Angel (Bartered Hearts 1)

His eyes crinkled with pleasure. “It looks just how I thought it would on you.”

She wished she had a mirror so she could see the pale shell against her skin, see what he pictured when he thought of her. Strange that he would think of that instead of what they’d done in bed.

He tipped his head toward the next street. “A shop’s selling warm gingerbread around the corner. The smell has been driving me crazy. Mind if we stopped for a piece?”

People were passing them now, hurrying home to start preparing their Christmas dinners. No one even glanced in her direction. They had families to get back to.

“I haven’t had gingerbread in years,” she said.

He offered his arm simply, no charming smile or gallant bow. She touched her fingers to his sleeve and felt that blush rise again. Stupid. She’d already been on her knees for him several times. This was all stupid, wasn’t it? But butterflies filled her stomach as they approached the next street and turned the corner.

A white woman emerged from the shop ahead, and Melisande dropped her fingers from Bill’s arm. White men might not care about this sort of thing, but she could never be light-skinned enough to slip past a white woman’s scorn, not even here in New Orleans. She’d heard it was much worse in other places.

Bill bought them two large pieces of gingerbread that steamed in the air as they strolled slowly up the street. The spice melted on Melisande’s tongue, and she moaned in pleasure. “That might be the finest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Tastes like Christmas, don’t it?”

They walked to the river and sat on a wall there to watch the brown water slide by as they ate. Men worked on docks across the water, and she could hear a steady stream of Spanish punctuated with French curses from a warehouse not too far from their perch. Ships arrived and departed on Christmas day just as any other.

“I saw the ocean once,” she said. “My mother and auntie took me when I was a little girl. It was blue as the sky.”

“It changes every day,” Bill said. “One day it’s blue and glassy, the next churning up and gray.”

There was something in his voice she’d always liked so much. She’d heard a hundred different accents in New Orleans. Sometimes it felt like the whole world flowed through here every day. But Bill’s accent was her favorite. He’d been born in Norfolk, he’d said, so he had a little Virginia in him, but there was his mother’s Irish brogue as well, and a touch of Orleans settling in.

“Do you miss it?” she asked.

“A little. But damn, it gets cold near the sea in winter, even in Virginia. Pardon my language.”

She laughed at his strange chivalry as another bite of gingerbread melted on her tongue.

“You’ve always lived here?” he asked.

“Yes. Always.” She tossed a crumb to a curious gull and fed a bigger bite to herself.

“Melisande.” He said her name so slowly that she turned in surprise to face him.

“What?”

“You are the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

She swallowed the sugary treat in her mouth and frowned as his words settled over her. She wasn’t beautiful. She knew that much. Her face was passable and her short body was curvy enough to please men who liked that sort of thing. “You don’t have to say that,” she said. She had no idea what he was playing at.

He held her gaze her for a long moment before he turned back to watch a riverboat pass. “It brings me some sort of peace to see you,” he said.

She stared at his profile in utter confusion. “I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered.

One of his big shoulders shrugged. “It’s just the truth. I know I’m only a customer to you, but you help me feel less alone in this city.”

She couldn’t think what to say. Was it true he was only a customer? He came to her every two weeks now, and she always felt pleased to see him. He never just bent her over and took her. He touched her first. Got her ready. And unlike most of her customers, who came to her smelling of a day’s worth of sweat, at least, Bill always bathed before he came to see her. One more little courtesy that meant the world to her.

But recently she’d felt more than pleased to see him. She’d felt happy. Because he brought some peace to her too. They’d lie together in the dark and talk after. She’d come to welcome his skin pressed to hers when normally she rolled from bed as quickly as possible unless the man complained.

“I didn’t get you a gift,” she said instead of speaking to what he’d told her.

His mouth curved up for a brief moment. “I didn’t expect a gift. I only wanted to bring you one.”

“Would you like to go to my room?”