Authors: Tori Carrington
Drew was mildly surprised she was the owner. His target.
He picked up his hat from the counter. Maybe this one last crappy job before he moved on to bigger and better things might not be without its fringe benefits.
D
REW LET HIMSELF
into room 2C, put his suitcase on the wrought-iron bench at the foot of the matching double bed, then crossed to the open French doors. He stepped out onto the narrow balcony and gripped the ornate railing, Bourbon Street spilled out like a strand of black pearls before him. He’d never actually stayed in the Quarter before. He might entertain his clients there, but he’d always stayed at the better hotels on the fringes of the famed district.
There was something almost…decadent about being there now. Although it was Sunday afternoon, he made out the sounds of a jazz band warming up in a bar across the street, watched as a few teenage girls, apparently on vacation, shopped for beads in a place a couple doors up, the faint smell of decay and beer and Cajun spices filling his nose.
A homeless black man wearing a crocheted
African hat and holding a trumpet case walked by the hotel, raising his hand to wave inside, presumably at the alluring owner, Josie Villefranche.
The view Drew took in was worlds away from the cityscapes he usually saw outside his hotel-room window. For that matter, it was certainly worlds away from the trailer park he’d grown up in outside Kansas City. In KC, being poor meant to the bone, no romance in the situation as families and single parents tried to make the rent and put cheap food on the table. Here…well, here poor seemed to be worn as a badge of honor. It didn’t appear to be something you were, but a state you just happened to be in. In the French Quarter, strippers mingled with CEOs of large corporations, while in KC, most of the strippers would be lucky to meet a guy who worked at the Midland factory.
The contrast interested him. How would he have ended up had he been raised in a place like this, rather than the only son of a diner waitress in Missouri? A woman who’d smoked and drunk too much and had never let him forget where he came from? Who’d ceaselessly told him that his father was a useless, good-for-nothing deadbeat who had probably died when Drew was three to get out of paying child support?
Then again, you could change the story’s set
ting, but the characters would still be the same, so Kansas City or New Orleans, it likely wouldn’t have made a difference.
He stepped back into the room and looked around. It wasn’t bad. Not too big. Not too small. The high ceilings helped, even though the ceiling fan did little more than stir the heat. The carved woodwork and cornices were original if painted over and chipped. The walls needed a fresh coat of paint, and he made out what looked like a water stain in one corner, but overall the structure looked solid. He ran his finger along the top of the dresser. It was also clean. A double wrought-iron bed, two matching nightstands and lamps, and the bench were the totality of the furnishings, although the room was large enough to accommodate a desk and a couple of chairs. He moved toward the bathroom and switched on the light. The black-and-white mosaic tile that might date back at least a century needed re-caulking, and the claw-foot tub could use some attention. The cloudy mirror needed to be replaced and the sink held iron stains. He switched the light back off. The entire hotel would need a complete renovation before it could even be considered as part of the Royal Emperor Suites empire.
Then again, that wasn’t part of his job, ques
tioning his clients’ motives. It was how to get them what they wanted. And this particular client wanted Hotel Josephine.
The black, rotary phone on the nightstand rang. Drew stared at it, then crossed to pick up the receiver, idly wondering when the last time was that he’d seen such an old phone.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Morrison.” He recognized Josie’s sexily husky voice. “I just wanted to let you know that our hotel offers a full menu and room service should you be interested.”
Drew sat down on the bed, listening as the bedsprings squeaked. “That’s nice to know. I might just take you up on that.”
“Room service, then?”
He shrugged out of his jacket, hung it on one of the iron posts of the footboard, then began rolling up his sleeves. “Do you offer service downstairs?”
“Yes. In the courtyard.”
“Then that’s where I’ll take my meal.” After all, there was no time like the present to begin convincing the lovely Miss Villefranche that her life would be much easier without the hotel…and along the way perhaps entice her into sharing his bed while he was there.
“I
NEED YOU TO RUN
to André’s and get an order of
crevettes
and
filet de truite amandine,
” Josie said to Philippe as she swept through the swinging door into the kitchen.
The cook-slash-waiter-slash-busboy-slash-assistant manager sighed and began to undo the ties of his apron. “Couldn’t talk him into only the gumbo and a salad?”
She took a twenty out of the amount Morrison had given her for the week’s stay and handed it to her only staff member on duty at the moment. At any other time it took five to ten people to run the establishment. “Unfortunately, no.”
She’d hired Philippe three months ago when Samuel, the hotel’s assistant manager for the past fifty years, had died suddenly from a heart attack. Philippe had been a godsend at a time when Josie had been ill equipped to handle the loss of two very important people in her life so close together.
“Who’s going to eat all this gumbo?”
Josie didn’t provide an answer because Philippe didn’t need one. The two of them would be eating the large pot of the New Orleans staple, with Philippe taking some of it home with him to his mother, although he was thirty and should have long since moved out on his own.
