at him and Parker knew himself well enough to know he wanted this woman to smile at him in the same way. Warm and wide and genuine, a smile for a man to drown himself in.
"Truce?" he asked softly.
She glanced at him, then around her new surroundings. "I'll think about it," she said, not at all hard- edged.
He smiled and held her gaze. "Good."
Then she turned away and stepped forward from the side entrance foyer into the Central Rotunda and any hint of a smile drained from her face.
"This isn't a house—this is a—museum!"
Parker took the three broad steps that led from the entry area to the center of the first level of the house, a rotunda that led in all directions to the primary rooms on the first floor.
He supposed it did resemble a museum, but having played hide and seek and G.I. Joe among the velveteen-covered gilt chairs and nineteenth-century writing desk and antique globe, to name only a few of the pieces cluttering the central rotunda, Parker didn't give much thought to the space.
Or to the impression it might make on someone not from his world.
But Meg's eyes had opened even wider and he knew, as clearly as if she'd spoken the words, that she knew almost nothing about the life led by the man she'd married.
Jules surely would have described Ponthier Place. Parker much preferred the family home in the country, known as Sugar Bridge, to the pretentious showplace Teensy had created at the St. Charles homestead.
But as much as Jules protested against the hold it held over him, as much as he'd tried to run away to the rooms he kept at the Hotel Maurepas, as much as he'd tried to avoid any gathering held in that house, he would have told any woman he loved about Ponthier Place.
For Jules, his life was a love-hate relationship, and nowhere was that more clearly spelled out than in his relationship with his family.
Given the death of their father—by drowning in a boating accident along with his current mistress—and the way Teensy catered to Jules's every whim and clung to him even more, Parker would have been amazed if family hadn't held a tight rein over Jules's actions. Or reactions.
Thankful that as the second child he'd escaped much of the notice of his parents, Parker had watched as his older brother had succumbed to his own confusion and hostility towards his family, a hostility matched only by his seemingly unbreakable need for them.
Horton discreetly bore away Meg's coat, carrying it as carefully as if it had been made from ermine or silk, rather than a flimsy synthetic blend.
She stood staring after Horton, watching her coat disappear as if she'd lost her only friend in the world. The woeful look on her face confused Parker. Perhaps he should have been nicer to her. She was way out of her league and she hadn't even set foot in the Great Parlor yet.
Her lips had parted slightly. She ungripped her hands and ran one lightly over the back of one of the gilt chairs. He liked the picture she made, her tapered fingers unconsciously sooth in g the fabric even as she seemed to divine its nature.
Parker had sensed her hand as she'd lay it over his arm back at the hotel. She'd offered comfort and he'd rejected her touch. Watching her stroke the chair, he pictured her hands moving over his body, smoothing their way up his legs, over his thighs, curling around the part of him that ached from the idea of this woman touching him.
He was out of his mind. She was not only a stranger, but a stranger he knew better than to trust.
But watching her hands, he read a gentleness that reassured him.
And aroused him. Too much so.
He had to stop himself from thinking of Meg in this way. To distract himself, Parker mentally reviewed the history of this particular chair.
His mother had carried on for weeks about that remarkable find. It matched an original to the house that sat opposite the Georgian writing desk and Teensy had been quite pleased with herself w hen she'd found it in some out- of-the-way antique shop
"Truce?" he asked softly.
She glanced at him, then around her new surroundings. "I'll think about it," she said, not at all hard- edged.
He smiled and held her gaze. "Good."
Then she turned away and stepped forward from the side entrance foyer into the Central Rotunda and any hint of a smile drained from her face.
"This isn't a house—this is a—museum!"
Parker took the three broad steps that led from the entry area to the center of the first level of the house, a rotunda that led in all directions to the primary rooms on the first floor.
He supposed it did resemble a museum, but having played hide and seek and G.I. Joe among the velveteen-covered gilt chairs and nineteenth-century writing desk and antique globe, to name only a few of the pieces cluttering the central rotunda, Parker didn't give much thought to the space.
Or to the impression it might make on someone not from his world.
But Meg's eyes had opened even wider and he knew, as clearly as if she'd spoken the words, that she knew almost nothing about the life led by the man she'd married.
Jules surely would have described Ponthier Place. Parker much preferred the family home in the country, known as Sugar Bridge, to the pretentious showplace Teensy had created at the St. Charles homestead.
But as much as Jules protested against the hold it held over him, as much as he'd tried to run away to the rooms he kept at the Hotel Maurepas, as much as he'd tried to avoid any gathering held in that house, he would have told any woman he loved about Ponthier Place.
For Jules, his life was a love-hate relationship, and nowhere was that more clearly spelled out than in his relationship with his family.
Given the death of their father—by drowning in a boating accident along with his current mistress—and the way Teensy catered to Jules's every whim and clung to him even more, Parker would have been amazed if family hadn't held a tight rein over Jules's actions. Or reactions.
Thankful that as the second child he'd escaped much of the notice of his parents, Parker had watched as his older brother had succumbed to his own confusion and hostility towards his family, a hostility matched only by his seemingly unbreakable need for them.
Horton discreetly bore away Meg's coat, carrying it as carefully as if it had been made from ermine or silk, rather than a flimsy synthetic blend.
She stood staring after Horton, watching her coat disappear as if she'd lost her only friend in the world. The woeful look on her face confused Parker. Perhaps he should have been nicer to her. She was way out of her league and she hadn't even set foot in the Great Parlor yet.
Her lips had parted slightly. She ungripped her hands and ran one lightly over the back of one of the gilt chairs. He liked the picture she made, her tapered fingers unconsciously sooth in g the fabric even as she seemed to divine its nature.
Parker had sensed her hand as she'd lay it over his arm back at the hotel. She'd offered comfort and he'd rejected her touch. Watching her stroke the chair, he pictured her hands moving over his body, smoothing their way up his legs, over his thighs, curling around the part of him that ached from the idea of this woman touching him.
He was out of his mind. She was not only a stranger, but a stranger he knew better than to trust.
But watching her hands, he read a gentleness that reassured him.
And aroused him. Too much so.
He had to stop himself from thinking of Meg in this way. To distract himself, Parker mentally reviewed the history of this particular chair.
His mother had carried on for weeks about that remarkable find. It matched an original to the house that sat opposite the Georgian writing desk and Teensy had been quite pleased with herself w hen she'd found it in some out- of-the-way antique shop
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