Page 9 of Frankly, My Dear

With a weary sigh, he pulled his gold watch from a vest pocket. Alors! It was past midnight, and he’d told Maureen to meet him at his room in the St. Louis Hotel a half hour from now.

“Ummm,” the woman who called herself Selene interrupted his thoughts as she murmured with a deep sigh of contentment. Leaning back in her chair, she patted her stomach. “That was so-o-o good.”

“Are you sure you don’t want another beignet? You’ve only had five.”

“No, and it’s impolite to remark on how much a person eats,” she chastised him with a smile that could charm the hair off a swamp hog, “but I’d love another café au lait.” Her pink tongue flicked out and she unabashedly licked the sugar off each of her ten slim fingers. Long, slow, lapping, savoring strokes.

James motioned to the waiter for refills but couldn’t take his eyes off her tongue and its innocently provocative strokes. Another part of his body took notice, as well, and he felt the fabric of his trousers tighten.

He almost laughed aloud when the wench surreptitiously ran a wet finger over the empty plate and scooped more sugar onto her tongue. She was like a greedy child with its first sweet, uncaring of the stomachache sure to follow.

But Selene was not a child. Despite all her separate features, which should be unattractive to him, James found his gaze continually drawn back to her. Actually, if her face weren’t so gaunt, she might be passable in appearance, with her wide eyes and enticingly full, blood-red lips. Looking lower, he groaned inwardly, feeling himself harden. The woman did have magnificent breasts, he would give her that, even though her ribs stood out like barrel staves and her arms looked like sticks.

“What? What are you looking at?”

He jolted to attention, feeling like an untried boy caught in some immodest act. He didn’t like the way she made him feel, not one bit, and his eyes narrowed with determination to put her in her proper place. “Do you know that when you eat you look like you’re in the throes of la petite mort?”

“I know what that means, you brute, and I do not,” Selene said, tossing her huge mane of hair over one shoulder.

“Oui, you do. You even moan like a woman about to climax in lovemaking. And the outrageous things you do with your tongue could awaken a corpse. Are you sure you’re not a fille de joie?”

Her face turned becomingly pink, and she slanted a shy look at him. “I don’t moan during lovemaking, nor do I do anything outrageous with my tongue,” she blurted out, then immediately slapped a hand over her mouth in regret at her hasty words.

“My condolences to you then,” he remarked dryly, trying hard not to smile.

“Really, I don’t like the direction of this conversation. I haven’t done anything of a sexual nature to lead you on.” She threw her shoulders back and shot him a look of sanctimonious disapproval.

If she only knew how her breasts jutted out when she straightened her shoulders, completely obliterating the outraged-spinster image she was trying to portray.

He found that he enjoyed shaking her composure. Perhaps he would amuse himself some more. “Hah! There’s nothing more sexual than the sight of your nipples barely restrained by that wispy gown, or that delightful tongue licking everything in sight. Every man in this restaurant is imagining how your flesh would feel and taste in his own mouth.” Well, let’s see what your quick retort will be to that, my sanctimonious lady. James took a long swallow of absinthe and waited.

It took several moments for his words to register. Then her cheeks went from pink to red. In fact, the blush crept down her neck and inched toward the twin mounds in question.

To his chagrin, James felt his own skin grow hot. But not from embarrassment.

He shook his head in disbelief at his reaction to the homely chit. Truly, he’d been too long at Bayou Noir, his remote plantation, if he could be so attracted to an over-tall, bold-mouthed, skinny, sorry excuse for a woman. And a quadroon, at that! He’d always avoided relationships with colored women, with good reason, refusing to take advantage of their lowly status. Merde, his own status hadn’t been much higher at certain times in his life.

Selene made a discreet coughing noise to alert him to the waiter, who’d finally arrived with their order.

“Lagniappe,” the waiter said with a smile, placing the extra coffee on the table.

“What’s lagniappe?” she asked.

“A little something extra a merchant gives a customer in appreciation. No doubt, M’sieur Julian is very appreciative of all the food we’ve consumed.”

His subtle criticism passed over her, or else she was just ignoring him. With graceful finesse, her delicate hands wielded the two small pots the waiter set in front of her—one with strong chicory coffee, the other with steaming milk. She poured the two liquids into her cup, then stirred the creamy mixture with a silver spoon.

When she added a heaping spoon of sugar for good measure, James’s upper lip curled with distaste.

“I like sugar,” she said defensively when she saw his reproving look. “Besides, I don’t have to diet now. Especially if I’m in a dream. In fact, I feel as if I’ve been emancipated. Geez! I can’t wait to eat all the forbidden foods that have been denied me these past ten years. Yummm. The possibilities are endless. Lobster with butter. Chocolate chip cookies. Homemade bread. Fettucine Alfredo.”

Oh, hell, not the dream business again. If I hear her prattle on about time-travel and voodoo curses one more time, I swear I’ll wring her scrawny neck. “Diet! You’re thin as a broom.”

“Models have to be pencil thin. And I don’t appreciate you continually making snide comments about how unattractive you think I am. I’ll have you know We magazine voted me the most beautiful face in America last year.”

He made a snorting sound of disbelief. “Enough of your bold lies! I don’t know what your game is, but…” His words stopped cold when he saw his father and half brother enter the dining room with a group of laughing men and stop to greet the proprietor. No doubt they came from Madame Felice’s establishment down the street.

Too late, he started to turn away, hoping to evade their hated presence. They already approached.