from the curb, Eleanor performed a perfect U-turn and drove down Magazine toward the Business District. Silence reigned as she kept her eyes straight ahead and chewed on her bottom lip. Finally, she pulled into a vacant spot in front of the Bulldog Bar and Grill.

  “I don’t know what we’re doing,” she said with a heavy sigh. “This is weird.”

  She sat, hands dangling on the steering wheel, lips glistening from the constant attention she’d given them as they drove. Again, it struck him how soft she looked, like a Monet painting, slightly out of focus but begging for contemplation. Pink lips, delicate throat, velvet skin. She made him want to breathe her in, explore the feminine curve of her neck. Relish her essence. “I thought we were going to have a drink. Get to know each other better.”

  “Yeah, but why? So you can change my mind?”

  “Actually I hadn’t had lunch and I figured any bar in New Orleans worth its salt has a burger on the menu.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t play games. I’m too old for you. Too—”

  “Too old for me? What? You’re thirty-three, thirty-four tops?”

  The groove between her eyes deepened. “No, I’m thirty-nine.”

  “Really? Don’t look it.”

  “Yeah, really.” Eleanor seemed put out. “This is stupid.”

  Dez tried not to laugh. He really did. But she looked so adorable, so flummoxed at the thought of admitting her age.

  “What are you laughing at? This is serious. I’m too old for you, and you’re too…too—” she waved a hand at him “—sculpted and hip.”

  “Sculpted and hip?” He leaned his head against the seat, a deep belly laugh welling up within. “That’s the strangest word combination ever.”

  “Stop,” she said, punching him on the arm. “You know what I mean. We’re from two different worlds. This is a Volvo.”

  Dez couldn’t stop laughing. Her reasons were so funny. He was sculpted and she drove a Volvo?

  “Dez,” she said, her eyes plaintive.

  He stopped, pressing his lips closed. “Huh?”

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “Because you’re funny…and beautiful…and I really want to kiss you.”

  Eleanor’s eyes widened. “You do?”

  He clasped the back of her neck, drawing her to him. Her hair was silk, her neck small. She came to him willingly, breathing notched up. With his right hand, he brushed an errant strand of hair from where it stuck to her lip gloss. Wild horses couldn’t drag him from kissing Eleanor.

  With his lips hovering close to hers, he stared her straight in the eye. “I wanna kiss you ’cause I totally dig old ladies.”

  Her mouth fell open just as he intended and he took full advantage.

  “Mmm,” she said, struggling for only a moment before succumbing. Desire, hot and heavy, raised its head in his belly. She tasted like spring rain, healing and fresh. Cupping her jaw, he drank from her, thrilling when her tongue met his. Pulling her closer, he embraced the essence of Eleanor…and wanted more.

  She broke the kiss, pulling back, her breath quick and her eyes clouded with passion.

  “I’m not an old lady,” she breathed, her eyes crackling. “And if this is some crazy ‘needing a mother’ thing, climb out, buddy.”

  “You think I’d kiss my mother like that?”

  “God, I hope not,” she said, swallowing hard and looking out the window, avoiding his gaze. She pressed a hand to her chest and sucked in a deep breath. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  “You didn’t. I kissed you.”

  Her eyes met his. “But—”

  “I kissed you because you’re all I’ve been thinking about since last night, because you’re beautiful, desirable and sexy…even if you are a few years ahead of me. You think age matters that much?”

  She searched his gaze. “It should.”

  “Age is a number.”

  She gave a wry chuckle. “Spoken like a man who brushes convention aside.”

  “I brush aside what doesn’t make sense. You’re a woman. I’m a thirty-year-old man. Not a kid.”

  “God, this is silly. Let’s go get that drink and slow this down a little.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m thirsty,” she said, tugging on the door handle. “By the way, I hope you have your fake ID.”

  He opened his door. “What?”

  Her teasing gaze met his over the top of the car roof and he caught a taste of a mischievous Eleanor. “I’m not contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

  “If you’re going to contribute to the delinquency of a minor, I’d rather it be for something more exciting than a tequila shot.”

  “Yeah?” She arched one eyebrow.

  “Oh, lady, you’re so in trouble.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  He gave her his best charming smile. “We’re just having a drink. Relax, okay?”

  “Feels dangerous, Dez. Like we should stop this right now.”

  “But where’s the fun in that?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TRE STARED AT CICI sprawled on the couch and shook his head. Passed out in the middle of the day, which meant she hadn’t gotten Shorty D up for school. More important, it meant she’d missed work again, and this time the manager of the Pet Pro wouldn’t give Cici the benefit of the doubt. Three strikes and you’re out. That’s how it worked in life. Everywhere.

