Chapter 8 #2
The valet practically ran to the door. “Dude, a Lincoln Continental. So sweet.”
The driver shifted into park, and the valet reached for the chrome door handle. It swung open, and out came a leg in a striped navy-blue three-piece suit, worn by a man a thousand times more colorful than his car.
Cameras flashed like he was a celebrity, and he certainly looked the part.
His white shirt was open to the buttons of the navy-blue vest, showing off a brightly burning red sacred heart tattooed on his chest. Vibrant colors of ink extended up his throat and the sides of his head, on which sat a black top hat.
Imogen couldn’t help but smile. Her date had arrived in style. Gold and silver chains hung from his neck, and his white teeth flashed as he caught sight of her.
“You’re parking, sir?” the valet asked.
“Not tonight. I’m here to pick up that gorgeous redhead in the pink dress.” He lifted his chin. “Hey, girl.”
Imogen couldn’t believe this stunning man was here to pick her up. She felt the eyes of everyone at the front of the hotel zero in on her as he walked toward her and leaned in to press a kiss to her cheek.
“You look beautiful. You ready? Our reservation is at seven fifteen.”
“You … you know how to make an entrance.”
He held out his striped navy-blue suit jacket–covered arm. His tattooed wrist and hand sported what looked like a vintage Rolex and several antique-looking gold rings.
“Comes with the territory. Don’t color yourself like a peacock if you can’t handle the attention.”
She couldn’t help but laugh as she took his arm. “I bet. Literally everyone is staring at us.”
“I don’t care if you don’t.”
“I don’t know them.”
“Exactly. Right this way, my lady.”
He led her around the side of the shiny black Lincoln.
As they rounded the long hood, she whistled. “This is pretty sweet.”
“My grandfather’s. He had good taste.”
He opened the door for her, and she gasped at the inside.
“It’s gorgeous.”
The quilted black leather bench seat looked brand-new, and the green-and-red plaid ceiling was purely awesome.
“I had the interior redone. Well, the whole thing. Took a few years. It was worth it. Watch your head.”
She slid into the front seat, and he handed her the seat belt.
“Safety first with you.”
Imogen blushed. She hadn’t expected him to be so thoughtful. Then again, he’d walked them to her car in broad daylight.
“Good?”
“Perfect.”
“Excellent. Time for dinner.”
He closed her door and rounded the front. One kid rushed forward, and Imogen could’ve sworn he signed an autograph for him.
When the valet opened the door for him, he hopped in and slid a bill in the man’s hand in one smooth motion.
“Thanks, man. Have a great night. See you later.”
Once the door was closed with him inside, Imogen blurted, “Did that kid think you were famous? I mean, you certainly look the part.”
He laughed as he buckled in, shifted into Drive, and guided the long black car out into a break in traffic.
“I would never usually say this on a first date, or really ever, but among a minuscule section of the population, there are some people who know who I am.”
Imogen read between the lines. “That kid knew who you were because you are famous.”
“Mmm … famous is a stretch. But some people like the art. Which is cool.”
“Your tattoos,” she clarified.
“And paintings. I do both. Canvas and human canvas.”
“Really?”
He nodded, then turned, and within a few minutes, they were cruising down Burgundy Street toward Toulouse.
“You are full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“Oh, and I did this TV show once for a season. People still get excited about that.”
“TV show? Wait … so you are famous.”
“Minuscule part of the population. I mean, how many people really watch something called Inktopia?”
“Wait. You were on that?”
He glanced over. “Bet you haven’t seen it though. Not even once.”
“No, but …” She almost said her boyfriend had watched it despite being more afraid of needles than she was.
“See. No big deal.”
But he was turning out to be a lot more than a bearded, tatted-up, T-shirt-and-baseball-cap-wearing guy she had thought was cute.
“The top hat is a nice touch.”
“You like it?” he asked with a grin.
“I’ve never known anyone who wore a top hat. Especially not just out to dinner.”
“Now you do. And it’s not just out to dinner. It’s dinner with a beautiful woman in the French Quarter. Seemed appropriate.”
