Authors: Ingrid Weaver
“That’s what I heard. We were lucky.”
“You appeared well prepared.”
“Yeah, those fire drills paid off.” He did a quick survey of the area. “Where’s Carter?”
“Who?”
“Luc Carter, our concierge. You bandaged his arm.”
Jackson glanced around but couldn’t see the blond man anywhere. “Carter helped me with the man who was burned. He must have gone with the ambulance.”
“I’ll catch up with him later. Are you a guest here, Dr. Bailey?”
“Yes, I checked in tonight.”
“This wasn’t much of a welcome.” His gaze went past Jackson’s shoulder. “We’ll see what the hotel can do to show our appreciation,” he added, lifting his arm as if to get someone’s attention.
Jackson shrugged on his jacket. “That’s not necessary. I only did what anyone…” His words trailed off. Over the drone of activity from the remaining firemen and the chatter of the guests who were trickling back inside, Jackson thought he could hear the tap of high heels on the courtyard’s paving stones.
And for the second time that night his pulse tripped and the hair at his nape tingled. But it wasn’t from dread, it was from anticipation.
How was it possible that after all these years he still recognized the sound of her walk? Her steps were the light, rapid stride of a petite woman. Although she moved quickly, he knew she wouldn’t appear to hurry. Charlotte Marchand had too much grace for that.
“What’s your take on the damage, Mac?”
The words were laced with anxiety, businesslike and to
the point. Yet Charlotte’s voice was as distinctive as her walk—and it hadn’t changed either. Echoes stirred in his mind: her laughter as they snatched a beignet from the hotel’s kitchen, her voice on the phone late at night, husky with sleep. She’d always been too stubborn to be the first one to say goodbye.
He turned to face her…and felt as if he’d been punched.
The walk and the voice might be the same, but this wasn’t the girl he remembered. Where were her curls? The round cheeks and earnest grin? Her poise was as unruffled as her silk suit and her makeup. She could have been serving tea in her grandmother’s parlor instead of standing amid the aftermath of a fire.
“It was confined to the housekeeping storeroom,” Mac said. “Some supplies were lost, but it wasn’t as bad as it looked at first. The cleanup won’t take long.”
“Thank God. Where’s Emilio? I was told he was burned.”
Jackson spoke before Mac could reply. “He’s on his way to Mercy Hospital. The burns were serious but not life-threatening. He should make a full recovery.”
She looked at him, her expression settling into the polite smile one would give a stranger.
Jackson stared, still trying to absorb what he was seeing. While Charlotte had been pretty, this woman had a sleek, bone-deep beauty that stole his breath. Her green gaze was as steady as it always had been, yet her almond-shaped eyes seemed more exotic than before. The delicate features that had once haunted his teenage fantasies had firmed with the ripe confidence of maturity.
This wasn’t the same girl who had broken his heart.
On the other hand, he sure as hell wasn’t the same boy. He
tilted his head, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. “Hello, Charlie.”
The nickname made her start. Recognition flashed through her eyes.
“Jackson?”
“Dr. Bailey got to the fire the same time I did,” Mac said. “He jumped right in and started giving first aid. I was going to introduce you, but I see you already know each other.”
She answered without taking her gaze from Jackson. “That’s right, Mac. Dr. Bailey and I are old friends.”
Friends? It was a civilized description, though not entirely accurate. It went along with this new polished and poised version of Charlotte. “I heard you’re running the hotel now,” Jackson said. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I realize it doesn’t look its best at the moment but—”
“The place looks great. Just as I remember.”
“It’s been through a lot the past year and a half.”
“So have you.” He lifted his good hand to brush a lock of hair from her cheek. “How are you doing?”
The gesture had been automatic, unthinking, another one of those echoes from the past, but it had the same effect as his use of her old nickname. She jerked back before he could touch her, then covered her movement with a light cough. “We’re all fine, thanks. How are your parents? I understand they’re in Iowa now.”
He dropped his hand to his side. “They’re doing fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And thank you for stepping in to help us tonight.”
“I did what I could.”
“This must have been tame compared to what you’re ac
customed to doing. Are you still working with aid organizations overseas?”
They hadn’t seen each other in twenty years, Jackson thought, and they were talking about their jobs.
Well, what had he expected? A tearful reunion? That wasn’t why he’d come home. “Yes, I am, whenever I can fit the trips into my hospital schedule. My last stint was in Afghanistan.”
“What brings you back to New Orleans now…?” She drew in her breath. “Oh, I should have realized. You must be here to see your uncle William.”
