The Accidental Proposal (Short Story) Read online

  “I thought the girl always gets to keep the ring?”

  “It was a joke. Sorry.”

  “I’m sure I can spare it.” He regarded them speculatively. They expected him to believe their meeting was only a coincidence? “OK,” he said, “let’s see this list.”

  Pris looked at her older sister, who shrugged, so she dug in her pocket and brought out a crumpled sheet of paper. Sure enough, she’d listed every bar in the Quarter, with the name of a drink beside it. Second on the list was Pat O’Brien’s and written next to that was the word ‘Hurricane.’ They hadn’t been stalking him at all.

  “You’ve done some research,” he said, handing Pris back her list. “But if you are serious about working your way through that, you’ll have keeled over before you’ve gone more than one block. Is that really why you came to New Orleans, to get wasted?”

  “We saw the jazz collection at the Mint this morning,” Gaby said, somewhat defiantly. “And this afternoon we went shopping in Royal Street.”

  “Do you like jazz?”

  “Not especially,” she confessed.

  “So, if I said ‘New Orleans’ to you, what would be the first thing you thought of?”

  “Mardi Gras,” sighed Pris. “Parties, music, food, cocktails … ”

  “Gaby?”

  “Um, vampires?”

  Which threw him somewhat.

  Pris laughed. “It was my idea to come to New Orleans. Gaby would rather be on a beach.”

  They had come to the Quarter for a traditional New Orleans experience and, typically, they were looking in all the wrong places.

  Whatever Gaby had been about to retort was turned into a shocked, “Good grief, they’re huge!” when the cocktails arrived. Followed by a very suspicious, “What have they got in them?”

  What did she think they had in them? “Rum and fruit juice,” he replied, pushing one of the dark orange concoctions towards her. “They were invented back in the 1940s as a way to use up a surplus of rum. The name comes from the glass. It’s shaped like a hurricane lamp, you see.”

  She took a sip and must have liked it because she then took another. “How do you know all this?”

  “I came for a visit seven years ago and ended up living here for two,” he said. “Now, drink up. We’re not staying.”

  “What? Why not? I like it here.”

  “Me too. But if you want to experience the real New Orleans, come with me.”

  Amazingly, they did.

  * * *

  Luca’s idea of the ‘real’ New Orleans turned out to be a jazz club that was hardly in the French Quarter at all. The distance was such that Gaby would have been tempted to take a cab, but Luca took it all in his long-legged stride. The busy streets were no hindrance; everyone automatically moved out of his way, hardly aware they were doing it.

  The club was called Remy’s and was long and narrow and panelled with wood, making it resemble the interior of a pirate ship. There was a small stage at one end and the drinks (mostly bourbon and beer, much to Pris’s disappointment) were served from a bar in the middle. It was very dark and there was limited seating, so most people were standing. Some were even dancing. If Gaby had been writing it up for work, she’d have described it as a smoky jazz club – except the visiting band were playing the blues and smoking was apparently prohibited. There was a queue to get in but the staff knew Luca on sight. He was waved on through and shown to directly to a table as if he was royalty.

  I could get used to this, Gaby thought, before belatedly remembering why she was there. She dug her phone out of her bag, switched it to ‘record’ and left it casually on top of the table. Annoyingly, once they’d taken their seats and Luca had given them strict instructions not to talk too loudly (“They take music very seriously in here”), he went off to chat to the woman working behind the bar. They obviously knew each other, because she gave a shriek of joy and threw her arms around him, almost knocking him off his feet.

  Excuse me, that’s my rock star, Gaby found herself thinking. Put him down and go find one of your own.

  She couldn’t even grumble to Pris, because at the first opportunity her sister had gone off to dance with a German tourist, thus improving Gaby’s evening no end. Feeling like Billy no mates, she drank her beer and then Luca’s bourbon to spite him.

  He finally returned after about thirty minutes. “Sorry,” he said. “That’s Naomi, an old friend. We were catching up.”

