Ladies Prefer Rogues: Four Novellas of Time-Travel Passion Page 10

  Uh-oh! “What are you doing here . . . at the hotel, I mean?”

  “I was in the elevator, and it crashed. Next thing I knew, I was waking from a dead faint with a goose egg on the back of my head.”

  That explained her craziness, he supposed. Or her latest craziness.

  “Why have you not finished dressing?”

  “Huh? What’s wrong with my clothing?”

  “Margo! You’re half-dressed.”

  “I am not!” She studied him closer. “You know, you look like Larry Wilson, but then you don’t. Your hair is longer, and your clothing is way out of date, but your eyes are the same. You limp the same. And the frowny face, of course.”

  “Frowny . . .” Oh, shit! She thinks I’m someone else. Hmmm. Maybe that’s a good thing. “Sorry, Miss Baptiste, but it appears we don’t know each other after all. I am Laurent Duvall.”

  She tilted her head, uncertain.

  “It has been nice meeting you, Miss Baptiste,” he said, shaking her hand. “But I must be off now.”

  He had turned onto Dumaine Street, heading toward the river, when he noticed her running to catch up with him. He did not stop walking along the brick banquette but turned his head to glare at her.

  “I’m going with you.”

  “You are not!”

  “Hey, it’s your fault that I’m here.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “Listen, Larry—”

  “Laurent.”

  “Don’t they call you Larry for a nickname?”

  “My friends call me Laurie.”

  “Sounds like a girl’s name to me.”

  He growled.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll just call you Laurent then. Where are we going, Laurent?”

  “We are not going anywhere.”

  “Oh, my God! This is amazing!”

  “What?” He swiveled to see what she was looking at. Nothing out of the ordinary that he could see.

  A horse-drawn milk wagon came to a halt in front of them as the Creole lady of one of the narrow houses stood at the iron-laced railing of the house’s upper gallery, calling for the driver to stop. Down below, a servant ran out to have the daily order of milk filled from the spigot into a large can.

  Turban clad black women with baskets atop their heads called out their wares:

  “Strawberries, raspberries, cherries! Fresh-picked and sweet!”

  “Come get yer pralines! Sweet and crisp!”

  “Fresh-baked beignets! Come buy my beignets!”

  “Flowers, flowers! Roses, gardenias, lilies, and violets.”

  Still others peddled their products from push carts.

  Here and there, tall, forest green shutters flew open on the houses, which were painted bright colors, like grand rouge, which he knew from experience came from a combination of brick dust and buttermilk. His father had once used it on the garconniére quarters, with great success. Housewives leaned out the windows and invited the venders into their courtyards to display their goods.

  Another wagon passing by had a small boy in back yelling out, “Ice! Ice! Nice and cold!”

  In the background the hourly bells from St. Louis Cathedral on nearby Place d’Armes could be heard. Two o’clock! Bloody hell, he was wasting time. “Go away!” he ordered Margo, figuring rudeness might be the only method at this point. “I don’t know you, and you are wasting my time.”

  “Lighten up, Laurent. It’s my dream, and it goes any way I want.”

  He rolled his eyes, grabbed her by the upper arm, and dragged her into a restaurant farther down Dumaine. She was attracting too much attention with her outrageous attire. He took her into an inner courtyard where a fountain bubbled and tropical flowers in big pots scented the air. He shoved her into a chair at one of the tables while he dropped into the opposite chair. Other restaurant patrons stared at them, including a few white-robed Ursuline nuns from the convent on Chartes Street, but then everyone resumed eating and talking in low voices.

  She picked up a parchment menu. “Isn’t this nice. Handmade. Fine calligraphy. But not efficient, cost-wise. I could recommend a good printer to the owners. Of course this is not really a restaurant. Just in my dream. I know the family who lives here. They spent a fortune restoring it last year.” Fanning her face, she smiled at him.

  He was not going to be swayed by pity over her delusional state. He was not going to be swayed by a smile . . . even though it was a very nice smile. Swearing under his breath, he exhaled with disgust at the predicament he found himself in.

