An Interlude

An Interlude

By Barbara Baldwin

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-0-2286-0030-5

Kindle 978-0-2286-0031-2

PDF 978-0-2286-0032-9

Amazon Print ISBN 978-0-2286-0033-6

Copyright 2018 Barbara Baldwin

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Dedication

For Anne Barringer,

A terrific friend and companion on life’s adventures.

Chapter 1

Peter re-read the lawyer’s letter, wondering why he hadn’t known he had a great-aunt Bianca. His parents never spoke of her and yet according to the letter in his hand he was her sole beneficiary. He questioned his mother, who promptly gave a delicate shiver and reached for her wine glass.

So he asked his father, who was apparently the only nephew to Bianca on his mother’s side. Peter Alfred Myerson, III immediately reached for the Scotch.

Do not ever speak that woman’s name in this house again, his father admonished as sternly as if Peter were still ten years old.

Well, that may be difficult considering she bequeathed me her house.

His father’s eyes widened. She’s dead?

Apparently so, Peter drily replied.

Thank God. His father downed the Scotch and poured another.

* * *

A week later, Peter sighed in resignation as he left the air-conditioned car to suck in a breath of hot, humid air. Spring in New Orleans held no relation to the light, cool mornings of New York City. He rolled back the cuffs of his white dress shirt. He reached up to loosen his tie and paused. He may be rumpled, sweaty and tired from the trip down here, but he refused to meet anyone in this God-forsaken swamp looking like a local. After all, he was president of the family business and had an image to uphold. As soon as he finished with this distasteful business, he would return to New York and resume his well-planned life.

The unpleasant business he referred to stood before him in all its rundown, once majestic glory. The house on Belvedere Road was overgrown with weeds and the porch steps sloped dangerously. On top of everything, it was the most god-awful shade of reddish purple with turquoise trim.

Peter still had no idea why a woman he never knew had left him a house on the outskirts of New Orleans, or why his parents refused to speak of her. In the end, it really didn’t matter, because he intended to sell the place as soon as possible.

He heard the sound of a saw coming from inside and assumed the contractor was here. James Melbourne, the lawyer, had told him that Bianca had hired someone before she died to fix up the place. Apparently, even her death hadn’t stopped the man from completing what he had been paid to do. From the looks of the mansion, and quickly calculating the cost of repairs, the old lady must have had money. If the restoration was quality, perhaps he should keep the place as an investment.

He reached out and turned the doorknob, which promptly fell out of the door and onto his Gucci loafer. He shook his head. Fix and sell, he told himself, because there was no way he would ever come back to this mosquito-infested place again.

He followed the sound toward the back of the house, giving a cursory glance to the drop cloths, paint cans and tools that were scattered about the front sitting room. Tall windows faced the front and one side, the heavy dark drapes pulled back to let in the hazy sunlight. He couldn’t help but admire the workmanship in the massive dining room, which looked to be finished. Carved molding circled the ceiling and a crystal chandelier hung centered over a mahogany table that would easily seat twelve or more. Rose colored flocked wallpaper stretched to the high ceilings above wainscoting and the hardwood floor shone with a new coat of varnish. Not his decorating choice, he thought, preferring the glass and chrome décor of his high-rise condo, but it seemed to fit the atmosphere of the old house.

Hello, he called as he stepped through a swinging door into the next room. A buzzing saw drowned out his voice and the man kneeling on the floor by a cupboard didn’t turn around.

Hello! he shouted, reaching out to tap the man on the shoulder. An electric saw came whirling around at the level of his knees, and he jumped back just in time to keep from being sawed in half.

Christ almighty, Mister! What do you think you’re doing sneaking up on a body like that?

Peter was more shocked at the sight now standing before him than he had been at the thought of losing a leg to the saw. Only as tall as his shoulder, the freckle-faced curiosity wore a ball cap turned backward over short, red hair. As Peter stood in silence waiting for his heart to calm down, she turned off the saw and put it on the floor then tugged off her earmuffs. Short jean cut-offs gave him a peek at ass cheeks before his gaze slid down lightly freckled legs to a pair of work boots. Forget his heart; other body parts instantly came to life.

He frowned, trying to understand his reaction to this...this tomboy. When she straightened and glared at him, hands on hips, his heart didn’t slow at all, but in fact, sped up dramatically. She wore a white low cut tank top that stretched tight over breasts that jutted out high and firm.

