Fully Dressed Page 9

  “Shit.” The weather was nothing to mess with in New Orleans or the surrounding bayou. Flooding happened at the drop of a hat and it was indiscriminate in whether it affected residential areas or not. Henry’s place was up on a bit of a rise, but nothing was high enough for the torrential downpours that NOLA was known for. According to the forecast, the rain that was currently a steady drizzle wasn’t going to let up for the next five days, with the heaviest bands moving into the area in about an hour and lingering for seventy-two. He was going to have to make sure Poppy was okay. Or rather, check on Henry’s place. If she was there, whatever.

  “Double shit.”

  “You okay, boss?” His office administrator poked her head in his door. She knew he talked to himself regularly, but he hadn’t realized how loud he’d been.

  “Fine, Greta. Have you seen the weather? I think we’d better close up shop so folks can go prep their homes.”

  “Already done. I’ve let anyone who asked to leave earlier go, and the rest got ready last night. They’ll finish out the workday but I think we’ll be stuck at home for a few days.”

  “Right. Thanks. You’d best go home now, too. I take it they’ve let school out?”

  Greta laughed. “Yeah, my kids have already texted me a grocery list of the snacks they want on hand.”

  “Stay safe and we’ll stay in touch about when to return to work.”

  He’d been so wrapped up in finding Jeb he’d missed the weather threat until now. Thinking about Poppy’s heat for him, and she had been hot for him, hadn’t helped, either. If she was still here he couldn’t see her—it’d only lead to more crazy. Checking the weather and local news again he saw that the airport was still open but expected to shut down within the next several hours.

  First, he’d try her cell. If she was still in town he’d have to convince her to get out and fly back to where she came from. Gerbil habitat and all.

  * * * *

  The Piggly Wiggly grocery cashier didn’t bat an eye at Poppy’s order as it passed by her on the rubber belt. The well-groomed, if a bit heavy on the blue eye shadow, woman moved her crimson acrylic nails over the register keyboard as she scanned a brick of processed cheese followed by a can of spicy tomatoes. Poppy half expected the cashier to say something about her lack of nutritional food. Hell, she judged her poor choices but still planned to indulge. Cow Tales, Chocolate Kisses, and other junk food joined the array of colorful fruits and veggies she couldn’t resist. The Piggly Wiggly’s produce section was robust and cheery, a happy place on the overcast day. A bright spot in the perpetual gloom of the depression she’d sunk into. She’d failed to keep her best friend’s wedding from being canceled and oh, by the way, lost the biggest deal of her career, probably her life. How was she expected to recover from this without licorice whips? Register five’s cashier, “Brandy” according to the embroidered name above her heart, rang up the last item, a half-gallon of Blue Bunny ice cream Bunny Tracks, and raised one perfectly drawn red eyebrow at Poppy. “That all, sugar?”

  “Yes.” Wasn’t her sugarfest enough?

  “How about a case of water?”

  “Water?”

  “Storm’s hitting tonight. Last time it was this big there was no drinking local water without boiling it first. It lasted for two weeks.”

  “Okay, two cases of water.” Poppy didn’t need to be strong or act like a know-it-all. Not to the ageless copper redhead cashing her out.

  “Got it. Jimmy!” The petite woman bellowed in a volume to match a pro wrestler’s. “Two cases on five!” She turned back to Poppy.

  “You visiting, sugar?”

  “Yes. Housesitting for a friend.” She pushed back her greasy bangs. Showering had been too much of an effort since the wedding. Since that awful phone call from Carolyn.

  Since the most incredible sex of her life, and even that had been one-sided. Brandon hadn’t wanted her to reciprocate. Add “failed blow job attempt” to her list of reasons to stay depressed.

  “Did your friend show you where they keep their canoe?”

  “A boat?” An immediate image of Brandon standing in his flat-bottomed boat flashed in her mind. “No, I’m pretty sure they don’t have a boat.”

