Always Friday (20 page)

“Hook,” said Casey, pointing one tiny, wet finger toward the
door.

“Hook,” echoed Marsha, kicking her feet against her father’s
hip.

“How do they know?” asked Dan.

Tess shrugged. “Beats me.” She laughed and went to open the
door.

*    *    *

Three of the houses mentioned in my story are loosely based
on historic homes. The house made from two houses is the residence built in
1886 by John L. Darragh, president of the Galveston Wharf Company. When I first
saw the house over twenty years ago, it was for sale and in poor condition, as
described, though the Galveston Historical Foundation was trying to save it. It
has since succumbed to fire, as have many of the neglected beauties that have
been felled by arson, weather, or simple old age and financial issues.  While I’ve
taken a few literary liberties, the redbrick Italianate family home where Aunt
Olivia and the others lived is modeled after Ashton Villa, built by John M.
Brown, a prosperous businessman, in 1859. It has been restored and is open to
the public. Tess’s Moorish Gothic dream house was fashioned after the 1890 home
of John Clement Trube. For a long time the dramatic old structure, sometimes
called Trube Castle, existed as Tess and Dan saw it, and as I first saw it, but
it has been restored.

Jean Laffite was, of course, a real privateer who
established Campeche on Galveston Island. There are many legends about his
buried treasure, including stories about riches cached along an overland route
through East Texas to St. Louis. The journal mentioned is in the Sam Houston
Regional Library in Liberty, Texas, and is thought by many experts to be
authentic. Note, too, that I’ve used the Laffite spelling used in that journal
as opposed to the often spelled Lafitte.

Laffite’s friend, Aaron Cherry, owned property in the area
where the cemetery was located. So far as I know, there was never any treasure
buried there or at any of the other sites described, nor was Laffite married to
the fictitious Contessa. While within the realm of historical possibility, the
stories of Violet and her descendants, including Casey and Tess, and their
connection to Laffite, were born entirely of my imagination.

When I first wrote this book, I tried to be meticulous about
the time line of Tess’s ancestors and the historical accuracy of certain events
and generations, but in this updated edition, the time line suffered, and I
have taken a few liberties rather than tear at my hair trying to make it fit.
If you found a few inconsistencies, please forgive me and grant me literary
license.

*    *    *

I hope you’ve enjoyed ALWAYS FRIDAY. If so, please let
others know by tweeting and/or posting a review on the website where you
purchased it. And please note that unless you borrowed this book from a public
library, you should have purchased it from one of the commercial ebook online
stores such as Amazon, B&N, Sony, Apple iStore, Kobo, Smashwords, etc. 
(Occasionally one of these reputable commercial sellers mentioned offer a
freebie with author permission, and some have special lending programs.) Several
other sites online claim to have the right to share scads of free ebooks. They
don’t. I own the copyrights to all the books with my name on them, and if you
downloaded from one of these pirated sources, you’ve received stolen property.
Please be aware of that. Writing books is the way I earn money for groceries
and my car payment.

You can find me at <
http://www.janhudson.com
>
for comments and questions or to sign up for my newsletter. Stop by. I love
hearing from readers. You can give me a tweet at @janecehudson.

I’ll have several of my back list of tales with Texas ties,
author revised and updated, coming as ebooks in the next few months. Some of
these humorous romances (most originally published by Bantam Loveswept) are out
now or will be soon. Excerpts from THE RIGHT MOVES follows. After these, be on
the lookout for the Berringer Brothers Trilogy in the summer of 2012: BIG AND
BRIGHT, CALL ME SIN, and SLIGHTLY SHADY. I think you’ll love these Texas based
stories about twins who are Texas Rangers and their older brother, who is also
a heartthrob. All are filled with love, laughter and a little sizzle.

Also, I’ll be e-publishing an original humorous mystery with
female PI Kelly Green and her very unusual sidekick in the fall of 2012. You
won’t want to miss this light paranormal–OUT OF SIGHT!

*    *    *

THE RIGHT MOVES – Excerpt

Texas
Tales:
Houston

“Somebody here call for a tow?”

