Midnight Bayou

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.

And he could hear the whispers behind the whispers. What did he expect? Cajun trash. Likely that girl-child got started in the bayou and she passed it off as his.

Horrible, vicious lies.

The door opened. Josephine hadn't bothered with even a cursory knock. Manet Hall was hers, now and always. She entered any room at her whim.

"Lucian.”

He spun around. "They've found her?" He'd yet to change the clothes soiled from his last search, and hope shone through the dirt on his face.

"They have not." She closed the door at her back with a testy snap. "Nor will they. She is gone, and is probably at this moment laughing at you with her lover.”

She could almost believe it. Soon, she thought, it would be the truth.

"She did not run away.”

"You're a fool. You were a fool to marry her, and you remain a fool." She strode to the armoire, threw it open. "Can't you see some of her clothes are missing? Hasn't her maid reported as much?”

All he could see was the blue ball gown with the flounces and rosettes she'd been so proud of.

"The maid is mistaken." But his voice shook.

"You're mistaken. What of her jewelry?" Josephine pulled the leather box from the shelf, tossed the lid up. "Where are the pearls you gave her for Christmas? The diamond bracelet you bought her when she had the child?”

"Someone stole them.”

On a sound of disgust, Josephine upended the jewelry on the bed. "She took whatever sparkled the most. A girl of her type knows nothing but glitter. She bewitched you, caused you to embarrass your family, your name, now she has disgraced us all.”

"No." He squeezed his eyes shut as his heart ripped to pieces. "She wouldn't leave me. She would never leave Marie Rose.”

"However much affection she might have had for the child, I doubt either she or her lover wanted to be saddled with a baby. How do you know, Lucian, that the child is yours?”

The red rage of fury stained his cheeks. "How can you ask such a question? How could you have lived in the same house with her for a year, and say such a thing about her?”

The doubt, Josephine thought coldly, had been planted. She would help it bloom. "Because I did live in the same house with her, but I wasn't blinded by lust or bewitched by whatever spell she put on you. This is your fault as much as hers. If you had satisfied your appetites as other men, paid her, given her a few trinkets, we would not have this new scandal on our hands.”

"Paid her. Like a whore. Like Julian pays his women." Lucian stepped forward, so angry his hands trembled. "My wife is not a whore.”

"She used you," Josephine said in a vicious whisper. "She took your dignity, and smeared ours. She came into this house a servant, and left it with the spoils of her deception. Like a thief in the night, with her child crying behind her.”

She gripped his arms and shook. "You tried to change what cannot be changed. You expected too much of her. She could never have been mistress of Manet Hall." I am. "At least she had the sense to know it. Now, she's gone. We will hold our heads up until the gossip dies down. We are Manets, and we will survive this.”

She turned away, walked to the door. "I expect you to make yourself presentable and join the family for dinner. Our lives have been disrupted long enough.”

Alone, Lucian sat on the bed and, with the watch pin in his hand, fell to weeping.

"I gotta hand it to you, boy." With his hands on his hips, Remy turned a circle in the kitchen. "You made a hell of a mess here.”

"Come back in a couple weeks," Declan called out from the adjacent dining room, where he'd set up what he thought of as his carpentry shop.

Effie lifted a corner of the drop cloth. "The floor's going to be beautiful. It's a blank canvas," she said as she looked around the gutted kitchen. "He had to wipe it clean so he could paint the right picture.”

"Effie, ditch that moron and come live here with me.”

"You stop trying to make time with my girl." Remy walked to the doorway. Declan stood at a power saw, a tool belt slung at his hips and a carpenter's pencil behind his ear. It looked to Remy as if his friend hadn't used a razor in a good three days.

And damned if the scruffy, handyman look didn't suit him.

"You got something you want me to do around here, or should we just stand around admiring how manly you look?”

"I could sure use one or two laborers." He ran the saw through wood with a satisfying buzz and a shower of sawdust, switched it off before he glanced over. "You really up for it?”

"Sure." Remy slung an arm around Effie's shoulder. "We'll work for beer.”

Four hours later, they sat on the gallery outside the freshly painted kitchen. Effie, dwarfed in the old denim shirt Declan had given her for a smock, had freckles of paint on her nose. The beer was cold and crisp, and on Declan's countertop stereo, Foghat was taking a slow ride.

As he worked his latest splinter out of his thumb, Declan decided it didn't get much better.

"What's that bush blooming out there?" He gestured toward the wreck of gardens.

"Camellia," Effie told him. "These gardens are a sin, Dec.”

"I know. I've got to get to them.”

"You can't get to everything. You ought to get someone out here to clean it up.”

"Big Frank and Little Frankie." Remy took a long swallow of beer. "They'd do the job for you. Do good work.”

"Family business?" He always trusted family businesses. "Father and son?”

"Brother and sister.”

"A brother and sister, both named Frank?”

"Yeah. Frank X.-that's for Xavier– he's got him some ego. Named both his kids after him. I'll give you the number. You tell them Remy told you to call.”

"I'm going to go clean up." Effie looked down at her paint-speckled hands. "Is it all right if I wander around the house some?”

"Sweetheart." Declan took her hand, kissed it. "You can do anything you want.”

"Good thing I saw her first," Remy commented as Effie went inside.

"Damn right.”

"Seems to me you got your mind on another woman, the way you keep looking toward the bayou.”

"I can't have Effie unless I kill you, so I'm courting Miss Odette as a testament to our friendship.”

"Yeah, you are." With a laugh, Remy leaned back on his elbows. "That Lena, she tends to stir a man up, get him thinking all kinds of interesting things.”

"You got a girl.”

"Don't mean my brain stopped working. Don't you worry, though, Effie's all I want." He let out a long sigh of a contented man. "Besides, Lena and me, we did our round some time back.”

"What do you mean?" Declan set his beer back down and stared at his friend. "You and Lena. You … and Lena?”

Remy winked. "One hot, sweaty summer. M/'ve been close to fifteen years ago. Ouch." He leaned up to rub his heart. "That hurts. I was about … yeah, I was seventeen, just graduated high school. That'd make her fifteen, seems to me. We spent some memorable evenings in the backseat of my old Chevy Camaro.”

He noted Declan's brooding look. "Hey, I saw her first, too. I was in a hot trance over that girl, a good six months. Thought I'd die if I didn't have her. You know how it is at seventeen.”

"Yeah. I know how it is at thirty-one, too.”

Remy chuckled. "Well, I mooned over her, danced around her, sniffed at her heels.

Took her to the movies, for long drives. To my senior prom. God, what a picture she was. Then one moonstruck June night, I finally got her clothes off in the back of that Camaro. It was her first time." He shot Declan a look. "You know, they say a woman never forgets her first. You got your work cut out for you, cher.”

"I think I can do better than a randy teenager." Despite, he admitted, the fact that she made him feel like one. "What happened between you?”

"Drifted is all. I went up North to school, she stayed here. Fever burned itself out, and we slid into being friends. We are friends, Dec. She's one of my favorite people.”

"I know a warning when I hear one. You want all the girls, Remy?”

"Just thinking to myself that I'd hate to see two of my friends hurt each other. The two of you, boy, you come with a lot of baggage.”

"I know how to store mine.”

"Maybe. God knows she's worked hard to keep hers locked in the attic. Her mother-was He broke off when Effie screamed.

Beer spewed over the floor when Remy kicked the bottle over as he leaped up. He was through the kitchen door one stride ahead of Declan and shouting Effie's name.

"Upstairs." Declan veered left and charged up the kitchen stairway. "She's upstairs.”

"Remy! Remy, come quick!”

She sat on the floor, hugging her arms, and threw herself into Remy's the instant he crouched beside her. "Baby, what happened? Are you hurt?”

"No. No. I saw …" She turned her face into his shoulder. "In there. On the bed in there.”

Declan looked at the open door. The only bed in there was the one he'd imagined. Slowly, he pushed the door open the rest of the way. He could see the layer of dust on the floor, where it had been disturbed when Effie had started to go in. The sun beamed through the windows onto nothing but wood and faded wallpaper.

"What did you see, Effie?" Declan asked.

"On the bed. A woman-her face. She was dead.”

"Baby." Staring into the room, Remy stroked her hair. "There's nothing in there. Look now. There's nothing there.”

"But I saw …”

"Tell me what you saw." Declan knelt down beside her. "What did you see in there?”

"I saw …" She shuddered, then pressed her lips into a firm line. "Help me up, Remy.”

Though her face was stark white, she got to her feet and stepped to the doorway.

"Effie darling, you're shaking. Let's get you downstairs.”

"No. No, wait." Her eyes were wide, and her heart continued to beat wildly as she scanned the room. "I couldn't have seen anything. It's an empty room. Just an empty room. I m/'ve imagined …”

"A tester bed? Blue drapes? A chest of drawers and mirrored bureau. A woman's vanity and a blue chaise. Gaslight sconces, candles on the mantel and a framed picture.”

"How do you know what I saw?”

"Because I saw it, too. The first day I was here. I smelled lilies.”

"White lilies in a tall vase," Effie continued, and a tear trickled down her cheek. "I thought it was odd, and sort of sweet, that you'd have flowers in there. Then I thought, for just a minute, well, how did he fix this room up so beautifully, why didn't he mention it? And I stepped in and saw her on the bed. I'm sorry. I really need some air.”

Without a word, Remy scooped her off her feet.

"My hero," she murmured as he carried her toward the stairs.

"You gave me a hell of a fright, chиre. Declan, you get my girl some water.”

For a long moment, Declan stared into the room. Then he followed them down.

He fetched a glass of water, took it out to the gallery where Remy sat with Effie cradled in his lap.

"How do you feel about ghosts now?”

She took the water, sipped while she studied Declan over the rim. "I imagined it.”

"A white robe over the chaise. A silver brush set, some sort of gold and enamel pin.”

"Watch pin," she said quietly. She let out a shuddering breath. "I can't explain it.”

"Can you tell me about the woman?" "Her face was all bruised and bloody. Oh, Remy.”

"Ssh now." He stroked her hair, gathered her closer. "You don't have to think about it. Let her be, Declan.”

"No, it's all right." Taking slow breaths, Effie laid her head on Remy's shoulder. Her eyes met Declan's and held. "It's just so strange, so awful and strange. I think she was young, but it was hard to tell. Dark hair, a lot of dark, curling hair. Her clothes-nightgown –it was torn. There were terrible bruises on her neck-like … God, like she'd been strangled. I knew she was dead. I screamed and stumbled back. My legs just gave out from under me.”

"I need to find out who she was," Declan declared. "There's got to be a way to find out who she was. Family member, servant, guest. If a young woman died violently in there, there's a record somewhere.”

"I can do some research." Effie lowered the water and managed a smile. "That's my job, after all.”

"If there was a murder, it seems we'd have heard stories over the years." Remy shook his head. "I never have. Honey, I'm going to take you home.”

"I'm going to let you." Effie reached out, touched Declan's arm. "Come on with us. I don't know if you should be staying here.”

"I've got to stay. I want to stay.”

Needed to stay, he thought when he was alone and the whooshing sound of his nail gun echoed through the dining room. He wasn't just restoring the house, he was making it his own. If a murdered girl was part of it, then she was his, too.

He wanted to know her name, to know her story. Where had she come from? Why had she died? Maybe he'd been meant to come here, to find those things out.

If those images, those feelings, had driven others away, they were only locking him in.

He could live with ghosts, Declan thought as he ran his hand over the side of his first completed cabinet. But he wouldn't rest until he knew them.

But when he finally called it a day and went to bed, he left the lights on.

For the next few days, he was too busy to think about ghosts or sleepwalking, or even those nights out he'd promised himself. The electrician and plumber he'd hired were hard at work with their crews. The house was too full of noise and people for ghosts.

Frank and Frankie, who were as alike as their names, with beefy shoulders and mud-colored hair, trudged around his gardens, made mouth noises that may have been approval or disgust. Little Frankie seemed to be the brains of the operation, and after an hour's survey gave Declan a bid for clearing out underbrush and weeds. Though he wondered if they intended to retire on the profit from the job, Declan trusted Remy and hired them.

