Putty in Her Hands Read online

  Six o’clock. He didn’t feel like firing the grill or delving into the contents of his refrigerator. The idea of eating alone at the Riverside or Opera House did not appeal. Not in the mood for Chinese buffet. Maybe he’d get a large sub at the sandwich shop on Main Street, bring it home, and pair it with a red wine. Since Julia had turned him down, he’d watch the sun set alone from his balcony. Sounded like a plan. He put it into execution.

  The last person he expected to see sitting at an outdoor table in front of the new Starbuck’s was Julia Rossi looking very professional dressed in a crisp white blouse and slim dark skirt. Her dark hair, freshly washed, waved over her shoulders. She sat with two other women, acquaintances of his, not sexual but purely business and social. They had their heads together over coffee and high-priced desserts. The locals would say the same of the coffee, claiming they made better and just as strong at home, or in the case of the senior citizens, that Mickey D’s was good enough and you got a free refill. Maybe they could get better pastries at Pommier’s, but the bakery closed at four each day.

  Remy recognized a female cabal when he saw one. He parked on the street not far from where they plotted and walked casually into the buzzing hornet’s nest. “Mind if I join you ladies? Just let me put in my order.”

  In other words, he wasn’t taking no for an answer. The way the volume of their whispers increased when he turned his back told him he’d been the topic of their conversation. He ordered a double espresso and a panini sandwich. Whatever the older generations thought, the interior tables were completely occupied by younger residents immersed in their laptops or engaged in lively conversations. He paid, returned, and took the fourth seat at the ladies’ table.

  “Beautiful evening, lovely company,” he said with his best smile. “We don’t get too many opportunities to sit outside once summer starts. Mrs. Hartz, Mrs. Tauzin, how are your families?”

  Both agreed that their husbands were fine and their children thriving. Mrs. Hartz was still often referred to as the Billionaire’s Cajun Bride as if she’d been the heroine of a romance novel. Starting out a kindergarten teacher, Celine Hartz grew in sophistication being the wife of Jonathan Hartz. She now ran his charitable trust, doling out scholarship money to deserving students and funding worthy projects. Though she must have been heading toward forty, had two half-grown children and one at the Naval Academy, she still possessed a clear olive complexion, luminous brown eyes, and thick, dark hair that might have been touched up, but by the best salon in Lafayette. He’d sat at her table several times during the endless fundraisers the rich were expected to attend and always found her gracious.

  On the other hand, Jane Tauzin was a scrapper when it came to causes she embraced. She fought for the environment and had brought back recycling to the parish, Louisiana’s equivalent of a county. Since her parish councilman husband worked offshore every other week, she took care of business in his absence and ran her own environmental testing company. Remy had hired her a few times to check sites for polluted soil or hidden gas tanks, all of which could drive up the cost of a project so high as to make it unfeasible. Originally a Montana girl, she owned dark green eyes, a perky brown bob, a pretty face, and a nice rack. He would never mention that last fact to anyone. People still called her husband Crazy Merlin Tauzin though he’d stabilized considerably with a wife and two sons in his life. No sane man would want to take him on in a fight. Jane appeared to be around the same age as Julia, early thirties, a few years younger than him.

  Powerful women, all three of them. Was he ready to take them on? No time like the present to start. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important, though I understand why Julia turned down my invitation to dinner if she had better company waiting.”

  Celine raised her eyebrows, and Jane tossed a coy smile in Julia’s direction. Both women finished the final bites of their strawberry-topped cheesecake and last drops of coffee. They left a reply to Julia who seemed caught off guard by his remark. He watched her high breasts rise as she took a breath.

  “As a matter of fact, we met to discuss the fate of the Bayou Queen. We’ve come up with some alternate ideas to tearing her down.”

  “Since I own the hotel, maybe I should have been included.”

