Chapter Two

Remington Broussard parked behind the gray pickup truck with the toolbox in its bed. Dusty and dented, it revealed itself as a working truck—probably the kind used to haul away marble mantels or whatever else the old Queen had left to offer. Some people liked antique appliances, not him. He’d owned the crumbling hotel for all of two hours and already she was causing him problems in the form of looters. The building might not have much left to salvage, but what it did belonged to him.

Remy took the shotgun from the rack behind the seat. He always had a varmint gun with him when he checked out overgrown sites to deal with the occasional snake, rabid raccoon, coy dog, nesting alligator, or trespasser. As of last week, the latest crop of new high school grads was on the loose, looking for ways to pass the time until college started, if they weren’t desperately applying for jobs. Why not deface the Queen with spray paint or attempt to break a few windows on the upper levels? He needed to post the property with the No Trespassing signs he’d picked up in town sooner rather than later.

Shrugging out of the sports coat he’d worn to the tax auction in the lobby of the parish courthouse, Remy got down and studied the boot prints in the mud leading into the thicket. Yes, small in size, probably some teen who’d borrowed his daddy’s truck. No others, so the kid came alone. Remy figured he’d scare the bejesus out the boy and send him on his way. At least, the culprit had pushed through the brambles and cleared the path for him. Usually, Remy approached from the bayou side, tying up his motorboat to a rotting pylon from the old pier, but seeing the truck parked here on his way from the courthouse made him pull over to assert his new rights over the building.

Hammering, sharp as gunshots, sounded in the moisture-laden air. Bang, bang, bang. For sure, some guy trying to break in or destroy Broussard property. Remy gripped his shotgun barrels-down, and moved between the two live oaks forming an arch with their intertwined branches. Once out of their shade, the brambles began. He should have been thankful to the kid for breaking the way, but the vandal wasn’t as tall as himself. A wild blackberry cane nearly whipped across his face before he deflected it with his free hand, earning a scratch and a spray of fine thorns across his knuckles. Lower vegetation tore at his dress shirt, but below that he wore sensible jeans and sturdy shoes up to the hike.

The hammering continued in even, steady strokes more like a project in progress than haphazard breaking and entering. He followed the noise to the source. The banging covered the sound of his arrival. Keeping the shotgun muzzle low, he paused to observe the miscreant for a moment. Light build, small shoulders, slim hips, snug jeans that didn’t sag under the weight of a low-slung tool belt, tanned arms, strong but not muscular, and best of all a thick fall of dark hair showing glints of red beneath the hot sun—not a dude at all. Remy Broussard was about to scare the shit out of a girl who appeared to be boarding up, not tearing down.

She finished driving in the last nail of the highest board, slung her hammer back into its loop, turned, and froze as Remy raised his shotgun to hip level and twanged in old-timey western cowboy style, “You’re trespassin’ on my property, little lady.”

He expected her rather grubby hands to shoot into the air in surrender. Instead, they came to rest on either hip, one on the head of the hammer, the other on the crook of a crowbar. For a woman that he topped by at least six inches, she had a rather commanding voice. “I didn’t see any signs, so not trespassing. As you can see, I’ve been boarding up the place after a short visit to satisfy my curiosity. Nothing stolen. No harm, no foul. You can go inside and see for yourself. I’ll be leaving now if you lower your weapon and clear the pathway.” She took a few steps forward and unholstered the hammer. Looked like they had an old-fashioned standoff.

“I just purchased this property. The No Trespassing signs are in my truck.”

“I had no way of knowing that when I arrived, Mr. Broussard.”

She had bright blue eyes shaded by dark brows and lashes set off by an olive complexion, one of his favorite combinations in women, though he always seemed to date blondes. He appraised her from the heavy soles of her work boots to the crest of her ponytail with a short pause at a high set of breasts. Unfortunately, those blue eyes looked pissed. Maybe it was the little lady remark—or his appraisal. Son of a lawyer and well-educated, he had none of the Cajun accent some of his older relatives possessed, but his mother had been a true Mississippi magnolia blossom and at times, he liked to mimic her soft drawl. “You seem to have the advantage, my dear. And you are?”

“Julia Rossi of Regal Restorations.” She took a step closer, moving into hammer throwing range.

He detected an undercurrent of anger in her tone. A preservationist, then, who’d somehow sussed out his intentions. He moved the stock of shotgun crosswise in front of his groin. He’d been hit in the balls by an irate woman when he called off their romance before offering a ring. A hammer to the gonads equaled unthinkable pain. He stepped aside and made a courtly gesture toward the overgrown path. “Your pickup truck awaits you, milady. Feel free to go unmolested.”

He gave her plenty of space as she strode past him in her small, somehow endearing, work boots, but she stopped at the entry and pivoted to face him. Did she think he’d shoot her in the back? Remy laid the shotgun carefully in the weeds to make her feel safer. Julia moved toward him, hammer still in hand, so maybe not a good idea to disarm, but he thought he could wrest it from her hand if necessary.

“I know what you plan to do!” she accused.

“No, really, I won’t pepper your backside with buckshot or press charges.” He’d almost said cute, little backside, but she hadn’t holstered the hammer and didn’t seem in a playful mood.

“You plan to destroy this wonderful old building and put up some modern garbage that won’t last forty years. Have you really taken a good look at her and imagined what she might become with some care and investment?”

He hadn’t been inside the Bayou Queen in years, not since he tried to seduce the local girls during his summer visits to his grandparents by daring them to spend the night with him in the supposedly haunted precincts. Only one had gone along with it until she balked at laying down a sleeping bag over the crunchy carcasses of wood roaches and flushing a few live ones as well. Still, they’d had a good enough time in the back of granddad’s pickup while sharing a couple of six-packs of beer.

All his defensive hackles went up. “I have investors and good plans for the property. Only the acreage is worth anything, and the hotel will be a bitch to tear down. This town needs some upscale condos, not another rundown relic.”

“There we disagree. An historic hotel can bring in a continuous cash flow generated from many visitors, not simply from the immediate sale of condos.”

She’d reached poking distance and lightly tapped the head of her hammer against the space over his heart to make her point. Julia Rossi smelled of dust and the light lady sweat that plastered her royal blue T-shirt against those two high, firm breasts almost rubbing against his chest. The lush, dark hair—the kind a man might like to run his fingers through—gave off the lemony scent of creamy, white magnolias. “We could discuss this further over lunch,” Remy found himself saying.

Julia Rossi backed up. “I’m hardly in any condition to go out for lunch.”

“Not at the Opera House restaurant, but Down by the Riverside is pretty rustic. Believe me, they’ve seen worse. As long as you have on a shirt and shoes, you’re good. Maybe you can change my mind, or I can change yours. Great crab cakes. Tempted?”

“I do love a great crab cake. Okay, the sun is overhead, and we both need to eat.” She holstered the hammer.

“Like a true gentleman, I will lead the way, hold back the brambles, and fend off the snakes.”

Julia nodded and followed him into the wilderness surrounding the Bayou Queen. He deflected the thorny plants, holding them away from her with the sleeve of his dress shirt. After she refused an invitation to ride with him, he offered a hand up into the cab of her truck, which she also declined. Clearly, his southern charm hadn’t won her over, as it did most women, but Remy would figure her out eventually. He always did.