They came armed with shovels, pickaxes and mile-long clippers. From the dining room where he worked on cabinets, Declan could hear the lazy rise and fall of their voices, the occasional thump and tumble.

When he glanced out, he noticed that the tangle was disappearing.

The plasterer Miss Odette sent him was a rail-thin black man whose name was Tibald, and his great-grandpappy, so Declan was told, once worked as a field hand for the Manets.

They toured the house with Tibald scribbling in a tiny, dog-eared notepad. When they reached the ballroom, Tibald looked up at the ceiling with a dreamy expression.

"I always think I've put a picture in my head that isn't there," he said. "Don't think I'd ever get used to seeing this kind of work.”

"You've been in here before.”

"H. The Rudickers took a bid for me on plasterwork. They'd be the people you bought the Hall from. They had big, fine ideas, the Rudickers. But they never did much about them. Anyhow, they were going to hire someone from Savannah. So I heard.”

"Why?”

Tibald just kept smiling at the ceiling. "They had those big, fine ideas, and didn't see how locals could put a polish on them. Seems to me they figured the more money they spent, the higher the gloss. If you know what I mean.”

"Yeah, I get it. The way I look at it, you hire local, you're liable to get people who're more invested in the job. Can you repair and duplicate this kind of work?”

"I did the plasterwork in the Harvest House down on the River Road. I got pictures out in my truck, like a reference. You maybe want to take a look at them, maybe go on down to Harvest House and take a study. They give public tours and hold fancy events there now. Do some work in New Orleans, in Baton Rouge and Metairie. Can give you names.”

"Let's take a look at the pictures.”

One look at the before and after shots of various cornices, walls, medallions, showed Declan his man was an artist. For form, he asked for a bid, and after promising to have one written up by the end of the week, Tibald offered his hand.

"I admit, I'd love to get my hands on that ballroom." Tibald glanced back over at the house. "You doing any work on the third floor?”

"Eventually.”

"Maybe you want to talk to my sister, Lucy. She cleans houses.”

"I'm a long way from needing a housekeeper.”

Tibald laughed, took out a pack of Big Red chewing gum. "No, sir, I don't mean that kind of clean." He offered Declan a stick before taking one himself, folding it in half, and sliding it into his mouth. "Spirit clean. You got some strong spirits in that place." He chewed contemplatively. "'Specially on the third floor.”

"How do you know?”

"Feel it breathing on my neck. Can't you? When the Rudickers were working on the place, they lost two laborers. Those men just hightailed it out and kept on going. Never went back. Could be one of the reasons they looked farther afield for workers here.”

Tibald shrugged, chewed his Big Red. "Could be the reason they never finished up those big, fine ideas.”

"Do you know what happened on the third floor?”

"Nope. Don't know of anyone who does. Just know a few who wouldn't go up there, no matter what you paid them. Any plasterwork needs doing on the third floor, you give my sister Lucy a call first.”

They both turned at the sound of a car coming down the drive. "That's Miss Lena's car, and Miss Odette with her." Tibald's grin spread as the ancient MG stopped beside his truck.

"Afternoon, ladies." Tibald walked to the passenger's side to open the door for Odette. "Where y'at?”

"Oh, fine and well, Tibald. How's that family of yours?”

"Nothing to complain about.”

Lena climbed out as Declan opened the door. Her jeans were intriguingly snug, worn with a shirt the color of polished turquoise. "My grandmama thought it was time to pay a call." She scanned the drive, noted the number of pickups. "What did you do, cher? Hire yourself an army?”

"Just a battalion." She smelled of jasmine, he thought. She smelled of night. He had to concentrate on basic manners or swallow his gum. "Can I give you a tour?”

"Mmm. We'll get to it. Tibald, you say hey to Mazie for me, won't you?”

"I will. Gotta be on my way. I'll get that bid to you, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

"Declan. I'll be looking for it. Miss Odette." Declan took her hand as Tibald climbed into his truck. She wore a cotton dress the color of ripe squash, and a dark green sweater against the mid-winter chill. Today's socks matched it.

She smelled of lavender and jingled with her chains and bracelets. Everything about her relaxed him. "Welcome to Manet Hall. Such as it is.”

Odette winked at Lena when Declan kissed her hand. "We'll take a look at it when we've finished out here. Heard you hired Big Frank and Little Frankie," she said, nodding toward their pickup. "How're they working out for you?”

"They seem to be doing the job. I don't know how." He studied the patchy front gardens with his thumbs hooked through his belt loops. "I can't catch them actually doing anything, but I blink and a couple truckloads of underbrush is gone. Would you like to walk around the grounds?”

"I would. Lena honey, get those spirit bottles out of the trunk. We'll hang them on these live oaks to start.”

"Spirit bottles?”

"To keep the evil spirits away." Lena began lifting bottles half filled with water from her trunk.

"Should I be worried about evil spirits?" Declan asked.

"An ounce of prevention." And taking two, Odette moved off toward the trees.

"Spirit bottles," Declan reported, lifting one. He'd seen them hanging outside the shotgun house. "Just how do they work?”

"It's an old voodoo trick," Lena told him. "The clanking sound they make scares the evil spirits away.”

Testing, he bumped two together. It sounded pleasant enough, he thought, and not particularly scary. "You believe in voodoo?”

"I believe in that ounce of prevention." She strolled off, small and curvy, to join her grandmother.

Voodoo or old glass bottles, he liked the way they looked hanging from his trees. And when he tapped two together again, he liked the sound they made.

It took nearly an hour to wind their way around the house and into it as there had to be conversations with the landscapers, inquiries about their family, speculation on the weather, discussion of the garden.

When he finally got them into the kitchen, Odette fisted her hands on her hips and nodded. "That's a good color, like a nicely baked pastry crust. Most men, they don't know anything but white. Brings out these good pine floors.”

"I should have the cabinets ready to install next week." He gestured toward the dining room. "I'm using pine there, too. With glass fronts.”

Lips pursed, Odette walked in, ran her hand over a cabinet. "This is nice work, Declan. You got a talent.”

"Thanks.”

"And it makes you happy.”

"It sure does. Would you like to go into the parlor? I've got a table in there. We'll have some tea." He glanced up as something heavy hit the floor above. "Sorry about the noise.”

"Work's rarely a quiet activity. Lena and I will just wander along, if you don't mind. We'll find the parlor.”

"You can't miss it. It's the only room with a table.”

"He's a very nice young man," Odette commented as she and Lena walked out of the dining room.

"He is.”

"Good-looking, too."

"V.”

"Got a hot eye for you, chиre.”

Now Lena laughed. "He does.”

"What're you going to do about it?”

"I'm still thinking. Lord, what a place." Lena trailed her hands over a wall. "Doorways wide enough to drive a car through. It makes you cry to see how it's been let go.”

"Let go? I don't know. Seems to me it's just been waiting. Isn't this just like a man," she said when they stepped into the parlor. "Living with one table and two chairs. Bet he hasn't fixed a decent meal for himself since he got here.”

Lena cocked an eyebrow. "Grandmama, you're not going to make me feel sorry enough for him to cook his dinner." Amused, Lena wandered to the window. "It's beautiful, what you see from here. Imagine what it would've been like to stand here when the house was in its glory. Horses coming through the allйe, those funny old cars rumbling up the drive.”

"It'll be beautiful again. But it needs a woman-just like that boy needs one.”

Lena toyed with the little key that hung around her neck. "I said I'm still thinking. Chilly in here yet," she added. "Needs a fire going.”

"I'll build one," Declan told her as he came in with a pitcher of over-steeped tea and plastic cups.

It was a good hour, Declan thought. And not counting Remy and Effie, his first real company.

He liked having them there, the female presence in his parlor with the fire he'd built crackling cheerfully and the late afternoon sun fighting through the dust on the windows.

"I'm going to come back," Odette told him, "to see your kitchen when it's finished.”

"I hope you'll come back often. I'd be glad to show you the rest of the house.”

"You go on and show Lena. Me, I'm going to walk on home.”

"I'll take you home, Grandmama.”

"No, you stay awhile." However casual her tone, there was a sly look in her eye. "I want to walk, then it'll be time for my nap." As she started to rise, Declan got up, offered his hand. And made her smile. "You got a pretty manner about you. You come back and see me when you're not busy. I'll make you some sauce patate-potato stew-before you get so skinny your clothes fall off your bones.”

"I got the phones hooked up." He dug in his pocket for a scrap of paper, found a pencil in his shirt pocket and wrote down the number. "If you need anything, just call.”

"Yes, indeed, a very pretty way." She turned her cheek up, inviting his kiss. When he walked her to the door, she gestured for him to lean down again. "I approve of you sparking my Lena. You'll have a care with her, and most don't.”

"Is that your way of telling me I don't have a chance with you, Miss Odette?”

She laughed and patted his cheek. "Oh. If I was thirty years younger, she'd have a run for her money. Go on now, and show her your house.”

He watched her walk by the trees with the spirit bottles dangling.

"You like my grandmama," Lena said from the parlor doorway.

"I'm love-struck. She's wonderful. Listen, it's a long walk to her place. You ought to-was "If she wants to walk, she walks. There's no stopping her from doing anything." She wandered to the front door to stand beside him. "Look there, it's Rufus come to walk her home. I swear, that dog has radar when it comes to her.”

"I kept hoping he'd come around." He turned to Lena. "Bring you with him. I started out two nights this week to go to your place, and talked myself out of it.”

"Why's that?”

"There's persistence, and there's stalking." He reached up to twirl her hair around his finger. "I figured if I could hold out until you came by here, you wouldn't consider getting a restraining order.”

"If I want a man to go away, I tell him to go away.”

"Do men always do what you tell them?”

Her lips curved into that cat smile that made him want to lick at the little black mole. "Mostly. You going to show me this big house of yours, cher?”

"Yeah." He caught her chin in his hand, kissed her. "Sure. By the way." Now he took her hand as he led her toward the staircase. "I have Miss Odette's permission to spark you.”

"Seems you need my permission, not hers.”

"I intend to charm you so completely, we'll slip right by that step. Fabulous staircase, isn't it?”

"It is." She trailed a red-tipped finger along the banister. "Very grand, this place of yours, Declan. And from what I've seen of it, I realize you're not a rich lawyer after all.”

"Ex-lawyer. And I don't follow you.”

"You got enough to put this place back, to keep it-you do mean to keep it?”

"Yeah, I do.”

"Then you're not rich. Step up from rich. You're wealthy. Is that the case?”

"Well, money's not a problem. It doesn't buy happiness, either.”

She stopped on the landing and laughed. "Oh, cher, you think that, you just don't know where to shop.”

"Anytime you want to help me spend some of it.”

"Maybe." She looked down over the banister toward the grand foyer. "You'll be needing furniture eventually. There's some places I know.”

"You have a cousin?”

"One or two." She lifted her eyebrows at the noise and cursing from the end of the long hall.

"Plumber," Declan explained. "I had him start on the master bath. It was … well, it was an embarrassment of avocado. If you know anyone who wants some really ugly bathroom fixtures, let me know.”

He started to steer her away from the door of what he now thought of as his ghost room. But she turned the knob, opened it. Declan found himself holding his breath as she stepped inside.

"Cold in here." She hugged her arms, but couldn't stop the shiver. "You ought to try to save the wallpaper. It's a pretty pattern. Violets and rosebuds.”

She was halfway to the gallery doors when she stopped, and the shiver became a shudder. The feeling that poured into her was grief. "It's a sad room, isn't it? It needs light. And life.”

"There's a ghost. A woman. I think she was killed here.”

"Do you?" She turned back to him. Her face was a little pale, her eyes a little wide. "It doesn't feel … violent. Just sad. Empty and sad.”

Her voice had thickened. Without thinking, he went in, went to her. "Are you all right?”

"Just cold.”

He reached down to rub her arms, and at the contact, felt a quick shock.

With a half-laugh, she stepped back. "I don't think that's what Grandmama meant by you sparking me, cher.”

"It's this room. There's something strange in this room.”

"Ghosts don't worry me. Shouldn't worry you. They can't hurt you." But she walked to the door, had to fight a need to rush her steps.