  “This was only a brainstorming session. We might try to get the Queen landmark status. The hotel has a long and colorful local history. After I left your place, I stopped by the library. They have a huge file on the hotel, all the balls held there, its role in housing troops on the way to World War I, its use as a hospital during the Civil War—just as I imagined when standing inside its walls.”

  “How about its decline into a boarding house and then a flophouse?” Remy asked.

  Before Julia could stab him with her fork, his coffee and panini arrived at the table. When one sat with the town’s richest maven, the food came to you, no shouting out your name and sitting it on the counter for pickup.

  Julia quelled the look of attack he’d seen in her eyes. She applied the fork to her cheesecake instead, swallowed, and answered, “All that is part of the hotel’s story, if not very glamorous. Jane agreed to begin the process to have the Queen declared a landmark. She’s good with bureaucracy.”

  “Might have been nice to ask me first.”

  “We were getting around to that.”

  Sure, once she’d stirred the bayou waters into a fine froth. Celine Hartz spoke in her soft voice. “Would you consider selling the property to my husband for five times what you paid? The profit to you would be considerable. Then, we’d hire you to oversee the restoration. You certainly did a fine job on this building.”

  Remy could tell that came as news to Julia. Jonathan Hartz had bankrolled the business when a local couple wanted to buy a franchise. People joked that he missed his Seattle coffee so badly he had to bring it to Chapelle. Remy took the empty derelict storefront on Main, repointed the bricks and left some exposed, others covered with plaster for a French Quarter sort of style.

  Evidently, Mrs. Hartz intended to blow his horn for him. “Remy went before the town council to get permission to put up the iron posts that now support what used to be a second-floor screened porch. They’d intended to have the part of the building that jutted over the pavement condemned before it fell on someone. Instead, he reinforced it with metal beams and glassed the area in. The new posts blend in with the character of the town, as do the exposed bricks on the inside. The second floor, all up to code, has become a gathering place for many groups. It has a wonderful view of the green and the church. Jonathan owns the building of course, but rents it to the entrepreneurs at a very reasonable price. The young people find work here, and the property tax has gone way up to the advantage of the town. We know we could trust Remy with an even bigger project.”

  Celine Hartz certainly knew how to add cane syrup to her words. Remy switched to a diplomatic half-smile. “I’m flattered, but I have plans for my own development. The investors approved the project and expect to see it completed within the next year.”

  “Might they not consider a buyout by Jonathan Hartz a better deal?’

  Jane Tauzin fought her way into the conversation. “Move your project elsewhere. Restore and recycle this landmark building. Once it’s gone, we’ll never have another like it. Take the money.” Her Montana roots showed an unseemly Yankee haste.

  Celine consulted a delicate wristwatch, the dial surrounded in tiny diamonds that winked in the late afternoon sun. “My family expects me for dinner shortly. I had my dessert in advance. Please consider our idea with an open mind, Remy.” She offered her hand.

  He rose and shook it, but made no promises. Since Jane also got up, he remained standing and did her the same courtesy.

  “Merlin took the boys for pizza since he’s onshore this week. I’m sure they’ll save a slice or two for me.” She didn’t try to hold Remy to any promises, but said to Julia, “We’ll talk some more.” Still plotting, Remy thought, as both women sauntered off deep in conversation to
the small parking lot at the end of the block. He took his place at the table again.

  “And that leaves us,” he said to Julia. He sipped his coffee and noticed her empty cup. “Can I get you another?”

  “No, thank you. My uncles will wonder where I am.”

  He wanted to keep her right where she was, or better yet, at his place viewing the sunset. “The others hadn’t had their dinner yet. How about you? Want half this panini? I’ll share my chips.” He ripped open the packet.

  “A tempting offer, but I should go.”

  “Your uncles keep you on a pretty short leash, I guess.” He knew that would rile her independent spirit.

  “It’s a family business, but I can do as I please. I simply don’t like to worry them.”

