Midnight Bayou by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online Page B

feet, then shook himself.
    It had to have drenched her, but she didn’t dance away or brush fussily at her jeans.
    They repeated the routine, with Declan a captive audience.
    He imagined her walking with the dog closer to the Hall. Close enough that he could wave from the gallery, invite her in for a cup of bad coffee. His first shot at southern hospitality.
    Or better yet, he could wander down. And she’d be wrestling with the dog. She’d slip on the wet grass, tumble into the pond. He’d be right at hand to pull her out. No, to dive in after her and save her because she couldn’t swim.
    Then one thing would lead to another, and they’d have sex on that damp grass, in the watery sunlight. Her body,wet and sleek, would rise over his. He’d fill his hands with her breasts, and . . .
    “Jeez.” He blinked, saw her disappearing into the trees again.
    He wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed or relieved to find himself hard. He’d had sex only once in the six months since he’d broken things off with Jessica. And that had been more a reflex than real desire.
    So if he could find himself fully aroused over some ridiculous fantasy of a woman whose face he hadn’t seen, that area was coming back to normal.
    He could check worry over his manhood off his list of concerns.
    He tossed the last swallows of cold coffee away. He didn’t mind starting the day with a stray erotic fantasy, but he did mind starting it with bad coffee. It was time to get down to practicalities.
    He went back in, grabbed his wallet and keys, and headed into town for supplies.
    I t took him most of the day. Not just to get the supplies, but to reacquaint himself with the city he was going to call his own.
    If Boston was a respectable wife, with a few seamy secrets, New Orleans was a sensual mistress who celebrated her darker sides.
    He treated himself to an enormous breakfast, so loaded with cholesterol he imagined his heart simply keeling over from the shock.
    He bought coffee beans and a grinder. Bagels and beignets. He loaded up on the single-male cuisine of packaged dinners, frozen pizza, dry cereal. Hit the liquor store for beer, bourbon and some good wine.
    He loaded it into his car, then struck out again, as much for the joy of wandering the streets as the recollection heneeded something to eat on and with. He settled for paper plates and plastic ware, and stopped to watch a street musician set out his trumpet case, prime it with a few coins, then fill the air with a stream of magic.
    Declan gave him his first dollar of the day.
    He avoided the temptation of the antique shops and the lure of the Quarter. Lunchtime music was already pumping out of clubs and exotic scents wafted from restaurants. He bought himself a muffuletta—that marvel of meat and cheese and oil on Italian bread—to take back home for later.
    As he walked to his car again, he noted the tourists with their bags from Café du Monde or the Riverwalk shops, the card readers sitting at folding tables around the perimeter of Jackson Square who would tell your fortune for ten dollars a pop. He caught the faint drift of marijuana under the ripening stench of garbage as he walked by an alleyway.
    And saw an enormous black woman, smoking in indolent puffs, on the plant-jammed gallery above a shop that advertised erotic candles.
    He bought one for Remy of a naked woman with breasts like torpedoes, and grinned over it all the way back to his car.
    H e drove home energized. He hauled in supplies, stuffed them wherever seemed logical at the time, then began a serious room-by-room inspection of the main level. He made notes on problems, on potentials, on plans and on priorities.
    The kitchen was a definite first. He had experience there from his own house in Boston, and from two remodels where he’d assisted friends.
    He couldn’t claim to cook more than the occasional omelette or toasted sandwich, but he thought of thekitchen as the heart of any home. The latest transition of the