She wandered through the other bedrooms, but experienced none of that grief, the dread, the dragging loneliness that had driven her out of the first.

At the door to Declan's room, she smiled. "Well, not so rough in here. You got taste, cher." She poked her head in the bathroom, where workmen clanged and cursed. "Which is more than I can say for whoever did this bathroom. That you there, Tripadoe? Your mama know you eat with that mouth?”

She leaned on the doorjamb, spent a few minutes chatting with his plumbers. And Declan could stand back and just look at her.

It was pathetic, he told himself. This puppy– dog crush he'd developed.

And when she glanced at him over her shoulder, he felt the jolt right down to the soles of his feet.

"Why don't I show you the ballroom. It's going to be the showcase.”

"Sure, I'd like to see that." But when they started out, she gestured toward the stairs. "What's up there?”

"More empty rooms. Storage, some of the servants' quarters.”

"Let's have a look.”

"It's nothing special." He made a grab for her hand, but she was already going up.

"Can you get to the belvedere from here?" she asked. "I used to look over at that and imagine standing up there.”

"It's easier from the-don't!”

His sharp order had her hand freezing on the dull brass knob of the nursery. "What's wrong? You got a woman chained in here? All your secrets locked inside here, cher?”

"No, it's just …" He could feel the panic rising, burning the base of his throat. "There's something wrong with that room.”

"Something wrong with most of them," she tossed back, and opened the door.

He was right. It hit her immediately, that same throbbing sense of grief and loss and loneliness. She saw walls and floor and windows, dust and neglect. And felt as if her heart were breaking.

Even as she started to speak, the cold swept in. She felt it blow over her skin like breath, pass through her hair like fingers.

"It's the center," she declared, though she was far from sure what she meant, or how she knew. "Can you feel it? Can you?”

He swayed in the doorway. Bearing down, he dug his fingers into the jamb. His fear was unreasonable, spearing like knives into bones. It was his house, he reminded himself grimly. His goddamn house. He took a step inside, then a second.

The room spun. He heard a scream, saw Lena's face, the alarm that leaped over it. He thought he saw her mouth move, form his name. Then his vision grayed, white spots dancing through the mist.

"Declan. Here now, cher. Here, darling.”

Someone was stroking his hair, his face. He felt lips brush over his. He opened his eyes to a blur, so simply closed them again.

"No you don't." She tapped his cheeks now with fingers that trembled lightly. He'd gone down like a tree under the ax, right after his face had drained of color and his eyes had rolled back white. "Open your eyes.”

"What the hell happened?”

"You fainted.”

His eyes opened now, focused on her face. Mortification warred with a vague nausea. "Excuse me, men don't faint. We do, on occasion, pass out or lose consciousness. But we do not faint.”

The breath she let out was a shudder of relief. He may have cracked his head, she thought, but he'd come to with his wits about him. "I beg your pardon. You passed out. Cold. Hit the floor hard enough to bounce your head off it." She leaned down again, brushed her lips over the raw scrape on his forehead. "You're going to have a bruise, bйbй. I couldn't catch you. I guess if I had, you'd've taken us both down.”

She had managed to roll him over, and now stroked her fingers over his pale cheeks. "You do a lot of passing out?”

"Usually I have to drink myself into oblivion first, which I haven't done since college. Look, at the risk of embarrassing myself twice in a matter of minutes, I really have to get the hell out of this room.”

"Okay. All right. Can you stand? I don't think I can haul you up, cher. You're a pretty big guy.”

"Yeah." He got to his knees, tried to catch his breath, but it was clogging again. It felt like a semi had parked on his chest, and his heart was tripping to try to find a beat. He staggered up, stumbled.

Lena wrapped an arm around his waist, took as much of his weight as she could manage. "One step, two steps. We'll just get you downstairs so you can lie down.”

"It's okay. I'll be okay." His ears were ringing. The minute he got out of the room, he headed for the steps, then just sank down and put his head between his knees. "Jesus.”

"There now, sweetheart." She stroked his hair.

"Close that door, would you? Just close it.”

She hurried back, slammed it shut. "You get your breath back, then we'll get you down and into bed.”

"I've been wanting to hear you say that since the first time I laid eyes on you.”

The clutching in her belly eased a bit. "You're coming back, aren't you?”

"Better." He could breathe again, and the nausea was fading. "I'll just have to go beat someone up, or shoot some small mammal so I can regain my manhood.”

"Let me see your face." She tipped his head back, studied him. "Still a little pale, but you got some color again. I bet Grandmama's right. You don't eat. What'd you eat today, cher?”

"Wheaties. Breakfast of champions." He managed a wan smile. "Doesn't seem to have worked.”

"I'm going to fix you a sandwich.”

"Really?" The simple pleasure of the idea trickled through him. "You're going to cook for me?”

"A sandwich isn't cooking.”

"In my world it is. Lena, that room …”

"We'll talk about that-after you get something in your stomach.”

The pickings were sparse. One look in the secondhand refrigerator currently gracing the dining room had Lena sending Declan one long, pitying look. "How old are you? Twelve?”

"I'm a guy." He replied with a shrug. "Guys' grocery habits never age. I've got peanut butter to go with that jelly." He glanced around the room. "Somewhere.”

He also had one lonely slice of deli ham, two eggs, some anemic-looking cheese and a half bag of pre-cut salad. "Looks like I'm going to cook for you after all. Where's the stove?”

"Right here." He tapped the top of a microwave.

"Well, we'll make do. Bowl? Knife? Fork?”

"Ah …" He rooted through the box of his current kitchen supplies and came up with the plastic ware.

"Honey, this is just sad. Sit yourself down, and Lena'll take care of you. This one time," she added.

He hitched onto a sawhorse and watched her beat some eggs, shred in the ham, the cheese, sprinkle in some of the contents of the salad bag.

"You got any herbs, cher? Any spices?”

"I got salt and pepper. That counts," he muttered when she sighed. "Explorers discovered whole continents for salt.”

"Grew up with a cook, didn't you?”

"Yeah. So?”

"What did you do when you moved out on your own?”

"Takeout, delivery and the microwave. With those three things, no man need starve.”

She set the bowl in the microwave, programmed it, then turned back to him. "Living out here, you'd best hire yourself another cook.”

"Name your price.”

"You're a funny man, Declan." His color was good now, his eyes clear. The knot that had been in her belly since he'd pitched over loosened. "How come you don't have a woman?”

"I had one, but it turned out I didn't really want her."

"That so?" She opened the oven when it beeped, whisked the egg mixture around, then programmed it again. "What happened?”

"Remy didn't tell you?”

"He doesn't tell me everything.”

"I was engaged. I called it off three weeks before the wedding, which makes me, you know, a cad. A lot of people in Boston are still cursing my name.”

He was trying to make it a joke, she thought, but wasn't quite pulling it off. "Is that why you left?”

"No, it's why I realized I could leave.”

"You didn't love her.”

"No, I didn't love her.”

"It makes you sad to say that." She drew out the bowl, got a fresh plastic fork, then handed it to him. His eyes were stormy again, she noted. With regret. "She love you?”

"No. We looked good together. We were used to each other. She thought we wanted the same things.”

"But you didn't.”

"We never did. And the closer it got to D-Day, the more I saw my life just … narrowing down until I was squeezed into this tiny slot. No room, no air. No light. I realized I felt the same way about marrying Jessica as I did about practicing corporate law, and if that was going to be the rest of my life, I could jump off a bridge or get out of the slot while I had the chance.”

She brushed the hair from his forehead. "It was braver to get out than to jump.”

"Maybe. This is good," he said as he scooped up more egg. "Why don't you have a man?”

She cocked her head. "Who says I don't?”

He grabbed her hand before she could turn away. "I need to know if you do.”

She looked down at his hand, back to his face. "Why is that?”

"Because I can't stop thinking about you. I can't get you out of my head, from under my skin. Because every time I see you, my heart kicks in my chest.”

"You're good at that, too. At saying things that stir a woman up." If it had just been that, just a matter of being stirred by him, she might have eased in between those long legs and satisfied them both. But this wasn't a simple man, she thought.

Being with him wouldn't be simple.

"Eat your eggs," she told him, and slid her hand free of his. "Why are you starting with the kitchen if you eat peanut butter and don't have a single dish to your name?”

"I've got dishes, just not the kind you wash. The kitchen's the heart of a house. The house where I grew up-this big, old wonderful house with big, wonderful rooms. We had that cook, but it was the kitchen where we ended up if there was a crisis or a celebration, or just something to talk over. I guess I want that here.”

"That's nice." She leaned back on a cabinet to study him. "You want to have sex with me, cher?”

His pulse lurched, but he managed to hop nimbly off the sawhorse. "Sure. Just let me kick the plumber out." He loved the way she laughed. "Oh, you didn't mean right this minute. That was, what, like a true or false type of question. Let me check." He laid his fingers on his wrist. "Yeah, I'm still alive, so the answer is true.”

She shook her head, took the empty bowl from him and dumped it in the box he was using for trash. "You're an interesting man, Declan. And I like you.”

"Uh-oh. Hold on a minute." He glanced around, picked up the screwdriver lying on a plank. "Here you go," he said as he handed it to her.

"What's this for?”

"So you can plunge it into my heart when you tell me you just want to be friends.”

"I bet Jessica's still kicking herself for letting you slip away. I do want to be friends." She turned the screwdriver in her hand, then set it down again. "I don't know yet if I just want to be friends. I have to think about it.”

"Okay." He took her arms, ran his hands up to her shoulders. "Think about it.”

She didn't try to pull away, but lifted her face so his lips could meet hers. She liked the easy glide from warmth to heat, the fluid ride offered by a man who took his time.

She understood desire. A man's. Her own. And she knew some of those desires could be sated only in quick, hot couplings in the dark.

From time to time, she'd sated hers in just that fashion.

There was more here, and it came like a yearning. Yearnings, even met, could cause a pain desire never could.

Still, she couldn't resist laying her hands on his face, letting the kiss spin out.

Inside her, deep inside her, something sighed.

"Angelina.”

He said her name, a whisper of sound, as he changed the angle of the kiss. As he deepened it. A thousand warnings jangled in her brain and were ignored. She gave herself over for one reckless moment, to the heat, to the need. To the yearning.

Then she drew back from all of it. "That's something to think about, all right.”

She pressed a hand to his chest when he would have pulled her into him again. "Settle down, cher." She gave him a slow, sleepy smile. "You've got me worked up enough for one day.”

"I was just getting started.”

"I believe it." She let out a breath, pushed her hair back. "I've got to go. I'm working the bar tonight.”

"I'll come in. Walk you home.”

However calm his voice, his eyes had storms in them. The sort, she imagined, that would provide a hell of a thrill before they crashed over your head. "I don't think so.”

"Lena. I want to be with you. I want to spend time with you.”

"Want to spend time with me? You take me on a date.”

"A date?”

"The kind where you pick me up at my door and take me out to a fancy dinner." She tapped a finger on his chest. "Take me dancing after, then walk me back to my door and kiss me good-night. Can you handle that?”

"What time do you want me to pick you up?”

She smiled, shook her head. "I'm working tonight. I got Monday night off. Place isn't so busy Monday nights. You pick me up at eight.”

"Monday. Eight o'clock.”

He grabbed her arms again, jerked her against him. There was no glide into heat this time, but a headlong dive into it.

Oh yeah, she thought, it would be quite a thrill before the crash.

"Just a reminder," he told her.

A warning, more like, she thought. He wasn't nearly as tame as he pretended to be. "I won't forget. See you later, cher.”

"Lena. We didn't talk about what happened upstairs.”

"We will," she called back, and kept going.

She didn't breathe easy until she was out of the house. He wasn't going to be as simple to handle as she'd assumed. The good manners weren't a veneer, they went straight through him. But so did the heat, and the determination.

It was a package she admired, and respected.

Not that she couldn't handle him, she told herself as she got into her car. Handling men was one of her best skills.

But this man was a great deal more complicated than he seemed on the surface. And a great deal more intriguing than any she'd met before.