  “No wonder they call you Scary Larry! Do you ever stop scowling?”

  “Scary Larry? You are incredible. Is that how you attempt to sway me . . . with insults?”

  She shrugged and fanned herself some more. He would like to fan her all right . . . fan her bottom. With the palm of his hand. Now there’s an image that does not bear dwelling on. Watch yourself, Laurent, he warned himself. The fountain and the shade alleviated some of the heat, but this was New Orleans in summertime. Humid heat was the norm. He hated being in the city. He was needed back at Rosylyn. He should not be wasting money on high-priced restaurant food.

  Another clump of her hair fell out of its claw comb. Without hesitation, she raised her arms to let her hair loose into a million wavy curls. Fascinated, he watched as she finger combed her hair and redid the knot on top of her head. Belatedly, he clicked his gaping mouth shut.

  But not before that wanton pose caused his blood to race and lodge between his legs, almost with a bang. He hadn’t been this aroused in years. Probably because he hadn’t been with a woman in a year, or was it two? This was too much! Was she deliberately tempting him? Was that her plan now . . . to entice him to help her by offering sex?

  No, he did not think that was the case. Still, maybe he was being too polite. Maybe more direct methods were called for.

  “I can see your nipples,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

  Her arms were still upraised and she froze in place. The position caused her breasts to arch out against the thin fabric of her camisole . . . What kind of woman wears a camisole in public?

  Her breasts were high and surprisingly full for her slender frame. Very nice!

  “That was certainly rude.” She lowered her arms. Her cheeks bloomed with color. Apparently, despite her dementedness and wantonness, she could still blush.

  “And your underarms are hairless.”

  “I shave there.”

  He arched his eyebrows. “Is that a new trend in the North?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve lived in Louisiana all my life.”

  He placed orders for the two of them. Just gumbo, crusty bread, and thick Creole chicory coffee. Leaving it to her, she would probably order the most expensive thing, which he could not afford. Which of course she did. Adding a shrimp éfouffeé, lemonade, and later a café au lait for herself and bread pudding to share.

  He braced his chin in one of his hands, elbow on the table. “Let us start over. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  She gave him an exasperated glance, as if he already knew. Placing one of her hands over one of his resting on the table, she told him that she understood how confusing this was for him, that she was confused, too, but all he could think about . . . all he could feel . . . was the ripple of sensation that stemmed from their touching skin out to all parts of his body, making the blood drain from his head. It was torture. It was pleasure.

  She was staring at him with parted lips and glazed eyes. He could tell she was equally affected by this strange sizzle between them.

  But then he jerked his hand back.

  She shook her head, as if in wonder.

  “I repeat,” he said. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  “Right.” She inhaled and exhaled with a whooshy sound. “You are a Navy SEAL. You came into my office today. I am a matchmaker, who made a teeny tiny mistake regarding you, which I plan to correct ASAP.”

  He covered his eyes, then co
unted to ten before looking at her again. “Let me see if I understand. I am an animal. A seal. You are a matchmaker. And you’re going to do something with sap, like sap in a tree?” Or was she referring to the sap rising in him like hot erotic syrup?

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Of course not, but not to worry. This is only a dream.”

  If only that were true!

  She was going to be a damn Rachel Ray or die trying . . .

  The waiter brought their bill, and Margo could see Laurent carefully counting out several coins. They looked like silver . . . antique silver. That, and the condition of his clothing, gave her a message loud and clear.

  Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out a crisp new fifty and slapped it on the table. She’d been to the bank yesterday and had nothing smaller. “My treat,” she said with a smile.

  “What is that?” he asked, picking up the bill to examine it more closely.

  She frowned. “Money.”

  “With Ulysses S. Grant on it? Pfff! Didn’t take long for the general to get his face plastered everywhere, and only one year in office.”

  She continued to be disconcerted by his faint French accent. Creole, she supposed. Not as strong a patois as the Cajuns but distinct nonetheless. Then his words sunk in. “What? I don’t understand.”

