Blue by You (4 page)

He chuckled and unzipped the back of her skirt. “It fits. I promise.” He stripped her of the rest of her clothes. “Lie down, Blue. Lie down, and I’ll make it so good, you’ll only feel pleasure.”

She did as he told her, and he did as he promised. He touched between her legs, then spread his wet fingers across her nipples. She moaned and arched her back as he licked her breasts clean.

“You taste good,” he whispered, and spread her legs. He moved between her knees and stroked his penis as his dark, hungry eyes looked down into hers. “You’re going to like this,” he said. He leaned forward, and the plush head of his erection touched her between her legs. It did feel good, and she moaned and bit her lip. Her eyes slid shut as he shoved inside. A stitch of pain pulled her brows together, and she sucked in a breath. His fingers brushed her slick clitoris as he pushed farther inside, giving her pleasure and pain.

His hot breath brushed her check as he leaned over her and ran his fingers through her hair as he buried his penis inside.

“Blue,” he whispered against her mouth. “You’re so tight. So good.” His fingers plowed through her hair. “Are you okay?”

She wasn’t sure. She didn’t know what she felt most. The pleasure or the pain. But then he moved, carefully, sliding out, then back in, and a fiery friction burned away the pain. “Do that again,” she said, her voice a husky whisper. And he did. Again and again. Slow at first. In and out. Telling her how good she felt. How beautiful. The hot push and slick pull and the fiery friction grew.

“Kasper!” she called out.

“Yes. Come for me, cher,” he breathed into ear. “Beautiful girl.”

She couldn’t recall anything feeling this good. She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t need to breathe. She just wanted more. She moved with him, meeting his thrusts until the fiery friction spread from her thighs and flashed across her skin, and her whole world blew apart.

When it was over, when it was Kasper’s turn to cry out and call her name, when his breathing tickled her ear, and his hips stopped, she felt different. When her brain cleared, and all the pieces of her world came back, she felt changed. The pieces the same yet altered somehow.

“You okay?”

She nodded. She was the same person, only different. She’d made an adult decision. She hadn’t considered anyone else’s wishes but her own. Anyone else’s wants and needs, and the world hadn’t ended.

He lifted his face and looked into her eyes. “Say something.”

She was no longer a virgin and felt no regret. “How many more times can we do that?”

He smiled, slid out of her body, then back inside. “As many as you like.”

The answer was three. They had sex three more times in the old live oak. Three more times until the sun slipped low enough to cast the first shadows of night. Three more times until Kasper stood and helped her dress.

“Maybe we should carve our initials into the tree like Abigail and Thomas,” she said, and zipped up the back of her skirt. Kasper glanced up into her face, then returned his attention to the front of her blouse. He concentrated on the buttons and didn’t say anything. For the first time since she’d climbed the tree, she felt like she’d been too bold. Stepped over an invisible line. Weird, considering she’d been naked most of the day. “Only without the heart, of course. More like tagging,” she assured him.

“I don’t have a knife.” He finished the last button near the base of her throat.

“Oh.”

“I’ll meet you here tomorrow around noon.” He smiled and pushed her hair from her face. “You bring your gorgeous self and maybe a blanket. I’ll bring a knife.”

At exactly noon
the following day, Blue crawled up into the oak tree. She dragged a blanket with her and sat beneath the old carved heart. She waited in the muggy air, and as the sun got hotter and slid west. She waited in the heat and humidity. She waited until she knew he wasn’t coming.

Chapter Four

2013

“Excuse me.” The
director of tours for Dahlia Hall, Patricia, stood in the doorway of the small office Blue shared with Carolee in the converted carriage house. “Tina McCoy just clocked out.”

Blue looked up from the spreadsheet she and Carolee were going over at Carolee’s desk. “That makes three times in the past month she’s left early.” She glanced at her watch. “Her last tour begins in five minutes.”

Carolee frowned. “Cramps again?”

Patricia shook her head. “A ‘weird eye’ this time.”

