years, and ran one of the best pastry shops in the Crescent City. Butterfield’s, with its sunny decor, delicious cupcakes and strong coffee, was a local favorite, and the stained-glass rooster had been created by Eddie, who was a glass artist. Somehow the fearless visage of the fowl was welcoming.
Mr. Hibbett shook his head. “Maybe so. I’ll gather the pieces. Here’s my toolbox if you two want to get started on boarding up your windows. I still have to fetch the video loop for the detective.”
Dez took the old-fashioned toolbox from the man and set it by her door, which fortunately hadn’t been hit. “Let me grab some plywood and I’ll be back.”
“I’ll help you,” she said, stepping over the shattered glass and following his broad shoulders.
“I can probably get it myself if you want to stay here.”
“And do what?”
“Sweep up the glass?”
His suggestion had merit but for some reason she didn’t want to be alone. Which was stupid. The perpetrators were likely random kids, and there was little danger with a policeman standing yards away. Dez must have sensed her hesitation because he waved his hand. “Come on, then. I might need an extra set of hands after all.”
She followed him across the street, wincing when she saw that the vandals had knocked holes in his art deco door and the one large window that had earlier held the name of the place—Blue Rondo.
She stopped and stared at the ruined window. “That sucks.”
Dez looked at the destruction. “Yeah, but it can be fixed.”
He opened the front door and stepped back so she could pass. When he reached past her to flick on the light switch, she caught his scent—something woodsy and primal that suited him, and made her very aware of how masculine he was. Of how long it had been since she’d been close to a man she found attractive. Hunger stirred within her. She wanted to touch him, breathe him in.
Light flooded the room and she squeezed her eyes shut against the startling brightness.
“So here we have Satan’s lair,” he said, wryness shadowing his voice along with humor.
She opened her eyes, wondering how he could be jovial when what he’d been working on had been damaged. “Okay, I’ve never actually called it Satan’s lair.”
“Den of iniquity? Palace of prostitution?”
Eleanor snorted, shifting back a step because Dez’s presence overwhelmed her. “I never said any of those things, Dez. Besides, we don’t have time to wade into those waters right now. Maybe another time.”
His gaze flickered over her worn jeans and ragged sweatshirt. She didn’t flinch, but a silly voice that sounded a little like her mother’s whispered she should have taken a bit more time to fix herself up. At least a brush through her hair.
Shut up, voice. It was an emergency.
“Definitely,” he said, with not quite a purr in his voice. Okay. Nothing in his voice indicated he wanted to strip off her clothes, but her fragile ego needed to cling to something, right?
“So where’s the plywood?”
He jerked his thumb at the bar. “In the back. Stay here.”
With the grace of a jaguar...or maybe just a natural athleticism...Dez disappeared behind the bar, giving her time to look around the club.
Clean gray walls met tiles that glowed with metallic patina, making a unique pattern of charcoal and onyx. Several black tables were piled in a far corner, awaiting placement. Cool cobalt-and-gold-glass pendants hung from the ceiling, above where the tables would eventually sit. A covelike stage with plenty of room for a good-size band was on her left, with a grand piano created by the gods sitting front and center. She’d never thought to see a Fazioli in a club across from her shop, but then again, she’d never thought there’d be a jazz club in her sedate block of Magazine either.
“A Fazioli?” she asked Dez when he returned lugging several sheets of plywood and then sliding them onto a piece of cardboard.
He glanced at the piano, and in his gaze, she saw incredible pride. “Yeah, that’s my baby.”
The piano didn’t look like a regular piano, but she’d known exactly what it was, having seen it in a magazine once. The design was called M. Liminal, and it had a futuristic appearance that seemed at odds with the art deco...yet oddly right.
“I hope you have a crazy-good alarm system.”
He slid the boards closer to her. “Who do you think called the police? I was playing a gig on Frenchmen when I got the call from the alarm company.”