S.E.C.R.E.T. Shared (Secret 2)

He looked at me and I nodded.

“Why aren’t you with him?”

“It’s complicated.”

“It always is.”

“I’m sorry. That was … an accident. And not worth discussing.”

“If you say so.” He sounded sincere.

Whew.

“But you know what is worth discussing?” I said, rolling onto my elbow to face him. I tried to offer a coy grin, something to signal a change not just in subject, but in mood. “Your captain’s bed.”

He bit.

“Just because it’s got storage underneath doesn’t mean it’s a captain’s bed. It’s a small apartment. You have to conserve space.”

My fingers moved up and down his firm stomach, following the soft line of dark hair that led to a neat thatch surrounding his penis, now spent and resting heavy on his thigh. This man was especially sexy when he wasn’t talking.

“You are … amazing,” I said.

With my finger I circled one of his nipples, then the other one.

“And you are funny,” he said, still breathless. “And fun.”

I put my finger over his beautifully formed, very talented lips.

“That’s right,” I said. “Funny. And fun. I think those are operative words here.”

“I’m sure there are other f words we can incorporate,” he said, wrapping his lips around my finger and sucking it.

I closed my eyes. Okay. We were good. Liberation, indeed.

DAUPHINE

EVER SINCE MY first fantasy on the Abita River almost a month ago, I felt as though an extra line of voltage had been installed in my body. How else to explain my energy that day? Not only did I send Elizabeth home, I sorted and priced the last of the estate-sale boxes, purged old stock and made the store so pristine, so sparkly, I had the urge to close up shop for good lest any of my hard work be disturbed by actual shoppers.

I even took a picture. And instead of feeling drained by the exertion, I felt victorious, energized. Then I spotted them in the front window—the tables! I forgot the folding sale tables on the sidewalk.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” I said, quickly unlocking the door. It was after hours, so Magazine Street was almost empty. I stacked the scratched plastic bins, which contained everything from mismatched opera gloves, lopsided wigs, dyed-satin clutches with tiny stains, odd-sized fishnets, so-so rhinestones that I had left under a sign marked “Charity Bins: $2 each—or $20 takes it all.” I had been warned several times by the Magazine Street Retail Association that I wasn’t allowed to put my inventory on the sidewalk unless it was Spring Fling, when the whole street shut down for an outdoor sale. Last year I was slapped with an eight-hundred-dollar fine when I ignored the rule on Easter weekend. But I was so proud of myself for making a dent, even a small one, in moving some of the dead inventory, I justified my infraction.

I saw a tall, imposing shadow cross the table in front of me.

“Miss Dauphine Mason?”

I slowly turned around, clutching a pink pageboy wig in one fist, two stray gloves under an armpit. I was eye-level with a taut blue shirt and a shiny brass badge.

“Well, shut my mouth,” I said, my mother’s accent flying out of me. Police officers do bring out the Belle in me, what with their close-cropped hair and broad shoulders.

And this one was particularly … arresting, with his grey-flecked eyes and a singular dimple in his cheek that disappeared when he chewed his gum. He stood cocking a hip, a man used to his own authority, with a set of handcuffs dangling from his belt.

“I need you to step inside the store, Miss Mason,” he said, looking around, his jaw clenching.

“Who squealed on me this time?”

“Just step inside, please. Don’t worry. There’s no trouble.”