He cleared his throat. You’re a...woman.

Her brows lifted. And that bothers you, how? Her voice was deep and sultry, with the slow southern cadence that reminded him of exactly where he was.

Well, no, the fact you’re a woman doesn’t bother me. But you should be in a kitchen somewhere, not welding a saw.

She glanced around. I am in a kitchen, but you won’t find me cooking you a damned meal. What century are you from, anyway?

I am from New York. He straightened to his full six foot two as he replied in his best Wall Street voice.

Well, that explains it, she snorted.

She picked up a rag and wiped down her arms and then her chest, Peter’s gaze following her movements. He reminded himself of his purpose for being here. It certainly wasn’t to ogle a menial laborer, regardless of her exotic looks and the effect she was having on his libido.

* * *

CJ scowled as the man continued to stare at her. The minute he said he was from New York, she knew who he was and why he was here, but she asked anyway.

Who are you?

Peter A. Myerson, the Fourth. He straightened.

The fourth, she repeated. The fourth what? Her lips twitched.

It means…never mind. I’d like to speak to the contractor.

CJ narrowed her eyes. So this was Bianca’s great-nephew; the one whose life Bianca had followed in the news and Fortune 500 magazines. The one she had often spoken of, but had never met. He stood a good head taller than her own five foot four, and he looked like something from the cover of GQ. His black hair was short and spiked in the latest fashion and his blue eyes—well, she had never seen eyes that could undress her with a look. Even in a wrinkled shirt and looking like he was going to have heatstroke, he gave off an energy that set CJ on edge. There was just one problem. His attitude sucked.

The imp in her decided to have a little fun.

The contractor, she imitated his northern twang, is busy. Come back another time.

* * *

Later that evening, CJ tried to reconcile the man she had met with her friend’s glowing description. Oh, he looked just like the pictures she had seen. Even in hazy newspaper clippings he was tall and handsome as sin. But this man was North Pole cold and distant, just as she envisioned most people from New York to be, although she had never been there. His tone of voice implied he was used to being in control and getting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it. The way Bianca had spoken of him, CJ had expected him to be…well, more human.

Yet regardless of his outward appearance, the aura surrounding him had been red, the color of strong passion. Normally, she didn’t allow herself to relax enough to become aware of auras. She didn’t like her ability to read people. Her grandmere Zara, a cohort of Bianca’s, had often told her she had a gift if she would only develop it. Gram had been a voodoo queen, and though she loved the woman who had raised her, CJ had spent her life trying to move beyond the superstitions of the bayou country. In this case, however, she deliberately opened herself to him and was almost overwhelmed by the power he exuded.

CJ sat on the window ledge in her apartment, letting the breeze cool her as she listened to the faint strains of music from the jazz club down the street. She had been born, raised and schooled in New Orleans and had no desire to be anywhere else. Even when she had done her graduate work in historic preservation, she had concentrated on the mansions of New Orleans and Natchez. Now, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine New York City with its skyscrapers and neon lights, and what Peter Myerson, the fourth, might look like naked.

Her eyes popped open. Where did that come from? she spoke out loud.

Her dog, Skittles, whined at the distress in her voice and came over to put his head in her lap. She scratched behind his ears as she let her thoughts flow. Maybe she did wonder how he would look naked. He was quite handsome, and she certainly hadn’t been raised in a convent. Quite the opposite, as she had participated in many Cajun celebrations with her grandmere, not to mention Mardi Gras, where there were always half naked men parading around. She wasn’t a prude, but neither did she indiscriminately jump in the sack with every handsome guy she met.

Not that any of that mattered, as Mr. Myerson definitely wasn’t here to satisfy her sexual urges. She was afraid she knew exactly what he wanted. Having never shown up on the steps of Belvedere Place before, CJ imagined he had only come to sell the property and collect his inheritance. With a sigh, she rose and closed the window, then crawled into bed. Still restless, she had to admit she was lonely, but it had been for her friend and mentor, Bianca. She had always been around to listen to CJ’s plans and offer advice. She had encouraged CJ’s quest to do historical restoration and had offered Belvedere Place for her post-graduate work, even financing it herself.

Before she died, Bianca had asked CJ to move in with her but she liked her own space. If she had, maybe she could claim squatter’s rights. Now it was too late, and she didn’t have enough ready capital to purchase the house. As she drifted off to sleep, intent blue eyes and a body built for sin floated across her consciousness, and she dreamed about offering something else as a bargaining chip.

