The detective held open the door while Celine emerged into the blinding brightness of the afternoon sun. “I agree,” he said. “You may not be aware of this, but New Orleans society— indeed, society throughout the South—bases much of its notions on the one-drop rule.” He followed in her footsteps. “If you possess a drop of African blood, you’re granted little in the way of consideration.”
Celine pondered this, her vision straining to adjust to the harsh white light. She squinted up at him. “It’s the land of the free in idea only, then.”
A smirk took shape on his face. “My father’s family were humble cobblers in Palermo. They often struggled to put two sticks together to start a fire. A chance for a better life brought them to the Crescent City fifty years ago.” He raised his right hand to shield his gaze from the sun. “What brought you to the shores of the New World, Miss Rousseau? The Mother Superior told me you arrived by ship less than a fortnight ago.”
Celine gripped the worn fabric of her skirts. “The same thing that brought your family here, Detective Grimaldi.” She grinned into the light, her expression fierce. “Opportunity.”
The detective shifted, placing Celine in shadow, sheltering her from the worst of the sun’s glare. “You’re very good,” he whispered.
“Pardon?”
“You’re very good at hiding how smart you are.”
“And you’re very bad at trying to be charming.”
His lips twitched. “You don’t find me charming?”
“You’re still interrogating me, Detective Grimaldi. Would you find yourself charming in this instance?”
He swiped a large hand through his wavy hair. “Point taken. And please,” he said, “call me Michael.”
“I . . . don’t know that that’s appropriate.”
“I find such beliefs tedious. It’s appropriate if we decide it can be.”
“If only life were so simple. If only we all were smart enough to shun tedium as you do.”
His colorless eyes—so light a shade of blue as to appear almost white—shone oddly for an instant. Almost as if he were amused.
Nearby, Pippa coughed as if to clear her throat, and Celine pivoted toward her. Arjun and Pippa waited just outside the iron gate, their expressions incongruous. Pippa looked alert and studious, her eyes wide, but not in a disapproving way. In contrast, Arjun appeared unconcerned with the happenings around him, save for the sharp light still glinting in his gaze.
If Celine had to guess, the young lawyer looked . . . cross.
An idea took shape in her mind. A simple way to impress upon Arjun—and his employer—that she would do as she pleased, despite their attempts to interfere.
Celine offered her right hand to Michael. “Have a good day, Detective Grimaldi. Please see that you do not return here anytime soon.” She sent him a teasing smile.
He offered her an awkward, almost forced grin, then took her hand to press his lips to it. They were warm and soft. Despite intending to assert the advantage, Celine felt her cheeks start to redden.
“Do I make you uncomfortable?” he asked without warning.
“Not at all.”
His fingers tightened around hers. “You’re lying.”
“What?” Celine blinked in dismay. Was she that bad at it?
“It’s of little consequence to me if you are. You see, the heart”—Michael lifted her wrist, where Celine’s pulse pounded in her veins—“doesn’t lie.”
Without a word, she extricated her fingers, her cursed face enflaming further with every passing moment. Then she pivoted on a heel, intent on fleeing to the safety of the convent at once.
“May I offer you a word of caution?” Michael asked, just as she began retracing her steps.
Celine turned back, waiting expectantly, knowing full well that Arjun was listening to their exchange, all with the intention of informing his employer.
“It is with respect to Bastien,” Michael said loudly, placing his tweed hat before him as if it were a shield.
Celine said nothing in response, struggling to regain her composure.
“When we were children, we called him the Ghost, because everyone around him seemed to perish without explanation, leaving behind nothing but specters,” Michael began. “First his elder sister, Émilie. Then his mother. Finally his father.” He paused. “It didn’t end there. When he turned sixteen, his uncle bribed a spot for him at West Point. Then one of Bastien’s roommates was killed in a barroom fight. Bastien attacked another boy, blaming him for his friend’s death. He beat the boy within an inch of his life. Not long after that, he was asked to leave the military academy in disgrace.”