  And then some, thought Gaby, and pretended to fiddle with her phone. In reality she was moving it closer towards him, to ensure it picked up everything he said.

  “Did you meet Naomi when you lived here?” she asked.

  “We all lived here,” he said, and pointed to the ceiling. “I was twenty-one years old and living above a jazz club in the Quarter. I thought I was in heaven.”

  The same age as Pris, Gaby realised, wondering what their parents would have said if her sister had done the same thing. Gone into meltdown, probably!

  As though he could read her mind, Luca said, “It was always expected I’d go into the family business but all I ever wanted to do was play guitar. So when my father took me with him to New York on a business trip, I high-tailed it down here. Fortunately the first person I met was Remy. He got in touch with my father, who was so relieved I was OK that he agreed to allow me to stay.”

  “You performed here?”

  “Not quite! Remy helped me get a green card and I worked behind the bar. But I listened and learned from the visiting musicians, and after two years I was ready to move on. I never forgot my old mate Remy though.” He pointed to the green-eyed skull ring she now wore on her finger. “He’s the one who gave me that ring – for luck.”

  “Really? Is he here now?”

  The smile faded from his face. “He died three years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It was a horrible time, for everyone. I really miss him. He was my mentor.”

  Luca was looking back at the bar as he said this, watching Naomi serving the drinks and taking the time to laugh and joke with all the customers. She really was incredibly beautiful and didn’t appear to be much older than Gaby herself. Was she Remy’s daughter? Did he think of her as a sister – or something more? Gaby didn’t like to ask. Suddenly all the excitement seemed to have been sucked out of the evening.

  “I think we need a change of subject.” Luca picked her phone up off the table and handed it to her. The light was still on, showing that it was recording. Gaby froze, waiting for the recriminations, but instead he held out his hand.

  “If you really want to experience New Orleans, you’re going to have to get out of that chair.”

  “Wh – what? Why?” She regarded him blankly.

  “Dance?” he said. “With me?”

  * * *

  How the hell did one dance to the blues? was Gaby’s first panicky thought, as Luca swung her onto the dance floor and into his arms in one very fluid movement. Followed by: I’m dancing with a rock star! Me, the only person in this room who thinks musicians are complete idiots!

  The band were playing something she vaguely recognised as a cover of Nina Simone. Luca had placed one hand on her back and taken hold of her hand in his other, entwining his fingers around hers. She could feel his heavy silver rings, warm from him and now warm against her skin, his touch creating all kinds of feelings she wasn’t sure she wanted to feel from someone she had only just met.

  Despite his old-school rocker appearance, it turned out Luca knew exactly how to dance to the blues. So Gaby clung on and followed his lead, even though he didn’t seem to be leading her anywhere much; their feet hardly moved from one spot.

  She thought she’d got the hang of it but then, “Bend your knees,” he muttered helpfully, “one at a time.”

  So she did, but that caused her hips to sway suggestively. “I do hope my sister isn’t filming this!”

  Luca laughed. “You’re doing fine. The beat will soon pick up again. The f
aster the dancing, the thirstier the dancers – and the more drinks sold. It’s not good business to keep the music slow. It puts other thoughts into the customer’s mind; thoughts about going home to a nice soft bed.”

  Gaby knew exactly what thoughts he was referring to, because she was beginning to have them herself. Now it was her turn to change the subject to something comparatively safer.

  “What made you return to New Orleans after all this time?”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “I’m visiting old friends. I’m based in Europe so it’s been a while since I came to the States. It’s good to catch up with everyone.”

  So good it was worth jeopardising the future of the band? There must be more to it than that.

  Luca had been pleased to see Naomi, yet he obviously wasn’t staying here at the club because she’d already seen him on the balcony at the Bourbon Orleans Hotel. And didn’t he already have a girlfriend? She was sure she remembered something about him dating a famous model, but what was her name? It was something to do with cars … Minnie? Mercedes? No, that wasn’t right … Oh, yes …

  “Did you bring Portia with you?”

