His Uptown Girl

“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.

And he’d allowed her some dignity, playing along when she stupidly admitted her crappy attempt to engage him. It had been admirable, and somehow made him even sexier.

Pansy loomed over her like a winged harpy. “Cute? That’s all I’m getting? Cute?”

“What? You want a play-by-play?”

“Duh.”

“Fine. I said ‘hello’ and he said ‘hello’ and I felt stupid. And he said, ‘I’m Dez Batiste,’ and then I said—”

“The Dez Batiste?”

Eleanor stopped fiddling with the candlesticks. “The Dez Batiste who’s opening the nightclub. The Dez Batiste you threw your panties at back in ’04. The Dez Batiste who—”

“OMG!” Pansy clasped her hands and ran to the window. “Can’t believe I didn’t make the connection. He’s more filled out than he was back then. Seems taller, but then again he stayed at the piano the one time I saw him. Oh, but the way he played. Like he made love to that piano. I swear to God, I’d never seen anything like it. I got wet just watching him.”

“Pansy.” Eleanor made a frowny face.

“Oh, don’t be such a Puritan.” Pansy glanced at Eleanor. “But I’m not kidding. I felt guilty looking at Eddie for the rest of the week, but don’t worry, I didn’t throw those panties.”

“Too much information.”

Pansy laughed. “Uh, right. He was too young anyway, but I did have some of those The Graduate fantasies.”

“The man’s trying to bring in a bar when we just got rid of Maggio’s. Don’t you remember wading through puke to open the store? Or how about the night you worked late and someone broke into your car? Or maybe you’ll remember the drunk asleep in the alcove who pooped by the garbage bin?”

Pansy twisted her lips. “But it’s Dez Batiste. He’s back in New Orleans. And I can’t imagine that he’d—”

“A bar is a bar. It’s not going to bring us business. It will only be a headache. Trust me.”

Pansy walked toward the register. “You need to get laid.”

“You need to do your job,” Eleanor said, heading for the rear of the store and her small office, which was crammed into a room the size of a coat closet. Damn Pansy for not being on her side.

“I do my job every day,” Pansy called, her tone slightly hurt but more perturbed. Pansy didn’t take crap off anyone...not even her employers and friend. “And you still need a good f—”

“Don’t say it,” Eleanor growled, slamming her office door, blocking out Pansy and her unwanted advice.

Eleanor sank against the door and gave a heavy sigh.

Sweet Mary Mother of Jesus, she’d been such a fool.

Dez Batiste.