If Tina didn’t make such a good Scarlett O’Hara, she would have been fired the second time she left early. “Time for you to get in the dress.” She pointed at her friend. “I did it last time.”

“Wish I could help you out.” Carolee pointed to the stack of work on her desk. “I have to finish the month’s account receivables.” She frowned. “Sorry.”

No she wasn’t.

Blue sighed and headed out the door. “Fire Tina,” she said, and moved toward the big house. Tourists wandered the gardens, and she said hello before she moved through a back door and walked past the employees’ break room to the dressing room. A replica of Scarlett O’Hara’s white-and-green barbecue dress hung in a wardrobe closet. Granted, Scarlett was from Georgia, and this was Louisiana. But one thing she’d learned was that to most tourists, a Southern belle was a Southern belle, no matter what state she hailed from.

She quickly undressed and stepped into a hoop skirt. The replica dress was lighter, had less fabric than the original, and not as many layers beneath. The costume was much more functional and zipped up the back. A dark green sash circled the waist, while a matching ribbon tied beneath her chin to keep the flat straw hat on her head.

Blue looked in the full-length mirror one last time, adjusted her breasts in the tight bodice, and headed toward the front of the house. Right on time, she opened the big double doors, and said, “Welcome to Dahlia Hall,” with a big smile on her face.

A cluster of about fifteen tourists stood on the white gallery. Gathered was a church group in matching T-shirts, several women Blue assumed were traveling together, a few couples in shorts and flip-flops, and one man who stood apart. Tall, dark, his hair touched the tops of his ears and back of his thick neck. Fine lines creased the corners of his dark eyes.

Kasper Pennington. What did he want?

Blue pushed up the corners of her mouth even higher. “I’m Miss Blue, and we’ll be spending the next hour together. If you have a question, just ask.”

“Is Blue your real name?” someone wanted to know.

“Yes. I’m named after one of my aunts.” She glanced at Kasper, then stepped out onto the gallery. A slight smile curved his mouth. Last night, she hadn’t known how she felt about seeing him again. Today, she was more confused than anything. Why was he at Dahlia Hall? In the last group of the day? What could he possibly want?

Blue began the tour with a history of the land and family and original house. “When Garrard Toussaint brought his bride home, she was not impressed with the original Creole architecture and began renovations that lasted ten years and resulted in the current Creole, Greek Revival style.” As she spoke, she was very aware of Kasper’s rapt attention. On the columns and fanlight windows, but not really on her. “In 1820, the original mistress, Dahlia Toussaint, added the belvedere on the roof, so she could always have a clear view of the river.” Several times, Blue stumbled over her well-rehearsed script, and he smiled even as he ran the tip of his fingers across the shutters.

The tour moved into the house, and Blue waited in the doorway for the last straggler to enter. Of course, it was Kasper.

“What are you doing here?” she asked just above a whisper.

“Apparently, I’m touring your home.” He pointed to the group in the entry. “Imagine that.”

Yeah. Imagine that. She turned, and continued, “Like most Creole floor plans of the era, there are no hallways at Dahlia Hall. Just suite after suite. The parlors were designed with large pocket doors that could be opened to connect them all to the big foyer for special occasions, like balls or funerals,” she said, and took a glance at Kasper, who stood in the gentlemen’s parlor, studying the intricate details of the restored murals on the walls.

They moved into the dining room, where family portraits hung on the walls. “This porcelain was brought to the house from Paris as part of Laura Blanchard’s dowry in 1850,” Blue said as she pointed to a Sheraton sideboard. She lifted her hand to a portrait hanging above the porcelain. “This is Laura.”

A deep voice spoke from the back of the room. “Was she a first cousin?”

Blue didn’t even have to look at Kasper to know who asked the question. “She was not.” She bit her lip to keep from smiling, recalling that time many years ago when she and Kasper had stood at a backyard barbecue arguing over whose family was more inbred. If she recalled, the answer was hers.

