One-Night Man. Jeanie London

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СКАЧАТЬ a sad, lonely sound that contrasted sharply with the activity outside the car. “But I knew what I was getting into when I decided to spend my life with you. I’ve never once regretted my choice.

      “Oh, Joshua, all Lennon has ever seen is that she can’t have marriage and passion together. We showed her that, and her mother did, too. Why else would she think she has to choose?”

      A heavy sort of sadness—the kind that weighted a person all the more because there was no way to rewind the clock and say things that should have been said long ago—seeped through Quinevere like the muggy air of a New Orleans summer afternoon right before a rainstorm.

      Oh, Joshua. Tears prickled her eyes—she cried so easily now. Whether her tears were a function of old age or simply loneliness for the man she’d chosen to share her life with, Quinevere couldn’t say. She only knew that she wanted so much more than companionship for Lennon, a great-niece who was her daughter in every way but by birth.

      Blinking furiously, Quinevere caressed her wedding band and took a deep breath. “I’ve got this under control, my love. I’ve got a plan to get Lennon back on the right track again, and maybe even that grandson of yours, too. I can’t join you in the ever after until I’ve taken care of the details down here.”

      And that meant ensuring those she and Joshua left behind had a chance to find happiness, too.

      By the time Olaf appeared at the passenger side of the car, Quinevere managed a smile. Perhaps with luck, and Joshua’s divine assistance, she’d soon smell grand passion blooming beneath her nose. Given the way Lennon had fought tooth and nail this morning to convince them she didn’t need Josh Three around, Quinevere suspected she’d smell grand passion blooming sooner rather than later.

      Especially given Josh’s reaction to Lennon.

      He’d sat in her parlor, just as comfortable as you please, all respect and attention and stoic deliberation of Lennon’s rants, but his beautiful green eyes had twinkled devilishly.

      Quinevere recognized that look. She’d seen it in his grandfather’s eyes too often not to know exactly what it meant.

      Josh Three was interested in Lennon.

      So Quinevere had simply told her great-niece to cope with her bodyguard or stay home. That was that. Lennon had chosen to cope.

      Ah, l’amour.

      “WHAT DO YOU MEAN you can’t upgrade my suite to one with two bedrooms?” Lennon asked the desk clerk incredulously. “I know there’s a spare suite with the art gallery reservations.”

      This was the Château Royal, a hundred-seventy-year-old establishment in the French Quarter known for its five-star hospitality. That was why Auntie Q had chosen this hotel. That and the fact it was within walking distance of the art museum. Fighting Mardi Gras traffic from their home in the Garden District didn’t make sense when they had activities scheduled between the hotel and the museum practically all weekend.

      “We’ve been told we’re not allowed to reassign any rooms.”

      “But I’m with the art gallery.”

      “I’m sorry,” the desk clerk said apologetically. “You’ll have to take it up with the coordinator.”

      Auntie Q.

      She should have known. No doubt her great-aunt had foreseen the trouble with Lennon and Josh’s room arrangement and wasn’t about to allow for plan B.

      Lennon wouldn’t give in so easily. “I’m booked in the Carriage House. Can’t you just move me into the main hotel?”

      “It’s Mardi Gras.” The desk clerk shrugged in entreaty, silently begging Lennon to cut her some slack. “I don’t have a suite in the main hotel to give you.”

      Staring at the uniformed clerk, she tapped her credit card on the desktop. Didn’t this woman realize she was asking her to share a king-size bed with her new bodyguard?

      Of course not. How could she know? Most of the normal population—which included anyone not related to Auntie Q—couldn’t appreciate the ramifications of living with a great-aunt who played life by her own rules.

      But Lennon knew what that king-size bed would mean—an awkward conversation about sleeping arrangements. It was bad enough being forced into such close proximity with a man who looked like a romance hero in 3-D, a hero who didn’t seem to mind the logistics of guarding her body 24–7.

      Sure, this assignment probably seemed like a dream to a man who routinely hunted down criminals, bail jumpers and the ilk that hid from government authorities, but it was a nightmare as far as she was concerned. She’d known it the instant she’d awakened to find Josh staring down at her with those green bedroom eyes.

      At first she’d thought she’d been dreaming, that the handsome man in the gallery portrait had come to life. Which was certainly an understandable reaction on her part, given how exhausted she was and how much Josh looked like his grandfather.

      But once Lennon had realized who her visitor was, she’d recognized trouble in Josh’s potent gaze, in the quick smiles that made her heart beat too fast. He’d been watching her sleep and she knew with that fluttery sense of intuition deep inside that he’d liked what he’d seen.

      “Is there a problem?” Mr. Hero himself asked, suddenly appearing behind her.

      Yes, a big one, but Lennon wasn’t going to tell him that. She could sense him towering over her, and his voice resonated through her like a caress.

      Jeez! Who’d have guessed the black sheep would have grown up to be the stuff sinfully delicious heroes were made of? Not her, for sure. She hadn’t thought much about Josh Eastman since she’d been ten years old. She may have heard about him from his grandfather, but for some reason Great-uncle Joshua hadn’t mentioned how seriously attractive his grandson had grown to be.

      Taking a deep, calming breath, Lennon turned around and lifted her gaze.

      His eyes, greener than the lawns along Rue St. Charles, gave her a jolt. Another deep breath. “They can’t upgrade my suite to a two bedroom.”

      “I don’t mind sharing a bedroom with you, chère.”

      He smiled, only his wasn’t a smile as Lennon had ever thought of one. His smile lit his face with arresting candor, drew her attention to how his white teeth dazzled in contrast to the dark shadow of stubble along his chiseled jaw.

      For her last three books, she’d begged her editor to find a cover model with such strong, cut features, only to have Ellen laughingly tell her that those heroes didn’t exist anywhere but in the stories she wrote.

      Wrong. She’d be sure to tell Ellen when they next spoke.

      Turning back to the desk clerk, Lennon handed her the credit card, but Mr. Hero plucked it from the clerk’s grasp.

      “Use mine,” he whispered in her ear, a burst of warm breath that tickled her hair and sent goose bumps down her arms. “You’re my client, which means I pick up the tab from now until the case is over. Standard procedure.”

      Lennon didn’t argue. The man was a reputed professional, after all, and she had no desire to wind up СКАЧАТЬ