Read Online Heather Graham by Down in New Orleans - Free Book Online
Authors: Down in New Orleans
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out.”
To her amazement, he grinned, and lifted the cushion next to him. Ann muttered and strode back into the kitchen, pouring herself more of the wine. If she didn’t do so, he might stay until he’d consumed the rest of the bottle on his own. He was already tearing up the place on her.
“So where is hubby’s work?” he asked her.
“What?”
“Your husband’s work. He can’t have everything in a gallery, can he? Do artists need separate space or something? Different vibes?”
Frowning, she walked slowly back out to where he sat—sprawled, rather—on the sofa.
“Hubby’s work is at hubby’s home,” she said calmly.
His brow shot up with surprise. “You keep separate residences?”
“We do.”
He shook his head. She saw that edge of contempt she had seen before at the hospital harden his steady gaze upon her. “Lady, I’ve got to admit it—I just don’t get you. I mean, it’s not as if you were a weathered old crone or the like; you’re a good-looking woman.”
“How kind of you, Lieutenant.”
“You don’t live with the guy, you don’t mind that he dates whores, you—” He broke off suddenly.
“What?”
“You’re not...”
“What?” Ann said.
He shrugged. “He isn’t into the women for you, is he?”
“For me?” Ann repeated blankly. Then she realized what he meant. She wanted to throw something at him. Thank God for her morning wine. She managed to smile instead. She strode pleasantly toward him again, pausing right in front of him.
“Lieutenant, you are an ass. How dare you?”
“Mrs. Marcel, I follow all possible leads. Actually, the idea wasn’t mine. My partner—”
“Your partner, sir, is an ass. But you’re the fool who is sitting here, in my house, spouting out such crude, rude, insulting words. I think it’s time you got the hell off of my sofa, and out of my door.”
“Ah, and without the murder weapon,” he said, still staring frankly at her. He rose, walked by her, set his glass on the island counter, and turned to leave. “Well, Mrs. Marcel, I thank you for your hospitality.”
“Indeed, Lieutenant.”
He strode toward the door.
“Lieutenant.”
He paused, turning slowly back to her, a well-defined auburn brow arching. “Mrs. Marcel?”
“You seem to know so much.”
“Do I?”
She nodded. “Well, let’s see, you seem to know that Jon killed this woman. And you seem to know that he must have stashed the murder weapon here somewhere. You know about Jon’s injuries, you know about a trail of blood, and I’m sure you know just exactly how the poor girl died.”
“I do.”
“Well, then, it is amazing that you don’t know that Jon and I are divorced and have been for quite some time. Jon Marcel is the father of my child, Lieutenant, and my very good friend. I do love him, and I do mean to fight for him since he cannot fight for himself; but whom he chooses to date I consider to be entirely his own business. Now, if you don’t mind, please do get the hell out.”
Dark lashes lowered over his gray eyes. He looked up at her again, a rueful, self-mocking smile in place.
“Good morning, Mrs. Marcel. Don’t forget to call me if you think of anything important.”
“Certainly.”
“I’m assuming I can find you at the hospital later if I need you?”
“Lieutenant, you may assume anything you wish.”
“Careful. I can haul you down to the station for questioning.”
“Careful. I can call in my lawyer and you’ll be left holding—” She broke off, determined that she was going to be collected and mature.
An auburn brow arched high against his forehead. His smile, the one she grudgingly admitted to being attractive, slipped onto his lips once again.
“Pardon?” he queried politely. “Did you want to finish that thought.”
“Good day, Lieutenant.”
“I hope so, Mrs. Marcel.” He still hesitated, watching her. “I’m not an art critic, but your painting...it’s excellent, isn’t it?”
She was surprised to
To her amazement, he grinned, and lifted the cushion next to him. Ann muttered and strode back into the kitchen, pouring herself more of the wine. If she didn’t do so, he might stay until he’d consumed the rest of the bottle on his own. He was already tearing up the place on her.
“So where is hubby’s work?” he asked her.
“What?”
“Your husband’s work. He can’t have everything in a gallery, can he? Do artists need separate space or something? Different vibes?”
Frowning, she walked slowly back out to where he sat—sprawled, rather—on the sofa.
“Hubby’s work is at hubby’s home,” she said calmly.
His brow shot up with surprise. “You keep separate residences?”
“We do.”
He shook his head. She saw that edge of contempt she had seen before at the hospital harden his steady gaze upon her. “Lady, I’ve got to admit it—I just don’t get you. I mean, it’s not as if you were a weathered old crone or the like; you’re a good-looking woman.”
“How kind of you, Lieutenant.”
“You don’t live with the guy, you don’t mind that he dates whores, you—” He broke off suddenly.
“What?”
“You’re not...”
“What?” Ann said.
He shrugged. “He isn’t into the women for you, is he?”
“For me?” Ann repeated blankly. Then she realized what he meant. She wanted to throw something at him. Thank God for her morning wine. She managed to smile instead. She strode pleasantly toward him again, pausing right in front of him.
“Lieutenant, you are an ass. How dare you?”
“Mrs. Marcel, I follow all possible leads. Actually, the idea wasn’t mine. My partner—”
“Your partner, sir, is an ass. But you’re the fool who is sitting here, in my house, spouting out such crude, rude, insulting words. I think it’s time you got the hell off of my sofa, and out of my door.”
“Ah, and without the murder weapon,” he said, still staring frankly at her. He rose, walked by her, set his glass on the island counter, and turned to leave. “Well, Mrs. Marcel, I thank you for your hospitality.”
“Indeed, Lieutenant.”
He strode toward the door.
“Lieutenant.”
He paused, turning slowly back to her, a well-defined auburn brow arching. “Mrs. Marcel?”
“You seem to know so much.”
“Do I?”
She nodded. “Well, let’s see, you seem to know that Jon killed this woman. And you seem to know that he must have stashed the murder weapon here somewhere. You know about Jon’s injuries, you know about a trail of blood, and I’m sure you know just exactly how the poor girl died.”
“I do.”
“Well, then, it is amazing that you don’t know that Jon and I are divorced and have been for quite some time. Jon Marcel is the father of my child, Lieutenant, and my very good friend. I do love him, and I do mean to fight for him since he cannot fight for himself; but whom he chooses to date I consider to be entirely his own business. Now, if you don’t mind, please do get the hell out.”
Dark lashes lowered over his gray eyes. He looked up at her again, a rueful, self-mocking smile in place.
“Good morning, Mrs. Marcel. Don’t forget to call me if you think of anything important.”
“Certainly.”
“I’m assuming I can find you at the hospital later if I need you?”
“Lieutenant, you may assume anything you wish.”
“Careful. I can haul you down to the station for questioning.”
“Careful. I can call in my lawyer and you’ll be left holding—” She broke off, determined that she was going to be collected and mature.
An auburn brow arched high against his forehead. His smile, the one she grudgingly admitted to being attractive, slipped onto his lips once again.
“Pardon?” he queried politely. “Did you want to finish that thought.”
“Good day, Lieutenant.”
“I hope so, Mrs. Marcel.” He still hesitated, watching her. “I’m not an art critic, but your painting...it’s excellent, isn’t it?”
She was surprised to
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