Before he could decide how to reply, a phone started to ring. There was no opportunity for any further conversation. Charlotte murmured an apology to him and took a small silver cell phone from her pocket. By the time she finished the call, a uniformed policewoman had approached and begun to ask questions. They were joined by the fire chief and a large man in a business suit who said he was a detective.
Charlotte handled them all with smooth professionalism and her tea-in-the-parlor graciousness. Jackson was impressed, but he knew he shouldn’t be surprised. Running the Hotel Marchand was what she’d been born and raised for. It was what she’d always wanted.
Yet there’d once been a time when she’d wanted more.
Another memory raced through his mind, a vivid rush of innocence and first love. Instead of the competent stranger in ivory silk and pearls, he saw the girl who used to lean her head on his shoulder and whisper her dreams.
And regardless of the crowd that separated them, in spite of all the years that had passed, he wanted to reach out and
pull her into his arms. She used to fit into his embrace so naturally they’d both believed she would be there forever….
Frowning, Jackson slipped his hands into his pockets. What was wrong with him tonight? The strain of the past few weeks must be catching up. Starting anything with Charlotte now was the last thing he needed. Besides, forever was for fairy tales, just like happy endings, and he’d stopped believing in those a long time ago.
T
HE SOLITARY FIGURE
threaded his way between the cartons that were stacked on the warehouse floor, his blond hair gleaming as he passed through a pool of light. Above him, behind the bulletproof glass that enclosed the Cajun Syrup Company’s office, Mike Blount observed the man’s approach in silence until his footsteps rang on the steel staircase. Mike snapped his fingers and pointed to the office door. “Show him in, Richard.”
Richard Corbin took a long drag on what was left of his cigarette. He knocked off the ashes with a nervous flick and glanced toward the corner where his brother stood.
The way Dan Corbin posed with his ankles crossed and one elbow propped on the top of a filing cabinet seemed casual, but the muscle that jumped in his cheek betrayed his tension. He tucked his tie into his jacket and moved his head in an almost imperceptible nod.
Mike narrowed his eyes at the silent byplay. Didn’t they yet realize who was in charge? Without the timely infusion of cash Mike had provided, by now the Corbins’ crooked hotel business would have collapsed and the law would have caught up to them. They owed him big-time, and he wasn’t
planning to cut them loose until they delivered what they’d promised. He waited as Richard went to do what he was told, then clasped his hands over his stomach and leaned back in his chair to assess the new arrival.
As the concierge of the Hotel Marchand, Luc Carter should have been in an ideal position to sabotage the hotel undetected. Mike needed to decide whether Carter was as unreliable as the Corbin brothers claimed or merely a convenient scapegoat for their own incompetence.
“Why are we meeting here, Richard?” Carter demanded as he stepped into the office. “Since when were you in the pancake syrup business?”
“This building belongs to me, Mr. Carter,” Mike said. “And my interests extend far beyond the syrup business.”
Carter spun toward his voice, frowning into the shadows beyond the desk lamp where Mike sat. “Who are you?”
He must have come straight from the fire, Mike thought. The scent of smoke rolled from his clothes and his shirt was soiled with soot and dried blood. The only clean thing on him was the gauze bandage that wrapped his forearm.
Keeping his gaze on Carter, Mike lifted one hand to gesture toward Dan. “I’ll let him explain.”
Dan pushed away from the filing cabinet and cleared his throat. “This is Mike Blount. He has an interest in the hotel.”
“What does that mean?”
“A future interest,” Dan said. “Once we acquire the hotel from the Marchand family, we’re going to transfer the ownership to Mike.”
Carter looked from Dan to Richard. “I don’t understand. We had a deal.”
Richard took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shook out a fresh one and lit it from the end of the butt he held. “Yeah, but we made a deal with Mike,” he said. “And since you have a deal with us, that makes you part of it.”
“That’s not what I agreed. What—”
“You claimed you could run down the business to the point where the Marchands would have to sell it,” Dan said. “Who ends up with the hotel isn’t the issue. Your lack of success is.”
“I told you I’d handle the fire myself,” Carter said. “It was supposed to be minor.”
“What happened to your arm, Luc?” Mike asked.
Carter shifted to face him. He was a handsome man—no doubt the ladies found his blue eyes and Ken-doll looks charming. “Some cleaning fluid exploded,” he said, pulling his wrist against his chest. “And I’m not the only one who was injured. Setting the fire in that storeroom was a mistake.”
“It’s like I said,” Richard muttered. “He’s got no guts.”
“It has nothing to do with guts,” Carter said. “It’s about brains. No one was supposed to get hurt. That’s going to attract too much attention from the authorities.”
