Читать книгу Peachy's Proposal - Carole Buck - Страница 11

Lucien Devereaux was an attractive man.

A very attractive man.

This fact had registered on Pamela Gayle Keene in a multitude of ways the instant they’d met. Yet she would have sworn that her response to his compelling good looks had been essentially platonic until…oh, about twenty-four hours ago.

Forking up the next-to-last bite of the broiled grouper with tomato-tinged butter sauce she’d ordered for her entrée, Peachy assessed the tall, self-contained man sitting across the table from her through partially lowered lashes and uneasily contemplated the implications of what seemed to be her abrupt change of attitude.

Take Luc’s hair, for instance. She’d noted its rich, raven-wing darkness and luxuriant thickness in the past, of course. But had she ever before felt the urge to stroke it that she was experiencing at this very moment?

Not that she remembered.

That she’d been prompted to try to capture her landlord’s distinctive, slightly asymmetrical features on a sketch pad many times was something she would readily admit. Why shouldn’t she? She was an artist, after all. She’d been trained to react to the visually interesting. And heaven knew, Luc’s face was that…and more.

The boldly marked brows.

The arrogant nose and sharply angled cheekbones.

The mobile mouth, bracketed by experience-etched grooves.

She’d drawn these features over and over again. Yet never until now had she wondered how they might contort at the instant of sexual release. Never until now had she wondered whether sleep might relax their disciplined maturity sufficiently to reveal a hint of the boy he once had been.

At least, she didn’t think she’d wondered.

Peachy shifted in her seat, crossing her right leg over her left. The stir of silk skirt over nylon stocking sent a shiver coursing through her.

Was it possible that at some subconscious level—?

She denied the notion before it was fully formed. While she’d be the first to concede that she could be oblivious to certain facets of her nature at certain times, she wasn’t completely lacking in selfawareness.

And yet…

Peachy’s mind flashed back to the potent effect Luc’s touch had had on her the evening before. Then it jumped forward to the moony-goony way she’d behaved just a short time ago when she’d been gazing into his eyes.

His eyes.

Oh, Lord. Luc’s eyes!

The searching intelligence in them had impressed her from the very first. She’d seen them glint with anger and spark with humor more often than she could count during the past two years. And she’d seen them turn brooding, too. But until a short time ago she’d never realized that their expressive brown depths contained so many different—

”You know, cher,” Luc said suddenly. “There’s something I’ve been curious about.”

Peachy started, nearly dropping her fork. She drew a tremulous breath, wondering how much of what she’d been thinking might have shown on her face. If Luc had any idea what was going on inside her head…

Not that there was anything wrong with her thoughts, she quickly assured herself. Luc had said that they needed to become “aware” of each other as man and woman, hadn’t he? Well, that’s what she was doing! And given the circumstances, it was a darned good thing her burgeoning awareness of her partner-to-be was as, uh, uh…positive as it was.

She just had to be careful that it didn’t become too positive. She had to keep things in perspective. And above all, she had to remember her pledge to Luc that all she wanted from him was a nostrings-attached, one-time-only encounter.

“You want to know what the National Football League really thinks about Terree LaBelle?” she suggested after a moment or two.

Her dinner companion gave her an odd, assessing look, then started to smile. “I wouldn’t mind having the inside scoop on that, either,” he admitted. “But at the moment I’m more interested in finding out how you came to be ‘Peachy’ Keene.”

“You mean…how did I get my nickname?”

Luc nodded.

Peachy lifted her napkin to her lips and patted, trying to hide the rush of relief she felt. Questions about her nickname she could handle. She’d had lots of practice with it. Almost as much as she’d had responding to inquiries about whether her hair color was natural.

“You know my real name is Pamela Gayle, right?” she asked.

Luc nodded, taking a sip of the white wine he’d ordered to accompany her grouper and his shrimp etouffée. “I seem to recall reading it on your lease.”

“Well, when I was little, my dad used to call me by my initials.”

“P.G.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She smiled fleetingly, remembering. “I loved it. Because people called him—still call him, actually—by his initials. J.R., for John Russell. It was like a special bond between us. Anyway, I insisted on referring to myself as P.G. The problem was, I had a bit of a speech impediment when I was small. Not a lisp, exactly. But I kept saying ‘shee’ instead of ‘gee.’”