  “Then you better find out which neighbors do, sugar. There’s going to be flooding if the weather guessers are right, and you’re going to need a way out of your place, just in case. You might want to try to get a hotel reservation, if there are any left.”

  “Um, we’re up on a hill. I’ll be fine. Thanks.” She silently begged the chip reader to finish digesting her credit card’s code.

  Cashier Brandy cackled. “Sweetheart, there are no ‘hills’ in these parts.” Fluorescent purple nails highlighted her air quotes. “Some patches of property are higher than others, but we’re all on the tributary around this neighborhood. When you’re right at or below sea level it’s all the same, trust me.”

  Ding. Finally. She grabbed her card and her cart, filled with three week’s worth of self-pity food for her remaining eight days in New Orleans. The bayou, she reminded herself. Not NOLA proper, where she’d had the best kiss of her life and the worst phone call of her life. For a city below sea level NOLA packed a wallop of life’s extremes.

  “Thanks for the suggestions, Brandy.”

  She beat feet out of the Piggly Wiggly and threw her goods into the trunk before she scrambled into the luxurious interior of Sonja’s car. Blasting the air against the heavy humidity, she drove the short distance through three or so neighborhoods until she reached the turnoff to the river house. It was hard to believe that all of these streets would be under water. It was January, not spring or summer, when she imagined the truly heavy rains came. And hurricane season was over, wasn’t it?

  As she pulled onto the short gravel driveway she frowned at the strange vehicle in front of the garage. Damn it. If Henry was back then she’d have to leave. And if he’d brought Sonja with him, she’d have to leave now to give the couple space.

  Poppy parked the car, got out, and went to the front door. She’d bring the groceries inside in a minute. First she had to determine whether it was the bride, groom, or both who’d returned.

  The decorative front door opened to the empty house and she looked around the foyer and living room. “Hello?”

  At no response she listened for running water. Maybe Henry or Sonja were in the bathroom. Walking further inside, she checked the kitchen, dining room, and side balcony. No one.

  Sighing, she put her purse down on the counter and continued into the family room. And stopped short, fighting a scream at the unexpected man sitting there.

  Brandon.

  Maybe her blues were making her crazy and this was a hallucination. The man had terrorized her dreams and popped into her waking thoughts all day, every day since last Saturday.

  “Hello, Yankee girl.”

  He sat on the sofa, poring over her portfolio albums. It was her personal, safe place to work on her artistic visions while in the house. The invasion was as physical as if he’d broken into her own home and ransacked her most private rooms.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Only after a long moment did Brandon look up and study her, much as he’d been doing with her design concepts. His eyes widened as he took her in from head to toe, and damn it if her skin didn’t feel an electric jolt of heat from his attention.

  “What’s going on with you? You feel okay?” He nodded at her, as if she’d shown up in her worn terry bathrobe with used tissues in the pockets. She looked down at her pull-on Capri yoga pants and wrinkled T-shirt. The robe might have been a better choice, if it weren’t already draped over the sofa.

  “I feel fine, thank you, and you didn’t answer me. How did you get in here? Wait—Henry keeps a key with you, I suppose. You knew I was here—why didn’t you call first?”

  “I did try t
o call and text. Your voicemail is full or your phone is off. I even emailed you through your website. And there’s a spare key under the front flowerpot as backup.”

  She’d shut her phone off Saturday night and refused to go online since holing up here. Or rather, house-sitting. The thought of someone being able to unlock what had been her fortress since the wedding made her shiver. Was anything what it seemed?

  “I’m too busy to have outside distractions right now.” She crossed her arms over her chest, dreadfully aware of the thin comfort bra she wore under the crumpled top. It wasn’t the best presentation of her breasts. Fine for Piggly Wiggly, but not hot-as-sin Brandon Boudreaux.

  “Do outside distractions include showering?” His comment was dry but non-accusatory. As if maybe he’d had a bout of no-shower days himself. Although his skin looked freshly scrubbed, his hair damp from the sprinkling rain. His teeth contrasted next to his tan skin screamed fit and healthy. Completely opposite of how she knew she appeared.

