When the Stars Align Read online

  When the Stars Align

  Once Upon a Time Series Book 2

  Kathryn Kelly

  Copyright © 2017 by Kathryn Kelly

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Once Upon a Christmas Excerpt

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Begin Again Excerpt

  Begin Again

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  Time Travel Romance by Kathryn Kelly

  Historical Romance by Kathryn Kelly

  Wholesome Contemporary Romance by Kathryn Kelly

  Chapter One

  Bradley Becquerel hated Mardi Gras.

  But here he was, crushed among the throngs of people, most of them staggering with intoxication as the darkness of an early evening storm settled over the city of New Orleans.

  His new client, Ian McGregor had insisted he stay for the three-day weekend. Male bonding, he’d said. There wasn’t much male bonding going on when Ian and the other two associates had gotten lost in the crowd over an hour ago.

  Bradley had spent the first thirty minutes of that hour looking for them, then decided to make his way back to the hotel. Unfortunately, he could barely walk without literally stepping on someone’s toes and being elbowed with every step. Besides, the Pat O Hurricane he’d had earlier had left him needing a drink of water.

  With the noise of people and discordant jazz music, he couldn’t even hear his own thoughts.

  Lightening flashed above the crowd causing the din to increase with screams of surprise, but it was the thunder that thinned the crowd. The thunder that sounded more like an explosion than a mere storm.

  After weaving his way through the moving crowd to the sidewalk, he passed the doors of the Place d’Armes hotel, and, after dodging a particularly loud trio of singing drunk college students undaunted by the sudden flood of raindrops, ducked through the next large wooden door. The establishment’s name, Le Bon Temps Roule, was engraved at eye level on a bronze plaque on the heavy oak door.

  Stepping inside, he was immediately struck by the quietness of the bar. It must have state of the art insulation to block out the cacophony of noise from the street. Other than the faint notes of a piano drifting from a back room, there wasn’t even any loud music inside. There were only men sitting around in groups at small tables. Cigar smoke created a haze that prevented him from seeing only a few feet in front of him. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, but the quietness provided enough relief that he could handle the discomfort of the smoke.

  Perhaps he’d stumbled into a private party. Or a smoker’s club. Like most places in the country, New Orleans had only a few public places left to enjoy a cigar and most of those were outside. Had he wandered into a private home?

  Only a few glanced up as he passed. Some of the men were intent on their private conversations, others engrossed in the cards they held in their hands.

  Bradley spotted the outline of the bar toward the left and navigated his way there. Only two other men sat on the row of barstools, huddled together in conversation to his left. He sat at the first stool he came to, near the center of the bar and, squinting through the smoke, examined his surroundings.

  The men were all dressed in formal attire. A one hundred eighty degree change from the t-shirts and jeans on the street. Though he was wearing his uniform of black slacks and white oxford shirt, he was sorely underdressed.

  A young male server, dressed all in white, carried a tray to one of the tables.

  “How can I help you, Sir?”

  Brad jerked his attention back to the bar. And his pulse quickened with surprise and immediate…intrigue. Her accent was soft and… French.

  He stared into the greenest eyes he had ever seen. Her lips were plush, curved into a pleasant smile – her teeth perfectly straight and white. Her skin, smooth and pale, was framed by long ebony hair swirling around her shoulders.

  It was all he could see of her features. She wore a Mardi Gras mask, covering just her eyes and the top of her nose. It appeared to be crafted from delicate white lace, tied around her head with a ribbon.

  She lifted one elegant eyebrow and tilted her head to the side. “Perhaps you’ve had too much,” she observed.

  “Yes,” Bradley managed to croak. “Water.”

  She poured water into a glass, a secret knowing smile on her lips.

  Bradley wanted to see the rest of her face. Her voice and her eyes beckoned to him like a siren’s song, but would she be as beautiful without the mask?

  His gaze glued to hers, he gulped the water.

  She watched him quizzically, that secret amusement playing about her lips.

  “You’re not from here,” she whispered.

  “No,” he said, keeping his voice low to match hers. “Is this a private club?”

  Her gaze skittered around the room. Back to his. “Yes,” she said with a shrug.

  “But I can be here?”

  “We welcome everyone,” she said, her smile confused.

  “You just…” He swallowed a bubble of laughter. Perhaps he had had too much.

  “Miss Lafleur?” A man to his left called out.

  She held his gaze another moment, then turned and, retreating into the haze, walked several feet to stand in front of the man who had summoned her.

  Lafleur. An old name. Old money.

  While she opened a bottle and poured their drinks, he noticed that she wore a floor-length dress in a deep green, matching her eyes. As she worked, he studied the room’s reflection in the mirror lining the wall in front of him.