“Fine.” He began moving toward the door that
would take him through the back where their only guest wouldn’t see him. “He is a looker, that one, isn’t he?”
Josie frowned at him. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Hadn’t noticed, my narrow behind. He could charm the paint off the walls, that one could.” He crossed his arms in an exaggerated way.
“I don’t think he’s your type.”
“Of course, he’s my type. He’s male, isn’t he?”
Josie smiled. “Yes, but I don’t think he’s gay.”
Philippe sighed. “Pity. Why does it seem like all the good ones want women?”
Josie shook her head as the door slapped closed behind his retreating back. She readied a sparkling glass along with a pitcher of water, put a basket of day-old bread into the microwave to warm it and therefore make it seem fresher, then went back out into the courtyard to serve Mr. Morrison.
“Ah, thank you,” he said as she filled his glass. “Tell me, is it always this hot down here?”
It was a question Josie was asked often by tourists. While most seemed irritated with the thick heat, Morrison seemed merely to be asking a question. “It will cool down some soon,” she said, glad he hadn’t commented on the emptiness of the eating area.
“It doesn’t even get this hot in the summer where I’m from,” he said.
Josie removed the other three sets of silverware and wineglasses from the table. “Where’s that?”
“Kansas City.”
She didn’t say anything as she moved to a cabinet near the kitchen door and put down the extra place settings. She’d never been outside the city. Had never had any cause to go anywhere else. While she’d heard somewhere down the line that her mother had ended up in Chicago, the northern city on Lake Michigan couldn’t have seemed farther away from Josie had it been across the ocean.
“Excuse me,” Morrison said, looking to catch her attention.
Josie turned toward him.
“What’s that music?”
She’d switched on the tape system after she’d called his room, and he’d said he’d be coming down for his meal. “Zydeco.”
He repeated the word. “Thanks.”
Josie went back into the kitchen and leaned against the prep table. Long minutes later she was still standing in the same spot, breathing deeply, her hand resting against her collarbone. As much as she tried to ignore it, she was attracted to Drew Morrison with an intensity that surprised her. His
hair was the rich color of an antique copper pot, the short cut failing to disguise that the strands were thick and wavy. The kind of hair a woman could thrust her fingers into and hold on to as she braced herself for a violent orgasm. He’d come downstairs without his jacket, his crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up, and she saw that his forearms were muscular, his wrists solid. She’d caught herself staring at his hands as he’d picked up his water glass, noticing that his fingers were long and nicely tapered. The type of hands that would feel good against her bare skin.
It had been a long time since she’d been this aware of her sexuality and the fundamental need for human touch. Since before her grandmother had died, to be certain. She’d been so busy trying to keep up the hotel, she hadn’t had time to look closely at the guests, talk to them. The brief contact she’d had so far with her current guest had made her register the deep blue of his eyes, the way they creased at the corners when he listened to her, and the fullness of his mouth—a mouth that would undoubtedly know what to do with a woman who needed to be kissed.
Is that what it was? she wondered. Had it been so long since she’d indulged herself sexually that her body was responding to the first good-looking man who crossed her path?
No. It was more than that. The instant the stranger had crossed the threshold of Hotel Josephine, an undeniable awareness had traveled over her skin like a lover’s touch. It wasn’t just that she was in the market for any man. She was drawn to Drew Morrison.
Something sounded outside the screen door. A rattle of a garbage can, maybe. A rat? A cat? There’d been a black cat around the Josephine for as long as she could remember, but this last one had stuck around the longest. She and her
granme
had named her Jezebel. Probably it was the old cat looking for her evening meal.
“Jez?”
She moved toward the back of the kitchen and stared out into the narrow alleyway. There was the sound again. Josie pressed her hand against the wood of the screen door, the hinges giving a low squeak as she peeked out toward where the hotel cans were lined up against the back wall.
Jezebel would have shown herself by now if it had been her.
“Shoo!” she said loudly, kicking the bottom of the can closest to her.
Nothing. No scurrying of a rodent or a hungry feline.
She stepped completely outside, the door slap
ping shut behind her. Picking up a stick, she poked at the next garbage can, then made her way down to the one after that. She’d reached the fourth one when a shadow leaped out behind the last can, running in the opposite direction.
Josie put a hand to her chest, as if to contain her rapidly beating heart. Jesus.
Philippe appeared from the direction the man had run.
“Damn homeless,” he muttered. He handed her the bag of food from André’s, then looked at her closer. “Are you all right?”
Josie swallowed hard, then managed a nod. “Um, yes. He just startled me is all. I thought he was a cat.”
“An awfully big cat. More like a
rat.
” He righted the empty can the man had overturned in his hurry to make haste. “You’d think he’d have figured out that we don’t have anything to pick from here.”
