The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)(85)

He grinned. He hadn’t shaved and his hair was still wet but he had on a Tshirt and jeans. No shoes. The shirt was black and the image of an old Atari system on it. It read “Classically Trained.”

“The power of gumbo,” he said. “Sorry about that. For some reason the towels that got delivered are really…” He moved his hands close together. “I would have invited you in, but all I could think of was the fact I couldn’t really turn around.”

A guffaw burst out of her and Alice slapped a hand over her mouth.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think it was one of Andy’s pranks. But he’s stuck using them, too, so it was probably just a glitch in the order.” Paul stuck his hands in his pockets. “Any chance that dinner is still on offer?”

“Of course! But,” Alice glanced behind her. “I didn’t think I’d have guests and my place is a bit of a mess.”

He peeked over her head. “It looks perfect to me, but we can go back to my place if you want.”

“Let me just grab everything.” Alice dashed back to the counter. In seconds she was back at the door and Paul snapped to attention, pretending he hadn’t just been checking out her living room.

“Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and lots of cats. I never would have guessed.”

Alice grinned. She liked that he was curious about her life, and if she’d had five minutes to tidy up, she’d invite him to stay.

They walked down the hallway in silence and Alice snuck a glance at him. He seemed totally at ease. But, of course, he wasn’t the one trying to make up for filing a legal injunction.

Once they were in his kitchen, Paul hurried to the living room, straightening papers and closing a few laptops. He stood near what looked like a copier for a few seconds, stacking small sheets together and then carefully tucking them into an envelope.

As soon as he was back in the kitchen, Alice took off the lid. “Gumbo.” She took the book out from under her arm. “And a book of poetry I thought you might like.”

Paul stared down at the copy of The Seraphim and Other Poems. His mouth was open slightly and he seemed confused.

Alice rushed on. “The first day we met, you asked for a book of old poetry, remember?”

He nodded, slowly reaching for the little volume, running a finger over the letters on the cover.

“I have one just like it. This is the first time Elizabeth Barrett Browning published under her own name, so it’s really special. She was announcing herself to the world. No more pen names.” Alice swallowed. He heart was in her throat. “And I remembered what you said at the zydeco festival. You quoted Aurora Leigh so I thought you might like Elizabeth Barrett Browning poetry.”

He still hadn’t said anything.

“Do you have bowls? We should dish this up while it’s hot. Do you know when Andy’ll be back?” She knew she was jabbering but she couldn’t help it. He had the oddest look on his face, as if she’d given him one of her cats.

He reached out as she started toward the cabinets, his hand wrapping around her wrist. She looked down, surprised.

“Merci,” he said, his voice rough, the language of her childhood reaching out and grabbing her heart. “I can’t believe that after everything I’ve done to your life here, you still think you’re at fault.”

She watched the emotions flash over his face, feeling as if she was missing something very important. She started to speak, but he pulled her close. The stubble on his chin rasped against her skin as he pressed a kiss to her lips, then her cheeks, then her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered back to him in Creole, forcing the words out. “I never meant to bring all of this trouble on you.”

He held her face in his hands, switching to English. “And each man stands with his face in the light of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.”

Alice smiled. “So, you do like Elizabeth Barrett Browning. And I guess that means you accept my apology.”

Paul leaned forward as if he was going to kiss her again, and then seemed to decide against it. He dropped his hands to her shoulders. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay.” She took a deep breath. Then another. “You hardly touched the book and you smell like you’ve been handling dusty books all day. It’s really strange.” She glanced up, laughing. “Not that I’m complaining. The combination of Paul-plus-old-books is really fabulous.”

He wasn’t smiling. His gaze slid toward a piece of equipment in the living room and back to her. “I tried to tell you before. At the festival.” He waved a hand toward the machine and then said nothing. He acted like she should understand what he was trying to say.

Alice followed his gaze to what looked like a fancy printer. It had a decal on the side, the seraph logo of Paul’s company. On the table was the cover of a book stripped of its pages. She walked toward it, tendrils of shock creeping up her scalp. She reached out to pick it up, turning it over in her hands, unable to comprehend how The Duke’s Secret ended up back in Natchitoches when she’d sent it to New York City. Piece by piece, all the small details fell together. And then just as quickly, her life was tumbling away around her, leaving her teetering on a ledge.

The smell on his hands the first day, the seraph logo, the poetry, Beau Geste. Alice closed her eyes tight at her own blindness. She’d never met another person who quoted poetry in real life. She’d willfully ignored all the signs. How stupid she’d been.