  He ignored her as he studied the bill closer. “What in bloody hell is this date here? Two thousand and ten. Is that meant to be a year?”

  She nodded, hesitantly, and picked up his coins as well. Several 1870 G octagonal half dollars, 1870 liberty dimes, and 1870 Indianhead cents. Raising her eyes to Laurent’s equally puzzled ones, which she again noted with a bit of hysterical irrelevance were blue gray with thick black lashes, against the framework of his olive skin, she asked softly, “What year is this?”

  “What kind of game do you play now? It’s 1870, of course.”

  She nodded, beginning to understand. “No, it’s not, honey.”

  “I am not your honey.”

  She shrugged. Taking one of his hands, trying to ignore the weird electricity they generated, she told him, “This is 2010, one hundred and forty years into the future.” She patted the hand now. “But it’s only a dream. Imagine that, me dreaming myself into history?”

  “I’ve got news for you, honey,” he said. “This is not a dream. And it’s not some future time. It’s 1870, reconstruction, Yankee-military-governed, bloody damn New Orleans, and I am sick of this nonsense. I am going home.” With that he tossed her bill back at her, left his coins on the table, and stomped out.

  Margo was stunned at first. Time travel didn’t exist. Of course it didn’t. But she found herself more observant and less certain as she rushed after him.

  First, there were no cars. Just horses, and horse-drawn carts, and horse-drawn omnibuses. And the smells. Manure and sewage waste running down the edge of the road. Now, New Orleans was not the best-smelling city at times, especially late night on Bourbon Street, or anywhere after Mardi Gras, but this was different.

  Color dreams with sound and smell? I don’t think so!

  She ran in her attempt to catch up with Laurent.

  “You know, it’s interesting that New Orleans is looking so battered but in the process of rebuilding after the war. Just like after Katrina.”

  She could tell he wanted to ignore her but was intrigued. So, he stopped. “Katrina?”

  “Hurricane Katrina. It hit the Gulf Coast in August, 2005. The worst natural disaster in American history. Eighty percent of the city was hit, and a lot of the coastal towns, as the levees broke. Sixteen hundred people died. Floods filled the city. People had to be rescued from their rooftops.”

  He stared at her with wide eyes. Then he shook his head and resumed walking. “You do tell tall tales!”

  “It’s the truth,” she asserted, rushing to catch up with him again. When they neared the French Market, he approached a young woman—younger than him, closer to her own age—who stood next to an old-fashioned buckboard wagon with a harnessed horse. Her long black hair was braided and pinned on top of her head in a sort of coronet. She wore a short-sleeved, ankle-length dress of faded blue imprinted with once pink, tiny roses.

  “Laurent!” she said, rushing up to give the man a hug. He hugged her back.

  Margo felt an odd constriction in her chest, watching that embrace.

  “What happened?” the woman asked anxiously. “Oh, no! You didn’t get the loan?”

  He shook his head, his expression grim. Then he took out the remaining coins in his pocket, handing them to her. “You’ll have to take back anything that isn’t absolutely necessary,” he said, pointing at the back of the wagon where supplies were heaped. In particular he told her to remove rolls of fabric, several pairs of shoes, and a half-dozen books.

  They had no money, Margo realized, tears welling in her eyes. “Wait! Laurent!” she said, all of a sudden. She didn’t know why, but she felt the need to help. If this was time travel, and she was sure it wasn’t, she was for damn sure going to carry her own weight.

  Laurent and the woman turned to looked at her. He groaned. The woman stared at her, first with shock at her attire, then with question, glancing back and forth between her and Laurent. Was it his wife? She gulped. She hadn’t thought to ask. And why it should matter, she had no idea. Well, she had an idea, but still it shouldn’t matter.

  “Hi!” Margo said, reaching out to shake the lady’s hand. “I’m Marguerite Baptiste. You can call me Margo.”

  “And I’m Letitia Duvall, Laurent’s sister. You can call me Lettie.”

