The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(38)

Would he believe her story? Would any man?

It wasn’t a topic Celine wished to ponder at length. So instead she propped her elbows along the table’s edge and settled her chin atop her folded hands. “We will have to tell Luca to bring his new wife to Jacques’ once they return from Europe.”

Michael groaned. “Don’t remind me of that travesty. It still galls me how my heretofore-responsible cousin could do such a reckless thing.”

“He’s in love.” Celine smiled. “I don’t know why Nonna is in such a snit over it.”

“Luca knows how much Nonna wished to attend his wedding. In a proper church. With a proper priest.”

“But an elopement to London is so romantic, don’t you think?”

“I don’t favor the idea of elopement. It seems rather selfish. But . . . I suppose if it’s what my future wife wanted.” Michael settled his piercing eyes on hers. “I might entertain the notion.”

Celine drained her glass of champagne. They were both treading on dangerous ground. Was it too much for her to hope for one more night without the weight of the future pressing down on their shoulders? She would face the inevitable tomorrow, she swore she would. Michael had been patient with her. It was time she told him in no uncertain terms whether or not she returned his feelings.

“Have you ever indulged in rash behavior of any kind?” Celine asked.

Michael toyed with the scalloped handle of his butter knife. “When I was a boy. My childhood friend and I made quite a few errors in judgment. One afternoon we devised a rather ingenious way to snare bullfrogs in the swamp beyond the city, and I was caught in a mudslide.” He flinched at the memory. “It smelled like sulfur and wood rot. My friend ran to get Luca so they could pull me out. For a harrowing hour or so, I was certain the gators would pluck the skin off my bones.” He paused, his expression morose. “In fact, most of the worst things I did when I was boy were in the company of this particular friend, a selfish young man from a prominent family. I’m grateful we had a falling-out some years ago, before he went away to West Point. Perhaps I would not have set my sights on the police force if I hadn’t had the clarity of that distance.” His tone was clipped. Precise. A trait Celine had come to expect from the young detective.

“What was the reason you had a falling-out, if I may ask?” she pressed.

“There was a streak of wickedness in him I could no longer afford to ignore.”

“Not to mention the selfishness, a characteristic you despise.”

“I think there are times to be selfish and times to be selfless. It is the measure of a man which path he chooses in any given moment.”

“So wise, Detective Grimaldi.” Celine grinned. “But maybe there are times when you could be a little wicked, if you wanted?” She leaned forward as if she were chatting with a friend.

Which she was, wasn’t she? No matter what happened, they would remain friends.

It was a mistake for her to edge closer. For the briefest of instants, Michael’s gaze dipped to Celine’s chest. He flushed crimson when she pulled back, his embarrassment plain. “I suppose I could.” Michael glanced right, and his attention caught on a figure approaching from behind Celine. “That stout fellow striding our way is the police commissioner. He’ll want to speak with me.” He groaned.

“Of course he will,” Celine said, thankful for the distraction. “You’re the hero who caught the Crescent City killer.” Though she smiled as she spoke, a twinge of discomfort knifed through her stomach. She stood in a lithe motion, her tufted chair sliding across the wooden floor beside her satin slippers.

“I’ll beg him off.” Michael reached for her hand as he rose to his feet.

“Nonsense,” Celine said as she slipped from his grasp. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the edge of her linen napkin. “I’ll freshen up in the powder room and return in a few minutes.”

Michael straightened his navy waistcoat. “Celine, please—”

“Don’t worry yourself on my account.” Without a second glance, she wove back through the crowd, looking every which way for the entrance to the ladies’ powder room. To her left—in the opposite corner—was a winding staircase cordoned off by brass posts and a black velvet rope. A gentleman with skin the color of stained mahogany and a gold ring through his right ear watched her closely, his head tilted to one side, his eyes lost in thought.

Celine returned his measured stare, but he did not look away. Instead he lifted his chin as if in challenge. She drew closer, her curiosity spiking. In response, the gentleman inclined his head upward, his pristine satin lapels lustrous.

Her breath caught when something called to her from the darkness above. A dull roar above the cheerful din. That same feeling of being pushed back and pulled forward beckoned Celine ever closer. She ignored it. Moved away from the stairwell. Then a cool breeze floated by, caressing the bare skin of her throat and forearms.

She . . . recognized the scent it carried, though she did not know from where.

Celine took a tentative step toward the stairs. The stately gentleman standing before the simple barricade continued watching. A grin touched his lips when she reached for the velvet rope. Without a word, he unlatched it from its post and stepped aside, as if he knew exactly who she was. As if she belonged in this exact place at this exact moment.