He was sure it was great for business—but whose business, and where did the people that once owned and lived here go? That was the story that he wanted to tell, the real history of his home and the people who made it.
His dashboard lit with an incoming call. He pressed the phone icon, and Anthony’s voice came through the speakers.
“Yeah, Tony, what’s up?”
“Where did you go off to?”
“I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”
“Paul and Diane are out scouting the alternate locations. I should have some news this afternoon.”
“All right. Stay on it. I’ll be back to the hotel in a couple of hours.”
“You’re going to see Ms. Fontaine, aren’t you?”
Craig bit back a smile. He never could hide much from Anthony. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Why are you so dead set on this place? I know it fits the specs, but there are plenty of places to choose from without having to twist the owner’s arm to do it. So I know there has to be another reason.”
“I don’t like being told no. Reason enough?”
“If you say so. Just know that I know you, and I know better. Good luck.”
He snorted a laugh. “’Preciate it.” He disconnected the call.
Anthony was right. It wasn’t as cut-and-dried as being told no, even though that was a big part of it. If he would allow himself a moment of honesty, he would admit that the real reason was that he wanted to see her again. See if on the morning after, she still managed to seep into his pores and flow through his veins. Best way to do that was face-to-face. He took a quick glance at the folder on the passenger seat. The documents inside, once signed, would give him access to the mansion and Jewel Fontaine for the next two months. He had no plans to return to the hotel empty-handed again.
The ride over to the Garden District, where Jewel lived, was about a twenty-minute ride from the center of town. Her home was on the edge of the district, set back and away from the street in a cul-de-sac that separated it from view of other homes in the area, which was ideal for the project.
He made his approach to the Garden District. This historic location was home to the some of the most iconic mansions in the state, all of which had been plantations during slavery. Anne Rice, of vampire fame, had a house there, along with the likes of football giant Peyton Manning, who grew up in the district.
Craig turned onto Prytania Street, which was lined with homes in the Gothic style. He reached the end of the lane and turned down the winding path that led to the Fontaine home. An unexpected knot of anxiety suddenly twisted in his gut when the mansion came into view. Or was it anticipation?
He took the path slowly and came to a stop at the top of the line of trees that umbrellaed the grounds. He turned off the ignition. For a few moments, he sat in the car, staring at the old-world majesty of the home and imagining the rich history that slept behind the walls and wafted among the rafters. What did the beautiful and difficult Jewel Fontaine add to that picture?
Craig snatched the folder from the passenger seat, got out and strode purposefully toward the sweeping entrance. Just as he put his booted foot on the first step of the landing, the double front door opened.
Jewel stood framed in the doorway, a mixture of past grandeur and present-day class.
Craig didn’t realize that he’d actually frozen midstep until she spoke his name.
“Mr. Lawson. I wasn’t expecting you.”
He couldn’t tell from her even tone if her words were a reprimand or ones of pleasant surprise. He climbed the three steps until he was inches in front of her. Something soft and inviting spun around her in the morning breeze—her scent combined with the aroma of fresh baking that drifted to him from the interior of the house.
Craig cleared his throat, suddenly unsure of what he wanted to say. “Um, good morning, Ms. Fontaine. I apologize for not calling.”
She didn’t budge, a sentinel protecting her domain.
“What can I do for you? I thought we concluded our business yesterday.”
“I was hoping that we could talk.”
“About?”
He ran his tongue lightly across his dry lips. “The house.”
Her lids lowered ever so slightly over her deep brown eyes, then she looked directly at him. She tipped her head slightly to the side. Her right brow rose. “Have you had breakfast?”
For a moment he was thrown. It was the last thing he’d expected her to say. “Actually, no. I haven’t.”
She drew in a short breath, opened the door farther and stepped to the side. “Come in.”
Craig walked past her. Her scent clouded his thoughts.
Jewel shut the door. “This way.” She led him through the large foyer that was appointed with an antique hall table upon which sat an oversize glass vase filled with lilies. On the walls hung several oil paintings that he recognized as her work. The highly polished wood-plank floors gleamed with their reflections and echoed their footsteps. She made a short right turn, and the space opened onto a kitchen that rivaled any master chef’s.
Every size pot and pan hung from black iron ceiling hooks over a polished-cement island counter that boasted a sink and a six-burner stove with cabinetry beneath. The far end of the island was for seating. The double oven and restaurant-size stainless steel refrigerator were in sharp contrast to the perfectly restored potbellied stove that sat like a Buddha at the far end of the kitchen.
“Coffee or tea?”
Craig blinked. “Coffee. Please.”
“Have a seat.” She went to the overhead cabinets and took out a bag of imported Turkish coffee and prepared it. Within moments the scent of fresh-brewed coffee mixed with the tempting aroma of the blueberry muffins that sat in a cloth-lined basket, waiting to be devoured. She took out a plate and retrieved jam and whipped apple butter from the fridge and placed them both on the table.
“You have an incredible home.”
“Thank you.” She poured his coffee and brought it to the table. “Cream, milk, sugar?”
“I take it black. Thanks.”
Jewel took a seat opposite him. “Help yourself to a muffin if you want. They’re fresh.”
His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t make these?”
“Actually, I did.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a grin. “A woman of many talents.” He reached for a muffin and put it on his plate. “I noticed your artwork out there. Stunning.” He cut the muffin in half and slathered it with apple butter. He glanced up when she didn’t comment. He took a thoughtful bite and experienced heaven. His eyes closed in appreciation. “Wow, this is incredible.” That brought a smile to those luscious lips of hers.
“I learned to bake from my grandmother, right here in this kitchen. It slowly became a passion of mine over the years.”
“So you grew up here?”
“The house has been in the family for almost four generations, dating back to the emancipation. I lived here with my grandmother and my father until I graduated high school.”
Where was her mother in the scenario? He didn’t recall reading anything about her. “You attended the Sorbonne.”
Her eyes flashed. A curious smile curved her mouth. “Have you been reading up on me? I thought it was the house you were interested in.”
Both, he wanted to say but didn’t. “Any time I’m in negotiations with anyone I want to know as much as possible about them.”