Luc’s deep brown eyes had narrowed very slightly at this point. The corners of his sensually shaped lips had quirked upward. The shift in both instances had been a matter of no more than a few millimeters. Yet the effect on his overall expression had been devastatingly seductive.
“But that’s not my style, cher,” he’d replied, his voice dropping into a velvet-lined register she’d never heard before. Even the offhand endearment he’d been using since the first time they’d met had suddenly sounded foreign to her ears.
She’d opened her mouth to say something. He’d forestalled her before she’d uttered a peep.
“The first time between a man and woman is always awkward, Peachy,” he’d observed. “No matter how much experience one—or both—of them has. There’s uncertainty about what the other person wants and there’s insecurity about whether you can provide it. It’s not…easy.”
There’d been no doubt in her mind that his choice of the final adjective had been deliberate. Easy had been the word she’d used earlier in explaining why she’d chosen him as the first recipient of her unorthodox proposal.
“So?” The breathlessness of her voice had appalled her.
“So, I think it would reduce the inevitable awkwardness if we got to know each before we head to bed for the first and only time.”
“Got to know—?” she’d echoed incredulously. “We’ve been living under the same roof for nearly two years!”
“Which means we know each other as neighbors,” he’d replied without missing a beat. “I’m talking about becoming acquainted as man and woman. About becoming…aware…of each other.”
Peachy had hesitated. She’d sensed that there was something crucial he wasn’t saying and searched his dark, deep-set eyes to try to discover what it might be.
Yet even as she’d sought for answers to questions she wouldn’t have been able to articulate if she’d tried, she’d had to concede that Luc’s arguments for “waiting” sounded reasonable.
“Well,” she’d finally begun. “I suppose…”
Luc had smiled. There’d been a brief hint of teeth, reminding her that the human race was innately carnivorous.
“There’s also the matter of my masculine pride,” he’d said. “I’d like to be sure your first time is something better than—what was your word? Oh, yes. Unawful.”
And then he’d touched her. Lifting his right hand to her face, he’d brushed his fingertips slowly down the curve of her left cheek. After that he’d stroked them, very lightly, along the line of her jaw.
The contact had affected her like a jolt of electricity. It had gone surging through her nervous system, throwing her already accelerated pulse rate into overdrive and causing her breathing pattern to unravel into short, shallow pants.
For one insane instant she’d honestly thought she might swoon. And in that same insane instant she’d decided that asking Lucien Devereaux to relieve her of her virginity was either the smartest thing she’d ever done or a mistake of such monumental proportions that she’d spend the rest of her life—
The sound of her hairbrush clattering against the tiled floor of the bathroom yanked Peachy back into the present. She blinked several times, conscious of a wild fluttering deep in her stomach. Her hands were trembling. She could feel the nipples of her small breasts straining against the lacy cups of her bra.
A glimpse of her reflection did nothing to restore her composure. Her cheeks were flushed, almost feverish looking. And there was a glazed expression in her eyes that reminded her of the zombie lore she’d heard from Laila Martigny, the fiftyish psychologist who lived in the apartment directly below hers.
Rumor had it that the regal-looking Dr. Martigny was a descendant of New Orleans’s famed witch queen, Marie Laveau. But while she would admit to being the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter and to having occasional flashes of what some others might call ESP, Laila simply smiled away questions about her possible connection to the legendary “Madame L.”
“Get a grip,” Peachy ordered herself through clenched teeth as she bent to retrieve the brush. Her hair cascaded forward in an unruly tumble. She shoveled it back over her shoulders as she straightened up.
A glance at the small alarm clock that sat on the back of the commode informed her that her ill-advised stroll down memory lane had put her behind schedule. It was nearly half past seven. She was supposed to meet Luc for dinner at eight. Although the restaurant he’d chosen was within walking distance, she’d have to hustle to arrive there by the appointed hour.
She stalked out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, muttering as she went. Her resentment at having had her agenda rewritten flared anew. She didn’t need to be wined and dined as a prelude to sex, she told herself as she started dressing. No. More than that. She didn’t want it. And she’d tried to make that crystal clear to Luc. Only he’d gone right ahead and overridden her wishes.
Well, no, she amended as she smoothed down the skirt of the jade green silk dress she’d settled on after reviewing the contents of her closet four times. That wasn’t entirely fair. Luc hadn’t so much overridden her wishes as she’d succumbed to his.
But no more. Never again. The instant she sat down with him she was going to make certain he understood that this evening out was not—absolutely, positively not—a date. What’s more, she was going to tell him that she intended to pick up the check. And if he had a problem with that…
She’d deal with it, she promised herself. She’d deal with it just fine, thank you very much.
But first she had to find the shoes she planned to wear. And select a substitute for the demure pearl drop earrings she’d picked out. What she’d been thinking when she’d chosen them, she didn’t know. The last time she’d had them on had been when she’d attended Easter services with the MayWinnies!
Peachy was frantically rummaging through her drawers when she heard a knock at her apartment door. “Who is it?” she called, flinging aside a pair of hammered gold hoops that had briefly captured her fancy.
“It’s me,” a distinctively husky voice called back.
She froze. Oh, no, she thought. Not Terry. Not now!
The Terry in question rented the apartment next to Laila Martigny. He’d been born Terrence Bellehurst in Syracuse, New York, and had had a spectacular career as a professional football player until a quarterback sack in the waning moments of his first Super Bowl had pretty well pulverized his right knee.
Benched for life by the injury, Terry had forged a successful second career as a play-by-play commentator. But shortly after he’d won his third Emmy for sports coverage, he’d undergone a mind-blowing transformation.
“I got in touch with my feminine self,” he’d told Peachy with characteristic candor shortly after they’d gotten acquainted. “And honey, it felt wonderful!”
Terrence Bellehurst had been reborn as Terree, emphasis on the second syllable, LaBelle. And for the last four years, Terree had served as mistress of ceremonies for the classiest drag show in the French Quarter. So classy, in fact, that the MayWinnies had attended several performances and subsequently commented to Peachy—with what had seemed to her to be complete sincerity—that it had been a pleasure to see such perfect ladies on the stage.
Having spent three years in New York City, Peachy had arrived in New Orleans believing herself essentially inured to the vagaries of human behavior. Nonetheless, her first encounter with Terrence/Terree had been a bit unsettling. However, she’d soon been won over by her downstairs neighbor’s friendliness. Terrence Bellehurst was one of the frankest, funniest people she’d ever met. As for Terree LaBelle…well, “she” would donate the frock off “her” back