The MacGregor Grooms (16 page)

And perfume. Never in her life had she owned real perfume. The kind that came in gorgeous bottles, cost the earth and made a woman feel like a queen. Worse, he’d known exactly what kind of scent would appeal to her, would make that glamorous bottle of fragrance irresistible.

She’d decided he’d been born knowing how to get to a woman.

But the trinket box had nearly done her in. It was so foolish, so useless, so pretty. She’d never had the time or opportunity to indulge in the foolish and useless, hadn’t realized such things would give her such pleasure.

Wrapped in a towel, she crossed the tiny cabin and picked up the box from where it sat on her little dresser. It was glossy white on white with a little pink bow at the tip of the heart. And it was empty, as she had no trinkets to put inside.

But it made her smile.

Still, she set it down and began to dress for a day of steamy summer heat. She knew what Dangerous Duncan was up to. It was a kind of campaign, she thought—carefully, strategically planned. And she was the hill he intended to take.

Once he’d won her and planted his flag—so to speak—he’d move on to the next campaign, the next hill.

“That’s what heartbreakers do,” she murmured.

She shrugged, tucking the hem of a simple white T-shirt into simple black shorts. It was fortunate she knew just how to handle him. She slipped on sandals, stuffed some cash in her pocket, then grabbed her cap and sunglasses.

When she pulled open her door, Duncan was just raising a hand to knock.

“Good, you’re up.”

It jolted her coming face-to-face with him when he’d been so heavily on her mind, and that was irritating. But she swung her glasses casually by the earpiece and cocked her head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you rarely climb out of bed until after noon.”

She only smiled. “Then why would you be knocking on my door at nine in the morning?”

“To wake you up. But since you’re up, dressed and ready, we’ll have more time. Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Ever been to New Orleans?” In a subtle move, he reached behind her and pulled the door closed.

“No. But that’s my current plan.”

“Great. We’ll start with beignets at Café du Monde like proper tourists. Are those shoes comfortable?”

“Yeah. My current plans were solo, sugar.”

“Adjust them,” he suggested as he nudged her along to the steps. “I’ve spent a lot of time in New Orleans. One of my favorite places.” He kept right on talking as he steered her up on deck, toward the gangplank. “It shows best at night, but there’s a lot to be said for it on a sultry summer day. It’s all atmosphere. You like seafood?”

“I like food.”

“Good. I know a great place for lunch.”

“Look, Duncan—”

He stopped, turned, slid his hands up her arms to her shoulders and pinned her with one of those long, focused looks. “Spend the day with me.”

Oh yeah, she thought with an inward sigh. The man had a way. “Why not, but you’re buying.”

It was like walking through a hot river, and she loved it. Every steamy step. In the French Quarter, the buildings were grand, elegant, feminine with their fussy balconies and tumbling flowers. The smells were rich, undertoned with the warm smell of decay. The streets were narrow, the parks green, the pace sleepy and slow.

She’d eaten three beignets and had sampled a sip of Duncan’s café au lait. She’d listened to the patter of Cajun French and the clip-clop of horses pulling carriages around Jackson Square. With him she’d wandered along, studying the sidewalk artists and their wares and had laughed delightedly at a charcoal caricature of Elvis.

Because the day called for it, they strolled hand-in-hand, under huge, shady trees, along blistering sidewalks.

She stopped to watch three young boys tap-dancing in a square, their faces gleaming with sweat, their feet fast and clever. And she noted that Duncan dropped bills into their cardboard box instead of coins.

Generous, she thought. Carelessly and sweetly so.

“Those kids probably make a killing every afternoon,” she commented.

“They earn it. Ready for lunch?”

She laughed. “Sugar, I’m always ready.”

She’d expected him to take her to some fancy restaurant where the tables were draped in linen and the waiters were discreetly efficient. She’d been completely prepared to be unimpressed. Instead he steered her into a dimly lit, crowded café where the tables were bare, scarred wood shoved up against one another family style, the napkins were paper and the menu was scrawled on a chalkboard.

It was, Cat thought, two steps up from a dive, and exactly her style.

The woman behind the counter was enormous, three feet wide if she was an inch. The apron she wore was big as a tent and stained with splashes of color and shapes that reminded Cat of an abstract painting.

Her moon-size ebony face was smooth as satin and creased into a huge smile when her eyes lit on Duncan.

