“Love him. But I also know him. You want to come in and continue our conversation? It’s hot out.”

“That dog don’t look too friendly.” The dog in question stood looking right at him, the lines of his body tense as a soldier at attention.

“He doesn’t like men very much, but he’s well-trained,” the woman said. “Watch. Gmork.” She snapped her fingers and the dog snapped to attention. “Gib laut.”

The dog barked once.

“Gmork. Sitz.”

The dog sat.

“Gmork, verehre mich.”

The dog dropped his head and licked the woman’s toes.

“What command is that?” Cyrus asked.

The woman smiled. For a second—only a second—something about that smile made him think he might be in the presence of another goddess. But not the sort of goddess one put on a pedestal and admired. No, she was the sort of goddess one sacrificed doves and cattle and virgins to, in the vain hope of not inciting her wrath.

“Worship me,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“The command I gave my dog was ‘worship me.’ This is called foot worship.” She snapped her fingers and the dog stopped his licking. He lay at her feet, gazing up at her with adoring dark doggy eyes.

“Okay. So maybe you are Nora Sutherlin.”

Chapter Five

Kingsley Edge might yet live up to his reputation—mercenary, perverted, and dangerous—but Cyrus couldn’t fault him his taste in women or his taste in home decor. If Juliette was a goddess, her home was a worthy temple.

Nora Sutherlin—if this really was Nora Sutherlin—led him up the steps to the large arched front door, her giant dog following at her heels. Cold air blasted him right in the face, and he basked in it. Although only ten in the morning, the city was already starting to steam.

“Very nice,” Cyrus said. “Mr. Edge has a beautiful home.”

She took him down a hallway to a parlor room filled with furniture the likes he’d never seen outside a Chartres Street antique store.

“A king needs his castle. Do you mind very much if I change clothes before we talk?” she asked. “I shouldn’t get paint on anything. King would tan my hide.”

“Literally?”

She smiled. “So you have heard of him.”

“His reputation precedes him.”

Her smiled widened. “Make yourself at home. Wet bar’s there if you’re thirsty. I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared with her dog, and Cyrus helped himself to a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. He wandered the room, taking it all in. Fancy sofas—tufted velvet, exposed wood arms, carved wooden legs. Versailles-type stuff, very old world. The parlor was wallpapered with some kind of old-fashioned Victorian-looking stuff—red with an ivory floral pattern. Paulina would have liked it. A little too ostentatious for his taste. Then again, this was the Garden District. “Ostentatious” was standard procedure in most of these houses.

The only personal touches in the room were the framed photographs on the top of the marble fireplace mantel.

The same man appeared in each one of them. Kingsley Edge. Cyrus wasn’t the best judge of whether a man was good-looking or not, but even his eyes told him Edge was a head-turner. Of course, with a woman like Juliette in his house and bed, he’d have to be.