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It would be like prolonged foreplay.
Mary Paige emerged from her house wearing a tight pair of pants, some beautiful brown boots that stretched over her knees and a sweater the color of tobacco that fell below her hips. Her blond hair swung jauntily, and, at that moment, Brennan felt a wave of longing so intense he had to adjust himself on the seat that was vibrating from the still-running engine.
“A bike?” she called over the noise.
He gave her a wolf’s smile. “If you don’t want to ride, we can take your car.”
“No way. I love riding a motorcycle.” She took the helmet he offered her, shoved it on her head, and strapped the chin strap. Then she swung one of those long, delicious legs over the back of the bike and slid into place, her thighs clasping his butt and her arms linking across his stomach.
He silently begged her to keep her arms high so she didn’t feel his erection.
Because, damn, she’d made him stir with her touch. Her smell. Her essence.
He hit the throttle and sped away, eating up the pavement, dragging his focus to the road before him and away from the incredible feeling of Mary Paige clinging to him. He wove through the narrow streets bordering midtown, heading toward the heart of the city. The day was moderately cool but sunny, and caused Mary Paige to cuddle tight to him, which was another nice result of taking the bike.
Minutes later, he pulled up at his town house off Conti in the center of the bustling French Quarter—aka Vieux Carré. Of course, it didn’t really look like a town house because the whole first floor was occupied by a daiquiri shop.
“We’re getting drinks already?” Mary Paige asked climbing off the bike, removing her helmet and shaking her hair.
“You want one?”
“No.”
He pointed above the already-hopping business toward the gray stucco walls from which a small black wrought-iron balcony extended. “My place is up there.”
Her eyes followed the lines up the several-storied town house. “I guess I never thought about people living above all these businesses. Doesn’t the noise bother you?”
He tucked his helmet under his arm. “Nah, the contractor put in state-of-the-art soundproofing. Now, let me toss these helmets inside and then we’ll get going.”
She handed him the helmet and turned a full circle, looking at the world passing by on the street. “I’d love to see your place.”
“Maybe later,” he said, sliding a glance her way. Her cheeks looked pink, and she didn’t make eye contact. A good sign? Not a good sign?
But then she caught his eye as he unlocked the wrought-iron door not five feet from the entrance to the shop. “If you’re lucky.”
Suddenly, he wanted to be lucky. So very lucky.
After stashing the helmets in the narrow foyer, he relocked the door and gestured down Conti.
“I thought we were going to Commander’s Palace.”
“If it’s okay, I thought we’d do brunch at the Court of Two Sisters. I have a friend who’s playing in the jazz quartet. Then maybe Commander’s later for dinner?”
She nodded and they set off toward Royal Street, stopping so Mary Paige could admire the pricey antiques displayed in the storefronts. On Rue Royal all the antiques seemed overdone baroques, a bit like the city itself—lazy indifference to the rest of the world, lavish in its excess and not the least bit apologetic for it. Peppered throughout the antique joints were art galleries and the occasional specialty shop. It took longer than usual to walk the few blocks to Two Sisters, but Brennan didn’t mind. He enjoyed seeing Mary Paige admire the art, enjoyed seeing his city through her eyes.
Ten minutes after she’d exclaimed, “We have to come back here,” regarding a kitchen specialty shop, they were seated near the fountain in the lush courtyard of a restaurant that had been serving jazz brunch on Sundays for as long as Brennan could remember.
A waiter with a broad smile, a tidy white suit and a fondness for teasing brought them mimosas and invited them to help themselves at the buffet tables inside the restaurant.
As they entered the area teeming with diners heaping crawfish and other Louisiana specialties on their plates, he said, “Maybe we should have gone somewhere quieter.”
“No way.” Mary Paige grabbed a plate then headed toward the omelet station. “I love a good buffet,” she said over her shoulder.
Brennan didn’t so much, but he made do with the turtle and sherry soup and a cold salad plate. When he reached the table, Mary Paige sat with three dishes heaped with food.
She made a face. “It all looked so good.”
“It is good. I haven’t been here in years. My mother always loved brunch here. Said the lights above the awning, the sound of the fountain splashing and a rendition of ‘Do You Know What it Means to Miss New Orleans’ in the background made her happy she met my father and moved to New Orleans.”