“There’s that handsome boy! Come give Mama a kiss.”

He grinned, leaned over and gave her a hard, smacking one on the mouth. “
Bonjour,
Mama.
Ça va?
”

“
Oui, oui.
It comes, it goes. Who’s this skinny girl you bring me?”

“Cat, this is Mama. She’s the best there is.”

“Cat? Well, she looks like a cat. We gonna feed you up here,
chère.
”

“I’m counting on it.” Cat took a deep sniff. “Smells like paradise.”

“Paradise.” Mama slapped a hand on her belly as if to hold it in place as she let out a rolling laugh. “Go take your skinny girl and sit. I fix you up.” She waved them away.

“You don’t order?” Cat asked as she sat across from Duncan at one of the wobbly tables.

“I take what she gives me.” He flashed a smile. “And I like it. So will you.”

He couldn’t have been more right, Cat decided, as she plowed her way through barbecued shrimp, a mountain of dirty rice and corn bread. Her only comment when Duncan slid two of his shrimp from his plate to hers was a muffled grunt of assent.

Nursing his beer, he watched her eat. He’d watched her before, and marveled. She had the appetite of a starving trucker.

“Why aren’t you as big as Mama?”

“Um. Nothing sticks,” she said with her mouth full. “But I keep trying.”

He laughed, sipped his beer. “Better save room for dessert. She makes a killer pecan pie.”

“Pecan pie?” Cat swallowed and glanced over at the glass-fronted display of desserts. “Ice cream on the side?”

He shook his head in amazed admiration. “Sure, if you want.”

“Do.” When her plate was all but licked clean, she sat back and blew out a breath. “Good stuff.”

“I never miss a trip to Mama’s if I can help it.” He leaned forward. “Here, you’ve got a little sauce.” He rubbed his thumb at the corner of her mouth, then stayed as he was, looking at her, touching her. Wanting her. “And a great mouth,” he murmured. “Let me just … help you out with it.”

He kept leaning forward, easing off the chair until he could fit his mouth over hers. His hand slid around, skimming her ear, then cupping her neck, with those long fingers gently kneading.

Her heart dropped down to her toes, then bounced into her throat.

He was doing it to her again. Making her mind fuzz, her skin shiver. The clatter from the late lunch crowd dimmed away, and her system was suddenly full of the scent of him instead of the spices, the sauces.

But she could handle him, she told herself as her lips parted. Later.

“Boy, you let that girl alone till she eats her pie.” Mama gave Duncan an affectionate whack on the butt.

Wanting to take just a bit more of Cat’s taste with him, Duncan scraped his teeth lightly over her bottom lip before he broke the kiss. He kept his eyes on Cat’s as he sat again. “She wants ice cream with her pie, Mama.”

“Well, don’t I got it right here?” Chuckling, she dumped the plates in front of them and scooped up the dirty dishes. Then she winked at Cat. “Him, he got a fine mouth for kissing, eh?”

“Yeah.” Determined not to sigh, Cat picked up her fresh fork. “It’s not bad,” she said, then took the first bite of pie. “But this,” she added, closing her eyes. “This is a miracle.”

“She eats good.” Mama gave Duncan a bat on the shoulder. “Be smart. Keep this one.”

“I really ought to introduce Mama to my grandfather,” Duncan commented when Mama glided away. “They think alike.”

“Really?” Cat ate more pie and wondered what a black cook from New Orleans and a staggeringly wealthy Scot from Hyannis Port could have in common.

“Yeah. They both think I should be married and raising a small herd of children. One or the other is
always trying to fix me up.”

Cat swirled ice cream in pie and lifted her eyebrows as she studied his sharply handsome face. “You don’t look like you need help in that area, sugar.”

“Tell them.” He gestured with his beer, sipped, then decided it would be entertaining to see her reaction to his grandfather’s latest scheme. “The MacGregor handpicked you for me.”

She blinked, and for the first time since he’d met her, appeared completely at sea. “Huh?”

“My grandfather. He wants me to marry you.”

Now she laughed and went back to her pie. “Get out.”

“I’m serious. Girl’s got grit,” he said, dramatically rolling his
r
’s. “Guts. Good blood, strong stock.”

“How would he know? I barely met him.”

“You’d be surprised how much he knows. The man’s uncanny—and tenacious. I figured it was only fair to let you know what he has in mind.”

