Your Wish Is My Command

T
he last thing Jamie Sullivan was looking for when she climbed the staircase to the third-floor attic was true love. She was looking for an extension cord. One thing she actually had a chance in hell of finding.

The air-conditioning system had died less than thirty minutes ago, and it was already muggy and musty-smelling. Ah, the French Quarter in the springtime. And it was bound to get a whole lot worse, she thought, praying that Marta's managerial skills extended to sweet-talking a repairman out early tomorrow morning.

At least the damn thing hadn't conked out until their grand-opening weekend was over. She pushed several boxes out of her way and ducked under the Y-beams as she stumbled toward the tool bench she recalled seeing on her last foray into the attic.

“What a mess.” She'd spent all of her waking hours for the last two months getting the ground-level bookstore and café ready to open on schedule. She'd taken only enough time to convert the corner room on the second floor to a somewhat livable bedroom. However, her Martha Stewart skills had failed at that point. The remainder of the nineteenth-century Creole town house still looked like the neglected piece of real estate the place had been for the past
couple of years. But it was her home now. Not exactly home-y. Not yet. But it would be someday. She'd see to that. She was nothing if not determined.

Determined to lean on the A/C repairman herself, she thought grimly, as a line of sweat formed at the base of her throat and trickled down to form a small pool in her bra.

She was still getting used to the idea that she had a fixed address for the first time in over ten years. Well, longer than that, really. She couldn't count the apartment her father had rented when she was a kid, since the two of them had spent next to no time there. And boats didn't count as fixed addresses, being as they didn't stay … well, fixed. There was the time spent here in New Orleans, in college. But a dorm wasn't really a home.

This, she thought, staring up at the steeply pitched roof, was a real home. Or would be. She had to admit, it was growing on her. She sneezed suddenly, then laughed as she rubbed her itchy nose. Yeah, New Orleans did grow on a person. Literally.

She stepped over a large box heaped with stuff, then stopped mid-straddle and looked down to her right. “What have we here?” It wasn't a box. She tossed aside a stack of old newspapers. “Whoa.” A trunk. A very old one, if the worn leather trim and tarnished brass finishings were any indication.

She could feel the newly designed store logo printed on the back of her polo shirt sticking to her skin.
Find the extension cord. You can come back and play treasure hunter later.

But her gaze lingered on the chest, even as sweat dripped off the end of her nose. This was buried treasure, matey, and she had to know what was inside. She tugged at the latch on the front, wincing at the grinding squeal it made, then hooting triumphantly when it flipped up. It took another minute or two of
tugging to get the lid open. Her shoulders slumped when she spied the contents. Beads. Strands of green, purple, and gold beads, and tons of other Mardi Gras foo-foo stuff. Like she hadn't seen enough of them at the endless parades this past season. Shoot. So much for hidden treasure.

Just then an image of her father's smiling face danced through her mind.
Playing pirate queen again, Jamie, me luv?
She heard the words as clearly as if he were standing next to her. She was five years old again, standing defiantly on the prow of her father's offshore racing boat with a cardboard sword in her hand and a red rag tied around her head. She commandeered the sleek vessel as would any good pirate queen worth her gold doubloons.

Jamie bent down and sifted her hands through the silk masks, feathers, and beads. “No pirate queens here,” she murmured. “Not anymore. I'm all grown up now, Daddy. Promise.” She started to pull her hand free, intent on closing the lid, wishing she could shut out the memories as easily. But she paused when her fingers brushed against something hard and leathery. Digging back into the pile with both hands, she grabbed what had to be a basket hilt to a sword. She drew the scabbard and sword free, quickly disentangling the beads and feathers from it.

This was no Mardi Gras prop. It was heavy. And old. Old and very real. She straightened and shifted it from hand to hand. The weight of it balanced nicely. She wondered why something so valuable would be buried in an old trunk of Mardi Gras junk.

She'd never met Edgar Santini, the man who owned this exclusive corner of Royal Street real estate up until his death. She knew that he hadn't lived in the house in decades but that the place had been rented off and on. More off recently, she thought,
since her friend Ree Ann had taken over possession of the unoccupied building. Mr. Santini had left it to Ree in his will. Jamie supposed the sword could have belonged to any one of the previous tenants.

Jamie looked closely at the scabbard and the hilt. She couldn't imagine forgetting she owned something like this. Grabbing the corner of an old blanket, she rubbed at the silver and ivory handle, which had a gorgeous scrolled pattern engraved on it. If this was a reproduction, someone had gone to great lengths to make it look like an original. But she was betting this was no repro. Jamie knew her eighteenth-century weapons. An offshoot of her obsession with studying ancient seafaring vessels—pirate ships in particular. But when a kid grows up on a boat, that's a normal obsession, right? She was pretty certain it had to be.

All that pirate play as a child had evolved into her adult hobby of building tiny replicas of various pirate ships. An excuse to continue playing pirate queen, her father had once teased. He was probably right. She hefted the sword into her other hand and sighed, realizing it had been years since she'd built one of her model ships.