  His grin widened, which wasn’t quite the reaction she had been expecting. “Portia and I finished months ago,” he told her. “She dumped me for an actor. I was completely gutted.”

  As he didn’t appear remotely gutted, she took that to mean he thought he’d had a lucky escape, but she stored the little nugget of gossip away, knowing she’d still be able to make use of it. Even if she didn’t learn anything else tonight, she now had enough to write a story for Jeremy. Yet it wasn’t exactly front page stuff, and if she kept asking questions she’d risk revealing her identity. But did it really matter? What was the worst that could happen? That he would storm off and leave her and Pris alone in this club? They could easily get a taxi back to the hotel. It was no big deal. Except …

  Except she was enjoying spending time with him. She liked him. She’d thought he’d be the kind of self-absorbed, self-serving, selfish celebrity she had always despised but, in the very short time she’d known him, Luca didn’t appear to be like that at all. OK, it could all be an act, but he was answering her questions, being quite honest and open with her, even relaxed enough to tease her. He seemed, well, nice – but then people probably thought she was nice too.

  “Hey, relax! This is supposed to be fun.” He pretended to frown doubtfully. “You do know how to have fun, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely!” Although Pris would certainly have disagreed with that one. “I’m having a great time.”

  “We could sit it out, if you prefer?”

  So he could go back to chatting up the beautiful Naomi? Gaby thought not.

  “But I’m just getting the hang of it!”

  He looked pleased. “What do you think of the music?”

  Gaby remembered why she was there. “Are they friends of yours too?”

  “I don’t know every musician in the Quarter.”

  He’d just given her the perfect intro. “Aren’t you supposed to be on tour with your own band?”

  “Yes,” he agreed, without any hesitation at all. “We did a set last night but I admit to skiving off the interviews and photo shoots.”

  “Won’t you get into trouble?”

  Luca quirked an eyebrow, as though he couldn’t quite believe she’d said that. “People are usually disappointed when I don’t!”

  “But seriously?”

  He shrugged. “I guess they’re telling everyone I’m sick.”

  It was exactly what his management were doing. She’d been in the business long enough to recognise damage limitation when she saw it – but this time the public weren’t buying it either. The general consensus seemed to be that Luca had left the band permanently. But had he? And dare she ask him why?

  “Ryan and Connor are much better at sweet-talking journos than me,” he was saying. “I have a very bad habit of telling the truth.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Very bad,” he said, in that deep, gravelly voice of his.

  Gaby felt a little thrill of lust. Was he flirting with her?

  “My manager is always telling me he has an ulcer with my name on it,” he added.

  OK, possibly not. She might be a bit out of practice but she was pretty sure a man wouldn’t try to seduce a woman into bed by talking about ulcers. So she firmly squashed her disappointment and tried to work out yet another way to ask that same damn question, when she realised his attention had been caught by something happening behind her.

  “Uh oh,” he said. “I think it’s time we left.”

  She didn’t need to fake her dismay. “But I was just beginning to – ”

  “Now,” he added, and yanked her off the dance floor.

  Chapter 3

  “That was the best night of my entire life,” Pris said, blithely unaware of having successfully derailed Gaby’s. “Wait til I tell my friends I got thrown out of a jazz club. Me.” And she did a little twirling dance along the pavement.

  “But better not tell them it was for talking,” sighed Gaby. “It doesn’t have quite the same cachet. Thanks, Luca,” she added, “for everything.” For proving not all celebs are complete arseholes, for showing me the ‘real’ New Orleans, for teaching me to dance to the blues and for rescuing my idiot sister from starting a bar fight … “It’s getting late, Pris. We should return to the hotel.” She looked up and down the street. “Um, which direction do you think it’s in?”

  “Uh uh,” Luca made a movement with his hand and a taxi rolled forward. “You don’t want to be walking around this late at night. Come on, I’ll take you back.” Adding, as she began to protest, “We are staying in the same hotel!”

  Why did he have to be so nice? He was so completely oblivious to her scheming it made her feel terrible.

  And this was far too late for her to be developing a conscience.