  “Then come back to my place and look at the interior floor plans of my condos. I think you’ll be impressed. They have every amenity. You had no time to study them earlier.” He thought he detected indecision. She didn’t stand to leave. In fact, she pinched a couple of chips from his bag and stalled for time by eating them one by one. He’d bet her lips would taste like salt if he kissed her right now.

  “How did you get to know Celine and Jane?” Julia wasn’t from Chapelle, but she’d sure honed in on its most powerful women.

  “They’ve stopped by Alleman several times to see how the work progressed. Mrs. Hartz owns a couple of Gaylord Getty’s paintings, which your grandmother seems to think are obscene. Both women are very interested in historic preservation.”

  “His paintings are abstracts and can be whatever you want them to be,” Remy said.

  “Like a good prostitute?”

  Her unexpected answer made him laugh and slightly spill the espresso he had raised to his lips. He blotted his mouth with a napkin before the dribble stained the white dress shirt he still wore, sleeves rolled up now to his elbows, strong forearms lightly furred revealed. “I don’t believe Mr. Getty would appreciate the comparison, but yes.

  She stole a few more chips from the bag. No, she hadn’t had dinner. Remy put half his sandwich on a napkin and handed the other to her. She didn’t shove it back. In fact, she bit into the ham and melted cheese. First, feed her, then seduce her. He summoned the deep, double dimpled smile. “You know I’d be putty in your hands if you’d just let us happen.”

  Julia set the sandwich down and replaced it with a glare. “Is that the best you can do for a pickup line? I’ve heard it a hundred times. I’d expect an architect to know that putty and plaster are two very different things.”

  He had prepared for this reaction. “Isn’t lime plaster made with a base of lime putty mixed with sand, water, and fiber?” Remy bit a chunk out of his sandwich while he waited for her reply.

  “I’ll bet you looked that up this afternoon while I was at the library researching the Bayou Queen.” She pointed at him with the crust that remained in her hands.

  He didn’t cop to that plea, even though he had done the deed. Remy merely continued to eat his sandwich and waited for her to let off steam—as lime did when mixed with water.

  “Do you know I learned about making plaster from scratch in one of my restoration classes. We made a lime pit, filled it with crushed oyster shells, heated it, then slaked the lime with water. It gives off tremendous heat before it cools enough to produce putty. It is both dangerous and volatile. Sacks of quick lime have been known to burst into flame and burn down the ships transporting it. It’s not something to play games with.” Julia’s blue eyes narrowed at him.

  Remy understood the warning and ignored it. He gazed at her across the table. “You have gorgeous blue eyes.”

  How those blue eyes rolled in disgust. “Next you’ll tell me I’m beautiful when I’m angry.”

  “You are. Where did you get such blue, blue eyes? They aren’t common among Italian girls.” He was surprised when she answered.

  “My mother is Irish, but I suspect you know all about Italian girls,” she countered.

  “I did study abroad my junior year. Nothing like Italy for architecture—and girls.”

  “Yes, I spent some time there myself. Italians believe in preservation. All the men think they are Romeo.”

  “Italians believe in tourism, yet so many of their monuments are decaying from lack of care.”

  “Would you tear them down and put up condos?”

  “Of course not, but people don’t flock to Chapelle to view rundown hotels.”

  “They visit the church and plantation homes. Why not add an historic site nearby where they can stay? All the motels are out on the highway.”

  Remy felt as if he’d just played a fast round of tennis with an able opponent and perhaps hadn’t won the set. He crumpled the empty chip bag, stuffed it into the paper coffee cup, and balanced both on his plate. Heading for the waste can, he said, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He didn’t expect her to be there on his return, but there she was, balling the used napkin in her fist. What to try next? “I don’t know about you, but I could use some wine and savory snacks. That wasn’t much of a dinner.”

  “I had enough with the cheesecake, but a glass of wine does sound good.” Her blue eyes glittered. “Where did you have in mind?”

  “My place, top deck to watch the sun set.” He checked both his watch and the position of the sun. “We still have time to look over my plans before it goes down.”

  “Goes down,” she repeated.