She knew what men saw when they looked at her. And she didn't mind it because there was more to her than what they saw. Or wanted to see.

She had a good brain, a strong back and a willingness to use both to get what she wanted. She ran her life the same way she ran her bar. With an appreciation for color and a foundation of order beneath the chaos.

She glanced in her rearview mirror at Manet Hall as she drove away. It worried her that Declan Fitzgerald could shake that foundation the way no one had before.

It worried her that she might not find it so easy to shore up the cracks when he walked away.

They always walked away. Unless you walked first.

He fell asleep thinking of Lena, and drifted into dreams of her. Strong, full– bodied dreams where she lay beneath him, moved under him with hard, quick jerks of her hips. Damp skin, like liquid gold. Dark chocolate eyes, and red, wet lips.

He could hear the sound of her breath, the catch and release, little gulps of pleasure. He smelled her, that siren's dance of jasmine that made him think of harems and forbidden shadows.

He dropped deeper into sleep, aching for her.

And saw her hurrying along a corridor, her arms full of linens. Her hair, all that gorgeous hair, was ruthlessly pinned back, and that tempting body covered from neck to ankle in a baggy dress covered with tiny, faded flowers.

Her lips were unpainted and pressed tightly together. And in the dream, he could hear her thoughts as if they were his own.

She had to hurry, to get the linens put away. Madame Manet was already up and about, and she didn't care to see any of the undermaids scurrying in the hallways. If she wasn't quick, she could be noticed.

She didn't want Madame to notice her. Servants stayed employed longer when they were invisible. That's what Mademoiselle LaRue, the housekeeper, said, and she was never wrong.

She needed the work. Her family needed the money she could bring in, and oh, but she loved working in the Hall. It was the most beautiful house she'd ever seen. She was so happy and proud to have some part of tending to it.

How many times had she stared at it from the shadows of the bayou? Admiring it, longing for a chance to peek in the windows at all the beauty inside.

And now she was inside, responsible in some small way for the tending of that beauty.

She loved to polish the wood, to sweep the floors. To see the way the glass sparkled after she'd scrubbed it.

In his dream, she came out of the corridor through one of the hidden doors on the second level. Her eyes tracked everywhere as she hurried along –the wallpaper, the rugs, the wood and glass. She slipped into a dressing room, put the linens away in a cupboard.

But as she turned back toward the door, something caught her attention, and she tiptoed to the window.

He saw, as she saw, the riders approaching through the grand oaks of the allйe. He felt, as she felt, a stumble of heart as her gaze locked on the man who rode a glossy chestnut. His hair was gold, and streamed as he galloped. Straight as a soldier in the saddle, with a gray coat over his broad shoulders and his black boots shining.

Her hand went to her throat, and she thought, quite clearly, Here is the prince come home to his castle.

She sighed, as girls sigh when they fall foolishly in love. He smiled, as if smiling at her, but she knew it was the house that caused that joy to fill his handsome face.

With her heart pounding, she hurried out of the room, back to the servants' door and into the maze.

The young master was home, she thought. And wondered what would happen next.

Declan woke with a jolt, in the dark, in the cold. He smelled damp and dust and felt the hard wood of the floor under him.

"What the hell?" Groggy, disgusted, he stretched out a hand and hit wall. Using it for reference, he got to his feet. He felt along, waiting to come to a corner, to a door. It took a moment to register that the wall wasn't papered.

He wasn't in his ghost room this time. He was in one of the servants' passageways, as the girl in his dream had been.

Somehow, he thought, he'd walked as she had walked.

The idea of stumbling around in the dark until he found a way out had little appeal, but slightly more than the idea of spending the next few hours in there, waiting for dawn.

He inched along. By the time he felt the seam of a door, he was drenched in sweat.

He shoved his way out, offered up a prayer of thanksgiving when he gulped in fresher air, saw in the faint light the shape of the second-level corridor.

There were cobwebs in his hair, his hands and feet were filthy.

If this kept up, he told himself, he was going to see a doctor and get some sleeping pills. Hoping the night's adventures were over, he went to wash, to chug down water for his burning throat. And to lock himself in the bedroom.

Declan took the load of books out of Effie's arms, then kissed her cheek. "You didn't have to come all this way to bring me these. I'd've come to you.”

"I didn't mind. I had a meeting cancel, and some time to spare. And the fact is …" Breathing slowly, she turned a circle. "I had to prove to myself I wouldn't just turn tail and run when I started to come in this place.”

"Doing okay?”

"Yeah." She let out one of those slow breaths, then nodded briskly. "Doing just fine." Then she frowned at the shadows dogging his eyes. "Now, you on the other hand look worn out.”

"Not sleeping so well." But he didn't want to talk about the dreams, the sleepwalking. The sounds that so often wakened him in the dead of night. "Come on back to the kitchen so I can show off. I've got some lemonade-not from actual lemons, but it's wet and it's cold.”

"All right." She touched his arm in a kind of silent acknowledgment and, because she understood, lightened her tone. "I've only got about half an hour, but I've got some information for you. Information and speculation. What's going on in here?”

She glanced into the front parlor. There were papers stacked on the floor, books spread open, a pile of paint and fabric samples.

"My next project. I thought I'd start on a room where people could actually sit down when it was finished. What kind of information?”

"On the Manets. Facts were easy enough," she said as they continued through the house. "Henri Manet married Josephine Delacroix. They both came from wealthy and prominent Creole families. Henri was active politically. It's rumored his father profited handsomely by running supplies during the War between the States. The family became staunch Republicans during Reconstruction, and again it's rumored they used their power and influence to buy votes and politicians. Oh my goodness, Dec, just look at this!”

She stepped into the kitchen and beamed at the base cabinets he'd installed. "Why, they're beautiful.”

He hooked his thumbs in his back pockets, and his grin was crooked. "You sound surprised.”

"Well, I am, but in a very complimentary sort of way. Remy can barely hammer a nail in the wall to hang a picture." She ran her hand over the wood, opened and closed a door. "These are really fine. You must be so proud.”

"I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself.

Counter guys just left. I'm going with solid surface. It'll look like slate. Ordered this giant Sub-Zero refrigerator– for reasons I've yet to explain to myself-and a range, a dishwasher. I'm going to make panels so all you'll see is wood.”

He set the books down on a sheet of plywood he had over the top of the base cabinets. "Want that lemonade?”

"That'd be nice." She wandered into the dining room behind him. He had two of the top cupboards finished, and a third started. "My, aren't they going to be pretty. You must be working night and day.”

Losing weight, she thought. Getting a gaunt look in your face.

"Better than sleepwalking." He was jittery, and found himself dipping hands into his pockets again to keep them still. "Tell me more, Effie.”

"All right." She suppressed the urge to fuss over him and went back to the facts. "The original owners had lost most of their money during the war. They hung on, selling off parcels of land, or renting it out to sharecroppers. Their politics and the Manets' were in opposition. There was a fire, burned the house down to the ground. Wiped them out. The Manets bought the land, and had this place built. They had two sons, twins. Lucian and Julian. Both went to Tulane, where Lucian did very well and Julian majored, you could say, in drinking and gambling. Lucian was the heir, and was meant to run the family businesses. Most of the Manet money had dwindled, but Josephine had a considerable inheritance. Both sons died before their twenty-third birthday.”

Declan handed her a glass. "How?”

"Here we have rumors and speculation." She sipped. "The strongest speculation is they killed each other. No one seems to know why, family argument gone violent. It's said Lucian went into New Orleans, on his mother's orders, to fetch his brother back out of one of the brothels he frequented. Julian didn't want to be fetched, they argued, and one of them-odds are on Julian here-pulled a knife. They fought, struggled for the knife, were both wounded. Julian died on the spot. Lucian lingered about another week, then somehow got out of bed, wandered outside, and fell into the pond, where he drowned.”

The pond, he thought, choked with lily pads, steaming with mists at dawn. "That had to be rough on the parents.”

"The father's heart gave out a few years later. Josephine lived several years more, but had a reversal of financial fortune. She had the house, some land, but had all but run out of money. Again, speculation is Julian had gambled a large part of it away, and it was never fully recouped.”

"Remy said there was a granddaughter. Lucian's or Julian's?”

"There's speculation there, too. Though the records show that Lucian married an Abigail Rouse in 1898, and that a daughter was born the next year, there's no record of Abigail's death. After Lucian was killed, the Manets declaimed the child, legally. Had her written out of the will. She was, apparently, raised by the Rouses. I can't find anything on Abigail Rouse beyond the legal records of her birth and her marriage.”

"Maybe they kicked her out when Lucian died.”

"Maybe. I talked to Remy about it." She wandered toward the windows, stared out at the messy gardens. "He's a little vague, but seems to recall hearing stories about how she ran off with another man.”

She turned back. "Stories from the Rouse side differ sharply. They lean toward foul play. You'd get a fuller picture of her, and what might've happened, if you talk to someone from the Rouse or Simone families.”

"A clear picture about a girl who ran off or died a hundred years ago.”

"Honey, this is the South. A hundred years ago was yesterday. She was seventeen when she married Lucian. She was from the bayou. His family could not have approved of such a match. I doubt her life in this house was rosy. Running off might've been just what she did. On the other hand … I saw something, someone, in that room upstairs. I don't believe in that sort of thing. Didn't." Effie fought back a shiver. "I don't know what I think about it now, but I sure would like to find out.”

"I'll ask Miss Odette. And Lena. I've got a date with her Monday.”

"Is that so?" The idea brightened her mood.

"Looks like we'll have more rumor and speculation." She handed him back the glass. "I have to get on. I'm sending Remy out here tomorrow to give you a hand and keep him out of my hair. I've got a fitting for my wedding gown and other bridal things to take care of.”

"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.”

"Lena." He kissed her fingers, then handed her a menu. "Good to see you.”

"This is Remy's college friend from Boston. Declan. I brought him by so he can see how we do Italian food here in the Vieux Carre.”

"You won't do better." He shook Declan's hand, gave him a menu. "My mama's in the kitchen today.”

"Then we're in for a treat," Lena said. "How's your family, Marco?”

Declan saw how it happened then. When she shifted in her chair, lifted her face, looked at Marco, it was as if the two of them were alone on a little island of intimacy. It was sexual, there was no question about it, but it was also … attentive, he decided.

"Good as gold. My Sophie won a spelling bee on Friday.”

"That's some bright child you got.”

They chatted for a few moments, but Declan entertained himself by watching her face. The way her eyebrows lifted, fell, drew together according to the sentiment. How her lips moved, punctuated by that tiny mole.

When she turned her head, he shook his. "Sorry, did you say something to me? I was looking at you. I get lost.”

"They got some smooth talkers up North," Marco said.

"Pretty, too, isn't he?" Lena asked.

"Very nice. Our Lena here's having the seafood linguini. You know what you want, or you need some time to decide?”

"You don't get the same." Lena tapped a finger on the menu Declan had yet to read. "Else it's no fun for me picking off your plate. You try the stuffed shells, maybe. Mama makes them good.”

"Stuffed shells, then." He had a feeling he'd have tried crushed cardboard if she'd requested it. "Do you want wine?”

"No, because you're driving and I'm working.”

"Strict. San Pelligrino?" He glanced at Marco.

"I'll bring you out a bottle.”

"So …" She tucked her hair behind her ear as Marco left them. "What're you up to today, cher?”

"I thought I'd hit some of the antique stores. I'm looking for a display cabinet for the kitchen, and stuff to stick in it. I thought I might go by and see Miss Odette on the way back. What does she like? I want to take her something.”

"You don't have to take her anything.”

"I'd like to.”

Lena hooked an arm over the back of her chair, drummed her fingers on the table as she studied him. "You get her a bottle of wine, then. A good red. Tell me something, cher, you wouldn't be using my grandmama to get to me, would you?”

She saw the temper flash into his eyes– darker, hotter than she'd expected from him. Should've known, she thought, that all that easy manner covered something sharp, something jagged. It was impressive, but more impressive was the lightning snap from mild to fury, and back to mild again.

A man who could rein himself in like that, she decided, had a will of iron. That was something else to consider.

"You've got it backwards," he told her.

