Chapter 15
We walk out onto Bourbon Street and it receives us like it always does—without ceremony, without judgment, just the city doing its thing, lightly scented with that particular cocktail of some night-bloom that still lingers, last night’s rain, fresh bread from somewhere nearby, and underneath it all the river, patient and enormous and completely indifferent to the fact that I’m on the arm of a man who materialized out of my dreams.
Life is strange. I’ve always known this. This morning it’s being very thorough about proving it.
Dallas stops us in front of the White Swan.
“This is where you’re staying?” I can’t exactly be mad about it. Dallas couldn’t have known that this hotel is basically my nemesis.
Sure, the reason the White Swan started attracting all the best customers is because they were spending a ton of money to do things right and we … weren’t.
But still. All my old emotional scars light up at the sight of it.
“My assistant booked it for me,” Dallas says. “According to him, it’s the quaintest hotel on Bourbon Street. Now I know he was wrong about that.”
I glance up at him. Stop it with the dark blue eyes and those wide shoulders. Okay, he gets a few points for saying that.
I haven’t been inside the White Swan in years.
We go inside and I have to admit it’s beautifully decorated.
Gold-leaf fleur-de-lis wallpaper makes the foyer sparkle with a welcoming New Orleans flavor.
There’s even a water feature. The front desk is white marble—borderline tacky, in my opinion, but it looks expensive.
Two young, prim-looking hostesses in crisp white uniforms are ready to greet people.
“Mr. Wilder,” one of them gushes. “Your limo is waiting for you at the back entrance.”
Limo?
“Thank you.” His response is aloof and blasé, almost bored, like there’s always a limo waiting for him.
A doorman opens the (gorgeous) carved wood-framed glass doors at the back of the foyer. On the glass, two white swans have been etched.
Outside, a driver is waiting next to a white stretch limo.
I’ve lived four doors down from this hotel my whole life and never knew there was a courtyard back here.
It has an old but functioning and well-maintained fountain, shade trees, high walls and a circular driveway.
With the white limo gleaming in the early morning sun, it looks like a scene from a Hollywood movie.
“This is yours?” I gasp.
“Not mine, but yes, this is our ride.” Dallas says it like an apology. “Apparently NOLA doesn’t do Maybachs.”
I’m still staring at the limo. “W-what’s a Maybach?”
“It’s a kind of car. I’ll show you next time.”
Next time. But the doorman is opening the door for us and Dallas leads me to the limo. I climb in and Dallas slides in next to me.
The inside of this limo is literally bigger than the room I’ve been sleeping in for the past year. Two plush cream-colored leather seats face each other. An opaque glass partition between us and the driver slides closed with a soft, expensive sound. The lighting is low and amber.
“Wow,” I whisper.
“I know. I prefer to be a little more inconspicuous, but sometimes it can’t be helped.”
“Oh. Right.”
Dallas sits close to me, his solid, warm thigh flush against mine.
I’m conscious of my old, worn uniform, which clashes with his no-expense-spared (just a semi-educated guess) perfection and the opulent surroundings.
I spend most of my time in dimly-lit, shabby-chic (we like to think, but now I’m wondering if the “chic” half of the equation is a stretch) interiors, so I never think too much about how my work clothes really do look frayed and tired.
Because I wash them so much. Because all I do is work.
On the odd occasion I have the time to go out to a gig or to get a coffee with Sadie, I have a handful of other outfits I pull out from the box under my single bed, most of which came from thrift stores and are equally threadbare and worn.
Not that I usually worry about it all that much, but here in this polished limo with its leather seats and shiny windows—and its one other occupant, whose thick-cotton shirt probably cost more than I make in a month—I can’t help but wish I’d taken a little more time this morning.
Then again, it probably wouldn’t have helped anyway.
Like my daddy used to say when we got a bad review because the place was looking more and more run-down, we carry our diamonds and gold on the inside, dahlin’, and when you measure it like that we’ve got more wealth than all of them put together.
At the time it sort of helped. I used to pretend my blood was made of tiny diamonds and my heart was solid gold and that everyone could tell because the fiery light beamed itself out of my eyes in a way that blinded them to how old my clothes were.
It often seemed to work. People noticed my hair and the color of my eyes and the shape of me—or at least that’s what they commented on and stared at.
So I do it now. I pretend I’m beaming out that golden light. Who needs new clothes when you’re made of Hope Diamonds?
Either way, Dallas doesn’t seem to notice my clothes. He’s watching my face like it’s the most beguiling thing he’s ever seen. “I bought you something.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I hope you like it. A girl as beautiful as you needs something to wear that comes a little closer to matching your glow. Open it.”
My glow? It’s not that easy to stun me into silence but this isn’t the first time he’s done it. I blink at him as I process the words he just spoke. He’s smug and bossy, why don’t I hate it? He got me a gift. He just called me beautiful.
He hands me a large white box. I hadn’t seen it sitting next to him on the seat.
I open the box, hesitantly pulling out … a dress. It’s made from silk and the buttery-softest, finest suede. “This is …” I don’t know what to say. It’s the most amazing dress I’ve ever seen.
“I’ve got some friends in New York and one of their wives is a designer. Lila Bailey. Apparently she’s the next big thing. She stocks some of her clothes in a store here in New Orleans. I thought, since we’re going out on the town, you might want options.”