For the next hour, she turned up her Southern belle charm and showed the group the big house, grounds, and slave quarters of Dahlia Hall. Usually, she enjoyed showing tourists her home. She was proud of her heritage, but this was by no means a typical group. A former lover stood in the small crowd. Her first lover. The man to whom she’d given her virginity in the cradle of a live oak tree. The man who’d told her to meet him the next day but never showed. She wasn’t bitter about that. Not now. Like generations of Southern women before her, she lived though what was thrown at her and moved on. Whether by design or accident or act of God, she lived her life as it came at her.

No, she wasn’t bitter, just embarrassed. Even after all these years.

The tour ended under a live oak draped with Spanish moss at the front of the house. The image was totally staged. A Southern belle waving good-bye, the last thing the tourists saw as they jumped back in their buses and cars and minivans.

One vehicle remained in the small parking lot. A Pennington Construction truck, and she could feel Kasper behind her, like a hot electrical current raising the hair on her arms. When the last minivan entered the highway, she turned to see him resting an arm against a low-hanging branch. The shifting shadows from the swaying moss cast patterns across his face and green polo shirt.
PENNING
TON CONSTRUCTION
was embroidered above the left breast pocket of his shirt, tucked into a pair of Levi’s.

“Can I help you with something?”

He stared into her eyes. “You look like Scarlett O’Hara.” His gaze slid down her throat to the top of her dress. He grinned before retuning his attention upward to her hair and hat.

Suddenly, she very aware of her breasts pushed from the tight bodice. “Did you come here to stare at my dress?”

“No, I dropped by to say thank you for last night. The dress is lagniappe.”

Lagniappe, a little something extra a person didn’t expect. Something appreciated. “You could have said thank you without sticking around for the whole tour.” She moved toward him and stopped near the low-hanging branch. “You probably have better things to do than listen to my family history.”

“I know your family history, and that part about a neighbor’s conspiring to steal Dahlia Hall land is complete and utter bullshit.”

Blue rested her elbow next his forearm. “Depends on if you believe facts or no ’count fiction.”

“Everyone knows the Toussaints come from a long line of pirates and thieves.”

“And the Penningtons can’t be relied upon to remember the truth due to the pickling effects of Old Crow.”

Kasper chuckled and raised his hands to the big green bow beneath her chin. “We only drank Old Crow during Prohibition, when the good stuff was difficult to acquire.”

Blue attempted to swat his hands away. “What are you doing?”

“Taking off this stupid hat.” He pulled the bow free, then grabbed it from her head. “Last night, you stood in the dark, and I didn’t get a good look at you.” He handed back the hat. “Today, that kept getting in my way.”

She grasped the wide brim against the sudden turmoil in her stomach, and, for several unnerving moments, he stared at her as if he was looking for something. Then he smiled, “There you are.”

Beneath her hand, the turmoil in her stomach spread across her skin. “Where else would I be?”

He slid his fingers along her jaw. “You look as I remember.”

“Hardly.” His fingers sent little shivers across her throat, and she took a step back. She was not eighteen this time. “I am forty.”

“I know how old you are.” He rested his arm on the branch once more. “You’re more beautiful at forty than you were at eighteen.”

She tilted her head to the side and frowned. “My momma didn’t raise a stupid child.”

“It’s true.” He laughed. “You look more like a woman than a girl.”

There had been a day a long time ago that they’d both agreed she was a woman.

“It’s a compliment, cher. You look good. Better.”

He still looked as good as fresh-baked sin. Tall and filled out with hard muscles, and his hair looked better now. Now that he no longer had the military buzz cut, a dark lock touched his forehead. His dark eyes could still melt a woman, but there was a weariness at the corners. Like he’d seen and done too much in one lifetime.

“Thank you.” She straightened, then asked, before his sugar mouth had a chance at lowering her guard, “So why are you really here, Kasper.”

“I told you. To thank you for last night. Grand-mère can be a handful, and you put up with her.”

“You’re welcome.” She pushed her hair behind her ears. “You didn’t have to join the tour to tell me that.”