“Let me worry about the authorities,” Mike said.
“You should have waited for me,” Carter persisted. “The point of that fire was to hurt the business, not burn the place to the ground.”
“We didn’t set it,” Richard said. “That was Mike’s people.”
Carter took a step toward the desk. “You? Why?”
“I’m accustomed to getting results,” Mike said. “From what my associates here have told me, so far all you’ve done is create a few nuisances.”
“The strategy was effective. Business is down.”
“And yet the Marchand women still refuse to sell. It’s time to step things up.”
“I’ve gotten to know the Marchands over the past few months. The more you push, the more stubborn they’ll get.”
“Here’s the thing, Luc.” Mike’s chair creaked as he leaned forward and brought his face into the light. “What your friends here might not have made clear enough is that we’re working on a deadline. I expect to acquire the Hotel Marchand by the end of Mardi Gras.”
“That’s only a week away.” He glanced at the Corbins. “I told them—we need more time.”
Mike drummed his fingers against his desk. “The Corbins believe you’re stalling.”
A sheen of sweat appeared on Carter’s forehead. “Why would I do that?”
“Perhaps Richard is right and you have no stomach for a more direct approach.”
“I’m telling you it won’t work. You need to have patience.”
“When it comes to the Hotel Marchand, I’ve been a very patient man,” Mike said. Without taking his gaze from Carter, he pulled open the top drawer of his desk and took out one of his knives. He’d come a long way from skinning muskrats in the Atchafalaya, but he still had a fondness for the tools his papa had taught him to use in the swamp. He stroked the flat of the blade with his thumb. “The Corbins made me a promise, Luc. And it would be in your best interests to make sure they’re able to keep it.”
C
HARLOTTE PUSHED OPEN
the door to the Hotel Marchand’s kitchen, pausing to savor the aromas of cooling pastry and roasting coffee beans. Butter sizzled, a timer chimed and pots clanged in a familiar din that took her back to her childhood. While the kitchen had been expanded and upgraded over the years, the smells and sounds that filled it hadn’t changed. She’d grown up with them, and they never failed to steady her. “You’re a darling, Keisha,” she said into her phone. “I appreciate your help.”
“The first batch of sheets will be coming out of the tumblers in five minutes, Miss Charlotte. I’ll have the van there in an hour.”
“I knew I could count on you.”
“Hold on. This is going to cost you extra.”
Charlotte tried not to wince. Despite the red ink on the printouts in her office, she’d extended her offer of a free meal to all the guests who had been inconvenienced by the previous night’s fire. From what she could see, the entire kitchen staff was hard at work already, frantically preparing complimentary breakfasts. But the free food wouldn’t keep her customers happy for long if there were no clean sheets or towels. “Whatever you want, Keisha. Name your price.”
A low laugh came through the phone. “Now, Miss Charlotte, don’t sound so worried. You and Miss Anne helped me keep my business going through hell and high water, and I got no plan to bankrupt you now. All I want is some of that chocolate turkey your sister makes. The kind with the feta cheese and cayenne.”
“Done. I’ll send someone over with it tonight.”
“With extra feta?”
“It will be swimming in it, I promise.” She terminated the call, then leaned one shoulder against a storage cabinet and rubbed her eyes. If only she could solve the rest of the details on her to-do list with more food.
The night had been endless. From the time the fire had been extinguished it seemed as if she’d been doing nothing but putting out countless others. She’d managed to squeeze in a hasty trip home an hour ago for a bath and a change of clothes, but the problems had started again the moment she’d returned to the hotel.
A light touch on her arm made her jump. Charlotte opened her eyes and quickly straightened up.
Melanie, her youngest sister, was studying her with concern. “Have you slept at all?” she asked.
“Of course.” The lie was automatic—she wasn’t accustomed to having the baby of the family worrying about her big sister instead of the other way around. “Thanks so much for coming into work early.”
“I don’t know how you do it, Charlotte.” Melanie shook her head, her ponytail swinging. “You look better after an all-nighter than I do after a full eight hours.”
“You’re too kind,” Charlotte said, and she meant it. With
her dramatic coloring and tall, slender figure, Melanie didn’t need makeup or designer clothes to make an impact. She couldn’t have looked bad if she’d tried. “But after that lovely compliment, it’s going to be difficult to ask you another favor.”
“Name it.”
“I promised Keisha some of your chocolate turkey in exchange for her putting a rush on the laundry.”
“That won’t be a problem. Robert and I have things here under control.”
