Kennedy shrugged in what I would bet was false modesty. “I do all right.” He smiled and held the door open for me, staring at my legs as I swung them into the passenger side.
Definitely false modesty.
The car was nice with leather seats and top-notch gadgets. Perhaps I’d underestimated how much he cleared in his plaintiff’s practice. Then again, he had to be good at his work for Guy Porter to ask for him by name.
“You like it?” he asked as he slid behind the wheel.
“It’s fine.” I fastened my seat belt.
“I think it’s badass.” Carey piled into the backseat and we took off toward the Garden District.
I was glad we headed away from the Quarter. Mardi Gras was the following week and the streets were already packed with revelers. Enjoyable, but perhaps not the best spot for me to work some magic on Carey. Our office would shut down for the week, though I would be working on the Rhone case if I could convince Carey to throw me a bone on the Fluffy issue.
“Do you have a manual for this thing?” Carey asked from the backseat.
We stopped at a red light next to a restaurant with a party spilling out into the night. Loud music from a mosh of brass instruments punctured the warm air along with laughs from the crowd. Thunder rumbled in the distance, promising rain for the night’s revelries.
“Manual? Yeah, I guess so. I’ve never read it.” Kennedy leaned over, his hand swiping my bare knee as he opened the glove box. His hair, darker brown in the low light, was tousled and I caught the scent of his aftershave. I wanted to run my fingers through the strands, feel how soft they were, and then yank to show him I meant business. Instead, I sat still as he pulled a small manual from the compartment.
He closed it and leaned away but he dropped the booklet in my lap.
“Sorry.” He smiled and grazed his hand along my thigh before grabbing the manual.
I balled my hands into fists to keep from slapping him. It was as if he knew exactly what buttons to press to get a rise out of me. I would have to bide my time and repay him in the future. First Carey, and then I’d deal with Kennedy.
We pulled up alongside the Commander’s Palace, an old-school restaurant in the Garden District. Lightning flashed nearby and a deafening peal of thunder boomed and rolled through the air. The valet helped me from the car, and I glanced across the street at the wall surrounding Lafayette Cemetery. I could smell the coming rain, and wind whistled through the moss hanging in the oaks around the restaurant.
We made it under the friendly blue-and-white striped awning right as fat drops of rain began to fall, slapping onto the street and the roofs of the sepulchers beyond the low walls of the cemetery. Kennedy put his hand at my lower back again, guiding me forward and causing my cheeks to heat.
“Paolo.” Kennedy greeted the maître d’ like an old friend.
“Mr. Kennedy! Wonderful to have you with us again.” Paolo, a middle-aged man with dark hair and a pencil mustache, gave us a small bow and led us to a table in the back. Busts of nude women adorned the wall above our table. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, and a live band played jazz somewhere nearby. Smells of seafood, cream sauces, and sugar wafted in the air, making my mouth water.
We took our seats at a table for four, Carey and Kennedy on either side of me.
“I had no idea you were a celebrity around here.” I peered at Kennedy, an easy smile on his face as he settled into his chair.
“I helped them with some charity work on getting the cemetery cleaned up last year. Nothing big.”
“I can assure you it was big.” Paolo handed me a black napkin to go with my skirt and took my white one away. “Mr. Kennedy’s efforts at getting funding for community policing have cut crime to almost nothing, and the cemetery has never been safer.”
“Cool.” Carey nodded and perused his menu.
“Surprised?” Kennedy asked, holding my gaze.
I studied him, letting my eyes rove his dark brows, five o’clock shadow, and redolent lips. Was there actually a man underneath the playboy exterior?
“A little.” I returned to his dark brown eyes and the eyelashes that were sinfully long.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet, Ms. Carmichael.” He plucked the menu from Carey’s hand. “I got this. Paolo, we’ll all have the special. And bring three hot shots and a bottle of Malbec.” He clapped Carey on the shoulder. “You like wine, right?”
Carey nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Very good.” Paolo hurried off.
I didn’t want to do shots, especially not something called a “hot shot.” But—I glanced at Carey as he looked around at the swanky restaurant—if it got me where I wanted with Carey, I would drink up. It seemed I wasn’t the only one who’d thought of the booze angle.