The colors of the city through the tinted windows play across his handsome face as the light contact of his body feeds its warmth into me. Little currents funnel to a very intimate place, reminding me again of my dream.
Is this real? Am I dreaming now?
“There are also some shoes there. My assistant arranged them. We had to guess at the size but they’re sandals so they should be somewhat adjustable.”
“Oh.”
“Put on the dress,” he says.
I look around the limo. The partition is up. The windows are tinted nearly to black. “Now?”
“We’ve got a few minutes until we get to the helicopter.
” He leans back against the seat with easy cockiness that’s baked in, like he’s a man who rules the world and always has.
Instead of annoying me, like I might expect it to, this detail stirs up some innate craving in me, go figure, adding more hot little sparks to our chemistry.
“Close your eyes,” I tell him.
Something moves across his expression. Amusement, warmth, something underneath both that’s quieter and much more intense. Then, without a word, he closes his eyes.
“Keep them closed.”
“I am.”
I shimmy out of my uniform—and my bra, because the dress has lacy straps and a sort of built-in support.
I’ll just have to hope for the best. So all I’m wearing is a tiny white G-string.
I don’t usually wear G-strings but it was my last clean pair since I’m way overdue to do laundry.
Anyway, it might be sort of perfect for this dress.
I pull the dress on and try to pull the zipper up the back but I can’t get it all the way up. “Dallas?”
“Yes?” He peeks.
“The zipper’s stuck.”
“Let me help.”
I’m mostly decent at this point so it hardly matters that his eyes are open and taking in the sight of my very new look.
I turn a little and he zips up the rest of it, his knuckles brushing along my skin as he does this. The light, warm contact sends a zinging current to the low pit of my belly and the pooling warmth between my thighs.
Help.
“Lila Bailey is a genius. And you, Amelie Thibodeaux, are stunning.”
The shoes are a tiny bit too big but I tighten them into place and they’re cute.
The limo slows.
“Are you ready to fly?” he drawls, deep-dark and rasp-edged.
Am I? I don’t know what’s going to happen today but his effect is lighting me up more than the imaginary inner diamonds ever have. The day we’re about to have is already—maybe, although it sounds pathetic—the best one of my whole damn life. “Yes.”
“Good girl. Say yes to everything.”
I watch the captivating turquoise glimmer in his eyes and I can read there that he’s as crazy-hungry as I feel. “I will.” My own honesty makes my heart beat faster.
Tomorrow I go back to work—or I pound the pavement in search of another job. If Ellen agrees to take me back, she’ll no doubt be bitter about the whole taking-time-off thing. She’ll want revenge.
I might as well enjoy the day like the fantasy it already is.
I don’t have to wonder how far Dallas Wilder will take me. I know he’ll give me all the enlightenment, heartbreak and ecstasy I can handle.
Maybe I’m setting myself up for a fall, but I’ve already hit rock bottom. My heart beats in a broken rhythm. I have nothing left to lose.
Except one thing.
My so-called innocence.
Yes, I’m a twenty-two-year-old virgin. Not exactly the end of the world but it also feels like I’ve missed out on something most people are well-practiced at by now and enjoying the hell out of.
Sadie, for example, who has a new man on her arm every weekend.
Not that any of them stick and/or make her particularly happy, but she insists she’s not in it for the long-term.
She just so happens to like sex. Which, of course, makes me curious.
If I didn’t work so much, I might try to make time for it.
As it is … I don’t.
I’ve never even been kissed.
I don’t know why I waited or what I’ve been saving myself for. I live in the beating neon heart of debauchery. I’ve had more marriage proposals, lewd offers and off-handed come-ons than I could ever count. Boys—and now men—have pursued me for as long as I can remember.
And every single time, I’ve shut them down with a cold heart they can’t possibly misinterpret.
If you waver, they pounce on your weaknesses like they’ve never heard the word no.
I make sure I don’t waver. Ever. On my home turf, I know how to get out of every sketchy situation and by now I’m extremely good at avoiding trouble and shutting down the worst of it before it ever has a chance to escalate.
So I’ve somehow managed to get through all twenty-two years of my life relatively unscathed in that particular department—even though it sometimes feels like I’m scathed as fuck in every other department.
Dallas Wilder is different.
Maybe it’s because he’s literally a perfect stranger. He’s hot, he’s beautiful, he visits me in my dreams and he’s already made me more than one offer I can’t—or, more specifically, don’t want to—refuse. He’s also already given me my first-ever orgasm and he doesn’t even know it.
I want it to be him.
We pull up next to a cluster of large, fancy-looking buildings that might be a golf club.
There are fields of manicured green grass.
Off to one side is a helicopter landing pad with a gleaming black helicopter on it.
The propellors are slowly starting to spin.
Between that and the way Dallas Wilder is watching me, my stomach swoops.
The limo driver opens the door for us. Dallas lifts me into his arms, like he’s the dashing hero in some flowery, optimistic romance and I’m his blushing lover-to-be. “You ready, Amelie Thibodeaux?”
“Yes.” Whatever today is—fantasy, short story with an abrupt, crushing ending, or the prologue to something I don’t have a name for yet—I’m going with it.