Waking the Dead. Heather Graham
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by studying the masters and occasionally making copies. He was thirty-eight, tall, blond and handsome, and was working on establishing himself and making a name in the French Quarter by painting cemetery scenes. He had a special style, realistic yet slightly exaggerated, that made his paintings both poignant and eerie.
“Mason, hey, how are you?” she asked.
“Great, thanks. How about you? Are you doing any work? I know it’s been hard for you since your dad died.”
“I’m doing okay.”
“I see you’ve got the dog—Wolf, right?” Mason smiled at the dog but made no attempt to touch him. She wondered if he was afraid of Wolf or simply wasn’t fond of dogs.
“Yes, Wolf.”
“Well, I guess you got something out of the relationship when Quinn left. If you need to talk, get some coffee, go for a drink—have a shoulder to cry on—well, I’m here,” he told her sympathetically.
She bent her head and couldn’t help smiling. “I don’t need to cry. Honestly. Quinn and I... He’s in Texas.”
“I’m glad. You deserve someone who...well, someone who’s a little more...stable.”
“I’m just fine, Mason.”
“Enjoying the art of Hubert, I see.”
“There’s...nothing quite like it, is there?”
Mason stared at the giclée and nodded. “The story is that it was Hubert’s entry into the ‘ghost’ contest that went on during the summer that wasn’t a summer—that Lord Byron challenged him to paint something as frightening as anything they could write. He did a damned good job.”
“I agree. Oh! Mason, I’m seeing more and more of your cemetery prints out there! You’re doing great. The paintings are wonderful—and I’m delighted that the prints seem to be everywhere.”
“Yes, but the paintings themselves don’t always sell. People don’t necessarily want to pay for an original. So I’m still a struggling artist, you know how that goes,” Mason said. “But at least I’m not a starving artist.” He took her empty champagne glass. “I guess I should get back to selling. I know we’ll keep one of the Hubert giclées for you. Hey,” he told her, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence. “There’s a rumor that the collector who bought the piece is here—right here in New Orleans!”
“Niles mentioned that.”
“It’s such a unique object,” Mason said reverently. “Anyway, my dear friend, remember we love you, Niles and I. And don’t forget, if you need me, I’m here!”
“Thank you.” Danni smiled as Mason hurried away to attend to another customer and then found herself turning back to the giclée.
It was surpisingly difficult to tear herself away from Ghosts in the Mind. Determined, she finally did. Billie McDougall—her Icabod Crane/Riff Raff lookalike and helper in all things—had been running the store alone. Bo Ray Tomkins, their clerk, hadn’t been with them long, and generally worked on their bookkeeping and inventory, although he also assisted with sales when necessary. Billie didn’t care if he manned the counter on his own, but still, she’d been gone for a few hours.
Danni waved a goodbye to Mason, who returned the gesture, and stepped out onto Royal Street, Wolf at her heels. The sun shone down on handsome balconies, some still wearing their Mardi Gras apparel or banners and ribbons and signs. Some sported chairs and plants with vines that seemed to trickle down, adding to the faded elegance that was so much a part of the French Quarter.
But just as she started to head back to her own shop, Wolf began to bark frantically and pull at his leash. He was very well trained, but so excited she was afraid he’d drag her across the street.
“Wolf!”
Then she realized that a figure was standing there, watching her.
He was wearing a light casual coat, perfect for the spring weather. It hung nicely on his six-four frame. He wore sunglasses and a brimmed hat, which hid his short sandy-blond hair and hazel eyes. But he smiled slowly, and she’d know that smile anywhere...just as she knew him.
Her heart quickened, and she felt exhilaration sweep through her.
She was deliriously happy to see him.
And yet...
His appearance made her tremble. Was he back because he lived here, because he wanted to see her?
Or was something about to happen?
Quinn.
Quinn had returned.
Chapter Two
DANNI MEANT TO greet Quinn with decorum. He’d been in Austin at the request of a friend in the police department there. She’d read what she could on the internet about the murder and spoken to him a few times on the phone, but they had determined that they weren’t going to call each other every day, that they were going to take it slowly as far as their relationship went. They were both well aware that they’d face difficult situations as time went by.
The hell with decorum.
“Quinn!” She shouted his name and barely checked the road for cars before she went streaking across it.
The dog beat her to him. Wolf knew not to jump, but maybe he’d decided the hell with decorum, too. On his hind legs, the dog was the size of the man. Quinn gave him loving affection, calling him an old mutt, and then became the master, ordering him to sit. Wolf seemed to understand that he’d been assigned to watch Danni; Quinn would always be his real master.
So the dog and I both just wait for him to come back, Danni thought.
When Quinn looked at her, she tried very hard not to smile, to let him make the first move.
Then she couldn’t resist anymore and threw herself into his arms. He caught her, lifted her, pulled her tight against him and met her with a kiss.
It was a decorous kiss, really.
However, some fool walking around them muttered, “Get a room!” And then someone else said, “Oh, Robbie, check that out!” and then a third person, presumably Robbie, said, “Hey, it’s New Orleans!” Someone else sniggered and added, “But Bourbon Street’s one over!”
Danni and Quinn listened, they laughed and they drew apart, still holding hands, looking each other up and down as if a few weeks could have changed the other and anxious to see that it hadn’t.
No harm had come to Quinn, Danni concluded. He was perfect or, at least, perfect to her, over six feet, and as muscular as an athlete. His hazel eyes were vibrant, so alive, so well set in the classic structure of his face. He had a great jaw—a really great jaw. Square, the kind that made him appear to be in control on every occasion. And yet he had sensuous lips and the ability to laugh. She smiled, remembering a time when she’d actively disliked him. But that had been right after her father had died—and before she’d known exactly what her father had left her.
She pulled away, studying him. “Texas?” she asked.
“Very strange,” he told her. “And sad.”
“But it was solved?”
He nodded. “But there was really nothing unusual about the situation. It looked like the guy had killed himself. He had a vial of sleeping pills and a bottle of beer at his side, and there was no forced entry—nothing to indicate anything other than suicide.”
“But you already knew it wasn’t suicide.”
“Yeah. The guy had been married for thirty years. Everyone thought that he and his wife were as happy as could be. They had a grown family, and husband and wife were both due to retire. But it turns out that he was the family dictator and had verbally abused them all for years. Still, the wife took it. But then he started