Any Way You Want It. Kathy Love
Maggie rose from her barstool, turning to check if she’d left anything behind, only to realize that all she had was her purse—and that was in her hand.
She pulled in a deep breath, attempting to calm herself. She’d managed to stay composed through the band’s long set. There was no point to falling apart now.
In fact, she decided, this was for the best. What did she really expect to happen anyway? That Erika’s prediction had come true, and whatever happened with the musician and the music was Marie Laveau’s doing? That a voodoo priestess had somehow led her here? It was time to go back to the hotel and crawl into bed, as she’d been longing to do all night long.
She glanced back at the bar again, looking for what, she didn’t know. Darn, she was flustered.
“Okay, let’s…” Her words faded as she turned back to her friends to find herself staring at a V of chest and dark hair. Both familiar.
“Were you leaving?”
Maggie hesitated. Something inside warned her she should just say yes and head back to the hotel. After all, she was out of her element with this man. He had probably just come over now because he realized that, silly person that she was, she had actually thought he meant what he’d said earlier. So, now he felt obligated to come speak to her.
“It’s still loud in here. And hot,” he said, tugging at his shirt, which again drew her attention to his chest. He gestured to one of the side doors leading to the street. “Want to step outside with me?”
Maggie hesitated. While the bar had emptied out considerably, the pop music did make it hard to talk. And humidity did make the air thick and damp. Although she noticed he didn’t appear sweaty at all—not even flushed. She suspected she did.
She glanced at Jo and Erika. Erika grinned, widening her eyes with encouragement. Jo wasn’t as eager as Erika, but she didn’t give any signal that she thought Maggie should avoid him.
Maggie nodded. “Sure. It is kind of loud.”
Again that amazing smile appeared. He started to reach out as if he intended to touch her, perhaps place his hand on the small of her back, but then he dropped it back to his side.
“This way,” he said, again gesturing to the side door.
They stepped out onto the sidewalk, a cracked slab of stained concrete. The street they stood on ran perpendicular to Bourbon. Bourbon was still alive with partyers, despite the hour.
“I’m Ren Anthony, by the way,” he said offering his hand.
“Maggie Gallagher,” she said, accepting his hand, immediately remembering his hands as he held the mic. She’d thought he had nice hands then, but touching them, she realized they went beyond nice. They were…lovely. Long fingers and broad palms, an artist’s hand, strong and sculpted, but with a slight roughness of calluses, as if they’d known physical work too. Her body reacted instantly; energy zinged up her arm and throughout her body. Then he released her.
“Does anyone ever sleep in this city?” she asked, grabbing onto the first thought that came into her mind.
Ren turned to watch a large group of what appeared to be middle-aged men and their wives wander down the middle of Bourbon, loud and giddy.
“During the day,” he said. Then he turned back to her. “Did you come here to sleep? Because if you did, you are in the wrong place.”
She recalled her friends sharing a similar sentiment with her earlier. Although Maggie hardly saw it as a sign, Erika would. Maggie wasn’t that impractical, though. After all, New Orleans was a party-all-night kind of place.
But she did consider his question. “No. I didn’t come here to sleep.”
“So what did you come here for?”
Maggie met his gaze, realizing for the first time since they’d stepped outside that she’d been avoiding looking at him. But he’d managed to ask the question of the night, and that surprised her. What had she come here for? What did she expect from this vacation?
For the first time, she considered the idea seriously, that it might not just be to relax. Maybe she was looking for the fling that her friends said she needed. She considered telling him that, but she didn’t have the courage. Her gaze left his and dropped back to the stained sidewalk.
“Does my eye bother you?”
Maggie’s head snapped up. What? Why would his eye bother her?
Then for the first time, she realized why one eye looked so different. She’d noticed it was different back in the bar, but out here, surrounded by streetlights and the lights of the other buildings, she could see why it looked unusual.
While the lashes of his right eye were dark brown, a shade or two darker than his hair, the lashes of his left eye were perfectly white. Devoid of all pigmentation.
She couldn’t help but stare for a moment. It was so dramatic. And fascinating to look at.
Finally, she remembered he’d asked her a question.
“No. Your eye doesn’t bother me. It’s actually rather interesting.”
He smiled slightly—not the same as the smiles she’d seen before, though. This one looked hard, somehow. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re not worried it could be an evil eye or something? This is New Orleans. Voodoo and all that.”
There was a joking quality to his tone, yet like his smile, the amusement didn’t seem to reach his eyes.
“Well, I’m not sure about all the voodoo,” she said, offering him a small smile, “but I’m pretty sure your eye is fine.”
She smiled until she realized his gaze was locked on her lips. His eyes moved up to meet hers. A zing of awareness shot through her just as it had when their eyes met while he was onstage. The haunting strains of the song he’d been playing suddenly echoed in her mind.
“So is this just a vacation?” he asked, drawing her back to the moment, the music and the strange energy shattering and rippling away like the still waters of a pond when a rock is thrown into it.
“Yes.” She pulled in a breath, trying to gather herself. “For ten days. We’re staying right there,” she pointed to the large, many-windowed hotel across the street.
His gaze followed her gesture and held there long enough that Maggie began to wonder what held his attention so. Then he turned back to her.
“You probably shouldn’t announce that. Unless you want strange men to follow you home.” He smiled, the curling at the edges returned, though something was different about his eyes. “Do you?”
Maggie blinked, still trying to understand the strange, almost haunted look in his eyes.
“Do I what?” She totally missed what he was asking.
“Do you want strange men to follow you home?”
Her body reacted to the question instantly. He was flirting with her. Unbelievably, he really was. She had no idea how to deal with that.
“So do you live in the French Quarter?” she managed to ask, opting to ignore his question and get the conversation on some sort of normal ground.
He nodded, and again she noticed how silky his hair looked framing his face.
“I live on St. Ann,” he told her. “Why? Did you want to follow me home?”
She swallowed. Wow, she really was out of her element here. Guys did not flirt with her. They just didn’t. Except this one, and she had no idea how to respond. Her gaze dropped to the ground. Gum, beer caps, crushed cigarettes—these things she could understand.
Then a hand touched her, strong fingers gentle as they nudged her face up so her gaze met his.
“I make you uncomfortable, don’t I?”