To My Senses The Nicci Beauvoir Series Book 1 by Alexandrea Weis Page A

local
phrase, used to describe the thin, long houses that were popular in
the city. They were so-called shotguns because you could, in
theory, fire a shotgun through the front door and the bullet would
go right out the back door without hitting anything. They were also
easier to keep cool in the summer, allowing breezes to flow
uninterrupted through the home.
    There was a long porch,
with hanging swings located at opposite ends and potted plants
scattered all about. Two tall, live oak trees were situated in
front of the cottage to perfectly shade the house from the
afternoon sun.
    “ I rent the left side,”
David informed me. “It’s enough for one person. The lady who owns
the place lives on the right.” He climbed out of the Jeep and came
around to my side. “She likes having me around. I keep the place up
for her and she gives me a break on the rent.”
    David took my hand and
helped me from the car. I could feel my heart beating faster. He
must have sensed my apprehension, because he leaned over and gently
kissed my shoulder. The sensation sent ripples down my
spine.
    As we walked up the steps
to the porch, he his retrieved his keys. When he opened the door,
the air conditioning hit me like a cold winter blast. David ushered
me inside and quickly closed the front door. He took my hand and
led me into a small living room.
    It was very sparsely
furnished, with a sofa, a plain wood and glass coffee table, and
end tables. A flat screen television was in an open armoire against
the far wall, and a laptop computer sat on a desk next to the
armoire.
    The second room was a stark
contradiction. It was meant to be a dining area, but David had only
canvases and tubes of paint scattered about on the floor. In the
center, an easel stood alone, supporting a work in progress. The
roof held two wide skylights that bathed the room with traces of
moonlight.
    “ I paint in this room,” he
explained. “The light is best in here.”
    He walked farther into the
house, turning on more lights as he went. I followed him into the
kitchen, which opened directly onto his studio. A black
granite-covered bar divided the studio from the kitchen area. A
door beyond the kitchen was half-open, revealing only darkness.
Assuming that was the bedroom, I was relieved when he made no move
to venture into it.
    “ Would you like something
to drink?” He set his jacket across a stool next to the bar and
went to the refrigerator. “I have wine and champagne.”
    “ I’ll stick with the
champagne.”
    “ I’m glad you said that. I
was going to open it anyway.” He smiled from behind the
refrigerator door.
    I returned to his studio to
get a closer look at his work. Against the far wall were more of
the same scenic pictures he had done of the Quarter. The floor was
scattered with scraps of crumpled paper. Some had drawings
scribbled on them. I bent down, picked up one piece and unfolded
it. The hastily sketched image was of a young woman. Her head was
tilted to the side and her eyes had a dreamy quality to them, as if
she was thinking of some place far away. I thought her features
looked strikingly familiar. I inched closer to the easel positioned
in the center of the room. On the canvas, I saw the same face of
the woman I had found on the scrap of paper, but her features were
more somber than the hurried sketch. The smile was subtler, and the
turn of the head was up instead of to the side. Auburn colored hair
had been painted in around her shoulders and framed her delicate
features. It was the eyes that I found the most distracting. They
were piercing, almost like the eyes of an Amazon before battle.
They were filled with fire and the desire for a fight.
    “ Do I really look like
that?”
    David came alongside me and
offered me a highball glass filled with champagne. “To me you do.”
He took a sip from his glass and had a seat on a stool by the
bar.
    “ You paint people better
than buildings,” I admitted, admiring the painting.
    “ No, I only