Goes down easy: Roped into romance Read Free Page B

didn’t give him time to explain. She turned and started to walk away. He didn’t even think.
    He reached out and grabbed her upper arm. “Della, wait.”
    She jerked free, glared over her shoulder. “I’m not Della.”
    What?
    “I’m Della.”
    At the sound of the second female voice, deeper, almost musical, Jack looked up. Standing behind the shop’s counter at the foot of the staircase that opened there, stood the most stunning woman he’d ever seen.
    She was older than the one he’d mistaken her for, but he doubted she’d yet reached fifty. She was slender and barefoot, dressed in what looked like silk pajamas in gold and black. Her hair, a dark honey brown, had been pulled up into a knot already tumbling loose.
    Her skin was a translucent porcelain, and he was so glad he wasn’t saying any of this out loud because he sounded as fruity as one of the Queer Eye TV guys. Or so he imagined, since he’d never seen their show.
    More than anything, though, he found himself caught by and unable to look away from her eyes. They were large, the irises purple, her expression serene even while he swore her stare was scrambling his brain like so many bad eggs.
    “She does that to everyone.”
    He blinked, looked back at the gypsy. “What?”
    “Della is my aunt, and you’re not the first man she’s turned into a drooling fool.”
    “I’m not drooling,” he said, swiping the cuff of his sweatshirt over his chin.
    “Perry, Book is on his way over,” Della said, heading toward a beaded curtain hiding a door at the rear of the shop. “I’m making brunch. Spinach omelets, I think. Bring your friend.”
    The beads gave off a tinkling singsong sound as they settled. Neverland. No. La-la land. That’s where he was. The funny farm. Where life was beautiful…
    “Are you coming?”
    This from the same woman—Perry—who’d ordered him off the property minutes before. “I thought you wanted me out of here.”
    She twisted her mouth as if she couldn’t decide between smiling and snapping. Like a turtle. Clamping down on his nose and tearing it right off his face. “I do. But obviously Della doesn’t.”
    “And she always gets her way?” He’d seen her. He didn’t doubt for a minute that she did.
    “You’ll be able to figure that out for yourself soon enough.”
    It was exactly what he wanted—personal access, an in —yet he couldn’t make himself take the first step. He’d been battling strange feelings about the case since taking it on.
    And these two women weren’t doing a damn thing to settle the uncertainty. They were, in fact, making things worse.
    Making things…weird.
    Perry took a step toward the door through which Della had disappeared, holding aside the strands of blue beads. “C’mon. You don’t want to miss Della’s omelets. And I know you’re not going to want to miss comparing notes with Book.”
    Jack tensed at the twist of the be-careful-what-you-wish-for screw. “Who’s Book?”
    “He’s a detective with the NOPD.” Perry gave the screw one last tightening turn. “And he believes every word Della says to be the truth.”
     

    D ETECTIVE B OOK F RANKLIN parked his unmarked car in the alley where a small courtyard backed up to Sugar Blues. He’d met Della Brazille right here two years ago, and nothing about his life had been the same.
    He didn’t know anyone who was a bigger skeptic or cynic than he was, and so he had a hard time explaining to his co-workers—he didn’t have anyone outside the force he called a friend; he’d tried, but nobody understood a cop’s hours and drive but another cop—why he jumped when Della called.
    He shouldn’t have jumped. He shouldn’t have believed in her sight, or believed her visions meant anything, that they were more than nightmares or a fertile imagination seeking attention.
    He lived in New Orleans. He’d run into plenty of psychics fitting that bill.
    Straightening his tie as he made for the kitchen door, Book couldn’t help