Josie led the way back inside the kitchen, vaguely wondering if she’d ever again have anything left to pick from.
Philippe washed his hands at the sink while she rearranged the food on a hotel plate.
“Do you want me to take it out to him?” he asked with a suggestive grin.
Josie shook her head. “No. I’ll take care of him.”
As she placed a sprig of parsley next to the trout, she ignored the many ways she’d been fantasizing taking care of Drew Morrison.
L
ATELY, NIGHT WAS
the worst time for Josie. It was when she most profoundly recognized the reality that there was nothing she could do to help what was going on with the hotel. When long, quiet hours stretched out before her devoid of hope.
It was when the ghosts came out to play.
The muted night amplified the panting sound of the ceiling fan turning lazily above her. She looked up from the papers spread before her on the front desk to gaze out onto Bourbon Street. The stream of tourists’ faces was occasionally interrupted by familiar faces from the neighborhood, some laughing, others drawn in thoughtful conversation. Some faces that were a lot more familiar up until recently, because they’d frequented the Josephine with their paying guests towed behind them.
She heard the creak of the stairs.
To conserve energy, she’d turned the dimmer on
the lights down to low, the small banker’s lamp on the desk illuminating the papers before her.
There was only one guest, so she didn’t have to look up to know that Drew Morrison was coming downstairs, probably to add his face to the others flowing past her door.
Josie concentrated harder on her work.
“Evening,” Drew said quietly, his voice closer than she was prepared for as she made a note in the margin of one of the ledgers.
She looked up. “Evening.”
In the low light he looked like any one of a hundred attractive men capable of attracting any one of a hundred attractive women. Women who filled the bars and restaurants and Bourbon Street itself.
Why, then, was she wishing she were one of those potential females?
She absently rubbed the back of her damp neck, suddenly all too aware of how alone she was at the hotel. A fact that normally didn’t bother her. After all, she had been alone in the Josephine since
Granme
had passed away.
She swallowed hard and forced her gaze away from Drew and back to the ledger. Tomorrow she’d ask Philippe if he’d mind staying over for a night or two until she shook the uneasiness she’d been feeling lately.
Footsteps. She glanced up to find Drew walking toward the open doors. Probably to go on the hunt for one of those hundred attractive women. Instead, she watched him stop in the doorway and lean against the jamb, his legs crossed at the ankles as he slid his right hand into his pants pocket. His back was to her, so she felt safe in watching him without his being any the wiser. He seemed to be considering the foot traffic on the street much as she had earlier. A part of, yet separate from, the crowd.
“It’s quiet.” He cleared his throat and added, “At least it’s quieter than I would have expected.”
Josie lifted her brows. “Yes.” She fiddled with the curls pressing against her forehead then slowly closed the book in front of her, placing it under the desk. “Would you like some recommendations on where to go?”
He grinned at her over his shoulder. “No. I think I can find my way around.”
She had little doubt that he could. A man of his caliber could probably find his way around anywhere. And have a warm and willing companion in his bed for as long as he chose.
“That is if I was interested in going out.”
Josie would have been surprised to find herself walking toward the door had she taken half a
moment to think about it. But the truth was, she was tired of thinking for the night. Tired of thinking about the hotel and her problems. Her mind clamored for a few minutes of peace. Of quiet conversation.
Drew moved slightly as she leaned against the opposite doorjamb and crossed her arms in front of herself. A couple strolled by, arm in arm. Newlyweds, maybe. Or perhaps in the beginning stages of love when there existed no flaws, only the need for the other’s company.
The reflection made her overly aware of the man next to her. Of how tall he was. Of the subtle scent of starch and fresh cologne.
“First time in New Orleans?” she asked quietly.
She felt his gaze on her. “Yes.”
She nodded, going silent again as a group of young men who stumbled by apparently weren’t holding their first beer. They hooted at a group of women half a block up, too young to realize the loud attention would get them nowhere. Too old to be indulging in such juvenile behavior.
“You?”
Josie looked at Drew. She wasn’t prepared for the intensity in his eyes.
“Are you from here or a transplant?”
She felt the man next to her so completely she
nearly couldn’t draw a breath. “Fifth generation New Orleanian.”
“Where was your family from before then?”
Josie had never been asked that question before. She supposed because her answer was usually all that the other person needed.
“Carrefour, Haiti.”
“Ever been?”
She shook her head, keeping to herself that she’d never really traveled outside the city and its surrounding bayous.
She considered him for a long moment, trying to ignore the slow thud of her heart at being this close to him. “Anyone ever tell you that you ask a lot of questions?”
His grin was slow and wide. “All the time.”
“Part of your job?”
There was an almost indistinguishable stiffening of his limbs although he hadn’t moved. “You could say that.”