Leaving his post beside one of the potted trees flanking the
carved door, the parking attendant stepped from beneath the red canopy. White
script across the front of the awning discreetly identified Le Boeuf. The same
script adorned the left pocket of the smiling young man’s red jacket. His smile
widened when he looked into the cab of the tow truck.

“Sure thing. It’s for Mr. Russo. Park it over there,” he
said, pointing to the curb farther ahead. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Chris Ponder pulled the big black wrecker to the spot
indicated, climbed down from the cab, and rubbed her back. It had been a long,
rough night, pleasantly warm for March in Houston but full of the typical
Saturday night crazies. Already she’d worked three major wrecks on the
freeways, a couple of side-street fender benders, and four or five other
assorted calls. She’d plumped her pocketbook considerably, but she was pooped.

A glance at her watch confirmed that it was almost
one-thirty in the morning. After this job she was going to call it a day. She’d
been at it for over ten hours. Stifling a yawn, she crammed her fingers in the
back pockets of her jeans, rocked back on her scuffed Nikes, and waited.

The smiling young man was back in a short time. “Mr. Russo’s
with the manager in his office. He said he’d be another few minutes and to come
in and have a drink on him.”

Scowling, she looked down at her grease-smeared jersey and
then to the elegant entrance of Le Boeuf. “In there? Like this?”

“Sure,” the young man said. He lifted an eyebrow and stared
at the front of her shirt. “You look fine to me.”

Chris rolled her eyes heavenward. Lord, deliver her from
libidinous males, even teenaged ones. This boy, who couldn’t be a day older
than her eighteen-year-old stepson, continued to ogle her. “Knock it off, kid,”
she said. “I’m nearly old enough to be your mother.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, sobering and straightening at the
stern parental tone universally recognized by sons.

“Come on,” Chris said, smiling and softening her words. “I
could use a cup of coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His grin was back as he led the way and opened
the heavy door for her.

Inside, it was dark and smoky. Rock music, so loud that it
vibrated the floor beneath her feet, was mixed with frenzied, high-pitched
screams.

What kind of a place was this? After the bright lights of
the parking lot outside, Chris could hardly see a thing. A form appeared beside
her.

“Welcome to Le Boeuf, honey,” a deep male voice drawled. “The
tables are all full, but there’s a spot at the bar. What can I get you to
drink?”

Chris squinted at the form, but all she could make out was a
red bow tie that seemed to glow in the dark and white teeth gleaming in a wide
grin. Someone jostled her and she automatically reached out to steady herself.

Her hand met hard, bare flesh. She gasped.

“Uh-uh, honey,” the voice said. “Look, but don’t touch.”

She snatched her hand away from what she could now make out
as a broad, naked chest. She swallowed. “Excuse me. I’m waiting for Mr. Russo.
I just wanted a cup of coffee. Perhaps I’d better wait outside.”

“Nick Russo? My apologies, miss. I’ll find you a place right
down front. This way,” he said. Taking her elbow before she could balk, he
steered her through the crowd of screaming women and seated her.

Eyes as big as silver dollars, Chris gaped up at the man
gyrating in the spotlight on the platform in front of her. His dark, muscled
body glistening with oil, he wore nothing but a tiny little loincloth with
beads and two feathers in his long black hair.

“Geronimo!” a woman beside her screamed, waving a folded
bill.

When he grunted and gave two thrusts of his pelvis, Chris
groaned, “Oh my Lord,” and dropped her face in her hands. She would have left
then except that she was wedged in by frenzied females waving money at the
dancer, while begging him for kisses. There were soon so many bills tucked into
the edges of his loincloth that he looked like a porcupine. Still he bumped and
ground . . . and kissed.

It was disgusting.

Waiters had to stand by to keep the eager women’s hands off
the “Indian.” At last the drumbeats began to die down as Geronimo raised his
arms in the air and the spotlight faded.

Maybe she could get out now, Chris thought as she gulped the
coffee that had mysteriously appeared before her. No such luck. The crowd was
thick around her and music with a slower tempo took over.

“Ladies, here he is. The new star of Le Boeuf . . . that yellow-haired
god, the Viking!”