"I'm using you to get to Miss Odette. She's the girl of my dreams.”

"I'm sorry.”

"Good, you should be.”

Lena waited until their water and bread were served. His tone had raised her hackles. Mostly, she could admit, because she'd deserved the quick slap. Folding her arms on the table, she leaned toward him.

"I am sorry, because that was nasty. I'm going to tell you something, Declan, nasty words have a habit of popping right out of my mouth. I don't always regret saying them. I'm not a sweet– mannered, even-tempered sort of woman. I don't have a trusting nature. I've got good points, but I've got just as many bad. I like it that way.”

He mimicked her posture. "I'm single– minded, competitive and moody. I've got a mean temper. It takes a lot to get it going, which is a fortunate thing for the general population. I don't have to have my way in the little things, but when I decide I want something, really want it, I find a way to get it. I want you. So I'll have you.”

She'd been wrong. He hadn't snapped back to mild. Anger was still simmering behind his eyes. As the one person she tried to be honest with at all times was herself, she didn't bother to pretend it didn't excite her.

"You're saying that to make me mad.”

"No, that's just a side benefit." He eased back, picked up the basket of bread, and offered it. "You want to fight?”

Feeling sulky, she picked out a piece. "Maybe later. Getting riled up spoils my appetite. Anyway." She shrugged, bit into the bread. "You don't want to go by Grandmama's today. She's over visiting her sister this afternoon.”

"I'll stop in later this week. I got the kitchen counters installed. Remy gave me a hand, so to speak, with the wall units yesterday. It should be finished in a couple of weeks.”

"Good for you." She wanted to brood, and could see by his amused expression that he knew it. "You been back up on the third floor?”

"Yeah." He'd had to prime himself with a good shot of Jim Beam first, but he'd gone back. "Didn't fall on my face this time, but I had a major panic attack. I'm not prone to panic attacks. I found out more about the Manet family history, but there are pieces missing. Maybe you've got them.”

"You want to know about Abigail Rouse.”

"That's right. How much do-was He broke off because she'd turned her attention away from him and back to Marco, who brought out their pasta. He reminded himself as they fell into a lazy discussion about the food, that the wheel turned more slowly in the South.

"How much do you know about her?" he asked when they were alone again.

Lena rolled up a forkful of pasta, slid it between her lips. She sighed deep, swallowed. "Mama Realdo. She's a goddess in the kitchen. Try yours," she ordered, and leaned over to sample from his plate.

"It's great. Best meal I've had since a microwave omelette.”

She smiled at him, one long, slow smile that lodged in his belly. Then went back to eating. "I know the stories that came down in my family. Nobody can say for sure. Abigail, she was a maid in the big house. Some of the rich families, they hired Cajun girls to clean for them, to fetch and carry. Story is that Lucian Manet came home from Tulane and fell in love with her. They ran off and got married. Had to run off, because nobody's going to approve of this. His family, hers.”

She broke off a chunk of bread, nibbled on it as she studied him. "Mixing classes is an uneasy business. He moved her into the Hall after, and that was an uneasy business, too. People say Josephine Manet was a hard woman, proud and cold. People started counting on their fingers, but the baby, she don't come for ten months.”

"That room upstairs. It m/'ve been the nursery. They'd have kept the baby there.”

"Most like. There was a nursemaid. She married one of Abigail's brothers later. Most of the stories about the Hall come from her. It seems a couple days before the end of the year, Lucian was off in New Orleans on business. When he came back, Abigail was gone. They said she'd run off with some bayou boy she'd been seeing on the side. But that doesn't ring true. The nursemaid, her name was … Claudine, she said Abigail never would've left Lucian and the baby. She said something bad had to have happened, something terrible, and she blamed herself because she was off meeting her young man down by the river the night Abigail disappeared.”

A dead girl on the tester bed in a cold room, Declan thought, and the pasta lodged in his throat like glue. He picked up the fizzy water, drank deep. "Did they look for her?”

"Her family looked everywhere. It's said Lucian haunted the bayou until the day he died. When he wasn't looking there, he was in town trying to find a trace of her. He never did, and didn't live long himself. With him gone, and the twin his mother favored by all accounts, dead as well, Miss Josephine had the baby taken to Abigail's parents. You've gone pale, Declan.”

"I feel pale. Go on.”

This time, when she broke off a hunk of bread, she buttered it, handed it to him. Her grandmama was right, Lena thought, the man needed to eat.

"The baby was my grandmama's grandmama. The Manets cast her out, claiming she was a bastard and no blood of theirs. They brought her to the Rouses with the dress she had on, a small bag of crib toys. Only thing she had from the Hall was the watch pin Claudine gave to her that had been Abigail's.”

Declan's hand shot out to cover hers. "Is the pin still around?”

"We hand such things down, daughter to daughter. My grandmama gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. Why?”

"Enameled watch, hanging from small, gold wings.”

Color stained her cheeks. "How do you know?”

"I saw it." The chill danced up his spine. "Sitting on the dresser in the bedroom that must have been hers. An empty room," he continued, "with phantom furniture. The room where Effie saw a dead girl laid out on the bed. They killed her, didn't they?”

Something in the way he said it, so flat, so cold, had her stomach dropping. "That's what people think. People in my family.”

"In the nursery.”

"I don't know. You're spooking me some, Declan.”

"You?" He passed a hand over his face. "Well, I guess I know who my ghost is. Poor Abigail, wandering the Hall and waiting for Lucian to come home."

"But if she did die in the Hall, who killed her?”

"Maybe that's what I'm supposed to find out, so she can … you know. Rest.”

He wasn't pale now, Lena thought. His face had toughened, hardened. That core of determination again. "Why should it be you?”

"Why not? It had to be one of the Manets. The mother, the father, the brother. Then they buried her somewhere and claimed she ran away. I need to find out more about her.”

"I imagine you will. You've got a mulish look about you, cher. Don't know why that should be so appealing to me. Talk to my grandmama. She might know more, or she'll know who does.”

She nudged her empty plate back. "Now you buy us some cappuccino.”

"Want dessert?”

"No room for that." She opened her purse, pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"I didn't know you smoked.”

"I get one pack a month." She tapped one out, ran her fingers up and down its length.

"One a month? What's the point?”

She put the cigarette between her lips, flicked the flame on a slim silver lighter. As she had with the first bite of pasta, she sighed over that first deep drag. "Pleasure, cher. There are twenty cigarettes in a pack, thirty or thirty-one days to a month. 'Cept for February. I dearly love the month of February. Now, I can smoke up the whole pack in a day, and just about lose my mind for the rest of the month. Or I can dole them out, slow and careful, and make them last. Because there's no buying another pack before the first of the month.”

"How many do you bum from other people during the month?”

Her eyes glittered through the haze of smoke. "That would be cheating. I don't cheat. Pleasure's nothing, sugar, unless you got the willpower to hold off until you really appreciate it.”

She trailed a fingertip over the back of his hand, and for the hell of it, rubbed the side of her foot against his leg under the table. "How are you on willpower?" she asked.

"We're going to find out.”

It was dusk when he got back to the house. The back of his four-wheel was loaded with treasures he'd hunted up in antique shops. But the best was the kitchen cabinet he'd found, and had begged and bribed to have delivered the next day.

He carried what he could on the first trip and, when he stepped inside, set everything down in the foyer. He closed the door behind him, then stood very still.

"Abigail." He said the name, listened to it echo through the house. And waited.

But he felt no rush of cold air, no sudden shift in the silence.

And standing at the base of the grand staircase, he couldn't explain how he knew he wasn't alone.

He woke to a crashing thunderstorm, but at least he woke in his own bed. Lightning slashed outside the windows and burst a nova of light through the room.

A glance at the bedside clock showed him a minute to midnight. But that had to be wrong, Declan thought. He hadn't gone to bed until after one. Wondering if the storm had knocked out his power, he turned the switch on the bedside lamp.

Light speared out, half blinding him.

"Damn it." He rubbed his shocked eyes, then grabbed the bottle of water he'd set on the table next to the bed. And rising, went out on the gallery to watch the show.

It was worth the price of a ticket, he decided. Lashing rain, pitchfork lightning, and a wind that was whipping through the trees in moans and howls. He could hear the excited clanging of the spirit bottles and the fierce jungle war of thunder.

And the baby crying.

The water bottle slid out of his fingers, bounced at his feet, and soaked them.

He wasn't dreaming, he told himself, and reached out to grip the wet baluster. He wasn't sleepwalking. He was awake, fully aware of his surroundings. And he heard the baby crying.

He had to order himself to move, but he walked back into the bedroom, dragged on sweats, checked his flashlight. Barefoot, shirtless, he left the security of his room and started toward the third floor.

He waited for the panic to come-that clutching in the belly, the sudden shortness of breath, the pounding of his heart.

But it didn't come this time. The steps were just steps now, the door just a door with a brass knob that needed polishing.

And the baby wasn't crying any longer.

"Come this far," he grumbled.

His palms were sweaty, but it was nerves instead of fear. He reached out, turned the knob. The door opened with a whine of hinges.

There was a low fire in the hearth. Its light, and the light of candles, danced in pretty patterns over walls of pale, pale peach. At the windows were deep blue drapes with lacy under curtains. The floor was polished like a mirror with two area rugs in a pattern of peaches and blues.

There was a crib with turned rails, a small iron cot made up with white linen.

She sat in a rocking chair, a baby at her breast. He could see the baby's hand on it, white against gold. Her hair was down, spilling over her shoulders, over the arms of the rocker.

Her lips moved, in song or story he didn't know. He couldn't hear. But she stared down at the child as she nursed, and her face was lit with love.

"You never left her," Declan said quietly. "You couldn't have.”

She looked up, toward the doorway where he stood so that for one heart-stopping second, he thought she'd heard him. Would speak to him. When she smiled, when she held out a hand, he took a step toward her.

Then his knees went loose as he saw the man cross the room-pass through him like air-and walk to her.

His hair was golden blond. He was tall and slim of build. He wore some sort of robe in a deep burgundy. When he knelt by the rocker, he stroked a fingertip over the baby's cheek, then over the tiny fingers that kneaded at the woman's breast.

The woman, Abigail, lifted her hand, pressed it over his. And there, surrounded by that soft light, the three of them linked while the baby's milky mouth suckled and the woman gently rocked.

"No. You never left them. I'll find out what they did to you. To all of you.”

As he spoke, the door slammed shut behind him. He jolted, spun and found himself plunged back into the dark, with only the lightning blasts and the beam of his flashlight. The weight fell into his chest like a rock, cutting off his air. The room was empty, freezing, and the panic leaped at his throat.

He dragged at the doorknob, his sweat– slicked hands sliding off the icy brass. He could feel his choked gasps wanting to rise into shouts and screams, pleas and prayers. Dizziness drove him down to his knees, where he fumbled frantically with the knob, wrenched and tugged at the door.

When he managed to pull it open, he crawled out on his hands and knees, then lay facedown on the floor with his heart thundering in his chest as the storm thundered over the house.

"Okay, I'm okay. I'm okay, goddamn it, and I'm getting up off the floor and going back to bed.”

He might be losing sleep, Declan thought as he got shakily to his feet, but he'd learned a couple of things.

If what he'd seen inside the nursery was truth and not some self-generated fantasy, Abigail Rouse Manet hadn't left Manet Hall of her own free will.

And he had more than one ghost on his hands.

She was probably making a mistake, Lena thought as she slicked a little black dress down her body. She'd already made several small mistakes where Declan Fitzgerald was concerned. It irritated her, as she rarely made mistakes when it came to men.

If there was one thing she'd learned from her mother, it was how to handle the male species. It was a reverse tutelage. She made a habit of doing exactly the opposite of what Lilibeth did and had done when it came to relationships.

The process had kept Lena heart-whole for nearly thirty years. She had no desire, and no intention, of putting herself into a man's hands. Metaphorically speaking, she thought with a smirk as she painted her lips.

She liked being in the right man's hands well enough, when she was in the mood to be handled.

A woman who didn't enjoy sex, in her opinion, just didn't know how to pick her partners cannily enough. A smart woman culled out men who were willing and able to be shown how that woman wanted to be pleasured. And a woman pleasured tended to give a man a good, strong ride.