It seemed that the man liked to ask questions, but he didn’t like answering them.
Josie cleared her throat and turned her attention back to the street. Most men she crossed paths with were the same. It was almost as if they wanted to adopt a different persona while in the decadent city. Live out some kind of anonymous
fantasy. Many of them forgot that she and the natives were just like everyone else. That they hadn’t been placed there strictly for their amusement or as players in whatever fantasy they’d concocted on the plane ride down.
If it was disappointment she was feeling that Drew was just like every other man who visited the city, she told herself she was being stupid.
J
OSIE
V
ILLEFRANCHE WAS A RARE
and unusual beauty.
And the faint line that marred her lovely brow told Drew he’d just said something to upset her.
The mellow almost longing sound of a saxophone drifted out of the open door of the club across the street, lending a certain moment-outside-of-time element to the atmosphere.
When he’d decided to come downstairs to try again to connect with the exotic hotel owner—both to further his business intentions and to combine a bit of business with pleasure—he would never have expected her to stand next to him, inviting conversation. During dinner earlier, she’d disappeared into the kitchen, sending out a dark-haired young man, who’d smiled at him too widely, to handle him for the rest of his meal.
Now…
Well, for a moment he’d been lulled into a false sense of normalcy. Into thinking for a dangerous moment that he was there for no other reason than to enjoy her company, instead of her company being a bonus on top of something more important.
He slid his hand from his pocket and gestured to the hotel. “You work here long?”
A faint smile that seemed inspired more by irony than by humor. “You could say that.” She looked at him.
It didn’t take a NASA scientist to know that she had just turned his words back on him.
Intriguing.
“Do you like it?”
That seemed to catch her off guard. As if perhaps she’d never really stopped to think about the enjoyment factor of her responsibilities. He, of course, knew she outright owned the place. He also knew she had a female cousin who was breathing down her neck trying to extort money from her. And that she had a tax bill that was accumulating more penalties and interest on a daily basis. Not to mention that she hadn’t had a full paying guest before him since the murder that had taken place in the hotel a couple weeks ago.
Now what was there not to like about that?
She gave a small shrug that drew his gaze to the
golden, damp skin of her bare shoulders. “That’s like asking me if I like my right arm. Or my toes.” She turned her whiskey eyes on him. “It’s so much a part of me that I don’t much think about it beyond it’s always been there.”
Drew had to look away. Her words hit a chord with him he was loath to dwell on.
“So the place is yours, then.” It was a statement more than a question.
She lightly bit on her plump bottom lip and nodded. “My
granme,
my grandmother, left it to me when she passed away last year. It’s been in my family for generations.”
Drew knew that. He also knew that her grandmother had been a shrewd old woman who’d also refused to sell. He wondered if shrewdness ran in the veins of the Villefranche women. And he referred to
women
because as far as he could uncover during his extensive investigation, there were no Villefranche men.
Drew pretended to look around. “Is it always this quiet?”
“No. It’s been a bit less busy than usual lately.”
A couple walked by in front of them.
“Hey, Frederique,” Josie greeted.
The overly made-up woman with a stretchy, low-necked top and short skirt smiled at her. “Hey,
yourself, Josie girl.” She looked between them to the hotel lobby beyond. “How’s business after, well—” her gaze flicked to Drew’s face “—you know?”
Josie smiled. “Fine. It’s fine. Back to normal for all intents and purposes.”
“They catch…the person?”
Josie said they hadn’t.
The Quarter Killer. That’s what the murderer of the woman two weeks ago had been called by the local paper, the
Times-Picayune
. Drew hadn’t thought much of it. He’d reviewed the info he could get his hands on and suspected that the police had arrested the right man to begin with, and that Claude Lafitte had been released only because his older brother had married the daughter of a rich New Orleans businessman.
The woman stopped, nearly causing her overweight male companion to run into her back. “I think we’ll stop here,” she said.
The man pushed up his glasses, a nearby streetlight glinting off his balding head. “I thought we were going to your place?”
The prostitute Josie had called Frederique smiled and smoothed back the tufts of hair over each of his protruding ears, giving him a loud kiss. “I can’t wait that long, baby. I want you now.”
She kissed him again, then edged him between Josie and Drew into the lobby.
“My regular room,” she whispered. “Oh, and he’s got money, so don’t worry about overcharging, if you get my drift.”
Josie’s gaze met Drew’s and he wondered if she would raise the room rate for the drunken john.
“A regular?”
“You could say that.”
Then he watched as Josie left him to go check in her latest guests, and just like that Drew lost his tentative connection with her.
“Mr. Morrison?”
He jerked to look at Josie, who had stopped halfway to the desk. He was so taken off guard that he didn’t think to tell her to call him Drew.
“Would you like a nice, ice-cold glass of tea?”
Drew smiled. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that.”