  The haziness created by the cigar smoke created an other-worldly atmosphere. For merely a moment, he experienced a flash of vertigo. It was gone so quickly, he decided he must have imagined it.

  Camille Lafleur had her father wrapped around her little finger. It was the only explanation for him letting her work in the tavern during Mardi Gras.

  As long as you keep your mask on.

  Nonetheless, the men knew who she was. This was well illustrated by the fact that they didn’t hesitate to call her by name.

  She wouldn’t tell her father.

  Since this was Friday, she had four more days to work. He’d agreed only to let her work through Mardi Gras, then the masks would come off and she would go back to being a proper young lady. Under normal circumstances, a lady never went into the tavern after dark.

  She sighed. At least here she had something interesting to do. She kept the books during the day. It was natural to want to see actual business taking place.

  Besides, she hated the mundane balls. Always the same handful of men vying for her hand.

  Men she adamantly turned away. Despite her father’s insistence that at age eighteen, she needed to take a husband and have a child to carry on the bloodline. In the four years that had passed, he had all but given up on getting her wed.

  Though she had two brothers, it was unlikely either of them would be married soon. Both of them had saddled up and went to Texas to fight Comanches. If she could have found a way, she would have gone with t
hem.

  Instead, she was forced to stay behind. Needing something to occupy her time, her father allowed her to take over the bookkeeping. The tavern during the winter months and the plantation during the summers.

  All three of her father’s children, it seemed, had a rebellious spirit.

  According to her father they took after their mother.

  As she uncorked the French wine, she watched the stranger from the corner of her eye. He wore odd clothes. No jacket. His shirt was white, but he had a narrow silver cravat tied tightly round his neck. It looked, to her, a bit uncomfortable.

  And he wore no mask.

  The whole point of Mardi Gras was to wear a mask to conceal one’s identity.

  It only worked, she thought sardonically, if the people didn’t know who you were to start with.

  Take this man sitting in front of her. He had absolutely no idea who she was – mask or no no mask.

  And… even though he didn’t wear a mask, she didn’t know him.

  She sighed.

  If wearing a mask was what it took to give her permission to do something exciting and keep away from the interminable balls, wear the mask she would.

  She went back to stand in front of the stranger. “You look hungry,” she said.

  “Do I?”

  “Yes.” She turned and pulled on a cord. Marcus appeared from the back in less than two minutes. “Bring this man something to eat.”

  “Yes ma’am,” the boy said and rushed through a door behind the bar.

  “Where are you from?” she asked, staring into his blue eyes. He looked different from the other men – and not just his clothing. His dark brown hair was short. He was clean-shaven. His teeth were white…and perfectly straight.

  “Monroe,” he said.

  She’d not heard of Monroe, but no matter. Many people visited New Orleans from small settlements. What was it that was so different about him? She couldn’t quite sort it out. He looked… out of place.

  Marcus returned with a plate of catfish smothered in piquant sauce - one of her favorites, and set it in front of him.

  She poured a glass of red wine into a glass and slid it next to his plate. His eyes widened with the first bite. “Spicy,” he said, picking up the glass.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s wonderful. I’ve never had anything like it.”

  She smiled and he froze, his fork in mid-air.

  Perhaps it was the mask. She reached up to remove it, but remembered her father’s words. As long as you keep the mask on, you can work downstairs in the tavern behind the bar.

  She had quickly agreed.

  I’m serious Camille. If the mask comes off, I’ll pull you out of the tavern.

  She lowered her hand. Kept the mask on.

  She hadn’t bothered reminding her father that she was the best barkeep he had. And… he didn’t even have to pay her. She and her brothers had spent countless hours during the day playing barkeep. Then, when she was old enough, she had memorized all the drinks.

  Her father was a pushover for her, but only as far as her safety went.

  Besides she was having more fun than she’d had since her brothers left.

  Marcus barely had time to get upstairs and back down before he reappeared at her elbow. “Mistress Camille, your father said it’s time for you to come upstairs.”

  Camille Lafleur. A most fitting name if ever there had been one. With no more than a backward glance over her shoulder, she disappeared out of his life.

  An older, bearded man in formal attire appeared to be her replacement. “Can I get you anything, Sir?” he asked.

  He shook his head. “Is… Miss Lafleur’s shift over?”

  The new barkeeper scowled at him. “Miss Lafleur will not be back tonight. My name is David. Is there something I can get for you?”

  “No,” Bradley said, reaching into his front pocket for his money clip. “I’d like to pay my tab.”

  “It’s included in your membership,” the man said, picking up a towel to wipe the top of the bar.

