Chapter 2 Keller #2
"Cotton, sugar, spices. New Orleans was, and still is in many respects, the gateway to the Gulf. This building controlled who got what back in the day."
Her eyes sharpen, interest replacing the awkward playfulness. "And now it's just for elegant parties?"
"That's one of its functions. They use it for all kinds of things, now. My mother was instrumental in the restoration of this place. She would tell me stories about the smugglers who'd bribe port officials in the basement."
Quinn raises an eyebrow. "Just as I suspected. You're a history buff."
"I wouldn't go that far, but I love knowing what things were before, thinking about how stuff worked before there were so many laws and regulations and guardrails."
The room grows louder around us, more bodies pressing toward the bar and dance floor. Quinn shifts her weight, angling slightly away from the crowd.
"So, how about that tour? I'm intrigued now." Her eyes narrow, playful suspicion written across her face.
"Let's go. The original port office is upstairs. It still has the ledgers from the eighteen hundreds, and a huge floor-to-ceiling window that opens onto the small balcony where the shipping director would wave in big ships like the Queen of England."
"You have access to that?"
"I happen to know how to get in."
She studies me for a long beat, weighing the offer. "Lead the way, mystery man."
I catch West's gaze across the room. He's leaning against a column near the bar, arms crossed, talking to my brother, Rhodes. I nod to him, and he goes back to whatever Rhodes is saying without acknowledging me, but I know he saw me.
I lead Quinn toward the east wall, past the clusters of guests who don't notice us leaving. I open a heavy door and indicate for her to lead, following as the door closes behind us, sealing us in.
The ballroom noise follows for a few yards, then slowly fades as we cross through an archway into a secondary corridor and head up the stairs.
The walls here are exposed brick, older than the polished marble out front. Gas sconces line the passage, casting amber light across mortar that's held for two centuries. The temperature drops a few degrees, and the smell of champagne fades, replaced by aged wood and stone.
"They kept the original support beams." I gesture upward where thick timbers cross overhead. "Everything else got renovated, but these stayed."
I pull off my white gloves and fold them, placing them in my pocket.
Quinn's heels click against the stone floor as she trails her fingers along the brick, feeling the texture. "Do you have any idea how much of the original structure stayed intact?"
"I want to say more than half. The foundation is the same, most of the lower walls, and the facade. They reinforced it in the nineties, updated the electrical and plumbing, slapped up some sheetrock, but for the most part, they just restored it."
"That's rare. I like that."
"The Krewe has a thing about preservation, too." I glance back at her. "Legacy. All that."
We turn left into a narrower hallway. The corridor contracts around us, shoulders nearly brushing now. The music from the ballroom becomes a distant hum, barely audible beneath the sound of our footsteps.
Quinn stops at an arched doorway, peering into what used to be a storage room. It's empty now, except for old shelving built into the walls. "What did they keep here?"
"Textiles mostly. Silk from Lyon. Cotton from Carolina. Anything that needed to stay dry."
"You know a lot about this place."
"I spent a lot of time here as a kid. My mom is the reason we became members of Argentum. They own it now."
Quinn turns, her back against the doorframe. "I really like that you know about this place, and that it's connected to your mom. She sounds like a neat person."
Was. But I don't correct her.
"I pay attention to things that interest me."
Her gaze holds mine. "Is that so?"
Like you.
The words don't leave my mouth, but the silence says them, anyway. Quinn doesn't move or look away as the air between us thickens.
I step closer. Not crowding, just close enough that she would have to make a deliberate choice to move away. She doesn’t. My hand braces against the doorframe beside her head, not touching her, close enough to claim the space.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s so.”
My hand slides from the doorframe to her waist, and I pull her in. She gasps into my mouth, the sound swallowed as I kiss her.
Her hands fist in my white jacket, wrinkling the fabric as she drags me closer. I walk her back a step into the storage room and kick the door until it sits mostly closed. The shelving presses into her spine, and she arches toward me, hips tipping forward.
“This is insane,” she says against my mouth.
I stop long enough to look at her. “Do you want me to stop?”
Her breath stutters. “No.”
My hand moves up her thigh, under the green silk. She makes a low sound when my fingers slide higher, her leg shifting instinctively to give me room.