“I hadn’t meant to. I walked up as the tour started, and I stuck around.” He shrugged and folded his arms across his wide chest. “It was interesting.”

“You were interested in my family history?”

“Your version, yes.” He chuckled and held up a hand to stop her outrage. “We’ll agree to disagree on that. I’d never been in Dahlia Hall. You’ve done a really good job restoring the estate. I always wanted to renovate the slave quarters at Esterbrook, but they’ve deteriorated past their bones.”

“I heard you were renovating Esterbrook,” she said as if she’d just learned of it. “How’s it going?”

“Slow. The sixties were hard on the big house. All that shag carpet.” A scowl pulled his dark brows together. “And all those goddamn layers of goddamn wallpaper dating back to 1830 that had to be taken down. The Pennington women were demented about fucking wallpaper.”

Blue smiled. “I guess you’re not picking out wallpaper now?”

“Hell no.” He sighed as if the whole subject wore at him. “Esterbrook is my home. I’m not restoring it to live in a museum. I want to keep as much of the history as possible, but I want a flushing toilet.”

Blue knew exactly what he was talking about. The plumbing, no matter how modern, could go cattywampus. She’d had public restrooms built next to the parterre garden, and the low water table was an occasional problem even with the new plumbing.

“Are you living there now?”

“I have a house in Jefferson Parish, but I don’t feel right leaving grand-mère alone at Esterbrook. The first floor is almost completed, but the second floor needs a lot of work.”

She wondered what his house looked like in Jefferson Parish and if he’d ever lived there with one of his wives. She supposed she could ask, but that was personal information. The less she knew about his personal life, the better. “Well, if you ever need advice on restoration.” She took a step back, and her shoulders hit the branch of the tree. “Give me a call. I know a trick or two I could show you.”

“What are you doing tomorrow night?”

That soon? He wasn’t kidding about getting the house finished. “Nothing.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at seven.” He took a step toward her and gestured toward her dress. “Wear that.”

“What?” She looked down at the ruffles and green ribbon and her breasts pushed together. “Do you want a tour guide?”

He reached for her hand, and she looked up into his brown eyes. “No.”

At the warmth of his touch, her pulse kicked up. “I’m filling in for an employee today. She’s smaller than I am.” For some reason, she felt the need to explain.

“Especially up top.” His laughter flashed in his eyes, and she felt herself melt a little. “I want you to come have dinner with me and Miss Sudie.”

“Oh. I . . . At Esterbrook?” With the Penningtons? She’d promised herself last night there would be no melting.

His thumb brushed the back of her hand. “Say yes. Grand-mère wants to thank you for your kindness. It would mean a lot to her.”

If it had just been him, she would have turned him down flat. There was something dangerous about him. Something that felt unfinished. Something she had no desire to finish, no matter how much he made her stomach feel squishy. “I’d love to have dinner with you and Miss Sudie.”

“Good.” He dropped her hand. “Bring that dress. It’s sexy as hell.”

“I’ll bring it, but you have to wear it.”

Kasper wore a
white dress shirt, a beige-and-burgundy tie, and a pair of khaki chinos. He was so handsome. Dark and swarthy, like one of the four fallen angels in her family’s old Bible.

Blue raised a glass of wine to her lips. She wore a modest black wrap dress and red, four-inch heels. Nothing sinful about her. “Where’s Miss Sudie?”

Kasper smiled. “Detained.”

The heels of Blues pumps dug into the new Persian rugs, so different from the threadbare carpets at Dahlia Hall, as they moved to the dining room. She’d been at Esterbrook for almost an hour as Kasper had kept her busy, showing her the renovations he’d done to the home itself and the restorations of the hand-painted ceiling medallions. She could see why his renovations were taking him so long. The workmanship was phenomenal. The fireplace mantels had been removed and refinished, while the iron firebacks had been duplicated and replaced for safety. The bricks inside had been removed, cleaned, and replaced. The walls had been stripped of paper and sanded. They talked about headaches with permits and disposal of toxic materials like lead paint.

“When will Sudie be undetained?”