The women went wilder than before—screaming, jumping up and
down, climbing on tables. All Chris could see through the frantic arms and legs
of the crowd was a tall man standing on a stage across the room. Posed in the
spotlight with, a huge sword, he was garbed in furs and had on a helmet with
horns sticking out the sides.

When he started to move, a redhead in a miniskirt beside
Chris flung her arms out wide and yelled, “Come spear me, baby.”

Coffee spilled all over the front of Chris’s jersey. “Damn!”
she muttered, trying to sop up the mess with a red cocktail napkin.

Disgusting. Simply disgusting.

How could grown women act like such idiots?

And what kind of man would subject himself to such a
degrading display? She wanted to dig a hole and crawl in.

Chris could tell that the dancer was coming closer to her
because of the folded bills waving in the air. When the waiters dragged off one
of the exuberant patrons blocking her view, Chris caught a glimpse of a fur
jockstrap and a navel with an unusual crescent-shaped birthmark beside it.

She sucked in a startled gasp and her eyes widened to the
size of dinner plates. Her jaw dropped open and she sat paralyzed as the image
seeped into her brain.

Chris shot to her feet. Flinging aside frenzied females, she
bulldozed a path to the edge of the circular dais and stared up at the nearly
naked blond giant in the horned helmet who was thrusting his hips at a brunette
holding a twenty-dollar bill.

“Jon . . . Paul. . . Ponder!” Chris shouted. “You get down
from there this minute!”

She climbed onto the stage with blood in her eye as the
startled dancer turned to face her. He paled as if he’d seen a ghost.

Fists on her hips, Chris glared up at the young man who
topped her by a good ten inches. “You’re going to get your clothes on and get
out of this place. Right now.” She had him by the arm when two brawny waiters
dragged her off the platform.

At five four and a hundred and ten pounds, Chris was no
match for the pair who tried to hold her back, but she fought them like a
lioness. “Let me go, you apes,” she ground out between clenched teeth.

“Ma’am, you can’t touch the Viking,” they said, clearly
trying to soothe her while struggling to keep her off the stage.

“That’s no Viking,” she spat at them. “That’s my son!”

“Sure, lady,” one of them said as they hoisted her up, feet
kicking and dangling a foot off the floor, and hauled her out of the crowd.

“I demand to see the manager. Immediately!”

*    *    *

Amused, Nick Russo sat in a dark corner of the manager’s
office and watched the cute little dynamo, in a dirty blue jersey and tight
jeans that cupped a well-shaped backside, tear a strip off Sal Milella. Part of
her hair was still pinned in a lopsided topknot that wiggled every time she
shook her finger in Sal’s face, and the rest of the honey-colored ringlets
cascaded down her back in wild disarray.

“Are you going to explain to me, Mr.—” she snatched up the
nameplate on the desk, read it, and slammed it back down—”Mr. Milella, exactly
why you employ mere boys in this sleazy dive? You ought to be ashamed of
yourself. You ought to be arrested.”

Looking bewildered, Sal glanced from Nick to the spitfire
leaning across his desk and back to Nick again as if to say, “Help me. What is
this crazy lady talking about?”

She whirled, following the manager’s gaze. “And just who are
you?”

Nick rose and walked toward her. Even with her eyes shooting
sparks, she had the sweetest face he’d ever seen. “I’m Nick Russo,” he said,
his voice deep, soft. He extended his hand and smiled.

As she automatically took his hand and looked into a pair of
smoke-gray eyes that drooped under thick black lashes in a natural bedroom
look, Chris felt her brain turn to tapioca pudding.

Black-haired with a touch of gray at the temples, he was about
five eleven, with wide shoulders filling out a custom-tailored charcoal suit.
Beneath a classic Roman nose, his full lips were slightly parted in an off
center smile that creased his left cheek and played havoc with her knees.

He was the sexiest man she’d ever seen in her life. Sexy
with a capital S. It billowed off him in waves, pulsated from his hand to hers,
did strange things to her heartbeat. She couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t think.
She could only stare, mouth agape, at the man before her.

“And who are you?” he prompted.

“I’m Chris Ponder. I came to tow your car.”