Any Way You Want It (22 page)

So much for avoiding ghosts from his past tonight.

“Are you absolutely starving now?” Ren asked. He kept forgetting that Maggie needed to eat—a problem with being a vampire. He’d actually fed as they walked the streets with the crowd of tourists. Being a lampir was so much easier than being a regular vampire, which tended to be a tad messy and require privacy. Ren could feed without ever being detected.

And in the case of this tour, his feeding habits had come in rather handy when a particularly loud and obnoxious tourist from New York kept interrupting and speaking over the guide. Ren had just siphoned off a little of his energy—and ta da! He’d been much calmer the second half of the tour.

“Yes, I am pretty hungry,” she admitted, then turned to her friends. “Have you eaten?”

They had.

“Well, I know this place in Marigny that has good food, good drinks, and good jazz.”

“Something for everyone,” Jo said.

“That does sound good to me,” Erika agreed, but then she seemed to reconsider the idea of joining them. “But maybe we should part here.”

She gave Maggie a pointed look, asking with her eyes if they wanted to be alone.

But Ren responded before Maggie could. “Come along with us. This is your last night, and I know Maggie wants to hang out with you. Besides, she’s all mine after you leave.”

Both Erika and Jo grinned at the possessive tone in his voice, obviously approving—which would be good, if he had any right to that possessiveness.

Maggie didn’t look at him, but he sensed his words excited her. They excited him too. Even as he told himself to lighten up, to keep this just about casual fun. No possessiveness, no claims.

He couldn’t seem to keep that pact with himself. Which wasn’t good.

But, he told himself, he realized what he was doing, so that had to make things safer, right?

Maggie stepped closer to him on the sidewalk as they headed in the direction of the restaurant.

Without even thinking, he put his arm around her. Having her close just seemed natural.

They turned down a street that appeared mostly residential, but as they continued walking, Maggie could hear the rhythms of jazz filling the night air. Soon, the delicious aroma of spices joined the music. Ren led them to a building that looked as if it had once been a private house, but now the large front windows had been removed, giving the restaurant the feel of an open-air café.

“This is too cool,” Erika commented, and Maggie nodded. She smiled at her friend, but she could see Erika was too busy admiring every detail of the architecture with her artist’s eye.

They stepped inside and were immediately greeted by the host, a tall, thin man with skin the color of lightly creamed coffee and big, nearly black eyes. He grinned widely at Ren.

“Where have you been?” he said, making it clear Ren was a regular here.

“Working,” Ren answered easily, moving forward to shake the man’s hand.

“Well, it doesn’t look like you’re working now.” The host smiled at each of the women. “This definitely looks an awful lot like pleasure, eh?”

Maggie found herself laughing at the animated man, as did Erika and Jo. He had a magnetic, charming quality, not unlike Ren.

“Emile, this is Erika and Jo. And Maggie.” Maggie noted the pause before he said her name, as if unconsciously separating her from her friends, as if she were special. It made her feel good, just like his comment earlier about her being all his once her friends headed back to the East Coast.

She supposed she was reading too much into these things. It was going to be over by the end of the week, but they would be the things she remembered when she was back in her box of an apartment, watching reruns on cold winter nights.

“So do you want your usual table near the stage?”

Ren shook his head. “No. Somewhere where we can order food, and talk.”

Emile raised an eyebrow, a gesture Maggie didn’t quite understand, but then he grabbed four menus. Waving for them to follow, he headed to a darkened corner away from the music. After everyone was seated, Emile handed out the menus with a wide smile.

Then he leaned closer to Ren. “Try the filet special. Most palatable. No garlic.” He winked at Ren and then drifted off with a satisfied laugh.

“Do you not like garlic?” Maggie asked, confused as to why Emile found the suggestion so funny.

“Not particularly,” Ren said, then asked, “So what do you think?”

Maggie glanced around again. “Very nice. Much better than that little bar you took me to.”

Ren looked offended, although the wounded look was obviously feigned. “That is a cool place.”

Maggie couldn’t keep up the pretense, not really wanting to offend him. “It was. And the drinks were good…from what I can recall.”

