"No, I—"
"I bet you didn't eat lunch," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Did you?"
"No," she admitted.
"You're a nurse," he said evenly. "You should know better. Sit." Karen sat. He went inside, and she relaxed in the cushioned wrought-iron chair, watching the activity in the street below with a sort of fuzzy curiosity. She was tired and empty and still a little numb. Sitting here was just about all she felt she could manage right now. She looked at the hanging baskets of ferns, at the French doors on either side of her, and again felt herself in another world. The hot afternoon sun had cranked the temperature up into the nineties again, making steam rise from pockets of rainwater on the sidewalks, but the shade kept the heat tolerable. She needed a fan, though, just to be in keeping with the atmosphere. Smiling at the thought, she closed her eyes.
She must have dozed, rousing only when he set a tray on the table beside her. The tray held sandwiches of shaved ham, a plate of cookies, two empty glasses, and a bottle of red wine. "A domesticated man," she said, and heard the dreaminess of her tone as if she hadn't quite awakened yet.
"Don't give me too many points," he said in the lazy tone he seemed to have patented, sitting down on the other side of the little table. "The cookies are from a bakery, and any fool can make a sandwich." He had changed clothes, she noticed, shedding the tie and exchanging his slacks for a pair of threadbare jeans. He was barefoot, and though he still wore the white shirt, he had left the tails hanging out, wrinkled from where it had been tucked in before. He had also opened a couple of buttons, so that it was fastened only to the middle of his chest. A broad, hairy chest, she noticed, still drowsy. Nice. He propped his bare feet on the balcony railing, sighing as he relaxed. "Kick your shoes off," he invited. She did, because the idea of being barefoot in this steamy weather sounded so wonderful. And she propped her feet on the railing, too, reasoning that passersby below wouldn't be able to see more than a few inches up her skirt, assuming anyone even looked. There was too much going on at street level for anyone to be concerned with whether or not she showed a little leg. She sighed just as he had, because it felt wonderful to be free of the hot, restricting shoes, to put her feet up, to feel her spine loosening. She so seldom just sat that this was a luxury.
Without sitting up from his relaxed position, Marc stretched out an arm and expertly poured two glasses of wine. "Eat," he said, and waited until she took one of the sandwiches before snagging the other for himself.
Silently, she munched on the sandwich, sipped the wine, and watched the tourists strolling below. From somewhere drifted the sound of a street band, and she could also hear someone expertly playing show tunes on a piano. Snippets of conversation floated upward, mere background to the moment. She
couldn't imagine any other place in the world like New Orleans, with its casual, exotic magic. Their feet were propped side by side on the railing, and she surveyed them with interest, struck by the differences. Hers were much smaller and more slender, delicately formed, definitely feminine. His feet were big, bony, a little hairy on top: masculine. Interesting.
"Do you know," she murmured, still dreamy, "why men's feet look so different from women's?" He moved his left foot over so it was touching her right one, eyeing them. Cocking his head a little, he said, "Nail polish."
If he had been within reach, she would have elbowed him. "Nooo. It was all that running around barefoot, chasing antelope and woolly mammoths."
He laughed, actually laughed aloud, a deep and deliciously male sound that made her toes curl. "So women's feet stayed dainty because all they had to do was wander around and pick berries."
" And carry the kids around." She wanted to hear him laugh again. She almost shivered again, this time with delight.
He settled his broad shoulders more comfortably in the chair. "Well, it would have been tough chasing woolly mammoths while carrying the papoose as well as spears."
"Excuses, excuses. Anything to get out of babysitting." The wine was good, she thought. She usually didn't care for red wine, but this was mellow and rich. She finished the glass and set it on the table, sighing with contentment.
Nothing was said for quite a while. The sizzling heat made conversation somehow unnecessary. A bass rumble of thunder announced the approach of more rain, and clouds began inching their purplish mass over the blaze of the setting sun. Marc carried the tray inside but left the plate of cookies on the table. He returned after several minutes. Music drifted from inside, a lazy blues instrumental. Everything drifted down here, she thought, closing her eyes. Anything else required too much effort.
"More wine?"
"Mmm, yes."
"Then eat a cookie."
"Slave driver." But she smiled as she picked up a cookie and bit into it. The flavor exploded on her tongue. "Ohh, that's good," she moaned. "What is it?"
"White chocolate. Pecans: Other stuff. They're my favorite kind." He ate one with gusto, then another. What a mixture he was, she thought in amusement. Almost Old World in some ways, typical modern American male in others. He would feel perfectly at ease stretched out in his chair in that marvelous old living room, wearing jeans and a T-shirt and watching a ball game. Plus, he was a cop, adding to his complexity. What other qualities would surface on longer acquaintance? It didn't matter, she realized; she wouldn't have a chance to find out, because she was leaving tomorrow morning. An odd pang tightened her stomach.
They killed the plate of cookies and their second glasses of wine. Thunder rumbled again, edging closer. Rain began to spatter on the street, and the tourists below began hurrying for shelter. Within minutes, the street was deserted, and the silvery rain increased in steadiness, hurrying twilight. Karen felt slightly chilled on the outside, but the wine had created a warm glow inside. A single saxophone mourned, the pure notes reaching to her soul. She hugged herself, aching inside.