Liz Talley - His Uptown Girl

“Uptown is where I’m from,” Dez said, folding his arms across his chest and eyeing the antiques dealer with her expensive clothes and obvious intolerance for anyone not wearing seersucker and named something like Winston. “What? I don’t meet your expectations ’cause I’m not drunk? Or strung out on crack?”

Her eyes searched his, and in them, he saw a shift, as if a decision had been made that instant. “And you don’t have horns. I’d thought you’d have horns...unless they’re retractable?”

She didn’t smile as she delivered the line. It was given smoothly, as if she knew they were headed toward rocky shores and needed to steer clear. So he picked up a paddle and allowed them to drift back into murky waters. “Retractable horns are a closely guarded musician’s secret. Who ratted me out?”

Eleanor locked her mouth with an imaginary key.

“Guess a screwdriver wouldn’t help?”

She shook her head.

Again, silence.

It was an intensely odd moment with a woman he’d resented without knowing much about her, with a woman who opposed his very dream, with a woman who made him want to trace the curve of her jaw. He’d never been in such a situation.

“Just two things before I go back over there and walk through that very much unlocked door,” she said with a resolute crossing of her arms.

“Really? The door’s not even locked?” He arched an eyebrow.

“A ploy to come check you out dreamed up by my not-so-savvy salesclerk. Totally tanked on the whole thing from beginning to end. It’s pretty embarrassing.”

“I’m flattered. Thank your salesclerk for me.”

Her direct stare didn’t waver. “Oh, come on, don’t even pretend you’re not the object of a lot of ‘Can I borrow your pen?’ or ‘Do you know what time it is?’”

“Wait, those are pickup lines?” he asked with a deadpan expression. There was something he liked in her straightforwardness along with the soft-glowy thing she had going. Not quite wholesome. More delicate and flowery. This woman wasn’t lacquered up with lip gloss and a shirt so low her nipples nearly showed. Instead she begged to be unwrapped like a rare work of art.

He shook himself, remembering she was a high-class broad and not his type.

“Maybe not pickups per se, but definitely designed to get your attention,” she said, sounding more college professor than woman on the prowl. Or maybe she wasn’t really interested in him. Perhaps she’d known who he was in the first place and wanted to goad him, size him up before he made trouble.

Dez leaned against the truck he’d borrowed from his neighbor since his Mustang was in the shop. “So what did you want to tell me?”

“One.” She held up an elegant finger. He’d never called a finger elegant before, but hers fit the billing. “I oppose the idea of a nightclub in this particular area. All the business owners here have worked hard since the storm to build a certain atmosphere that does not include beer bottles and half-dressed hookers.”

He opened his mouth to dispute, but she held up a second finger.

“And, two, this little—” she wagged her other hand between them “—thing didn’t happen. Erase it from you memory. Chalk it up to midlife crisis, to a dare, or bad tuna fish I ate last night.”

“What are you talking about?”

She frowned. “Me trying to check you out.”

Something warmed inside him. Pleasure. “I don’t even remember why you walked over.”

A little smile accompanied the silent thank-you in her eyes.

Dez answered the smile with one of his own, and for a few seconds they stood in the midst of Magazine Street smiling at each other like a couple of loons, which was crazy considering the tenseness only seconds ago.

“Okay, then,” she said, inching back toward her store.

“Yeah,” he said, not moving. Mostly because he wanted to watch her walk back to her store and check out the view.

“So hopefully I won’t see you around,” she said lightly, turning away, giving him what he wanted without even realizing it.

“Don’t count on it,” he said, playing along.

She didn’t say anything. Just kept walking.

“Hey,” he called as she stepped onto the opposite curb. She turned around and shaded her eyes against the morning sunlight. “I’m going to change your mind, you know.”

“About?”

“My club and the reason why you came over here.”

He straightened and gave her a nod of his head and one of his sexy trademark smiles, one he hadn’t used since he’d left Houston.

And from across the street, he could see Ms. Eleanor Theriot looked worried.

Good. She should be...because he meant it. His club wouldn’t draw hookers or anyone who would smash a beer bottle on the pavement. Nor would it draw the sort of club-goers who would break windows or vomit in the street. No rowdy college crowd or blue-collar drunks.

Blue Rondo was different—the kernel of a dream that had bloomed in his heart when everything else around him had fallen apart. The idea of an upscale New Orleans jazz club had sustained him through heartbreak and heartache. Had given him sanctuary when the waters erased all he’d been, and the woman he thought would be his wife had turned into someone he didn’t know. Seven damn years wasted and all he’d held on to was the dream of Blue Rondo, the club named after “Blue Rondo à la Turk,” the first song his father had played for him when he’d been a boy.

And no one was going to take that away from him.

Not when he’d risked so much to get here.

Not when he’d finally faced his past and embraced New Orleans as his future.

So, yeah, she could strike number one off her list.

And as Eleanor stood staring at him on the opposite side of the street, he knew she could strike number two off, too. She may not want him to remember her “attention-getter,” but his interest was piqued.

Straightforward eyes the color of moss.

Lush pink lips.

Ivory satin skin.

Color him interested.

Dez tucked away that idea, turned and contemplated the faded building behind him—the old Federal Bank that would house his dream. He sighed.

Another wasted morning.

He could have slept in after a late night in the Quarter playing with Frankie B’s trio. They’d stretched it out until the wee hours, playing sanitized versions of tourist favorites, and he’d made plenty of dime. The city had started seeping back into him.

Dez checked his messages once again. Still no Chris. So he pulled up his schedule. He could spare a few hours cutting tile for the bathroom floors before he needed to head back to the place he’d leased a few blocks over and grab a shower. He had another gig at seven o’clock that night, but wanted to stop in and talk to a couple friends who’d opened some places in the Warehouse District about glassware and distributors.

Dreams could come true, but only with lots of work.

He pulled his keys from his pocket and headed toward his soon-to-be jazz club.

* * *

ELEANOR BACKED INTO the glass front door, spun around and yanked it open.

Pansy’s head popped up from behind the counter like a jack-in-the-box. “What happened?”

Steadying her nerves, Eleanor closed the door and flipped the sign to read Open. “Nothing.”

Pansy slid out. “Nothing?”

“He’s cute,” she said, busying herself by straightening the collection of early-American brass candlesticks displayed on the shelf of a gorgeous cypress cupboard.

Eleanor didn’t want to look at Pansy until she got her emotions under control. Dez Batiste had stirred up so many things inside her—anger, embarrassment...desire.

He’d been so damn sensual. Like a jungle cat, all powerful, sexy and dangerous. His body had been at once tight and muscular, yet he moved with a loose-limbed grace, a sort of lazy insolence. Up close, he’d been droolworthy, with stormy eyes contrasting against deep-honeyed skin, with his manly jaw contrasting with the poutiness of his mouth. Just utterly delicious like a New Orleans praline.