beat him to it.
Bottles lined the mirror behind the bar, and interspersed with them were salt and pepper shakers in a variety of themes. An elegant couple in evening dress, dogs, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Porky and Petunia, the round, naked breasts of a reclining woman, carnival masks and winged fairies.
He contemplated them, considered the sort of person who would collect and display fairies and body parts, and decided it was someone who understood New Orleans.
Onstage, the fiddle player began to sing in Cajun. She had a voice like a rusty saw that was inexplicably appealing. Tapping his foot, Declan glanced down to the end of the bar. The man tending had dreadlocks down to his waist, a face that might have been carved by a very skilled hand out of a polished coffee bean, and hands thatmoved with balletic grace as he worked taps and poured shots.
He started to lift his hand to get the bartender’s attention. And then she walked out of the door behind the bar.
Later, when he could think clearly, he would decide it had been like having a sledgehammer plowed into his chest. Not stopping his heart, but jump-starting it. His heart, his blood, his loins, his brain. Everything went from holding pattern to quick march in an instant.
There you are! something in his mind shouted. Finally.
He could hear the race of his body like a hard hum that drowned out the music, the voices. His vision focused in on her so completely it was as if she were spotlighted on a black stage.
She wasn’t beautiful, not in any classic sense. What she was, was spectacular.
Her hair was midnight black, a gypsy mane that spilled wild curls over her shoulders. Her face was fox-sharp—the narrow, somewhat aristocratic nose, the high, planed cheeks, the tapered chin. Her eyes were long and heavy-lidded, her mouth wide, full and painted blood-lust red.
It didn’t quite go together, he thought as his brain jumbled. The elements in the face shouldn’t work as a whole. But they were perfect. Striking, sexy, superb.
She was small, almost delicately built, and wore a tight scooped-neck shirt the color of poppies that showed off the lean muscles of her arms, the firm curve of her breasts. Tucked into the valley of those breasts was a silver chain with a tiny silver key.
Her skin was dusky, her eyes, when they flicked to his, the deep, rich brown of bitter chocolate.
Those red lips curved—a slow, knowing smile as she strolled over, leaned on the bar so their faces were close enough for him to see the tiny beauty mark just above the right curve of her top lip. Close enough for him to catchthe scent of night-blooming jasmine, and start to drown in it.
“Can I do something for you, cher ?”
Oh yeah , he thought. Please .
But all that came out was: “Um . . .” She gave her head a little toss, then angled it as she sized him up. She spoke again, in that easy Cajun rhythm. “You thirsty? Or just . . . hungry tonight?”
“Ah . . .” He wanted to lap his tongue over those red lips, that tiny mole, and slurp her right up. “Corona.”
He watched her as she got the bottle, snagged a lime. She had a walk like a dancer, somewhere between ballet and exotic. He could literally feel his tongue tangling into knots.
“You want to run a tab, handsome?”
“Ah.” God, Fitzgerald, pull yourself together. “Yeah, thanks. What’s it unlock?” When she lifted her eyebrows, he picked up the bottle. “Your key?”
“This?” She reached down, trailed a finger over the little key and sent his blood pressure through the roof. “Why, my heart, cher . What’d you think?”
He reached out a hand for hers. If he didn’t touch her, he was afraid he might break down and sob. “I’m Declan.”
“Is that right?” She left her hand in his. “Nice name. Not usual.”
“It’s . . . Irish.”
“Uh-huh.” She turned his hand over, leaned down as if reading the palm. “What do I see here? You haven’t been in New Orleans long, but you hope
Bottles lined the mirror behind the bar, and interspersed with them were salt and pepper shakers in a variety of themes. An elegant couple in evening dress, dogs, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Porky and Petunia, the round, naked breasts of a reclining woman, carnival masks and winged fairies.
He contemplated them, considered the sort of person who would collect and display fairies and body parts, and decided it was someone who understood New Orleans.
Onstage, the fiddle player began to sing in Cajun. She had a voice like a rusty saw that was inexplicably appealing. Tapping his foot, Declan glanced down to the end of the bar. The man tending had dreadlocks down to his waist, a face that might have been carved by a very skilled hand out of a polished coffee bean, and hands thatmoved with balletic grace as he worked taps and poured shots.
He started to lift his hand to get the bartender’s attention. And then she walked out of the door behind the bar.
Later, when he could think clearly, he would decide it had been like having a sledgehammer plowed into his chest. Not stopping his heart, but jump-starting it. His heart, his blood, his loins, his brain. Everything went from holding pattern to quick march in an instant.
There you are! something in his mind shouted. Finally.
He could hear the race of his body like a hard hum that drowned out the music, the voices. His vision focused in on her so completely it was as if she were spotlighted on a black stage.
She wasn’t beautiful, not in any classic sense. What she was, was spectacular.
Her hair was midnight black, a gypsy mane that spilled wild curls over her shoulders. Her face was fox-sharp—the narrow, somewhat aristocratic nose, the high, planed cheeks, the tapered chin. Her eyes were long and heavy-lidded, her mouth wide, full and painted blood-lust red.
It didn’t quite go together, he thought as his brain jumbled. The elements in the face shouldn’t work as a whole. But they were perfect. Striking, sexy, superb.
She was small, almost delicately built, and wore a tight scooped-neck shirt the color of poppies that showed off the lean muscles of her arms, the firm curve of her breasts. Tucked into the valley of those breasts was a silver chain with a tiny silver key.
Her skin was dusky, her eyes, when they flicked to his, the deep, rich brown of bitter chocolate.
Those red lips curved—a slow, knowing smile as she strolled over, leaned on the bar so their faces were close enough for him to see the tiny beauty mark just above the right curve of her top lip. Close enough for him to catchthe scent of night-blooming jasmine, and start to drown in it.
“Can I do something for you, cher ?”
Oh yeah , he thought. Please .
But all that came out was: “Um . . .” She gave her head a little toss, then angled it as she sized him up. She spoke again, in that easy Cajun rhythm. “You thirsty? Or just . . . hungry tonight?”
“Ah . . .” He wanted to lap his tongue over those red lips, that tiny mole, and slurp her right up. “Corona.”
He watched her as she got the bottle, snagged a lime. She had a walk like a dancer, somewhere between ballet and exotic. He could literally feel his tongue tangling into knots.
“You want to run a tab, handsome?”
“Ah.” God, Fitzgerald, pull yourself together. “Yeah, thanks. What’s it unlock?” When she lifted her eyebrows, he picked up the bottle. “Your key?”
“This?” She reached down, trailed a finger over the little key and sent his blood pressure through the roof. “Why, my heart, cher . What’d you think?”
He reached out a hand for hers. If he didn’t touch her, he was afraid he might break down and sob. “I’m Declan.”
“Is that right?” She left her hand in his. “Nice name. Not usual.”
“It’s . . . Irish.”
“Uh-huh.” She turned his hand over, leaned down as if reading the palm. “What do I see here? You haven’t been in New Orleans long, but you hope
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