  “I prefer baths, and my hair needed deep conditioning.” What made him an expert on female beauty regimens?

  “Stay down here long enough and the humidity is all the moisturizer you need.” He snapped her largest journal closed, the one with all of the Southern-inspired designs, and held it up in the air. “You did this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever think of interior decorating, design? Instead of being a personal stylist?”

  “That’s what I was doing with my Attitude by Amber line.” Using the past tense hurt her heart.

  “I want you to outfit the cabin on a boat I’m building.”

  “I’m not into boats.”

  He held up a hand. “I know you’re all busy with your brand deal, but I promise I’ll pay you well. Your nautical take on furniture in this book lends perfectly to what I need in this boat. I realize you’ll have to work around your Attitude by Amber launch. But since you might be stuck here longer with the weather coming in, it’ll give you something to fill the hours.”

  “I…I don’t have much to do with that deal right now.” He hadn’t picked up on her clue that Attitude by Amber was off the table, which was just fine. She didn’t have to admit her failure. Not yet. Not to him. Especially not to him.

  “It’d be a new area for me. Outfitting boats.” She was reluctant to meet his gaze but when she did, his blue eyes assessed her without scorn. His arms looked buff and strong in his T-shirt. She remembered how wonderful it had felt to let go in the most basic, intimate way in those arms. They’d feel good in a hug while she cried on his shoulder, too.

  She stood up straight and reminded herself that she didn’t need anyone’s shoulder.

  He cocked his head. “So you’ll do it?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You’ve been a stylist for several of my clients. And I know you’ve been on their boats. So you’ve already seen what I do.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I have. I didn’t know they were your boats at the time. It seems we’ve both created businesses that attract the same client demographic.” A demographic she wanted to change. She’d learned so much from her high-end clients, as much from the divas as the humble. But it wasn’t enough anymore.

  He scratched the back of his head, looking a little less comfortable than he had when she’d walked in on him.

  “This is a bit off topic, but what do you do for your male clients? As a stylist.”

  Standing in Sonja’s house, in jeans and a T-shirt, he looked every bit the sexy man he was, and it would be too easy to give him an erotic reply. Just for the hell of it. If she was freshly showered, and her hair wasn’t plastered to her scalp in her best pity-party style.

  “I help them decide on a basic look that they’re comfortable in, and riff on that. Take your jeans and T-shirt. You seem to make a uniform out of it, so I’d suggest keeping the jeans but updating them, and maybe putting a collared shirt over your T-shirts.”

  He looked down at his outfit as if seeing it for the first time. “I spend my days either on a computer or the phone, negotiating deals, and the rest of the time building boats. I don’t need fancy. Not usually.”

  “Do you ever give your clients tours of your facility? You said you’ve been to Manhattan to deliver your boats. Do you meet your customers dressed like that?”

  “I have several suits for when I need them.”

  “Off the rack, right?” At his shrug she continued. “There’s nothing wrong with that, but you’re selling million-dollar products. You need to look the part of the successful business owner.”

  “Maybe in Manhattan but not here. People in the bayou are more laid-back. Visitors expect the local charm.”

  “Give me a break. Southern style, especially here in New Orleans, takes its cue from the early settlers. The Duke of New Orleans and French culture in general has left an indelible mark here. Just look at all the fleur-de-lis!”

  “Someone’s been reading her history.”

  Brandon didn’t miss a thing. He must have seen the thick book on New Orleans she’d pulled off Henry’s shelf, lying on the wide ottoman. And he mocked her for it. Didn’t he realize a trip into the complicated, rich history of this area was the best kind of escape when your life was in shambles?

  A bright flash of light startled her but not nearly as much as the immediate crack of thunder. “What is this, the Great Flood? It sounds like Poseidon’s right over the house.” She shouted at him, needing to be heard over the sudden cloudburst.