  He kicked the couch. “Get up, Cici. You missin’ work.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Cici,” he said, kicking harder. Twice. Three times.

  “Mmmf…” she groaned, throwing an arm over her face. She still wore the clothes she’d gone out to the club in—a bright blue skintight shirt and a skirt that rode over her thin thighs. “Damn, Tre, I tryin’ to sleep.”

  “You missed work. Kenzie’s been crying for an hour straight, and it’s my damn day off. I shouldn’t have to do your job for you.”

  Cici smacked her lips and groaned, rolling over as if she could hide from his words. “I don’t give a shit. I’m sleepin’, bitch.”

  “Bitch?” he said, anger curling in his gut. “That’s all you got to say to me? Callin’ me a bitch?”

  Cici didn’t say nothing. Just nestled into the back of the couch, dismissing him. She was still drunk. Probably high, too. He beat down the fury inside because Kenzie needed to be dealt with. Along with his brother.

  Tre grabbed the empty beer can tottering on the edge of the scarred coffee table and walked toward the bedroom where Cici slept, where her three-year-old daughter stood wailing at the threshold. “Come on, baby girl.”

  He scooped up Kenzie, ignoring the snot pouring out of her nose, and strode into the kitchen. After tossing the beer can in the trash, he sat his cousin on the counter, shoving a dirty cereal bowl aside. Kenzie didn’t stop crying. He figured if his mama was a drunk ho and ignored him, he’d cry, too. “You hungry, baby girl?”

  Kenzie immediately stopped crying. Sniffling, she rubbed her eyes. That meant she was.

  Tre grabbed a paper towel, wiped Kenzie’s face and looked for a sippy cup in the nearly empty cupboard beside the sink. There were obviously none clean.

  Shorty D came in holding a bag of chips and a game controller. “Ugh, she stinky.”

  Tre hadn’t noticed, but, yeah, Kenzie needed a diaper change. Panic rose in his throat as he surveyed the sink full of dirty dishes, the stack of unpaid bills, the toddler sitting in her own crap, and his brother, who’d stayed home from school for obviously no good reason.

  What the hell was he doing?

  All those dreams he’d woven in his mind, wearing a nice business suit, with a sweet ride in the driveway of a condo in a nice Uptown neighborhood, were so ridiculous…so damn far away he couldn’t even taste them anymore. The mo
ney he’d squirreled away in an old Nike shoebox in his closet laughed at him—it wasn’t enough to buy the books he’d need for college much less pay for a semester of tuition.

  And the only thing he’d taken pleasure in, his music, was gone. The saxophone rescued from his bed many years ago by the police had been sold last summer.

  His life was shit.

  “What you doin’ home?” Tre asked his brother, giving Kenzie a somewhat stale granola bar from a box sitting on the counter.

  “I didn’t get waked up and missed the bus. Besides, I don’t feel good this morning,” Shorty D said, picking up a drinking glass sitting beside the sink and squinting at it to determine if it was clean.

  “You look fine to me so go get dressed. You’re going to school.”

  “No, I ain’t,” Shorty D said, not even looking at his older brother.

  “Yeah. You are. You already missed three days this semester and I saw that progress report. You gonna get held back.”

  “Nah, I ain’t.” Shorty D went to the fridge and grabbed a two-liter bottle and poured a glass of soda. “Ms. Barre don’t even take roll some days. We don’t do nothing in her class no way.”

  Tre grabbed a package of diapers he’d picked up at the dollar store the day before and walked toward the bathroom, Kenzie in his arms. “You’re going, Shorty.”

  Something set Kenzie off and she started screaming in his ear, drowning out the curses Shorty D popped off. Pieces of granola dropped onto his clean T-shirt as Tre realized he’d left her sippy cup on the counter.

  “Yeah, yeah. I could use a drink, too,” he said, walking behind the couch and kicking it as hard as he could. “Get the hell up, Cici. I gotta take Shorty D to school since you didn’t do it, and your baby needs to be fed.”

  Cici’s reply wasn’t fit for Kenzie’s ears, but that never stopped his aunt. Disappointment filled him. This wasn’t good for no one. His mother’s younger sister had fought against her addiction problems ever since she’d been Shorty D’s age. Tre’s own mother had led her sister into a life of drugs, booze and prostitution. Talia had kicked her habit before Shorty D had been born, but Cici never could pull that monkey off her back. Cici had Kenzie while in jail, and he and Big Mama had been taking care of the little girl, waiting for Cici to get clean and straighten the hell up, but it was a daily fight. And with Big Mama not in the house to pray over Cici, fuss at her and force her hand, Tre was just plain tired of fighting for his auntie.