She drummed her fingers on the table, trying to figure the angle, and simply couldn’t find it. “Do you do everything your granddaddy tells you?”

“Nope. So rest easy, darling. That wasn’t a marriage proposal. I didn’t figure it out until he called a few days ago, checking up.” Grinning now, Duncan settled into his own dessert. “I got the drift and needled him. Told him you were engaged to a piano player. Dabny Pentwhistle.”

“Pentwhistle? What the hell kind of name is that?”

“Exactly what The MacGregor wanted to know. He was pretty disappointed in you, sweetheart,” he added with a wag of his fork. “Wasting your time on some piano player. But he didn’t buy it for long. The old man’s damn sharp. He just married off my cousin D.C.”

“Married off? What is this, medieval Scotland?”

“It’s MacGregor Land,” Duncan said with a grin. “Trouble is, they’re perfect together. D.C. and Layna, I mean. The MacGregor hit a bull’s-eye with them—and he’s done it before, starting with my parents. Makes him cocky.”

She wondered idly if Duncan was going to eat all of his pie. “He arranged your parents’ marriage?”

“No, just finagled it so that they’d meet, bump into each other. The rest was up to them. He’s been working on the second generation the last few years. And he’s batting a thousand. Up to me.”

She was far from understanding it, but she nodded. “And you intend to ruin his batting average.”

“I intend to live my own life, make my own choices.” His fingers slid over the table to toy with hers. “But I do admire his taste.”

“Hmm. Weird.” Then she shrugged it off and worked on polishing off her pie. “You’ve got yourself a very strange family, sugar.”

“Darling, you don’t know the half of it.”

Later, they walked off the meal in the high heat and moist air, ducking into shops now and then to court the chill of air-conditioning and browse. When he caught her eyeing a tin of pralines, he roared with laughter.

“You can’t possibly be hungry again.”

“Not now,” she said with a gleam in her eye. “But I will be, so why not be prepared?”

He bought them for her—not the little tin she’d looked at, but one big enough to feed a greedy family of four. And made her laugh.

She liked him, she thought. Really, really liked him. And that, combined with the sneaky animal lust she was experiencing, made for a difficult combination to resist. The first was bound to nudge her into acting on the second.

Be prepared, Cat warned herself as he pulled her into yet another shop. And get out alive.

This shop was full of trinkets and jewelry. Colored stones and crystals winked in glass cases or were draped artfully over walls and shelves. Lining the side were three curtained alcoves where the curious—and to Cat’s mind the gullible—could have their fortunes told.

She wandered idly, toying with pretty dust catchers while Duncan perused one of the cases. She heard a sale ring up and shook her head without much interest. The man—she’d come to note—just loved tossing his money away.

When he tapped her on the shoulder, she turned, and he slipped a thin gold chain over her head.

“What’s this?” Frowning, she scooped up the sword-shaped yellow gem dangling from the chain. It was lovely, polished to a gleam and slim as a running tear.

“Citrine. Stimulates communication—and voice projection.” He smiled at her. “Excellent stone for performers.”

“Get out.” But her fingers had closed around it. “You don’t believe stuff like that.”

“Darling, I’m Celt and Comanche. I
know
stuff like that. Besides, it suits you, Catherine Mary.”

He had the pleasure of seeing surprise, consternation and vague annoyance flicker over her face before she controlled it. “How do you know my full name?”

“Just one of the many other things I know. Want your palm read?”

“Now that’s really bunk.”

“Then it won’t hurt you.” He drew her to the counter to arrange payment for a reading.

“Fine. You got money to burn, go ahead.”

She’d never considered herself superstitious. Never traveling without her lucky cap was just a tradition, after all. So she sat in the little alcove, smirked at the pretty young woman who took her hand and waited to be told she’d be taking a long voyage and meeting a tall, dark stranger.

“You have a strong hand,” the woman said with a sweet smile. “An old soul.”

Cat rolled her eyes toward Duncan, who leaned against the wall. “Yeah, I’m ancient.”

“You’ve suffered loss, sorrow and struggle.”

“Who hasn’t?” Cat muttered, but the woman only stroked her palm with a fingertip.

“You use them and they’ve made you strong. You chose your direction at a young age, and it’s rare for you to look back instead of forward. Passions, ambitions. You take care to make decisions with your head. Do you think your heart is unreliable?”