“This isn’t something I normally do.”
I don’t comment. I just lean in again and kiss her, slower this time. Her hands slide up into my hair, tugging hard enough to break my restraint. My pulse kicks when she does it.
“Tell me what you want,” I say.
“You,” she says, quick and certain. “Now.”
Fuck yeah.
I cup the back of her neck and kiss her deeper, my thumb pressing where her pulse jumps. Her nails rake my scalp, and she exhales a sound that tightens everything in my body.
My hand finds the zipper at her back. I draw it down in one clean pull, and the silk parts beneath my fingers. She shivers when I trace the line of her spine with my middle finger.
“You’re good,” she says, breath rough.
“I’m paying attention.”
She nods once. “Keep doing that.”
I slide the dress up her hips, and she presses herself into me without hesitation. The friction draws a sharp breath from both of us. My body reacts instantly, hard and demanding, the need pushing low, tenting my pants. I adjust my stance, not subtle, because there is no hiding it now.
Her hands shove my jacket off my shoulders. It hits the floor in a soft thud, dust motes dancing up in the light shining in from outside.
She drags my shirt free, and her palms skim my ribs, my stomach, skin on skin. My teeth close gently at the base of her throat, and she laughs once, breathless, then stills.
“Keller.” My name lands differently when she says it like that. “We need to—”
I stop.
The break is abrupt. She pulls back just enough to look at me, chest rising fast, eyes bright and unfocused. My heart is still thudding out of my chest.
“Not here,” she says. “Not like this.”
The room rushes back in pieces. The muffled music, the voices downstairs, the knowledge that we are still inside a public building with a gala in full swing below us.
I help her legs down, even though every instinct fights it. My body is tight and aching now, my pants unforgiving, pressure demanding relief I am not getting here.
I hold her until she gets her footing, steadying her when her heels hit the ground. My hands stay on her waist longer than necessary, but I don't want to let go.
Her breathing is ragged, matching mine.
Quinn steps to the side first as she smooths her dress down, tucking her hair behind her ear. The flush on her cheeks spreads down her neck, visible even in the low light.
"I should go back." Her voice is steadier than it should be.
"Yeah."
She reaches for her zipper, fumbling with it. I catch her hand, turning her gently. My fingers find the pull and close the silk back up her spine. The intimacy of the gesture only intensifies my hard-on for this woman.
"Thank you." Her voice is soft, almost apologetic.
I retrieve my jacket from the floor, shaking out the dust and wrinkles. The fabric is cool when I shrug it back on. Quinn watches me tuck in my shirt, her expression unreadable.
"This was—"
"You don't need to say anything. I get it."
She doesn't ask for my number or suggest we meet again. Just nods once and moves toward the door.
I let her go first, watching her slip back into the corridor, her shoulders squared, posture perfect. It's like nothing happened, like she didn't just come undone in my hands.
I count to thirty, palm braced against the shelving, jaw tight. My body is still hard, restless, unsatisfied in a way that has nothing to do with ego and everything to do with restraint.
When I finally straighten and adjust my pants again, the pressure has not eased. It is going to be a long night.
The hallway is empty when I step out. Music drifts down from the ballroom, louder now that my pulse isn't drowning it out. I take the stairs slowly, giving Quinn time to disappear into the crowd before I resurface.
West is exactly where I left him, leaning against the column with a glass of bourbon. Rhodes is gone. He glances at me when I approach, but doesn't comment on my appearance.
"You good?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
He doesn't ask or press. Just takes a sip of his drink and scans the room with that assessing gaze that misses nothing.
I scan too. Habit. Looking for threats, opportunities, anything out of place.
I find Quinn near the senator again. Her dress is perfect. Her hair is tucked neatly behind her ears. She's smiling at something he's saying, her stupid screwdriver in hand.
But I see the tension in her jaw. The way she shifts her weight, like her legs aren't quite steady.
West follows my line of sight. "You know her?"
"Not well enough."
"I know what that means."
I don't answer. Just keep watching as Quinn laughs at something the senator says, playing her part flawlessly.
She doesn't look my way once. But I have to see her again.