so young men.
“Hey!” said one, almost falling into her.
“Hi, there, babe,” another slurred. He cast an arm sloppily around her shoulder.
“Hey, get your hands off her,” Julian demanded forcefully.
Nikki was barely aware of their exchange.
“He…he was here,” she said, puzzled.
“Who was here, honey? I’m available,” a blond kid with a New York accent said, smiling stupidly and coming up on her other side.
“Leave her alone,” Julian said angrily.
“Yeah? And who are you? Her daddy…pimp daddy, something like that?”
Julian hauled off, catching the young man beneath the jaw. He sucked in his breath, staggered back and fell.
“Julian…shit!” Nikki breathed, her attention wrenched back to their current situation.
“Hey, asshole, there was no call for that,” the blonde from New York said. He dropped his plastic drink cup and strode menacingly toward Julian.
Others began to follow suit, circling him as their friend staggered to his feet.
“Everyone!” Nikki announced loudly. “Stop it right now. I’m going to scream, I’ll get the police. Just calm down.”
No one seemed to hear her. The first kid reached Julian. He dodged that blow, but another one of the youths was to his right, and he took a swing.
“Stop!” Nikki jumped onto the back of one of them. He didn’t even seem to notice her weight. She banged a fist on the top of his head. “Stop it right now!”
He still didn’t seem to notice her. She slid off his back, landing on her rump.
In a fair fight, Julian could handle himself. Against ten or so…
He didn’t stand a chance.
Nikki opened her mouth to start screaming. The police had to come, and come quickly.
“Hey!”
The voice that suddenly thundered through the crowd was deep and resonant, and had a note of such pure authority that everyone, including Nikki, suddenly went dead still.
A man came striding into the frozen tableau. From her position on her butt in the street, he seemed extraordinarily tall, dark, broad shouldered and well muscled beneath a casual knit polo shirt and jeans. He caught hold of the kid who was about to deck Julian.
“What the hell is going on here?”
“He started it.” The college boy sounded like a grade-school kid in trouble.
“They were coming on to Nikki,” Julian said.
“Just break it up, all of you,” the man said irritably.
“Or what?” ventured one of the drunker college boys.
The man stared at him. That was it; he just stared.
“Just asking,” the boy muttered. He turned and started down the street. “Come on, guys, let’s get out of here.”
They all followed suit, heading down the street.
The man turned toward where Nikki was still sitting on the street. He strode toward her, offering her a hand up.
She saw his face.
His complexion was a deep tan, almost bronze, his eyes a startling, brilliant green. The hard chiseled angles and planes clearly denoted a Native American background somewhere. His hair was pitch dark and dead straight, just a little long. It wasn’t so much that he was typically handsome, but he was one of the most arresting individuals she had ever seen. He seemed to emit confidence and authority, and not just because of his imposing height or the breadth of his shoulders. There was a sleek agility about him for a man of his size, and his features were hard cut, seeming to exude an essentially masculine sensuality mixed with stark assurance.
His hand, outstretched to her, was large, the fingers long, nails neatly clipped, clean—and powerful, she quickly discovered.
But it wasn’t the strength of his grip, bringing her easily to her feet that so disturbed her.
It was his touch.
Energy, almost like a fire, or a current, streaking from him to her.
And then…
His eyes.
They looked into hers.
And they saw something.
What, she didn’t know. He released her instantly, stepping back, surveying her, not in a sexual way, and not with disdain or disinterest.
As if he recognized her.
“Are you all right?” he asked politely.
“Um…fine,” she murmured.
He nodded. “You?” he asked Julian.
“Yeah, thanks to you,” Julian told him, eyeing the stranger curiously. “Hey, we kind of owe you. Can we buy you a drink or something?”
The man shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything.” He cracked a slight smile, which transformed his face. He was suddenly striking. Still hard, but striking.
“I just wouldn’t mess with large crowds in the future, huh?” he suggested.
With a wave, he turned and left them.
6
Brent walked down the street, shaking his head.
New Orleans.
America’s most European city. A mixture of architecture and mood, sultry heat and shifting shadows. It was as if time had cast a mood over the city that had sunk into the very bones of its man-made structures. History piled upon the passions of those who had lived before.
It held the remnants of days gone by, mixed with the new, the lively, the present-day city, with its love of gardens, jazz, good times and voodoo.
There was unbelievable talent to be found with the turn of a corner, like the old black man two streets over who had played a banjo better than he’d ever heard before. The man had just been sitting there, playing and smiling and, Brent hoped, making a fair amount of money from the passersby who were dropping bills in his instrument case.
Brent passed a closed shop with a storefront announcing “Dolly’s Dolls,” and next to it was a neon light advertising “Girls, Girls, Naked Girls.”
People laughing, drinking, admiring artists, musicians, mimes…
People drinking themselves silly, picking fights.
