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opposite sex. Dating for them had been about how far they could get her to go.
    With her aunt being a veritable French Quarter legend, Perry had earned the status of trophy lay once her name had become known. Even more humiliating had been finding out that because she wasn’t laying anyone, she was ranked number one on the campus virgin watch.
    And that was funny because she’d lost her virginity the summer before her freshman year to the only good man she’d ever known. Gary had not seen her as anyone but who she was. He’d loved her. He’d made love to her. He’d taught her about herself, things she could never have learned from her aunt because they were all about her enjoyment of sharing her life—and her body—with a man.
    They’d spent a wonderful six months together—the best she’d even known. But then a job offer had taken Gary, who’d been eight years older, to Seattle. They were at different places in their lives, he’d told her. Devastated, she’d risen to the occasion with a surprising maturity, reminding him of her obligation to Della keeping her in New Orleans and wishing him all the best while her heart crumbled.
    Allowing herself to dwell on what might have been with Gary, or later, on the bets being made behind her back, had been a waste of time. University had been the same, and so she’d moved on. For ten years now, she’d managed Sugar Blues, a full circle that brought her back to a life spent in the company of women—not such a bad thing, she supposed. Della didn’t seem to have suffered for living her life alone.
    Then again, she had definitely been filled with joiede vivre since Detective Book Franklin had arrived on the scene. Strange, but Perry had always thought Della shied away from relationships because of her gift—not because she hadn’t found a man to hold her interest.
    And, of course, that brought Perry’s mind back to Jack. She stopped futzing with the layout of the counter’s incense cones and took a deep breath, forcing her feet to move. She walked into the kitchen to Jack bearing the brunt of the door’s weight on one shoulder.
    “Hey, there you are,” he said. “Could you hand me that hammer?”
    “Sure,” she answered without thinking, adding, “The claw or the ball pin?”
    “Either one’ll work,” he said, taking it from her hand with a wink. “Gotta love a woman who knows her way around tools.”
    She ignored the double entendre. “This is a do-it-yourself sort of household.”
    “You live here, too, then?”
    She shook her head, leaned against the counter nearest the doorway, shivering a bit from the breeze. “I used to. Not anymore. I have a townhouse near Jackson Square.”
    “Hmm. I was down there earlier.” Whack! Whack! “Ate lunch at a place called Café Eros. Actually, that’s where I picked up the newspaper.”
    Did she dare tell him? It wasn’t like she was unlisted or anything. “Actually, that’s where I live. The Court du Chaud. The café sits at the entrance.”
    “Small world, huh?”
    Too small, she wanted to say. But she didn’t sayanything because as he lifted the old door free, she was caught by the ripple of muscles across his back.
    He’d pulled off his hoodie since his return from the store and was now working in his T-shirt and jeans. The heavier garment had covered his upper physique; the white cotton T-shirt covered it in a way that was all about showing it off.
    When he reached up, the shirt went with him, baring a strip of skin above his belt. Not more than an inch, maybe only a half, there at the small of his back. It was enough. She forgot to breathe for so long that her lungs burned when she finally filled them.
    She was so out of her league.
    “I can always leave,” she said, hoping he’d agree. Please let him agree . If she stayed even a few minutes longer, it was going to be too long. It was going to be too late. “If you have the place to yourself, you can work without being distracted.”
    “I’d