“Pee…shee,” Luc said slowly, seeming to taste the syllables. “Which eventually became Peachy?”

“Exactly.”

“Hmm.”

“I realize ‘Peachy Keene’ probably sounds like a joke to some people. Which is why I don’t use it for dignified legal documents like leases. But other than that…” Letting her voice trail off, Peachy fluffed her hair with her fingers then asked, “I don’t really think I’m a ‘Pamela,’ do you?”

She was flirting, she realized a moment later. Not a lot. And probably not too skillfully, either. Flirting wasn’t exactly her modus operandi when it came to dealing with members of the opposite sex. But the impulse to tease Lucien Devereaux—at least a bit—was suddenly irresistible.

No. Wait, she amended. Teasing wasn’t quite the right word for what she felt impelled to do. It was more a matter of…of…testing.

And not just him, either. In some strange way, Peachy felt she was testing herself as well.

Luc’s eyelids came down a fraction of an inch. The left corner of his mouth curled upward. What had been an introspective expression suddenly became very, very knowing.

“No,” he responded, his voice soft, the quirking of his lips becoming more pronounced. “You’re a lot of things, cher. But you’re definitely not a ‘Pamela.’“

There was a short pause. Peachy took a drink of wine. Luc did the same.

“I take it you’re close to your father,” he eventually observed, toying with the stem of his glass as he gazed across the table at her.

“Oh, yes,” she affirmed, trying to ignore the evocative movement of his lean fingers. The skin of her inner wrists tingled where he’d caressed her with his thumbs earlier in the meal. “Very. And to my mom, too, of course.”

“Of course.” The words held a faint edge of bitterness.

There was another pause, more awkward than the previous one. After a few moments, Luc glanced away. A moment after that, he lifted his wineglass and drained it.

What was she supposed to say now? Peachy wondered, picking up her own glass and taking a small sip. Given what she’d been told by the MayWinnies and Laila Martigny, it seemed ill-advised to opt for the obvious conversational ploy of shifting the discussion from her mother and father to his.

And yet, mightn’t failing to make some comment about Luc’s parents create the impression that she’d been prying into his background? Although she was prepared to admit that she hadn’t shut her ears to what their mutual neighbors had to say, she didn’t want him to get the notion that—

”I gather you know mine was not the happiest of families,” Luc remarked, bringing his eyes back to meet hers.

Peachy hesitated, briefly considering whether she should deny knowing any such thing. She decided against it for a variety of reasons, not the least of which being that she was a lousy liar.

“I’ve heard a few things,” she finally admitted, choosing her words with care. “I mean, I know your mother and father weren’t—uh—didn’t—”

“My father was obsessed with my mother and drank because he understood that marriage didn’t mean she was truly his,” Luc said with trenchant precision. “My mother was obsessed with herself and did as she damned well pleased.”

For a split second Peachy thought the lack of inflection in his voice signaled genuine indifference and felt a strange sort of relief. Then she realized it signified precisely the opposite.

She reached for her wineglass with a hand that was not quite steady. “And you were caught in the middle.”

Luc’s control cracked for just an instant. His eyes flashed, the look in them so dangerously incendiary that Peachy felt herself flinch away from it. Then they turned opaque as stone.

“I learned to fend for myself at an early age,” he replied.

Peachy believed it. And something inside her ached as she did so. But she didn’t dare show it. Every instinct she had told her that even the slightest hint of sympathy would be rebuffed.

She cleared her throat. “They’re…dead now? Your parents, I mean.”

There was a pause. Luc’s features tightened, suggesting some sort of internal conflict. Finally he said, “They were killed in a car crash. Together.”

“Oh.” Her response was little more than a shaky exhalation. While she’d known his mother and father were no longer living, she’d not been privy to details about their demise.

Luc’s mouth twisted. “My father was driving drunk and smashed through the guardrail on a bridge. The official verdict was that it was an accident.”

That he harbored doubts about the validity of this judgment was obvious. But Peachy shied from inquiring why. Instead she asked, “How old were you—?”

“Nineteen. I was in my second semester of college. I dropped out. I enlisted a few months later.”

