Thigh High Read Free

size-fourteen jeans she bought at Wal-Mart, she reported proudly that people told her she looked younger than her age, and laughed when Hestia asked, “How young would that be, darling? Seventy-eight?”
    The Dahl girls were almost the last of the Dahls. Almost.
    The honor of being last, and of rescuing her heritage and her great-aunts from an ignoble slide into oblivion, fell to Ionessa Dahl.
    As she had done every day since she was four and came to live with her great-aunts, Ionessa descended the wide, curved stairway into the foyer. Standing before the gilt-framed mirror, she straightened the crisp white button-front shirt, the single-button jacket, the straight-cut skirt. She carried an umbrella—in New Orleans, the chance of downpours always existed, and it had been a warm, wet February. She squared her shoulders and, pleased with her image as a conservative, successful banker, she nodded at herself.
    Of course, in this house, her image wasn’t worth a damn.
    â€œHow is business, Daniel?” Aunt Hestia’s voice, high, clear, and lilting with the accent of metro New Orleans, mixed with the clink of silverware and china from the dining room.
    The alluring scent of bacon wafted into the foyer. Daniel’s voice, hoarse from breathing too much cigarette smoke and singing too many shows, answered, “We’re off a little this year. The tourists aren’t drinking as much as usual, and they’re not tipping because it’s storming and they’re wet.”
    â€œYou ought to give out towels before the show. A dry tourist is a happy tourist.” Ryan Wright was from Texas or maybe Oklahoma—no one had quite figured it out—with an accent that grated on the ear and a superior attitude totally unjustified by his success or intelligence. Luckily for him, he was handsome and played the saxophone, and in New Orleans, those were two attributes that would keep a street musician from starving.
    â€œBrilliant idea,” Daniel said with a much-feted club singer’s irony. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
    Slipping into the dining room, Nessa poured herself a cup of coffee from the marble-topped antique sideboard and turned to face the long table. One hundred and fifty years of hard use pitted the mahogany surface, but the rich wood shone with the patina of age and beauty. The placemats were plastic, the plates scratched Corelle, but the Mardi Gras runner of purple, green, and gold added a festive touch.
    â€œMorning, sweet girl.” Calista bent and offered Nessa her soft, wrinkled cheek.
    â€œMorning, Aunt Calista. Tonight’s the big night!” Nessa gave her a hug and a kiss. Calista always smelled brisk and sweet, like key lime pie.
    â€œI know. I just can’t wait.” Calista glanced at the clock.
    Hestia called from the kitchen, “Come and get the eggs!”
    â€œLater, Nessa.” With a pat on Nessa’s cheek, Calista bustled away.
    The boarders were eating a sumptuous Southern breakfast of ham and eggs, grits swimming in butter, and biscuits and gravy. Nessa figured the cholesterol was going to kill them all—but they were going to die happy.
    Certainly, Skeeter Graves was happy. With his arm wrapped around his plate, he shoveled in scrambled eggs with the speed of someone convinced that if he didn’t eat quickly, they’d be stolen. And Skeeter wasn’t even a boarder; he was just a bass-player friend of Ryan’s who mooched a meal as often as he could.
    Ryan sat next to him, gauntly handsome with good, broad shoulders and a buff chest displayed by a Hawaiian shirt he buttoned only halfway. He winked at Nessa, the wink of a man who knew and depended on his seductive abilities. “Hey, gorgeous.” He developed a husky growl when he spoke to Nessa—indeed, to any woman, sort of like Gaston in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. Nessa half expected to see him tear his shirt open the rest of the way to