From the look on Ross’s face, he was getting annoyed with me. I didn’t care. I was annoyed too. The flight, including a two-hour layover and a mix-up at the hotel, were only a few of my day’s highlights. Steadying my footing and wishing I’d not worn a fitted, sleeveless white top that showed a small strip of my midriff, a long flowing skirt, and high-heeled sleek sandals but instead something more practical, I pushed between bodies, making my way to the bar near the rear of the courtyard.
Placing a food order was my immediate goal.
My head buzzed with the sounds as I did my best to avoid the growing number of patrons.
“Excuse me…pardon me.”
What legitimate businessman would ask to meet in the courtyard of a dark bar off Canal Street in the French Quarter?
I wedged my way through and up to the bar. “Hey,” I yelled to one of the bartenders.
“Just a minute.”
Turning, my hand upon the sticky surface, I waited. Blowing my bangs away from my face in the sweltering humidity, I imagined a cool bath back at the hotel. My attention went to the crowd as my skin prickled with that odd sensation of being watched, of wanting to see a familiar face while all the time not wanting to see one.
This was my first trip to New Orleans—other than recently learning this city was where I was born.
I wasn’t the daughter of Oliver and Marcella O’Brien. It was after their passing and that of my only brother that I learned I’d been adopted. It was a tremendous jolt to not only lose your parents and sibling, but to learn they were never truly your family.
That didn’t mean they hadn’t done a good job of raising me and making me feel a part of a family. I only wish they’d told me when I was younger.
Instead of the parentage I’d been led to believe I had, I was in reality the daughter of a woman from New Orleans. Her name was Jezebel North—and from what I’d learned, the name fit. The birth certificate I was shown didn’t list a name in the space for father. From what I’d pieced together, the woman who gave birth to me worked in the French Quarter at a private club that was frequented by the dark, dangerous, and powerful people of Louisiana.
To read the speculative tales from nearly thirty years ago, you’d believe in the crime stories of lore.
Jezebel disappeared after giving birth and taking me to the fire station.
The O’Briens raised me in Ashville, within the mountains of North Carolina.
According to those storytellers, New Orleans had changed hands since the men my mother knew were in power. I wasn’t referring to elected officials but to the men who took power by force.
To be honest, the story seemed too far-fetched. There were few people in whom I’d confided this information. I turned back to the table, seeing Ross’s blond hair.
He was one who knew.
With a shiver, I turned back to the crowd.
From the side of the courtyard, leaning against a stone archway, a strikingly handsome tall man with a dark gaze stared unblinkingly my direction. I turned from side to side, wondering if I was truly who he was looking at.
With broad shoulders that tugged at the seams of his white shirt, he remained still, a statue immune to the influx of patrons. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up near his elbows, revealing powerful forearms. The top buttons were undone, showing a thick neck. His skin was dark, either tanned from Louisiana sun or perhaps his natural pigment. His dark hair was longer than short and shorter than long. It was combed back in soft waves. Unlike most of the men wearing shorts or blue jeans, this man’s long legs were covered with gray dress pants, as if he’d made his way from the business district directly to the happenings of the French Quarter.
“Yeah?” a voice came from the bar.
I spun back, my heartbeat unexpectedly racing and my lips dry. “I’d like to order some food.”
The bartender nodded, reaching for a pad of paper.
“I’d like an order of—”
Two large tanned hands and muscular forearms came to either side of me, gripping the bar and caging me. I was trapped between the sticky surface and a solid chest. Heat rose from the ground upward, warming my already-heated skin. The deep voice vibrated his chest as his timbre rumbled through me.
“The lady is mistaken. She’s dining with me.”
Chapter Four
Ididn’t need visual confirmation that the owner of the deep voice was the man from moments ago, the one near the archway. I felt him around me—his presence—as well as within me, confirmed by the way my pulse raced.
I spun within the cage he’d created with his muscular arms.