Everybody ended up winning.

The problem was, Declan had the talent for putting her in the mood for sex all the damn time. She was not in the habit of being guided by her hormones.

The wisest, safest thing for a woman to do about sex was to be in control of it. To decide the when, the where, the who and how. Men, well, they were just randy by nature. She couldn't blame them for it.

And women who claimed not to try to stir men up were either cold-blooded or liars.

If she'd believed she and Declan were headed toward a simple affair that began and ended with a mutual buzz, she wouldn't have been concerned. But there was more to him than that. Too many layers to him, she thought, and she couldn't seem to get through them all and figure him out.

More, and much more worrying, there was another layer to her reaction to him than simple lust. That, too, was complicated and mysterious.

She liked the look of him, and the Yankee bedrock sound of his voice. And then he'd gone and hit her soft spot with his obvious affection for her grandmama.

Got her blood heated up, too, she admitted. The man had a very skilled pair of lips.

And when he wasn't paying attention, a wounded look in his eyes. She was a sucker for hurting hearts.

Best to take it slow. She arched her neck and ran the crystal wand of her perfume bottle over her skin. Slow and easy. No point in getting to the end of the road unless you'd enjoyed the journey.

She trailed the wand over the tops of her breasts and imagined his fingers there. His mouth.

It had been a long time since she'd wanted a man quite this … clearly, she realized. And since it was too late for a quick, anonymous roll in the sheets, it would be wise get to know him a little better before she let him think he'd talked her into bed.

"Right on time, aren't you, cher?" she commented aloud at the knock on her door. She gave her reflection a last check, blew herself a kiss, and walked to the front door.

He looked good in a suit. Very classy and GQ, she decided. She reached out, ran the stone-gray lapel between her thumb and fingers. "Mmm. Don't you clean up nice, cher.”

"Sorry, all the blood just drained out of my head so the best I can come up with is, wow.”

She sent him that sassy, under-the-lashes look and turned a slow circle on stiletto heels. "This work okay for you, then?”

The dress clung, dipped and shimmied. His glands were doing a joyful jig. "Oh yeah. It's working just fine.”

She crooked her finger. "Come here a minute.”

She stepped back, then slid a hand through his arm and turned toward an old silver-framed mirror. "Don't we look fine?" she said, and her reflection laughed at his. "Where you taking me, cher?”

"Let's find out." He picked up a wide, red silk scarf, draped it over her shoulders. "Are you going to be warm enough?”

"If I'm not, then this dress isn't working after all." With this she strode out on her little gallery. She started to hold out a hand for his, then just stared down at the white stretch limo at the curb.

She was rarely speechless, but it took her a good ten seconds to find her voice, and her wits. "You buy yourself a new car, darling?”

"It's a rental. This way, I figure we can both have all the champagne we want.”

As first dates went, she thought as he led her down, this one had potential. It only got better when the uniformed driver opened the door and bowed her inside.

There were two silver buckets. One held a bottle of champagne and the other a forest of purple tulips.

"Roses are obvious," he said and pulled a single flower out to offer her. "And you're not.”

She twirled the tulip under her nose. "Is this how you charm the girls in Boston?”

He poured a flute of champagne, held it out to her. "There are no other girls.”

Off balance, she took a sip. "You're dazzling me, Declan.”

"That's the plan." He tapped his glass to hers. "I'm really good at seeing a plan through."

She leaned back, crossed her legs in a slow, deliberate motion she knew would draw his gaze down to them. "You're a dangerous man. You know what makes you really dangerous? It doesn't show unless you take a good look under all the polish.”

"I won't hurt you, Lena.”

"Oh, hell you won't." But she let out a low, delightful laugh. "That's just part of the trip, sugar. Just part of the trip. And so far, I'm enjoying it.”

He went for elegant, Old-World French where the waiters wore black tie, the lighting was muted, and the corner table was designed for intimacy.

Another bottle of champagne arrived seconds after they were seated, telling her he'd prearranged it. And possibly a great deal more.

"I'm told the food is memorable here. The house is early twentieth century," he continued. "Georgian Colonial Revival, and belonged to an artist. A private home until about thirty years ago.”

"Do you always research your restaurant's history?”

"Ambience matters. Especially in New Orleans. So does cuisine. They tell me the caneton a l'Orange is a house specialty.”

"Then one of us should have it." Intrigued, she set her menu aside. He wasn't just fun, she thought. He wasn't just sexy and smart. He was interesting. "You choose. This time.”

He ordered straight through from appetizers to chocolate souffli with the ease of a man accustomed to fine dining in exclusive restaurants.

"You have good French, at least for ordering food. Do you speak it otherwise?”

"Yes, but Cajun French can still throw me.”

"Have you been to Paris?”

"Yes.”

She leaned forward in that way she had, her arms folded on the edge of the table, her gaze fastened to his. "Is it wonderful?”

"It is.”

"One day I'd like to go. To Paris and Florence, to Barcelona and Athens." They were hot, colorful dreams of hers, and the anticipation of them as exciting as the wish. "You've been to those places.”

"Not Athens. Yet. My mother liked to travel, so we went to Europe every year when I was growing up. Every other to Ireland. We still have family there.”

"And what's your favorite?" She rested her elbows on the table and her chin in her laced fingers. "Of all the places you've been.”

"Hard to say. The west coast of Ireland, the hills in Tuscany, a sidewalk cafi in Paris. But at the moment, right here is my favorite place.”

"There's that silky tongue again. All right then, tell me about Boston.”

"It's a New England harbor city of great historical importance." When she laughed, he sat back and soaked it in. "Oh, that's not what you meant.”

"Tell me about your family. You have brothers, sisters?”

"Two brothers, one sister.”

"Big family.”

"Are you kidding? My parents were pikers in the go-forth-and-multiply area. Mom has six brothers and sisters, my father comes from a family of eight. None of their siblings had less than five kids. We are legion.”

"You miss them.”

"I do? Okay, I do," he admitted reluctantly. "From this nice, safe distance, I've realized I actually like my family.”

"They'll come visit you?”

"Eventually. Everyone will wait for my mother to start actually speaking to me again. In our house if it's not one thing, it's your mother.”

She sampled the appetizer he'd ordered for her. She wore no rings, and he wondered why. She had lovely hands, slim, elegant, delicate. The silver key rested against that smooth, dusky skin, and there was a glint of silver at her ears. But her fingers, her wrists were bare. Beautifully bare, he realized, and wondered if the lack of ornamentation was some sort of female ploy to make a man notice every line, every curve, every sweep of her.

It was sure as hell working that way on him.

"You think she's mad at you? Your mama?”

He had to blink himself back to the threads of conversation. "Not mad. Irritated, annoyed, baffled. If she was really angry, she'd be down here in my face, chipping away until I crumbled to her terrifying will.”

"Does she want you to be happy?”

"Yes. We love each other like idiots. She'd just be more satisfied if my happiness aligned with her point of view.”

Her head angled, and again he caught that wink of silver through the thick, dark curls of her hair. "Why don't you let her know she hurts your feelings?”

"What?”

"If you don't let her know she hurts them, how is she going to stop?”

"I let them down.”

"Oh, you did not," she replied, with a kind of impatient sympathy. "You think your family wants you to be miserable and unfulfilled? Married to a woman you don't love, working at a career that you don't want?”

"Yes. No," he answered. "I don't honestly know.”

"Then it seems to me you ought to ask them.”

"Do you have any siblings?”

"No. And tonight we're going to talk about you.

We'll save me for another time. Did you find what you wanted at your antique shops?”

"And then some." More comfortable talking about acquisitions than family, he gave her a blow-by-blow that took them into the main course.

"How do you know what you want before you have the room done?”

"I just do." He moved his shoulders. "I can't explain it. I've got this great davenport on hold for the upriver parlor. That's where I'm starting next, and it's not nearly as big a job as the kitchen. Walls and floors mostly. I want to get a good start on the interiors so I can concentrate on the galleries, the double stairs, have the place painted starting in April, if I'm lucky. That way, we should be able to shift back inside before the summer heat.”

"Why are you pushing so hard? The house isn't going anywhere.”

"Remember the single-minded, competitive nature I told you about?”

"Doesn't mean you can't relax a bit. How many hours are you putting in in a week?”

"I don't know. Ten, twelve a day generally." Then he grinned and reached for her hand.

"You worried about me? I'll take more time off if you'll spend it with me.”

"I'm not that worried about you." But she left her hand in his, let it be held against that hard, calloused palm. "Still, Mardi Gras's coming. If you don't take some time to enjoy that, you might as well be in Boston." She looked at the double souffli their waiter set in the middle of the table. "Oh my. My, my." She leaned forward, closed her eyes, and sniffed. And was laughing when she opened them again. "Where's yours?”

He took her dancing. He'd found a club that played the slow fox-trots and jazzy swings of the thirties, and surprised her by whirling her around the floor until her legs were weak.

"You're full of surprises.”

"Bet your ass." He swung her into his arms, had her blood pressure spiking when he ran his hands down her body and gripped her hips. Her body rolled against his, a wave sliding under a wave while a tenor sax wailed.

He dipped her, had her laughing even as her pulse went thick. She let her head fall back, her hair stream down as he lowered his face toward hers. His lips skimmed over her chin, just a hint of teeth, then he swept her up again, circled her, seduced her.

The lights were a warm, smoky blue, and his movements fluid so it was like moving underwater. The yearning she wasn't ready for crawled into her belly. With her eyes half closed, she skimmed a hand into his hair, brought his face closer, that last inch closer so his mouth met hers.

"You fit, Lena. We fit.”

She shook her head, turned it so her cheek rested against his. "You make love half as well as you dance, you must have a trail of female smiles in your wake.”

"Let me show you." He nipped at her earlobe, and felt her quick shiver. "I want to touch you. I know how your skin will feel under my hands. I dreamed about it.”

She kept her eyes closed, tried to lock away the yearning. "Just dance with me. It's getting late, and I want one more dance.”

She rested her head on his shoulder in the limo. The music, the wine, the soft lights were all still playing in her head. She felt drenched in romance, and knowing that had been his intention didn't diminish the effect. It only enhanced it.

He was a man who would trouble himself with the details. The large and the small. With the house he'd chosen, with the woman he wanted.

She admired that. Admired him.

"You show a girl a good time, cher.”

"Let me show you one tomorrow night.”

"I work tomorrow night.”

"Your next night off, then.”

"I'm going to think about that. I'm not being coy, Declan." She sat up so she could look at him. "I don't like coy. I'm being cautious. I can't say I care much for that, either, but where you're concerned I think it's the smart thing to be. And I do like being smart.”

As the limo glided to the curb in front of her home, she trailed a finger down his cheek. "Now you walk me to my door, and kiss me good-night.”

He carried the silver bucket with the purple tulips. He set them down in front of her door, then framed her face in his hands.

The kiss was sweeter than she'd expected.

She'd been prepared for heat, the persuasive, pervasive heat that might melt her resistance. Instead he gave her the sweet, and the gentle, ending the evening as he'd begun it. With romance.

"How about before you go to work?" He lifted her hand to his lips now. "I'll take you on a picnic.”

Undone, she stared at him. "A picnic?”

"It should be warm enough. We can spread a blanket by the pond. You can bring Rufus along as chaperone. I like watching him jump in.”

"Damn it." She caught his face in her hands now. "Damn it. I want you to go on down to that big white limo.”

"Okay." He touched her hair. "I'll just wait until you're inside.”

"Go down to the limo," she repeated. "And pay that driver, and tell him to go on home. Then you come back up.”

He closed his hands over her wrists, felt the trip of her pulse. "Five minutes. Don't change your mind. Two minutes," he amended. "Time me.”

As he bolted down the stairs, she picked up her flowers, let herself inside. If it was a mistake, she thought, it wouldn't be her first. Or her last.

She lit the candles, put on some Billie Holiday. Sex should be easy, she reminded herself. When it was between two unattached adults with, well, at least some affection along with the lust, it should be a celebration.