  “My membership.” Bradley decided to let that go for the moment. He would come back in the morning and straighten all this out. Perhaps purchase a membership. Right now, he needed to get back to his hotel in case Ian was looking for him. Disappearing into the crowded streets of New Orleans probably wasn’t creating such a good impression. Mixing New Orleans and work was never a good idea. Especially during Mardi Gras season.

  He crossed the smoky room, opened the door, and stepped back into the noise and the crowds. He’d been gone, what, maybe an hour, but it was like he hadn’t been gone at all.

  As he stepped into the street, toward, hopefully, his hotel, his phone began to ping.

  He pulled his iPhone out of his pocket and stared at it. He had nine missed calls, four phone messages, and several text messages.

  Even though it was obviously turned on, he checked the volume. He must not have had any phone service inside the building. Shrugging it off, he listened to the four messages from his new client. They were across town – at a bar. Sidestepping a group of tourists, he dashed back a quick message. Went back to hotel. See you in the morning. Now all he had to do was find the hotel.

  Bradley knew not to ask too many questions of his clients. He also knew that a good pilot had a short memory. A short memory meant more repeat business.

  He was scheduled to fly them back to Houston on Sunday morning. That most likely meant he had tomorrow to himself. Although New Orleans wasn’t his favorite place, he now had a purpose. He planned to find out exactly who this Camille Lafleur was and find out how to become a member of her private club.

  Bradley found his way back to the hotel after following his phone’s GPS for awhile, then stopping to ask for directions. He was much better at finding his way around in the air than in a crowded city.

  Bradley went upstairs to his room, plugged in his phone, changed into his shorts and T-shirt, and landed on the bed before falling asleep.

  The next morning, he woke sprawled across the bed, bed linens mostly in the floor. Though he didn’t remember details, he knew he’d had nightmares again. The bad dreams had started just over a year ago with what he had come to think of as the disappearance of his sister.

  They had been close. However, when he had begun the grueling hours required to earn his pilot’s license, they hadn’t been as involved in each others lives.

  Then she had disappeared.

  Stepping into the shower, the hot water blasting on his head, he allowed his thoughts to settle.

  And they settled on Camille Lafleur.

  Today he would use GPS to get back to the bar. What was the name of it? Le Bon Temps Roule. Right next door to the Place d’Armes hotel.

  He wanted to see Camille without her mask. He wanted to talk to her again. Bradley had dated his share of girls before. But this instant attraction was a new experience. He’d thought love at first sight was a myth. He thought love was something that grew over the years. Like his grandparents had.

  The death of his grandmother, Vaughn, had hit the family hard. Especially his grandfather.

  Bradley reluctantly turned off the hot shower. It was time to get his day started. He wanted to navigate the city before the tourists woke up.

  He threw on some jeans and a sweatshirt. He didn’t anticipate seeing his clients today. They would probably sleep until noon. Then start drinking again.

  Bradley had never suffered from the allure of intoxication. Thank God he’d overcome genetics. His intoxication came from the feeling of flying high above the world. No one there but him. Of course, solo flights didn’t pay for themselves, so those were few and far between. Instead, he tolerated people in the back of the plane dictating his destinations.

  Nonetheless, flying time was flying time.

  He’d take it.

  He typed in Le Bon Temps Roule. Scowled at his phone. That couldn’t be right. The bar was across town, near the zoo. The hotel was in the French Quarter c
lose to Jackson Square. Within walking distance from where he stood. There must two bars with the same name.

  Instead, he put in the hotel. Only about a ten minute walk from here. Without the crowds, he would have no problem getting back there.

  He walked downstairs and went out onto the street. The weather could not have been more perfect. The sky was clear. Not a cloud to be seen. Perfect flying weather.

  He stopped by Café Du Monde, ordered coffee and a beignet. There were mostly families out this early and couples. He caught himself searching for his sister. His head told him she wouldn’t be here, but his heart never stopped searching. He’d given up on fighting that a long time ago. Now it was just something he did.

  Would most likely always be a part of him.

  The coffee was hot and the beignet was sweet. He couldn’t ask for anything more.

  The hotel was a straight walk down St. Ann Street. There would be no getting lost this time. The street vendors were setting up as he walked past Jackson Square.

  Perhaps he would come back later and see what the local artists had to offer. Since he didn’t come to the city often, he might as well take advantage of it.

  He had a flight scheduled to Chicago next week for a regular client. An older businessman this time. Completely different kind of experience.

  Just as he had last night, he walked past the front door to the Place d’Armes hotel. Stopped in front of the first tall oak door.

  Pushed on the panel.

  It didn’t budge.

  Where was the name of the bar?

  The door was smooth – no plaque. Nothing at all on the door.

  He stepped back into the street. There were several tall oak panels, but none of them appeared to be working doors. He pushed on each one, just to be sure. Searched for hinges, doorknobs, something.