  He wasn’t sure if this was a challenge or a sexual suggestion, and didn’t care. “Your truck or mine?”

  “We’ll take both.”

  Ah, she didn’t trust him and wanted to keep her escape options open. Admiring the hip action beneath that slim, booty-hugging skirt assisted by the high heels she wore, Remy watched Julia move toward the parking lot. After she got into her truck and pulled up behind him, he climbed into his and led the way. At the Black Box, he left the electronic gate open once they’d passed. He wanted Julia Rossi to be comfortable with him, very comfortable indeed, with no fear of being trapped.

  Chapter Six

  Julia had driven the newer of the two trucks—the one with the nice logo—to her power meeting. Naturally, Jane arrived in a gas-saving hybrid and Celine Hartz in a discreet silver Lexus also bearing her bodyguard, and she’d wanted to put her best foot forward. Speaking of which, the high heels were killing her. She made note that Remy left the gate open after they passed. She wouldn’t have to ask his permission to leave, and she appreciated that.

  Though she’d boldly asserted that the uncles did not rule her life, sometimes getting out the door with them around proved difficult. Like good parents they asked the pertinent questions: where are you going, with whom, when will you return? And like a naughty teen, she’d told them about the meeting and fudged on how long it would take. Remy Broussard hadn’t figured into the white lie, but now Julia knew exactly where they were headed, conflict or not, and she’d agreed to come along to see his equivalent of etchings. She wanted some Julia-time, which she didn’t get when sharing a motorhome. Thanks to Marv Holcomb, she had a room in the house and a bath with a tub down the hall. Hopefully, the uncles wouldn’t notice when she returned.

  Remy held open the nearly invisible door to his dark tower and got right down to business as if he wanted to keep to a schedule. He rolled out his floor plans on the large table meant for exactly that, and weighted down the ends with small statues: a Degas ballerina, a Roman goddess—both naked—an Egyptian cat with a ring in one ear, and a sleek golden bee resting on a block of black marble. Julia found the assortment of museum replicas both tasteful and quirky, but said nothing. She gave her full attention to his floor plans that resembled shotgun houses of old in a very modern design. The living room/dining area flowed into a kitchen open enough to allow for conversation with guests but sheltered enough to hide dirty dishes. Across the aisle, he’d hidden the utility area. Passing down the hall, two small and one large bedroom and master bath sprouted off the main trunk. The master bath resembl
ed his own on the third floor. The other bedrooms shared bathing space. The hall ended in a large linen closet. He’d included a freestanding fireplace, not that anyone in the deep south needed one, but people liked them. Blank wall space came wired for a television and any other technology the owners might want. Cleverly concealed doors like his own opened off each bedroom to a narrow terrace. The vertical versions mimicked his tower with the living room and kitchen on the first floor and bedrooms on the second and third.

  Julia applied a critical eye to the layouts. “No parking, no porches?”

  “You do realize with the advent of air conditioning, no one sits outside anymore except on rare occasions, but we’ll have benches along the walkways, a picnic and grill area, and other outdoor meeting space as well as indoors at a club house with a pool. As for parking, each condo gets a spacious carport with a small storage building that will blend in attractively with the buildings.”

  “If you didn’t intend to knock down an historic building to do this, I’d say bravo. You might even attract jaded city dwellers tired of traffic and crime.”

  “Not might, will. I’m ready for that snack now. How about you?”

  “Definitely ready for wine.”

  Remy led her up the stairs to his kitchen. While Julia watched, he rummaged in his refrigerator for plump red grapes, a block of cheddar, a wedge of brie, along with the obligatory cracker assortment taken from a box in his pantry, what she thought of as typical male seduction food. When he sliced rings of crawfish boudin sausage and laid them out on the plate, she gave him extra credit for originality and local color. He uncorked a bottle of red from his wine rack, then gently shoved the cork back in and handed her the bottle plus two long stemmed glasses. “Carry those up to the third floor for me. I’ll be right behind.”