Page 2 of New Orleans Rush

The most fascinating moment of her gray day.

Aside from the subtle blond scruff highlighting dramatic cheekbones and his aquiline nose, Huxley wasn’t traditionally handsome. Puckered skin overtook half an eyebrow, part of his right ear was missing, and a thick scar ran down his left cheek. His dirty-blond hair had a slight unruly curl, the ends licking at his neck.

Individually, his features weren’t particularly attractive, but as a whole this man was ruggedly elegant. Like when you stepped back from a Monet and all the paint strokes blended into a masterpiece.

Until he said, “Bee, as in the insect?”

Now he was more of a disturbing Picasso painting than a Monet masterpiece. “As in Beatrice Baker, but make a bee joke and I might borrow your cape after all. See if I can use its dormant magic to turn you into a colon rectum.”

He barked out a laugh. “Excuse me?”

She fixed him with her best menacing stare. “A colon rectum. It’s an ugly beetle.”

Frequently taunted with “bee” jokes as a kid, Bea had studied insects and animals. The odder the name the better. Using the insults against bullies would often confuse them into silence. It had a different effect on Huxley, whose striking cheekbones rounded, his lips curving upward like he’d stumbled upon a four-leaf clover in a barren land.

She found herself leaning toward him. “Are you from New Orleans?”

“I am. But you’re not.”

She froze, worry weaving up her spine. He wouldn’t know she’d just arrived from Chicago, unless he’d followed her here. Not impossible, but the one person who would have tailed her was even taller, with a slight paunch. Big Eddie could have sent someone else after her—an accomplice to intimidate and threaten. Except a gun for hire wouldn’t waltz around, brazenly, wearing a cape and top hat, and Big Eddie had no clue where she was.

She relaxed on her seat. “How’d you know I’m not local?”

“Deductive reasoning.”

“Because you’re a clairvoyant with a photographic memory and can tell me every meal I’ve eaten the past week?”

Amusement lit his eyes. “My ways are much simpler than that.”

“Do share.”

He pointed at her lap. “The keychain on your purse is a dead giveaway.”

Right. The Chicago Bulls tag. A gift from her ex-boyfriend on their third date. She didn’t love basketball, but the keepsake had been sweet. It was now a sour memory. She removed it from her purse zipper and tossed it onto the bar. “Now I’ll blend in.”

Huxley’s posture shifted, shrinking the distance between them. “A woman as beautiful as you doesn’t blend.”

Whoa.

Her pulse tapped up her neck, her rapid breaths chasing the erratic beat. She tried to decipher the odd color of his eyes, but the dim lighting made it tough, and a man bellowed Huxley’s name from the back of the room, breaking the moment.

Huxley turned, and she gawked at the hollering man…because mustaches like his were extinct. That was a mustache wearing a face, the type of hairy handlebar that could serve as a playground for miniature children. A monkeybar-stache! She snickered at her internal joke and checked her drink again. It was still half-full, but her day no longer felt half-empty, thanks to the cape-wearing man before her.

“I’ll be back,” he said, all wonder eclipsing from his Monet face.

Once he joined the owner of the monkeybar-stache, Huxley glanced at her, but the mustache man’s aggressive hand gestures drew his attention away. She sipped her drink and watched the odd interaction, wishing she could read lips.

When she finished her lemon drop, she turned and flagged the bartender. “One more, please.”

He accepted her extended glass. “How ’bout we call this your last? You should head home after, sleep this Guinness Record Day off.”

A brilliant idea, if she had a home, or a bed.

It hadn’t taken much effort to stuff her clothing and paintbrushes back into her duffle bag this morning. She’d then loaded her yellow Beetle—the trusty automobile being the only mainstay in her life—and had sat in her parked car for an unhealthy length of time, replaying today’s disaster.

“Here’s the thing,” Nick had said when she’d woken up this morning. “I’ve changed. I don’t want to be in a committed relationship. It’s best we know this now, before we get in too deep. It’s been fun, and you’re great, but it’s time we moved on.”

She had tugged at her ear, sure her hearing had failed her. “I’m sorry, but it sounds like you’re breaking up with me?”