Midnight Bayou

my head so the best I can come up with is, wow.”
    She sent him that sassy, under-the-lashes look and turned a slow circle on stiletto heels. “This work okay for you, then?”
    The dress clung, dipped and shimmied. His glands were doing a joyful jig. “Oh yeah. It’s working just fine.”
    She crooked her finger. “Come here a minute.”
    She stepped back, then slid a hand through his arm and turned toward an old silver-framed mirror. “Don’t we look fine?” she said, and her reflection laughed at his. “Where you taking me, cher ?”
    “Let’s find out.” He picked up a wide, red silk scarf, draped it over her shoulders. “Are you going to be warm enough?”
    “If I’m not, then this dress isn’t working after all.” With this she strode out on her little gallery. She started to hold out a hand for his, then just stared down at the white stretch limo at the curb.
    She was rarely speechless, but it took her a good ten seconds to find her voice, and her wits. “You buy yourself a new car, darling?”
    “It’s a rental. This way, I figure we can both have all the champagne we want.”
    As first dates went, she thought as he led her down, this one had potential. It only got better when the uniformed driver opened the door and bowed her inside.
    There were two silver buckets. One held a bottle of champagne and the other a forest of purple tulips.
    “Roses are obvious,” he said and pulled a single flower out to offer her. “And you’re not.”
    She twirled the tulip under her nose. “Is this how you charm the girls in Boston?”
    He poured a flute of champagne, held it out to her. “There are no other girls.”
    Off balance, she took a sip. “You’re dazzling me, Declan.”
    “That’s the plan.” He tapped his glass to hers. “I’m really good at seeing a plan through.”
    She leaned back, crossed her legs in a slow, deliberate motion she knew would draw his gaze down to them. “You’re a dangerous man. You know what makes you really dangerous? It doesn’t show unless you take a good look under all the polish.”
    “I won’t hurt you, Lena.”
    “Oh, hell you won’t.” But she let out a low, delightful laugh. “That’s just part of the trip, sugar. Just part of the trip. And so far, I’m enjoying it.”
    He went for elegant, Old-World French where the waiters wore black tie, the lighting was muted, and the corner table was designed for intimacy.
    Another bottle of champagne arrived seconds after they were seated, telling her he’d prearranged it. And possibly a great deal more.
    “I’m told the food is memorable here. The house is early twentieth century,” he continued. “Georgian Colonial Revival, and belonged to an artist. A private home until about thirty years ago.”
    “Do you always research your restaurant’s history?”
    “Ambience matters. Especially in New Orleans. So does cuisine. They tell me the caneton a l’Orange is a house specialty.”
    “Then one of us should have it.” Intrigued, she set her menu aside. He wasn’t just fun, she thought. He wasn’t just sexy and smart. He was interesting. “You choose. This time.”
    He ordered straight through from appetizers to chocolate soufflé with the ease of a man accustomed to fine dining in exclusive restaurants.
    “You have good French, at least for ordering food. Do you speak it otherwise?”
    “Yes, but Cajun French can still throw me.”
    “Have you been to Paris?”
    “Yes.”
    She leaned forward in that way she had, her arms folded on the edge of the table, her gaze fastened to his. “Is it wonderful?”
    “It is.”
    “One day I’d like to go. To Paris and Florence, to Barcelona and Athens.” They were hot, colorful dreams of hers, and the anticipation of them as exciting as the wish. “You’ve been to those places.”
    “Not Athens. Yet. My mother liked to travel, so we went to Europe every year when I was growing up. Every other to Ireland. We still have family there.”
    “And what’s your favorite?” She rested her elbows on the table and her chin in her laced fingers. “Of all the places you’ve been.”
    “Hard to say. The west coast of Ireland, the hills in Tuscany, a sidewalk café in Paris. But at the moment, right here is my favorite place.”
    “There’s that silky tongue again. All right then, tell me about Boston.”
    “It’s a New England harbor city of great historical importance.” When she laughed, he sat back and soaked it in. “Oh, that’s not what