He pulled it off with style. What would’ve made someone else look ridiculous made him look even more interesting and handsome.
The sides of his head were even fancy, with scrolling filigree tattoos of gold and blue and mint green. This man was most definitely one of a kind.
He turned again and then once more, and she was amazed at how deftly he handled the extra-long car.
“And here we are.”
“You’re going to let them valet this?”
“Frederico would never hurt this baby. He loves her too much.”
Imogen’s door swung open before she could reply.
He knows the valet by name too?
“Welcome to Brennan’s. Can I give you a hand, ma’am?”
“I got her, Freddy.”
“Yes, boss. No problem. Let me get your door, sir.”
Freddy rounded the car and opened the driver’s side.
Nic slid out, and they did one of those back-slapping, handshaking combinations that told Imogen they had to be friends.
When Nic let him go, he strode around the car and bent down to reach inside.
His chains swung, and light glinted off one diamond pinkie ring.
“My lady.”
She couldn’t help her smile. He was … debonaire. That was the only word for it in her repertoire. He had old-school charm that seemed like it was from a different era—an era that hadn’t existed since the generation of his car.
Imogen slid her hand in his and couldn’t help but notice how massive it was compared to hers as he closed his fingers around hers to help her out of the low-slung seat.
Her heels clicked on the concrete as he led her toward the pink building.
“Treat her well, Frederico.”
“Like my own precious darling, Nic. No question. She’ll be perfect when she comes back to you.”
“Much obliged, brother. I’ll see you after dessert.”
“Take your time, boss. No rush. Ma’am. Enjoy your evening.”
The handshake-backslap combo was repeated with the host as well.
Does he know everyone?
She paused. Of course. That’s how we have a reservation. Duh.
“Nicki, so good to see you. When you texted, I was so happy to return the favor. Man, my wife loves her sleeve. It looks incredible.”
“Glad to hear it, Michael. You change your mind, holler at me. I’ll make time for you.”
“You’re too good to me. Come on. I’ve got one of the best seats in the house for you and your lady.”
“Michael, this is Imogen. Imogen, Michael. His wife is a client.”
“She’s ecstatic with his work.” Michael held out a hand, and Imogen shook it.
“It’s a pleasure.”
“Nice to meet you too. Any friend of Nicki’s is a friend of ours. Follow me, please.”
He led them up a beautiful double staircase, through a pink high-ceilinged room, and then into the most incredible dining room that Imogen had ever seen.
The pale blue wallpaper was covered with gold fleur-de-lis that were larger than her hand and matched those embroidered on blue chairs.
Gilt-framed photographs of royal queens decorated the walls, and pale blue, gold, pink, and lavender silk drapery covered the windows.
A crystal chandelier hung over the single long table in the room.
It held a dozen seats, but only two place settings—one at the head and the seat right beside it.
“Nicki, madam, I hope this exceeds your expectations.”
“Perfection, Michael. You’re too good to me.”
The host grinned. “After how happy you made my wife? I owe you, man.”
“No, you don’t, but this is great.” Nic looked at Imogen. “This work for you?”
“It’s gorgeous. Just … wow. This is all for us?”
“Tonight, it’s all yours.” Michael smiled. “Only the best for Nic St. Clair.”
“Thank you so much, Michael.”
Nic pulled out the seat to the right of the head of the table. “My lady.”
Imogen was so glad Jury and Yve had talked her into the pink A-line dress with the extra crinoline underskirts. It fit the evening more perfectly than she could have ever guessed. In this elegant room, with this dapper man, she felt stylish and sophisticated.
“This suits you,” he whispered over her shoulder before moving to his own chair that Michael held out.
“I’ll send your server right in. Roseanne will be taking care of you. Might I recommend the Taste of Brennan’s menu this evening? The turtle soup, rock shrimp boil, and bread pudding are phenomenal and my personal favorites.”
“Thank you, Michael. Your taste, as always, is flawless.”
“Bon appétit, my friend.”