Just Fooling Around(47)

Seven more years of bad luck, however, was a small price to pay for surviving the landing. If that was the worst of it, this would be his best April first ever.

Of course that wasn’t the worst of it.

The airport was essentially empty, and the airline rep lined them all up to hand out hotel vouchers and give them tickets for the first plane to New Orleans in the morning.

No way was he getting back in a plane on April first.

He headed to the car rental counter, found the girl about to shut the gate and spent thirty minutes convincing her to rent him the last car on their lot, which turned out to be little more than a small box on wheels.

The drive from Houston to New Orleans took less than six hours without traffic, and he wasn’t crazy about making it in a sardine can. He had no choice, though, and so he set off down Interstate 10, the traffic in the middle of the night light and the road free and open…for the first five miles.

After that, the traffic settled in.

Apparently the states of both Louisiana and Texas believed that the middle of the night on April Fools’ Day was the best time to undertake road construction.

It took him eight hours to get to the French Quarter, and when he finally pulled his car into the valet area at the Chateau Vieux Carre hotel he was hot (the air conditioner in the car went out near Baton Rouge), tired and definitely grumpy.

“Franklin?” the clerk at the desk said, tapping the keys on her computer. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t show a reservation.”

He resisted the urge to bang his head on the polished granite counter. “How about we forget the reservation and set me up for a room now.”

“Of course, sir. No problem.” She tapped some more and then smiled at him. “All set.”

“Great. The key?”

Her eyes blinked owlishly. “I’m sorry, sir. Check-in isn’t until three, but I can get you early check-in at eleven.”

He looked at his watch. That would give him just enough time to walk over to Royal and meet Jean Michel at his antique shop. “Perfect. Can I leave my luggage?”

“No problem at all.” She rang for a bellman who came over with practiced efficiency, then tagged Reg’s bag and spirited it away.

He would have liked the chance to change clothes and splash some water on his face, and he considered waiting the forty-five minutes in the lobby. But he was also anxious to talk to Jean Michel. The antiques dealer had said he’d found something that Reg would want to see—something he didn’t want to discuss in an e-mail—but something that Reg had been looking for.

Considering Reg and Anne had gone to Jean Michel back when they were trying to track down the amulet, Reg was hoping that was what his friend had found.

If so, he didn’t want to wait a moment longer than necessary.

He rubbed his hands over his face to wake himself up, though the adrenalin of the search was easing the exhaustion from the long flight and drive.

Then he stepped through the front door onto Bourbon street, already bustling with tourists. He turned right, walked one block, then turned right again and continued on to Royal. He followed the street toward Canal, the route as familiar to him as breathing. When he was a block away, he saw the sign announcing “Michel Brothers, Antique and Estate Sales.” He smiled, looking forward to seeing the wiry old man.

As he pushed through the doorway, however, his smile faded and his heart stuttered in his chest.

Jean was already at the counter, talking with another customer. They both turned as he entered, and Reg found himself staring into the fathomless brown eyes of the only woman he’d ever loved.

“Hello, Reg,” Anne said. “I think you’re going to want to see this.”





2




ANNE DAWES CLUTCHED the display counter so hard she was certain the glass would shatter. But she kept her chin high, and she told herself she was doing fine. There was no way he could have seen how much his presence rattled her; no way he could know how startled she was to see him again, much less how much the bottom had fallen away from her stomach when she’d turned and seen the hard lines of his face and the piercing green of his eyes.

A green that had deepened like a forest when they’d made love and twinkled like carnival fire when he’d teased her.

She forced her smile wide, reminding herself that she’d moved on. He’d made it perfectly clear that he no longer cared about her, and Anne wasn’t the kind of woman who hung around and pined for what she couldn’t have, no matter how much she might want it. “Come see what Jean has discovered,” she said. “I don’t know if you care anymore, but—”

“I care,” he said, his voice so low she almost couldn’t hear him, and she mentally cursed herself, because she had not intended to go there. But it wasn’t until that very moment that she realized how much it hurt that he’d blown off the search to undo the curse.