  “Sister?” She couldn’t help the grin that twitched at her lips. But she had things to do. “Wait right here,” she said to both of them. “Don’t return anything yet.”

  Laurent looked outraged that she would order him so. Lettie was amused. But they both followed after her.

  She soon found what she was looking for: a man with a jewelry booth. “I have a piece of jewelry I would like to sell.”

  The kindly looking man holding a magnifying glass, who identified himself as Mr. Goldstein, raised his head with a sigh. “Miss, everyone has jewelry to sell these days. What I want is a buyer.” His eyes went wide, though, as they latched onto her wristwatch . . . a Cartier.

  “Now that is interesting,” he said. “A watch bracelet?”

  “A wristwatch,” she corrected. “But this is not for sale. It once belonged to my grandmother.” Instead she undid the clasp on her neck chain and handed it to him. “This is a flawless, emerald cut, two-carat yellow diamond.”

  He picked it up and studied it with his magnifying glass. “Very nice.” With a shrewd cast in his rheumy eyes, he asked, “How much do you want, not that I am really in the market for more jewels?”

  He couldn’t fool her. Margo knew she was in for a bout of what she did exceedingly well: haggling. A short time later, she was walking away with five hundred dollars in gold coins. She had declined his paper money. Of course, the diamond was worth more like ten thousand dollars, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  “That was amazing,” Lettie said.

  Not so impressed, Laurent demanded, “Where did you get that diamond?”

  He probably thought she’d robbed a store.

  “It was an engagement ring from my boyfriend five years ago, but he decided he liked men better, broke our engagement, and told me to keep the ring. I had it remounted into a necklace. No big loss.”

  “What does she mean that her boyfriend liked men?” Lettie whispered to her brother.

  With color shading his cheeks, Laurent replied, “Never mind. I’ll explain later.”

  Margo handed half of the coins to Laurent.

  He glanced down at them heaped in the palm of his hand as if they were poison. “What? Why are you giving me these?”

  “Listen, I don’t understand where I am, or why. I just know that it’s somehow connected to you.”

  “You’re plumb crazy.”

  “Probably. But I’m going with yo
u . . . wherever you’re going. I don’t care what you say. I’ll buy a horse and follow you if I have to.” Not that she knew how to ride or even how much a horse cost. “And I don’t want to be a burden. If I’m going to stay here in the past, even temporarily, I insist on doing my part.”

  He tried to hand the coins back to her, but she folded her arms over her chest and turned to Lettie, who was practically jumping up and down with glee. “You’re coming home with us? Oh, this is wonderful! We haven’t had guests in ever so long. And we’ve never had a fancy lady.”

  Before Margo could protest being called a fancy lady, another term for a whore, or before Laurent could voice further protests to her accompanying them, Margo put her arm through Lettie’s and said, “Let’s go shopping. Your brother doesn’t approve of my clothing. Is there anywhere I can buy a readymade dress?”

  Lettie was already tugging her in the opposite direction, but before she followed, Margo had to talk with Laurent. “Is it all right if I go with you and Lettie?”

  He hesitated. “Does it matter what I think?” Then, “Can you cook?”

  “Like a chef,” she lied. “For how many?”

  “Ten. My cook died.”

  Ten? Oh boy! “Piece o’ cake.”

  “Huh?”

  “No problem. Is one of the ten your wife?”

  “Pfff! I have no wife. That is all I would need on top of my other problems.”

  She couldn’t help but be elated at that news. How pitiful was that? “Did your wife die by any chance?”

  He bristled. “You have no right to ask that.”

  She shrugged. “I was just asking because I knew this guy whose wife drowned five years ago. Your twin, if you must know.”

  “Scary Larry?” he scoffed.

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Elizabeth did not drown. She was taken by the summer fever.”

  Elizabeth? Beth? Bethany? Close enough! Is this a coincidence, or what? “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” He looked so miserable that Margo just wanted to hug him, but she did not dare. Good Lord! I am falling fast for a dream guy. Scary Larry, but worse.

  “I need to protect my sister. I better not find out you are listed in the Blue Book.”