  Brandon was unmoved by her declaration, his hands on his hips, his face down. As if he were shoring up for a huge battle, calculating his next move. When he looked back up his blue eyes reflected the stormy winds that lashed crepe myrtle branches against the windows.

  Awareness, as intense as it was instant, pulsed desire through her veins. It all pooled between her legs and she knew her panties weren’t daintily damp but in fact dripping with her want. Her need.

  “I didn’t come here to talk about business, Poppy.”

  Chapter 9

  Poppy’s eyes were Southern Comfort laced with Cajun spice—the kind that burned your tongue if you got too much of it. Even in her obvious state of depression over what he assumed was her recent breakup, she was a sexy woman. Her wrinkled clothes did nothing to hide the ample roundness of her breasts or the succulent nipples pushing against her top. The pull-on yoga kind of pants, but shorter, revealed more curvy parts that included her sumptuous ass. His fingers itched to run over the round cheeks, to see if they were as ample yet as firm as they had felt in his hands last week. And her bare calves—angels didn’t have such beautiful, creamy skin. Angels definitely didn’t have red toenails with daisies painted on them.

  The daisies pushed him over the edge from the constant awareness he’d had of her since she’d walked into the house to a full-blown, pushing-against-the-crotch of his jeans erection. And she probably hadn’t showered in a few days.

  “Christ.” Another flash, a long rumble of thunder. He couldn’t do this. Not with her, not in his brother’s house. “I’m here to check on the house, to see if it’ll hold up through the rain. You know about the weather reports, right?”

  She tugged at the bottom of her shirt. “The grocery cashier mentioned it. I got a couple of cases of water, and—oh, shit!” Her eyes grew round and she turned and ran for the front door.

  “Poppy, wait, you can’t go running out in this lightning.” He followed her, figuring the deluge would stop her. Yankee girl wasn’t from these parts and no amount of lightning was going to waylay her, however.

  Wind slammed the oak door open and Poppy ran out to her car, slipping and sliding on the wet pebbles. Lightning flashed like a strobe through the sheets of tropical rain. His brain registered that the rain wasn’t going to stop for a long time—this was catastrophic, flood-making rain.

  Poppy wasn’t stopping, either, as sh
e struggled with the handle on the passenger door of what he thought must be Sonja’s car. He caught up to her and stopped, watching the rain run in streams down her smooth, flawless neck as she reached into the BMW SUV and pulled a couple of Piggly Wiggly bags off the seat. Her T-shirt was no longer baggy but clung to her. He reached out and touched her shoulder. It would be easy to lie to himself, say it was a concerned contact, a physical way to get through to her in her obvious state of dismay over whatever was inside the vehicle.

  All he wanted was for her to do exactly what she did. Close the door, turn around, face him. Look up at him through the torrent, allow him to see how her large nipples were outlined by the soaked fabric, reassuring him that their time on the gazebo hadn’t been a dream. Her amber eyes were liquid sex and the heat in them blew away his last shred of resistance.

  He pushed his pelvis up against hers, giving her time to change her mind, even as her lips let go of a moan and she tilted her head back against the body of the car. The heat between her legs made his erection painful as it strained through the denim. When Poppy put her hands on his waist and wrapped her leg over his hip, he followed the rain and let go.

  A flood of lust, desire, and sexual frustration that had built since he’d seen her last overflowed his mental restraint and he held her face in his hands as he kissed her. It wasn’t anything sentimental or romantic—it was pure need, greedy and unapologetic. Need for the most intriguing woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Her tongue was hot and she didn’t only match him stroke for stroke but she demanded her take of him, too.

  He wanted to worship her, cradle her breasts but he had to have her close to him, part of him, so he wrapped one arm around her waist and one lower, grasping her hard little ass in his hand.

  A soft splat as the bags hit the ground and Poppy’s arms wound around his neck. This time it was Poppy pressing against him, her breasts flattened on his chest.