The question of what he’d done during those few months trembled on the tip of Peachy’s tongue. But before she could find the nerve to voice it, the sommelier, their waiter and a pair of busboys converged on their table. By the time they’d performed their various duties and bustled away, the option of asking was gone. Luc’s mood had changed. Whatever impulse had prompted him to lower his guard to a degree unprecedented in her experience with him clearly had been reined in. His defenses were back up.

Deciding the ball was in his conversational court, Peachy turned her attention to the dessert menu their waiter had presented after he and the busboys had cleared the table. It took her a good minute or two to mentally debate the merits of bread pudding soufflé with bourbon sauce versus a classic créme caramel versus a “tasting” of fresh sorbets and fruit. Not only did Luc fail to utter a single word during the entire process, he also remained silent once she’d closed the menu and set it aside.

She gazed across the table at him.

He gazed back. Steadily. Inscrutably.

Although it was not a character trait of which she was particularly proud, Peachy knew she was capable of being extremely stubborn. Pigheaded, she supposed some would say. So if Lucien Devereaux wanted to test her will by refusing to speak, that was just fine and dandy with her. She could wait him out.

Couldn’t she?

Well…

Uh, maybe…

“Look, Luc,” she suddenly blurted out. “I don’t want you to think that I spend a lot of time gossiping about you behind your back because I don’t.”

“No?” There was just enough spin on the word to make it impossible to determine whether it was meant to communicate skepticism or disappointment or a peculiar blending of both.

“No,” Peachy insisted, then grimaced as honesty goaded her to clarify. “I mean—okay. Yes. I’ve talked about you with the MayWinnies, Laila and Terry. I admitted as much last night when I told you why I’d decided to ask you to, uh, help me out. But you’re hardly our number-one topic of discussion!”

“Really.” Luc began stroking the stem of his wineglass once again, seeming to mull over the implications of her last statement. “And just what—or should I say whom—is these days?”

Peachy looked away. Although she’d spoken the truth a moment ago, it hadn’t quite come out as she’d intended.

“Peachy?”

Sighing, she turned her eyes back to his and answered, “It’s Mr. Smythe.”

Mr. Smythe—Mr. Francis Sebastian Gilmore Smythe, to be precise—had joined the Prytania Street menage about four months ago. A soft-spoken Englishman of sixty or so, he’d moved into the ground-floor apartment that previously had been occupied by Remy Sinclair, a rotund, bayou-bred pasty chef who heroworshipped Elvis Presley. Remy had given up his lease after marrying a woman he’d met during one of his periodic pilgrimages to Presley’s home, Graceland. The two had recently opened a roadhouse-cum-restaurant about fifteen miles outside of New Orleans.

Elegant and erudite, Smythe described himself as a semiretired dealer of objets d’art. Having joined him on several visits to the antique shops of the French Quarter’s Royal Street, Peachy knew he had a connoisseur’s eye and expertise. But there was something about him…

“Mr. Smythe, hmm?” A hint of amusement flickered across Luc’s angular face.

“The MayWinnies say he reminds them of Cary Grant in that movie where he played a cat burglar,” Peachy commented, wondering at his expression. “The one with Grace Kelly?”

“To Catch a Thief.”

“That’s it.”

“The Misses Barnes are worried about being robbed in their beds?”

The question caught Peachy off guard. “To tell the truth, I think they might enjoy that.”

The rather slanderous implications of this comment sank in a split second later and she began to blush. Luc’s reaction was an arched brow and a genuine laugh.

“Assuming it was Mr. Smythe doing the larcenous deed, of course,” he amended.

Peachy eyed him uneasily. “You won’t tell them what I said, will you?”

“The MayWinnies, you mean?”

“Or Mr. Smythe, either, for that matter.”

“I’m nothing if not discreet, cher.”

The response was silken in tone. It was also punctuated by a smile that started out seeming extremely straightforward then turned extraordinarily complex. The combination sent a quicksilver frisson arrowing up Peachy’s spine.

Her pulse scrambled.

So did her thoughts.

It was not until a moment after their waiter reappeared to take their dessert order that she realized Luc hadn’t actually given her the assurance she’d sought. By then it was too late to pursue the matter.

“Mademoiselle?” the server inquired politely.

Peachy blinked several times, trying to recall which dessert she’d settled on. “The, uh, sorbets with fruit, please,” she finally managed to request.