Whether or not she'd been persuaded, the decision was hers. There was no point in regretting it before it had even begun.

He knocked. The idea that he would, rather than just walking in, made her smile. Good manners and hot blood. It was an interesting combination. Irresistible.

She opened the door, and Billie Holiday's heartbreak streamed out. Declan slid his hands into his pockets and smiled at her.

"Hi.”

"Hi back, handsome." Lena reached out and grabbed his tie. "Come on in here." She tugged, and pulled him in the door. And, walking backward, would have pulled him straight into the bedroom.

But he laid his hands on her hips, drew her to him. "I like your music." He eased her into a dance. "When I can see something besides you, I'll tell you if I like your place.”

"Did you take lessons on what to say to have women falling for you?”

"Natural gift." He brushed his lips at each corner of her mouth. Over that sexy little mole. "The streets of Boston are littered with my conquests. It was playing hell with traffic, so the city council asked me to leave." He skimmed his cheek over hers. "I smell you in my sleep. And wake up wanting you.”

Her heart began to shiver, like something feeling warmth after a long freeze. "I knew you were trouble, the minute you stepped up to my bar." She stretched under the hand that ran down her back. "I just didn't know how much trouble.”

"Plenty." He scooped her off her feet, crushed his mouth to hers until they both moaned. "Which way?”

"Mmm. I've got a number of ways in mind.”

What blood was left in his head shot straight down to his loins. "Ha. I meant which way is your bedroom.”

With a low laugh, she chewed on his bottom lip. "Door on the left."

He had a number of impressions as he carried her across the room, through the doorway. Vibrant colors, old wood. But most of his senses were wrapped around the woman in his arms. The weight of her, the shape and scent. The surprise that flickered over her face when he set her on her feet beside the bed instead of on it.

"I'd like to take my time with this, if it's all the same to you." He trailed a fingertip down her collarbone, over the lovely curve of breast the dress displayed. "You know, like unwrapping a present.”

"I can't say I mind that.”

She'd expected a rush-fast hands, hungry mouth-to match the reckless lust she'd seen in his gaze. When his hands took hers, linked fingers, and his lips lay silky on her lips, she remembered how ruthlessly he'd controlled his temper the day before.

It seemed his control reached to other passions as well.

She wasn't prepared for romance. He'd realized it when she'd seen the tulips. More than surprise, there'd been suspicion in her eyes. Just as there was now as he slowed the pace, lingered over the quiet pleasure of a kiss.

Seducing her into bed was no longer enough. He wanted to seduce that suspicion into helpless pleasure.

Her lips were warm and willing. It was no hardship to mate his with them, to float on that lazy slide of tongues while their bodies swayed together as if they were still dancing.

He knew when her fingers went limp in his that she floated with him.

He lowered the zipper of her dress in one slow glide and traced his fingers over the newly exposed flesh. She arched her back, and all but purred.

"You've got good hands, cher, and very sexy lips." Watching him now, as he watched her, she loosened the knot of his tie. "Let's see about the rest of you.”

There was something about undressing a man in a suit, she thought. The time it took to remove all the layers to get to skin, built anticipation, honed curiosity. He touched her as she unbuttoned his shirt, easing the dress off her shoulders so that it clung, erotically, to the curve of her breasts. He nibbled at her mouth, never hurrying, never groping.

And when she opened his shirt, ran her hands over his chest with a little hum of approval, she felt the heavy beat of his heart under her palms.

"Some build you've got for a lawyer.”

"Ex-lawyer." It was like dying, he thought, dying by inches to have those long, slender fingers with those hot red nails running over him. She pinched lightly at his biceps, licked her lips.

"Yes indeed, you're just full of surprises. I like a strong man.”

She tapped her nails on his belt buckle, and her smile was female. Feline. "Let's see what other surprises you've got for me.”

They were dancing again, the oldest dance, and somehow she'd taken the lead. His stomach muscles quivered when she whipped the belt off, tossed it over her shoulder.

In his mind he saw himself throwing her down on the bed, pounding himself and this outrageous need into her. She'd accept it.

She'd expect it.

Instead, he took both her hands before she could unhook his trousers and lifted them to his lips.

Watching her over them, he saw the surprise-and again the suspicion.

"I seem to be falling behind," he said playfully. "And since I've been wondering what you've got on under that dress, I'd like to find out how close my speculations were to reality.”

He laid his lips on her bare shoulder, used them to nudge the material down her arm. And blessed the laws of gravity when it slid down and puddled at her feet.

She wore black lace.

She was every man's fantasy. Dusky skin, tumbled hair, full, high breasts barely restrained in that fancy of lace. The slim torso, the gently rounded hips with more midnight lace riding low. Shapely legs in sheer black stockings and man– killer heels.

"Close." The breath was already burning in his lungs. "Very close. What's this?" He traced a fingertip over the tattoo on her inner thigh, just above the lacy edge of her stocking.

"That's my dragon. He guards the gates." She was trembling, and wasn't ready to tremble. "A lot of men think they can get past him. A lot of men get burned."

He stroked his finger up, along that sensitive valley between lace and thigh. "Let's play with fire.”

He yanked her against him, devoured her mouth. And when that wasn't enough, whirled her around to scrape his teeth along her shoulder, the side of her neck. With his face buried in her hair he ran his hands up her body, filled them with her lace-covered breasts.

She arched back to him, hooked her arms around his neck and offered. The spin from patient to urgent left her dizzy, brutally aroused and ready to be taken. She felt the greed from him now, and felt her own rise to match it.

His hand slid down, cupped between her legs, pressed, and brought her to the jagged edge of release. Before she could fall, he trailed his fingers down her thigh and with one fast flick, unhooked a garter.

Her breath caught. Her body strained. "Mon Dieu.”

"When I'm inside you, you won't be able to think about anything else." He unhooked a second garter. "But first, I need to touch you, the way I've been dreaming of touching you." He rubbed his lips over her shoulder, nudged the strap of her bra aside. "Angelina.”

He turned her to face him, let his fingers dive into her hair, draw her head back. "You're mine tonight.”

Denial, defiance, fought their way through seduction. "I belong to myself.”

He scooped her up, laid her back on the bed. "Tonight, we're going to belong to each other.”

He closed his mouth over hers, stopping her words, drugging her brain. She turned her head to take a breath, to try to steady herself again. But his lips trailed down to her breast, over flesh, over lace, under it. The long, liquid tugs in her belly loosened her muscles, melted her will.

She yielded, telling herself she was surrendering to her own needs, and not to him.

He felt her give, the softening of her. Heard it in the low, throaty moan that was pleasure and acceptance.

So he took what he'd been aching for since the first moment he'd seen her in the morning mist.

Her body was a treasure, scented skin, female curves. He fed himself on the taste of it in slow sips and long gulps. Then freed her breasts to his hands, his mouth. His blood raged like a firestorm, but he let himself burn and tortured them both.

When he rolled the lace down her hips, she arched. Opened. He traced his fingers over her, watching her face in the candlelight as her eyes closed, her lips trembled on a groan. And when he slid them into her, into the hot wet velvet of her, she bowed up, cried out. Drove him mad.

Pressing his face to her belly, he sent her flying.

Her body was a mass of aches, of joys, with the sharp edge of sensation slicing through like a bolt of light. It burst in her, sent her helplessly hurtling.

She reached for him, closed her hand around him. He was hard as stone. She wanted him inside her as much as she wanted her next breath.

"Now. I want you." She felt him quiver, even as she quivered. Saw herself in his eyes as he rose over her. "I want you to fill me. Fill me up.”

He clung to that slippery line of control, and as her legs wrapped around him, slid slowly, very slowly into her. Slid deep when she rose to meet him. Held there with his breath caught in his throat and everything he was lost in her.

Sighs now, and a quick, rushing gasp. They kept their eyes on each other and moved, an almost lazy pace that spread pleasure like a warm pool. Their lips met, and he felt hers curve against his before he lifted his head to see her smile.

Flesh glided over flesh, silky friction. Music, the tragic sob of it from her living room, a sudden celebratory burst of it from the street below, merged together in his head with her quickening breaths.

She tensed beneath him, her head going back to bare the line of her throat for his lips. She tightened around him, shuddered, shuddered. Once again he buried his face in her hair, and this time, let himself fly with her.

Later, he lay watching the light play on the ceiling, stroking his hand along her back. Drenched in her. "Are you going to let me stay?" he asked. "Or do I catch a cab?”

She stared into the shadows. "Stay.”

He woke just after daybreak. She'd curved into him in sleep, but he saw that she had her arm between them and a fist curled over her heart. As if she were guarding it, he thought. The little silver key lay against the side of her hand.

He wanted to lift that hand, gently uncurl the fingers. Bare her heart to him, he realized. He'd already lost his to her. Had lost it, he decided, the moment he'd seen her.

It was a jolt, and a shock for a man who'd come to believe he simply wasn't capable of love. Unless it was family or friendship. His personal crisis over Jessica, who everyone-including Jessica-had claimed was perfect for him, had convinced him he'd blown his one chance at a lasting, content relationship with a woman.

It had been tough to swallow for a man who, at the core, believed strongly in family, in home, in marriage. And swallowing it, he realized, had been largely responsible for the restless unhappiness that had trailed after him like a faithful dog for months.

Now he was looking at the woman who was the answer. And he didn't think she was going to be willing to listen to the question.

So, he'd have to persuade her. One way or the other, and sooner or later. Because he'd meant what he'd said the night before. They were going to belong to each other.

He considered waking her up and reminding her how good they were together in bed. He couldn't think of a better way to start the day, especially since she was warm and soft and draped around him.

But it didn't seem quite fair to wake her when they'd barely slept. Her workday started a great deal later than his.

He slid away from her, with no little regret, and eased out of bed. She stirred, sighing in sleep, and rolled into the warmth he'd left behind.

He grabbed his trousers and headed into the shower.

In his opinion, you could tell a lot about a person by their bathroom. Hers was both rigorously clean and indulgent. Thick towels of forest green offset the white fixtures and picked up the small diamond chip pattern scattered through the floor tile.

Lush green plants lined the windowsill, and a trio of daffodils speared out of a slim bottle of pale green.

There were other bottles, jewel colors, and covered boxes that held fragrant oils and lotions, bath salts. She liked fancy soaps, he noted, and kept them in a pretty bowl.

He also discovered her hot water lasted longer than his. He smiled through the bliss of a fifteen-minute shower that steamed up the room like a Turkish bath.

She was still sleeping when he stepped out. Sprawled now over the sheets with the morning sun slanted over the lean length of her naked back. He turned his mind firmly from sliding back into bed with her and focused it on finding coffee.

Her living area had lofty ceilings and dark wood floors. She'd sponged the walls with a bluish paint that made them look like faded denim. Against one stood a fireplace framed in that same dark wood with a sunburst mantelpiece he immediately coveted. Its woodwork was distressed, its cream-colored paint peeling.

He understood why she'd left it that way. Its history and character came through.

To complement the faded walls, she'd hung colorful framed posters. Advertising posters, he noted. Elegant women selling champagne, sleek-looking men toting cigars.

A high-backed sofa in royal blue sat in the center of the room covered, as women mysteriously cover sofas and beds, with pillows.

He admired the style she'd formed here. Old, subtly battered tables and slashing colors. And he liked seeing his tulips on her coffee table.

He wandered through to the kitchen and found himself grinning. It wasn't often you found black-and– white photos of nudes-male and female-on kitchen walls.

But he was happier yet to find coffee.

He closed the pocket door so the sound of grinding beans wouldn't carry to the bedroom. And while the coffee brewed, he stood at her kitchen window, looking out at her section of New Orleans.

He heard the slide of the kitchen door.

She wore a short red robe, and her eyes were heavy with sleep, her smile lazy with it.

"Sorry, I thought I'd muffled the coffee grinder.”

"I didn't hear it." She drew a deep breath. "But I smelled the results. You making breakfast, cher?”

"Want toast? It's my best thing.”

"Oh, I think I had a taste of your best thing last night." Still smiling, she sauntered toward him, slid her hands around his neck. "Gimme another," she said and lifted her mouth to his.