Now that the shop was open, she would have time to truly settle in and organize herself. She looked around the attic, thinking that if she cleaned up the place, scrubbed at the dormer windows, and cleared off that tool bench—it might make a good workroom. She grinned. At age thirty, she'd finally decided to give up hydroplane racing and become a responsible adult, but that didn't mean she had to abandon the pirate queen who still lived somewhere inside her heart.

Impulsively, she placed the scabbard on her hip and struck a mock stance. She slid the sword free and stabbed the gleaming blade forward into the air.
“En-garde!”

She gasped, a scream locked in her throat as she
barely missed skewering the man now standing, suddenly, impossibly, in front of her. Mouth gaping, she stared at him as he gently pushed the deadly tip away from its resting point directly above his heart.

“Be careful,
ma maítresse,
you could poke an eye out with that thing.”

She was suffering heat stroke. Hallucinating. She had to be. Because she'd just conjured up the perfect pirate.

His jet-black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail at the nape of his neck. His shirt was white, open at the throat, where a deep-blue handkerchief was tied. He wore a long dark coat, cut in at the waist, with heavy sleeves and big cuffs and lapels. His breeches—they couldn't be called pants—were snug and showcased well-muscled thighs and … and … other well-muscled things she struggled not to notice. His calves were thick and heavy, something the thin white hosiery he wore managed to set off in an absurdly masculine manner. The shoes were brown leather, with a brass buckle, thick heel, and heavy flap turned back over the top.

He had to be sweltering in that getup, but as she looked up at his face, not a bead of sweat showed on his formidable brow. Dear Lord, what a face. High cheekbones, a sharply slanted jaw, dark slashes of eyebrows, and eyes as black as midnight. They captured and held on to their prey with nothing more than a glint of … humor.

Humor?

He winked at her, as if reading her thoughts.

Jamie snapped out of her stupefied shock. He was no hallucination. She pulled the sword back and rested the tip on the trunk, keeping her eyes solidly on the intruder in front of her. “This area is off-limits to customers. What are you doing up here?” Besides playing dress up, she thought, still rattled.

He swept an arm across his chest and bowed gracefully at the waist. His eyes locked on hers as he straightened. “You have summoned me forth, madame. Sebastien Valentin, at your service.”

He was undeniably French. His voice was rich and deep. And very sexy. His costume, although it fit him like it was tailor-made for his impressive physique, was obviously some sort of gag. Gag? Her eyes narrowed as she immediately realized who would play just this sort of joke on her. Her cousin Jack. Flamboyance was his trademark. It was what made him a highly demanded makeup artist for the drag queens performing nightly over on Bourbon Street. This kind of prank was just his style.

“Well, Monsieur Valentin, I appreciate that, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Tell Jack he really picked a winner this time. You've got the swarthy pirate thing nailed. And please relay a message to him.” She smiled wickedly. “Paybacks are hell.”

Sebastien—if that was his real name—stepped forward, and she raised the tip of the sword in warning. Jokes went only so far. She gestured with her other hand. “Exit stage right, buddy.” She stepped around him and motioned again toward the stairs. “And keep your distance.”

Instead of looking thwarted, he smiled. Flashing white teeth only made his dangerous good looks all the more … well, dangerous. “I do not know this Jack you speak of. Did you not understand me, madame?”

“Mademoiselle,” she snapped, immediately wishing she hadn't when his eyes gleamed in appreciation. Not that he had seemed remotely as interested in taking her inventory as she had been in taking his. In fact, now that she thought about it, he hadn't really looked at her at all. And why did she even care?

She'd officially returned to “mademoiselle” status a year ago, marking the second time she'd done so in her short adult life. Given that she apparently made a lousy madame, she figured it would be mademoiselle from here on out. Swarthy, grinning pirates and quickening heartbeats notwithstanding. Life's little divorces had taught her she would have to be made of sterner stuff than that.

She squared her shoulders. “What I understand is that you're trespassing, and I'd appreciate it very much if you'd leave quietly. I'd hate to have to call the police.”

Her threat did not put so much as a wrinkle of worry between his perfectly piratical brows. “I cannot take my leave. You have summoned me forth, and as such you must select three souls. It is my duty to find their soulmates.”

A surprised laugh escaped her. “A pirate genie with a cupid complex? Well, Jack is nothing if not creative. But, you know, it's hot as hell up here and there's a champagne glass downstairs with my name on it. I've earned it. In fact, I've earned several. So let's call it a day, okay?”

His smile grew wider. The first whisper of alarm lifted the hairs on her arm. He stepped toward her again, this time not stopping when she swung the blade up. In a move so swift she wasn't exactly sure what happened, he disarmed her, flipped the hilt to his other hand, then stalked her until her back hit the nearest wall. The damp brick stuck to her shirt, and dust motes danced in front of her eyes as he stood there, hardly a pace away. She could see the gleam of amusement still in his eyes.