Ren smiled.

“So what is this place called?” Jo asked, turning her attention from the stage to Ren. “I didn’t see a sign.”

“It doesn’t really have a name. Locals call it Louis’s.”

“That’s cool,” Erika said, obviously in love with the place.

A waitress, dressed in bright colors, with a gold scarf around her head, appeared to take drink orders. Erika and Jo both ordered the house special—some extra-exotic version of a mojito. Ren ordered a bourbon on the rocks and Maggie a wine.

They all watched the band, which consisted of a guitarist, an upright bass, a saxophonist, and a drummer. Several of the patrons danced, their dances much more complicated and interesting than the dances that went on at Ren’s bar.

But Ren’s band created a totally different atmosphere. They got people up and dancing and partying. This was a festive atmosphere too, but different.

As could have been expected, two men approached their table to talk to Erika and Jo.

“See, it takes them less than ten minutes in a room to garner the attention of the male species,”

Maggie said with a fond smile.

“Well, you have them beat,” Ren said, and when she gave him a quizzical look, he added, “You walked into the bar and I noticed you instantly.”

Maggie smiled. Well, that had been the same for her, hadn’t it? “I can see why you like it here,”

Maggie said. “The band is great.”

Ren nodded, appreciation for the musicians clear on his face. “They are.”

“Have you ever considered playing at a place like this? You could start playing piano again.”

Ren shook his head before she’d even finished speaking. “I don’t enjoy playing like I once did.”

“Why?” Maggie realized she probably shouldn’t pry, but the question was out of her mouth before she could pull it back.

Ren didn’t answer right away, and when she thought he might not answer at all, he said, “I just don’t love it like I once did. I’m happier singing.” He stopped and looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead he just shrugged. “Nothing more than that, I guess. What about you? Why don’t you play?”

It was Maggie’s turn to be silent for a moment. “I just knew I’d never be great.”

“Is that you talking? Or Peter?”

“Both,” she admitted. “I wanted to be a concert pianist. That’s a tough career choice to begin with, but when you add that I’m just not brilliant, well, it was a lost cause.”

“So why not do something else with music?” Ren asked.

“I do. I research and authenticate it.”

Ren nodded. “But don’t you want to perform?”

Maggie considered that question. She hadn’t thought about it for so long, nearly four years. She supposed she did miss performing.

“I guess. But I like my work too.”

“Can’t you do both?”

Maggie gazed at him for a moment, surprised he was pushing the idea. The waiter appeared, placing a wine goblet in front of her.

“Why is my playing so important to you?”

Ren frowned at her question. Why was it? He hadn’t really realized it until she pointed it out.

“I guess I hate to think of anyone giving up something they really love.” As he said those words, he realized they should apply to him too. After all, he’d been composing his own pieces since he was ten—and then he’d just stopped. He still loved music; he just didn’t seem to have any new music left inside him.

“I just don’t want something that ass Peter said to stop you from doing what you want. I thought your playing was terrific.”

Maggie reached out and took his hand.

The waitress returned for their orders. Erika and Jo didn’t order any food, and were still involved in their conversation with the two men. Maggie ordered a shrimp dish and Ren ordered the filet, knowing he wouldn’t touch it. But he also knew Maggie would feel self-conscious eating all by herself.

“So are you from New Orleans originally?” Maggie asked. Then she laughed.

“What?” He smiled, unaware of what was funny about the question.

“I feel like I’ve known you forever. And I’ve certainly done things with you that I’ve never done with anyone else and yet I don’t even know where you grew up.”

Ren realized that for Maggie, that must be strange. But to him, it was the norm. Of course, he did feel differently about her than about the average woman who came into his life.

Which had been baffling him since the moment they met. But then his attention was captured by something else. The comment about doing things with him she’d never done with anyone else.

“You’ve only ever had sex with Peter?”

Maggie’s cheeks immediately darkened, the pinkness clear even in the dim light.

“So are you from here?” she asked again, ignoring the question, although that was answer enough.

