“You’ve done right by her, Ms. Magnolia, whether she’ll admit it or not.” Bernadette’s caregiver squeezes my arm. “Have a blessed day.”
“You too. Both of you.”
Five
Moses
I see you, mama. And I know you saw me earlier.
I tap my thumb against the leather seat of the Rolls Royce Phantom, a car I picked up in New York for the drive down to NOLA, as the woman I haven’t been able to get out of my mind in fifteen years picks her way down the cracked sidewalk of her French Quarter street. She stops in front of the gate of a bright yellow house with blue shutters to fish a set of keys out of her purse.
Sunshine for the home of a former woman of the night. Others might think it’s an odd choice, but they don’t understand her. Magnolia Marie Maison is a complex woman that no average man would ever be able to unravel.
Lucky for me, I’m far from average. I also plan to spend the rest of my life learning every last one of her secrets.
Magnolia inserts a key into the black metal gate that connects her property to the brick wall of the one beside it. It swings wide and she slips through the opening, glancing behind her as she pulls it shut. I savor the last glimpse of her as she disappears from view—a dress hugging those hot-as-hell curves and her shiny hair blowing in the breeze.
Anticipation rises within me, filling me with purpose, the likes of which I haven’t felt in years. And, fuck, does that feel right. Like I’m finally alive for the first time since I walked away and left her behind.
I never planned to leave her alone for this long.
My fingers flex around the piece of alabaster in my hand.
A less certain man might wonder if she’d know who was sending it when she gets it, but I don’t need to. Magnolia is a scarily intelligent woman. There will be no doubt in her mind where it came from, no matter who delivers it.
My blood pumps faster at the thought of what’s coming next. War, most likely. But not over the streets like I’ve waged before. This time, it’s going to be a battle for a barricaded heart.
Never before has anything been so fucking important.
I won’t rest until she’s mine.
Brace yourself, Magnolia. Another hurricane is coming.
Six
Magnolia
Every time I set foot in my new house, I feel like I can breathe easier. It’s not big, but it’s all mine, and there’s not a single hint of promiscuity attached to it.
No client will ever come knocking.
No man will ever see the inside of my finished bedroom.
Leaving my condo behind is a fresh start in more ways than anyone could ever understand. Not that anyone has spent much time trying to understand me, beyond how they could get me to rescind my I don’t take clients anymore edict.
My contractor is strangely absent, despite the fact that we’re supposed to meet in five minutes to discuss the list of things he needs to complete before I hand him the final check. But that’s okay. It gives me time to walk through the space and allow myself to daydream for a few minutes about what it’s going to be like to live here.
An address in the French Quarter. Not too bad for a girl who’s had to fight like a warrior to survive.
I spin on my heels, taking in the white subway tile of the kitchen backsplash above the massive copper farm sink. I can picture myself standing here, washing up after cooking a fantastic dinner for one.
It exudes peace, and that’s something I haven’t had nearly enough of so far in my life, but I’m banking on having it now. At least, I was until I saw him.
Thoughts of Moses spin through my brain, and I grit my teeth.
“What the hell is he doing back after all this time? And why the hell is he meeting with Mount?” I shake my head and look around the room, but the white walls don’t have any answers for me. At least they’ll keep all my secrets.
I’m upstairs, stepping over drop cloths to check out the progress in my small but luxe bathroom, when I finally hear the bell at the gate.
“It’s about time, Rocco. You’re late.”
Tardiness isn’t something I tolerate well, but I’ve learned my contractor doesn’t work on my schedule. He works on his. Still, his price was right, and he hasn’t tried to fuck me.
Points for him.
My heels click on the refinished hardwood as I make my way down the stairs and outside to the gate. I reach for the handle, not bothering to check the peephole. No one but Keira and Mount know I bought this place, which means I don’t have to be constantly on guard. Thank God for that.
“What the fuck?” I mumble as I open the gate to find a street kid standing outside, bouncing from foot to foot.
“This is for you.” He shoves something at me, and acting solely on instinct, I reach out to take the small but heavy object from him. As soon as he makes the transfer, he spins to leave.
“Hey!” I yell, but he sprints away. I look down at what he dropped into my hand. It’s pure white, cool, and smooth to the touch.
Wait. Is that a pawn? From a chess set?
I shoot out the gate, letting it slam shut behind me as I take off after the kid, running with as much care as I can so I don’t bite it in my designer pumps. He takes a right at the first corner, a couple of buildings down.
Why the fuck is he running? Who sent him?
I get three steps before I collide with a man turning the corner the kid just disappeared around.
He’s startled too. “Whoa. Sorry. Didn’t mean to slam into you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, trying to dodge around him, but he steps the same way, like we’re freaking dancing. “Excuse me.”
I move the other way, and he does too.
“Oh, jeez. Sorry. Really, I—”
By the time I get around him, the kid is gone.
“Fuck.” I breathe the word out with a sigh.
The guy searches behind himself where I’m looking. “Shit. What’d I do? Are you okay?”
I finally look at his face, and just my luck, he’s all golden blond and attractive as hell. Such a waste.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” I wipe the hair out of my face and try to catch my breath. I’m no runner, that’s for sure.
He looks down at me, concern in his predictably blue eyes. “Were you trying to catch that kid who bolted around the corner? Did he steal your purse or something? I can go after him.”
I shake my head. “No. My purse is . . . inside my fucking house.” I release another long groan. “Shit.”
The poster boy for the All-American man winces. “Crap. You locked yourself out?” he asks and scratches the back of his neck. “Damn. I would offer to help you get inside, but . . . I don’t know how to use a lock pick or where you’d even get one. Clearly, my education is incomplete, because helping beautiful women should always be a top priority.”
His comment is also way too predictable. The obvious flirting is nearly too much. “Don’t worry about me, big shot. I’ll be fine. Have a good one.”
I turn to walk back to my gate, trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to break into my own damn house, when he grabs my arm.