She'd woken lonely, sure he'd gone. She never let men stay the night in her bed. It was too easy for them to slip out the door. Better to send them along, to sleep alone than to wake lonely.

Then she'd seen his shirt, his jacket, his shoes, and had been delighted. Too delighted. When a man had that much power, it was time to take some back. The surefire way was to cloud his mind with sex.

"Why didn't you just roll over and wake me up, sugar?”

"Thought about it." Was still thinking about it. "I figured since you're working tonight, you need more than ten minutes' sleep. But since you're awake …" She laughed and slipped away. "Since I'm awake I want coffee." She opened a cupboard door, sent him that knowing glance over her shoulder. "Maybe if you ask nice, I'll fix you some breakfast.”

"Do you want me to beg standing up, on my knees or completely supine?”

"You tickle me, Declan. I'll make you some toast. Le pain perdu," she added when his face fell. "French toast. I got me most of a nice baguette." She handed him a thick white mug filled with black coffee.

"Thanks. Since you're good in the kitchen, we won't have to hire a cook when we get married and raise our six kids.”

"Six?”

"I feel obligated to uphold the Sullivan-Fitzgerald tradition. I really like your kitchen art. Not the usual spot for nudes.”

"Why?" She got out a black iron skillet. "Cooking's an art, and it's sexy if you do it right.”

She got out a blue bowl. He watched her crack an egg on its side, slide white and yolk in, one-handed.

"I see what you mean. Do it again." She chuckled and cracked a second egg. "Why don't you go on out and put some music on? This won't take long.”

They ate at a little gateleg table she had tucked under one of the living room windows.

"Where'd you learn to cook?" he asked her.

"My grandmama. She tried to teach me to sew, too, but that didn't stick so well.”

"I'm surprised you didn't open a restaurant instead of a bar.”

"I like to cook when I like to cook. Do it for a living, do it all the time.”

"There's that. How did you end up running a bar?”

"I wanted my own business. You work for somebody else, they say do this, don't do that, come here, go there. That doesn't set with me. So I went to business school, and I think, what business do I want to have? I don't want to sell souvenirs, don't want a gift shop, don't want to sell dresses. I think, all those things sell in New Orleans, but what sells even more? Pleasure sells. A little harmless sin and a good time, that's what people come to the Big Easy for. So … Et Trois.”

"How long have you had it?”

"Let's see now." She'd already eaten her single slice, so speared a forkful of one of the four she'd piled on his plate. "Going on six years now.”

"You opened a bar when you were twenty-three?”

"Hey, how do you know how old I am?”

"Remy.”

She looked up at the ceiling. "Et la! Gonna have to take a strip off his ass for that. Man oughta know better than flapping about a woman's age. What else he flap about?”

Declan gave his breakfast his undivided attention. "This is really great. What do you put in this stuff?”

She said nothing for a full ten seconds. "I see. Men just can't stop themselves from crowing about their sexual exploits.”

Uneasy, for himself and his friend, Declan replied, "It wasn't like that. It was nostalgic. And it was sweet. You meant something to him. You still do.”

"It's a good thing for him I know that. And that I feel the same. Do you remember the first girl you got into the backseat, Declan? Do you remember her fondly?”

"Sherry Bingham. A pretty little blond. I loved her desperately through most of my junior year in high school.”

She liked him for coming out with a name, instantly. Even if he'd made it up. "What happened?”

"She dumped me for a football player. Left tackle. Jesus, a football player with no neck and the IQ of a pencil. I'm still pissed off at her. But to get back to you-and by the way, you're really good at deflecting personal questions, but I was a lawyer. Anyway, how did you manage to pull it off? Twenty-three's pretty young to establish a business, one that's proven itself out when most go under within three years.”

She leaned back. "What difference does it make? Counselor.”

"Okay." He shrugged and kept eating. "I'll just assume you robbed a bank, paid off the Mob, seduced then murdered the previous owner– after he left you the building in his will. And continue to run illegal gambling and prostitutes out of the back room.”

"Why I've been so busy. But I like your version better. Mine's very dull in comparison. I worked after school and summers, saved my pennies. I'm very good at saving pennies if I need to. Then I worked, tending bar, serving drinks, and went to business school part-time. Just before I turned twenty-two, my grandpapa died. Fell off a ladder, broke his damn fool neck.”

Her eyes filled as she said it. "Guess I'm still pissed off at him.”

"I'm sorry." He covered her hand with his. "You were close.”

"I loved him more than any man in the world. Pete Simone, with his big laugh and his big hands. He played the fiddle and always carried a red bandanna. Always. Well …" She blinked away the tears. "He had an insurance policy, bigger than it ought to have been considering. Half for me, half for Grandmama. In the end she made me take all of it. Nothing you can do to change her mind when she digs her heels in. So I invested the money, and a year later I opened my place.”

"There's nothing dull about that. You run a good bar, Lena.”

"Yes, I do." She rose, picked up the plates. "You'd best get yourself dressed, cher, if you want a ride home.”

He couldn't talk her into coming inside. He had to settle for a mind-numbing kiss before she pushed him out of her car and drove away.

Arriving home at nine in the morning in a wrinkled suit gained him a grin and a wink from Big Frank as the man carted dead tree limbs to a burn pile.

"You fell into some luck last night, Mister Dec.”

Into something, Declan thought and, rubbing his heart, went into the house to get to work.

She wouldn't see him that night, or the next. He had to content himself with phone calls that made him feel like a teenager as he wandered the house with his portable phone and rattled his brains for any conversational ploy that would keep her on the line.

Mardi Gras celebrations, and business, were under way, she told him. While they were, she didn't have time to come out and play.

He knew when he was being tested and stalled and tangled. And decided he'd let her string out his line. Until he reeled her in.

Remy dropped by one afternoon wearing Hugo Boss and gold beads. He took the beads off, tossed them over Declan's head. "When you coming into town?”

"I thought I might join the insanity over the weekend.”

"Cher, it's Mardi Gras. Every night's the weekend.”

"Not out here. Come take a look." He led the way into the parlor, where Tibald was high on a ladder patiently detailing the ceiling plasterwork.

"Hey, Tibald." Remy hooked his thumbs into his pockets and craned his neck back. "That's some job.”

"It surely is. How's Effie doing these days?”

"Driving me to drink with wedding plans. Picked out the cake yesterday, and you'd think it was a matter of life and death whether it has yellow rosebuds or full-blown roses around the edges.”

"Best thing a man can do in these situations is nod at whatever she likes best, and just show up on the day.”

"You might've said something of that nature before I told her I liked the big, fat roses when it turned out she had her mind set on the buds." He pulled a small bottle of Tylenol out of his pocket. "You got something I can down this with, Dec? That woman's given me the mother of all headaches.”

Declan picked up a half-empty bottle of water. "Did you come out here to hide?”

"Till she cools off." Gulping down the pills and water, Remy wandered over the drop cloth. "You do these walls in here, Dec, or you hire them out?”

"I did them." Pleased, Declan ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the Paris green walls. "Spent the last three days on this room." And nights, he thought. "I think this color will make the room seem cooler than a patterned paper, and I like the way it looks with the trim.”

"You're a regular Bob Vila and Martha Stewart combined. What do you tackle next?”

"The library. Still some details to deal with in here, and the kitchen, but the library's on the slate for next week. After that, I'm hoping to move outside for a while. Give me a couple of those aspirin.”

"Sure." Remy handed over the pills and the water. "You got work problems or female problems?”

"A little of both. Come out on the back gallery, take a look at what the Franks have done with the rear gardens.”

"Heard you escorted our Lena around in a big, white limo a few nights ago," Remy said as they walked toward the back of the house. "Classy stuff.”

"I'm a classy guy." He handed the water back to Remy and opened the French doors of the dining room.

"You got romancing her in mind, that's a good start.”

"I've got more than that in mind," Declan said as Remy tipped back the bottle. "I'm going to marry her.”

Water spewed out as Remy choked.

"Pretty good spit take," Declan commented. "Keep the bottle.”

"Jesus, Dec. Jesus Christ, you and Lena are getting married?”

"I'd like to have the wedding here, in the fall. September maybe." He scanned his gallery, his gardens. He wondered what kind of bird it was that was currently singing its lungs out. "The place won't be finished, but that'd be part of the charm. Of course, if it takes me longer to pin her down, we could do it next spring.”

"That's some fast work.”

"Not really. It's just a matter of keeping at it." He smiled now as he studied Remy's baffled face. "Oh, you don't mean the house. Lena. I haven't asked her yet. She'd just say no. Look out there, bulbs coming up. Daffodils, tulips, calla lilies, the Franks tell me. Buried under all those weeds and vines, maybe blooming under it for years. That's something.”

"Dec, I think you need something stronger than Tylenol.”

"I'm not crazy. I'm in love with her. I'm starting to think I was in love with her before I even met her. That's why there was never anyone else who really mattered. Not like this. Because she was here, and I just hadn't found her yet.”

"Maybe I need something stronger.”

"Bourbon's in the kitchen. Ice is in the cooler. New frig is due to come in tomorrow.”

"I'm fixing us both a drink.”

"Make mine short and weak," Dec told him absently. "I've got work to do yet today.”

Remy brought back two glasses and took a long sip of his as he studied Declan's face. "Declan, I love you like a brother.”

"I know you do.”

"So, I'm going to talk to you like I would a brother-if I had one instead of being plagued with sisters.”

"You think I've lost my mind.”

"No. In some situations, hell, in most situations, a man thinks with his dick. By the time that thought process works all the way to his head, he usually sees that situation more clearly.”

"I appreciate you explaining that to me, Dad.”

Remy only shook his head and paced up and down the gallery. "Lena's a very sexy woman.”

"No argument there.”

"She just sort of exudes those pheromones or whatever the hell they are the way other women do the perfume they splash on to get a man stirred up. She stirs you up just by breathing." "You're trying to tell me I'm infatuated, or in the heavy wave of first lust.”

"Exactly." Remy laid a supportive hand on Declan's shoulder. "Not a man alive would blame you for it. Add to that, son, you've had a rough few months on the relationship train, and knowing the way you cart guilt around like it was your personal treasure chest, I don't imagine you've been clearing your pipes regular since you broke it off with Jennifer.”

"Jessica, you asshole." Amused, touched, Declan leaned back on the baluster. "It's not infatuation. I thought it was, with a good dose of that lust tossed in. But that's not it. It's not a matter of clogged pipes, and I'm not thinking with my dick. It's my heart.”

"Oh, brother." Remy took another good gulp of whiskey. "Dec, you haven't been down here a full month yet.”

"People are always saying something like that, as if time is a factor." And because the critical part of his brain had said the same thing, he was irritated to hear the sentiment from his closest friend. "What, is there a law somewhere that states you can't fall in love until a reasonable, rational period of time has passed during which the parties will socialize, communicate and, if possible, engage in sexual intercourse in order to assure compatibility? If there is, and it worked, explain the divorce rate.”

"A couple of lawyers stand here debating the subject, we'll be here till next Tuesday.”

"Then let me say this. I've never felt like this before, never in my life. I didn't think I could. I figured something inside me just didn't work the way it was supposed to.”

"Well, for Christ's sake, Dec.”

"I couldn't love Jessica." The guilt slid back into his voice. "I just couldn't, and I tried to. I damn near settled for affection, respect and mutual backgrounds because I thought it was all I'd get, or be able to give. But it's not. I've never felt like this, Remy," he said again. "And I like it.”

"If you want Lena, then I want her for you. The thing is, Dec, no matter how you feel, it doesn't guarantee she's going to feel the same.”

"Maybe she'll break my heart, but feeling too much is a hell of a lot better than feeling nothing." He'd been telling himself that, repeatedly, since he'd realized he was in love with her. "One way or the other, I've got to try.”

He swirled the whiskey he'd yet to drink. "She doesn't know what to make of me," Declan murmured. "It's going to be fun letting her find out.”

That night, he heard weeping. A man's raw and broken sobs. Declan tossed in sleep, weighed down with the grief, unable to stop it, unable to give or seek comfort.

Even when silence came, the sorrow stayed.