He decided to let it go. “No. I’ve lived all over. I was born in Italy, and spent several years of my childhood in England.”

He instantly wondered why he’d even admitted that much about his past.

“Really?”

He nodded.

“Well, that makes sense now. Because the other night I noticed your southern accent seemed to vanish for a moment. Then it was back.”

It had. He took a sip of his bourbon. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d had difficulty with his assumed persona. Hell, he’d lived in the South longer than he’d ever lived in England.

“When?” he couldn’t help asking.

“When you were upset about Peter,” she said, then took a bite of her rice.

Really? How odd.

“So is Ren short for something?”

Okay, this conversation wasn’t going the way it should. He needed to keep things impersonal.

Vague. And not about anything outside of the here and now.

“Would you believe my mother was a big Footloose fan?” he heard himself saying. He took another swallow of his drink.

She frowned, not following. Then understanding dawned on her face. “Oh, you were named after the Kevin Bacon character. Ren…what was it?”

“McCormack,” he said.

“Right.” Maggie smiled at that. Then her brows drew together again. “Wait, aren’t you too old to be named after that character?”

“Way too old,” he said wryly. Then he decided to take another tack to change the topic of conversation.

“What about you? Are you from D.C.?”

“No. From a small town in New Hampshire. My mom still lives there.”

“Are you close to your mother?”

Maggie nodded. “Yes. We usually talk every other day or so. But she’s in the Bahamas with my aunt.” The animation suddenly left her face and she took a sip of wine.

“They are actually using the travel package I purchased for my honeymoon.”

Ren hadn’t expected that, and another wave of irritation hit him on her behalf. “Peter was such an idiot. I’d kill to see you lounging in the sun in a skimpy bathing suit.”

There was no way she could understand how appealing that idea was—in part because of its impossibility.

His words seemed to help. She took a bite of her shrimp, chewing it quite merrily.

“You don’t mind if we join Vince and Craig here for a dance, do you?” Jo asked them, which Ren found amusing, since he and Maggie hadn’t been paying them any attention anyway.

“Go have fun,” Maggie said, smiling at her friends.

Ren had to admit he was rather pleased to really have her to himself.

“So what about you? Do you ever see your family?” Maggie asked, mildly dulling Ren’s thrill of having her alone.

Yet he answered her. To stop her questions, he told himself. Certainly not because he wanted to share any of his life with her.

“My father has been dead for many years.” Many, many years. “And I don’t see my mother. And I do have a half brother.”

“Are you two close?”

Ren nodded. He loved his half brother. Vittorio was the only other being in existence who actually understood him. Understood the pain of growing up with Orabella D’Antoni, or in Vittorio’s case, Lady Orabella Ridgewood, as a mother.

“Where is he?”

“Around,” Ren said vaguely, vague because he had no idea where Vittorio made his home these days. He’d lived in New Orleans for a few years—even played in the Impalers. He was a great keyboardist himself. But then Vittorio had decided to leave.

Ren had never gotten an exact reason, although he suspected it had to do with a woman Vittorio had been seeing briefly. Well, that and moving around a lot kept their mother off his back.

Orabella was much harder on her youngest son. Maybe because Vittorio accepted it more readily

—or maybe because, even after hundreds of years, Orabella still lived by the old rules. And Vittorio was her legitimate son.

Or it could just be that Ren didn’t disguise his hatred of their mother the way Vittorio did.

Whatever the reason, Ren was just glad that Mumsie paid more attention to Vittorio. Poor guy.

“And do you see your mother?” Maggie asked, as if sensing his train of thought.

“Not if I can possibly help it.”

Maggie seemed saddened by his bitterly muttered words. “Is she that bad?”

“Worse.”

Maggie reached out and squeezed his hand. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he was fine with his feelings about his wretched mother, but Maggie’s sympathy and understanding did feel nice.

“What about you? Do you see your father?”

“I saw him once when I was ten, and I invited him to my wedding. He came—so I was spared no one missing my humiliation at Peter’s announcement.” She laughed, though the sound was a little brittle, without the melodic quality he loved.