* * *

Skittles growled, deep and threatening from the front of the house. CJ knew only one person would come visiting this part of the bayou. She smiled, thinking she should give Skittles a minute or two with the man before she rescued him. She slowly hammered the lid on a paint can before wiping her hands on a rag and meandering through the kitchen and dining room.

Good God. You keep a pony in the house? Peter was backed up against the door as Skittles, head as high as his waist, growled again and took another step toward him.

CJ laughed as she approached, placing a hand on her pet’s head. He’s a Great Perinea. She paused before adding, That’s a dog.

You couldn’t find anything larger? Having decided the animal wasn’t going to devour him, Peter gently pushed the wet nose aside and stepped fully inside.

You don’t like dogs? He could hear the accusation in her voice.

I have nothing against dogs. My mother has a poodle.

Her lips quivered as though she were trying not to laugh. Full or teacup?

He glanced again at her dog and felt his cheeks heat.

"So, are you afraid of dogs?"

No. His reaction was immediate until he saw her smile and realized she was teasing. It’s just that she’s…she yips annoyingly and tries to bite my ankles. As he spoke, he realized how silly that sounded. After all, he was six foot two and there wasn’t much that scared him. Annoyed him; yes.

What’s his name? he asked, trying to take the attention away from himself.

Skittles.

The dog immediately barked in recognition of his name, and the affectionate hug his owner bestowed.

What kind of name is that for a dog that large?

What is your mother’s dog’s name?

He grimaced. Princess, he reluctantly said, then frowned at the silliness of the conversation. It wasn’t at all like him to waste time talking about dogs of all things. But when she smiled, his heart skipped a beat. Regardless of the tool belt hanging low on her slender hips and the baseball cap she had turned backward, CJ Fortier was the sexiest woman he had met in a long time.

He cleared his throat. "I didn’t come out here to talk about dogs. I stopped by the office to speak with the contractor. I was told she was working out at Belvedere Place."

CJ cringed at the sardonic tone of his voice, but held her ground. Today he had forgone the tie, but his pants had a sharp crease and his flawless blue oxford shirt made his eyes appear even bluer. He stood with his hands on his hips frowning at her, and CJ had to wonder if he ever smiled. He did in your dreams, her very feminine alter ego reminded her.

Having been brought up to be honest, she knew she had to apologize for yesterday’s mischief. Sorry. I couldn’t resist after your crack about where I belong. She shrugged, then added, Besides, I am busy.

Did she detect a smile? Well, at least he didn’t look quite so stern.

So you’re CJ Fortier, preservation contractor? At her nod, he continued, I apologize for my remark. I am quite aware that women today hold professional positions in all manner of business. It’s just that, he paused.

CJ could feel her gaze narrow. I think you’d better quit before I have to toss you to the gators. Skittles barked as though backing up her claim.

She watched his eyes widen as he took a step back. She wished he would step back all the way to New York City, but being practical, she decided she might as well face the problem head on.

Look, I really do have a lot of work to do here, so tell me what you want, then I can get on with it.

I want to sell this property.

CJ’s heart stopped. Even though she had thought he would, she hated to hear the words spoken out loud.

Why? Her voice squeaked. She could feel tears threaten and turned to the side, mad that this stranger could inflict such instant pain.

A hand touched her bare shoulder and squeezed gently. It was warm and smooth and CJ’s body betrayed her, heating in all the wrong places. She sensed there was more to this man than he let show, and she damned the special gift that made her aware of it. She wanted to hate him for threatening to take away a place she loved.

When she looked up, something flickered in his gaze and he frowned. CJ knew exactly why he was confused. His body was reacting to hers, and the energy she sensed flowing between them was just the beginning of something huge. She sucked in a breath, for a moment foolishly wondering if Zara and Bianca had somehow orchestrated this meeting.

She walked away from him, back to the kitchen. Leaning against the counter, she crossed her arms over her chest, even though she knew it would not stop what was destined. A voodoo curse might, but not simple body language.

Why do you want to sell Belvedere Place? She fired off the question the minute he stepped through the doorway.

He tucked his hands in his pockets and shrugged. I didn’t even know my great-aunt. My parents refuse to speak her name, and yet she left me this place.

That would explain why he had never visited, CJ thought.

"Besides, I live