  In no time at all they were back at the hotel, waiting for the elevator. When it arrived, Pris bounded straight in. Gaby followed, slightly more demurely. Luca didn’t move.

  “Goodnight,” he said, and just as Gaby had the idea he was going to lean forward and kiss her, he laughed and tapped her gently on the nose instead.

  Her last sighting of him was as he strode off in the direction of the stairs. If it hadn’t been for Pris hauling her back inside, the elevator doors would have clanged shut on her head.

  Once in their suite, Pris headed off to bed, while Gaby hauled out her laptop to write up everything that had happened before she forgot it. It was fortunate she did, because the recording she’d made on her phone turned out to be unintelligible. When she’d finished, she drafted an email to her editor and attached the photos Pris had taken. She hovered the cursor over ‘send’ – and then slid it away.

  What was wrong with her? She’d got the story she wanted, although the truth behind Luca’s appearance in New Orleans had turned out to be slightly less exciting than she’d anticipated. But she’d written it up and, as far as she knew, no one else had realised he was here.

  She clicked on the mouse again – and again she bottled out.

  Gaby got up, paced around the room, sat down at the laptop, opened another window and did a search on ‘Luca Corbellini’. There was no reason to do this. She’d done all her research before she’d begun writing. Luca Corbellini: English/Italian bass player for British rock band, currently touring America. Owns homes in London and Sorrento, famous for extensive tattoos –

  Oh, yes? How extensive?

  Click, click, click.

  Ten minutes later and it turned out there were a lot of fan sites dedicated to Luca and his ‘extensive tattoos’. The most popular photograph, which appeared over and over again, was of Luca shot in moody black and white, wearing low slung jeans, showering beneath a waterfall.

  “As you do … ” murmured Gaby, and then sighed. She could certainly see why it was such a popular photograph.

  “Are you talking to you
rself?”

  Not for the first time did Gaby wish they’d booked into separate rooms and hang the expense. She slapped down the lid of her laptop and swung around to face her sister.

  “Are you trying to scare me half to death?”

  “Hah! Guilty conscience!” Pris planted a hot chocolate onto the desk beside her. “Look, I’m being nice. I’ve bought you a hot chocolate to help you sleep. Not that you look as though you actually want to go to sleep. What are you up to?”

  “Nothing,” she said, far too quickly.

  Pris, being a typical younger sister, merely leaned forward and flipped the laptop open.

  In theory, when Gaby closed her laptop it should have shut down, or at the very least locked itself. Unfortunately, it opened on the exact same shot of Luca, although the jeans appeared to have slid down even further than she remembered.

  Pris didn’t even have to say anything. Gaby could feel her cheeks glow incriminatingly.

  “I was doing some research … ” she began.

  “Sure you were.”

  “ … and double-checking my facts. I’ve already written the article and I was in the middle of composing an email to Jeremy.” She closed the fan site. “Look, you can read it if you like.”

  Pris’s smile faded. “You’re going ahead with your story? How could you? Luca was really sweet. He took us to that cool jazz club and told you all those things about himself, personal things, in confidence – ”

  “Then he’s an idiot for trusting me! I’ve already told Jeremy I’m writing the story. If I don’t meet his deadline, I’ll get a reputation for being unreliable.”

  “You’d rather have a reputation for being a bitch?”

  “It’s not like that – ”

  “It is exactly like that. I really don’t understand you, Gaby. I thought you liked him?” Without waiting to hear her reply, Pris abruptly turned away and headed back up to the bedroom.

  As the hot chocolate slowly congealed in the mug beside her, Gaby stared at the photograph on screen. Her sister was right. She had liked Luca. She’d liked him a lot.

  So when had she become such a bitch?

  * * *

  She didn’t send the email.

  Gaby would have liked to have thought it was because she was working hard on becoming a nicer person. The reality was she fell asleep on the couch while she was still trying to sweet-talk her conscience around to the idea. When she did finally wake up, it was to find Pris’s scowling face inches from hers.