“Coffee?”

“Um, no.” She shook her head, conscious of the shifting of her long, curly hair. “No, thank you.”

The waiter angled his gaze toward Luc. “And for you, Monsieur Devereaux?”

“Cafe brûlot, s’il vous plait.”

“Très bien. Merci.”

Maybe now’s the time to take another crack at that “regaining control” effort you mentioned earlier? the little voice in the back of Peachy’s skull queried, reasserting itself with sardonic force after nearly an hour of silence as the waiter moved away.

Leave me alone, Peachy snapped silently.

It was only a suggestion, Pamela Gayle.

Yes, well, when I want a suggestion, I’ll give it to—

The realization that Luc had said something to her put an abrupt period to this mental slinging match.

“Ex-excuse rn-me?” she stammered.

“I asked about the wedding you went to last weekend,” came the smooth reply.

“Oh…well…” Peachy took a moment to put her thoughts in order. “The groom was Matthew Powell. His brother, Rick, is married to my older sister, Eden. They—Eden and Rick—came to visit me not too long after I moved in on Prytania Street.” She paused, thinking back. “I’m pretty sure you met them.”

Luc frowned. “Was this during Terry’s Eleanor Roosevelt phase by any chance?”

“Terry’s Eleanor—” Peachy started, then broke off as the floodgates of memory opened. A bubble of laughter escaped her. “Oh, Lord. I’d completely forgotten about that! Yes. It was. I introduced them to him. Eden was a little taken aback by his appearance even though she didn’t have the faintest idea who Terry Bellehurst was. And Rick—well, he’s a huge sports fan and he nearly choked. Still, Terry was so…so Terry that he put them at ease within a couple of minutes. At which point Remy showed up with a plate of profiteroles.”

“A nice, neighborly gesture.”

“He was wearing one of his spangled Elvis does Las Vegas jumpsuits, Luc.”

“Ah.”

“Then the MayWinnies dropped by to do their patented sweetlittle-old-ladies routine.”

“In stereo.”

“Except when they were finishing each other’s sentences.”

“No Laila?”

Peachy smiled ruefully. Laila Martigny would have lent a muchneeded touch of sanity to the proceedings.

“Unfortunately, no,” she replied. “She was out of town. But someone mentioned her—and her alleged psychic powers and her supposed connection to Marie Laveau.”

“You know, you’re right,” Luc declared, nodding. “I did meet your sister and brother-in-law. And I distinctly remember them seeming a bit uncertain about your choice of residence.”

“Uncertain?” Peachy rolled her eyes. “They were begging me to move back to Atlanta before we ran into you. Luckily, you managed to reassure them that everything wasn’t quite as laissezfaire as it appeared.”

“Me?” Luc lifted his brows and flashed an ironic smile. “I think not, cher.”

“Think what you want,” Peachy retorted, the nearly two-yearold memory of a brief hallway encounter between her sister, brother-in-law and the man she would one day ask to do her the most intimate of favors very clear in her mind. “I know what you did.”

Their waiter returned. He presented Peachy’s dessert with a flourish, then deftly performed the ritualized flaming of a brandysoaked sugar cube for Luc’s café brûlot.

“Merci,” Luc said when he’d been served.

“De rien,” the other man responded, surveying the table. After a moment or two he gave a satisfied nod, then pivoted and walked away.

Luc took a long sip of his liquor-laced coffee. Peachy sampled what turned out to be a scoop of mango sorbet. The taste was subtly sweet and exotically refreshing.

“And what about the bride?” her dinner partner eventually asked, setting down his gold-rimmed china coffee cup. “The one who married your sister’s husband’s brother.”

Peachy paused in the act of spooning up a chunk of fresh pineapple, oddly annoyed by Luc’s decision to allow her to have the final word in their previous exchange. She knew he wasn’t doing so because he’d accepted her assessment of what had happened when he’d met Eden and Rick. Quite the contrary.

Why, she asked herself, was he so stubbornly resistant to the idea that he might have a positive impact on someone? That Lucien Devereaux was not a candidate for canonization was beyond dispute. But it was a long fall from less-than-saintly to unredeemable sinner. Yet it was her increasingly strong impression that it was the latter category to which he considered himself inalterably consigned.