There was a sharp clang of something hitting the floor, accompanied by a spurt of French curses as one of Robert LeSoeur’s assistants raced to get a mop. Charlotte leaned to the side in order to see what had happened, but Melanie moved to block her view. “Don’t worry, we really do have everything under control.”
“The cleaning crew hadn’t finished in the restaurant when I arrived. The smoke seems to have tainted everything.”
“That’s already taken care of. We won’t be using Chez Remy. We’re setting up a buffet outside.”
“It might be too cool.”
“It’s a gorgeous morning. The temperature’s already warming up.” She took Charlotte’s arm and gently steered her out of the kitchen. “Come and see.”
Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief as soon as she and Melanie reached the courtyard. Here, in the shelter of the buildings, the air was mild, and there was no hint of smoke to mar it. The furniture that had been toppled or pushed aside had been righted. Birds trilled and darted through the treetops, where sunshine was turning the leaves to gold. A few guests were already strolling beside the pool, just like any other
morning. At least out here, all traces of the previous night’s near disaster had vanished. “This looks wonderful, Melanie.”
They moved aside as a bellboy carried more chairs from the restaurant and arranged them near the patio tables. “Everyone’s been pitching in,” Melanie said. “We’re expecting a crowd.”
“Oh, no. I should have warned you. I’m afraid a number of guests decided to leave early.”
“I heard, but that’s not the crowd I meant.” Melanie smiled. “Renee’s been busy, too. She contacted all the emergency personnel who were here last night and invited them to bring their families for breakfast.”
Charlotte nodded in approval. Renee was the second oldest of the Marchand sisters, a successful Hollywood producer, but for the past few months she had thrown her experience and her talent for networking into handling the hotel’s public relations. “That’s a brilliant idea. They don’t get enough thanks.”
“That’s exactly the angle Renee’s using with her press release.”
“She contacted the press? I would have thought we would want to minimize news of our difficulties.”
“Her theory is that the story about the fire will make the papers anyway. The hotel might as well put a positive spin on it and use the free publicity.”
“I see her point. This could work to our advantage.”
“You didn’t expect to handle this latest problem on your own, did you?”
If necessary, she would have—it was hard to break old habits—but Charlotte knew she still needed her sisters’ help. Last fall, after their mother’s unexpected heart attack had left Charlotte with more than she could handle, she’d swallowed her
pride and asked all three of her sisters to combine their efforts with hers to run the hotel. Every day since then she was grateful that they’d agreed. The Hotel Marchand couldn’t have stayed in business this long without them.
Yet she understood full well that the hotel didn’t mean as much to them as it did to her. True, they had a sentimental attachment to it since they had all been raised within these walls. Yet if they lost it, they would have plenty left to fill their lives.
In the past month and a half, Melanie, Renee and the free-spirited Sylvie had each fallen in love and were planning their weddings. Even their mother had announced she was going to remarry. It was astounding that despite the ongoing problems at the hotel, four of the Marchand women had managed to find the time for romance.
When was it going to be
her
turn?
Charlotte suppressed the thought and glanced around the courtyard, concentrating on doing a mental inventory of the available seating. She was happy for her mother and her sisters, she truly was. She’d learned the hard way she simply wasn’t suited for marriage, so she wasn’t going to dwell on her lack of romance. That would be almost as absurd as wishing for magic.
She’d tried that yesterday and all she’d gotten in reply had been a fire alarm.
“Who’s that man talking to Mac near the pool?” Melanie asked, touching Charlotte’s shoulder. “He’s been watching you since we came outside.”
“It’s probably Detective Fergusson. I said I’d meet him when I got in this morning.” Charlotte glanced toward the pool. “To be honest, I would have preferred to deal with Detective Rothberg, since I know he can be discreet. I don’t
want the customers disturbed any more than they already have been.”
“Rothberg?”
“He was the one who investigated the death of that guest last month. Rothberg struck me as a very competent, professional man. I can only hope that Detective Fergusson will prove to be, as well….”
Her words trailed off as she caught sight of the man standing beside Mac. A tickle of warmth spread between her shoulder blades and down her spine. That wasn’t the plump, mustachioed New Orleans cop who was investigating the fire, it was Jackson Bailey.
He was in almost the same spot where she’d first seen him yesterday, but this time there were no shadows or soot to mask his face. She’d known she would likely bump into him again—Mac had told her Jackson was a guest here, and as she’d learned when she’d checked the hotel register, he’d reserved his room for a week. Still, she had a cowardly urge to pretend that she hadn’t noticed him. She already had enough to deal with; she didn’t want to add more emotions to the mix.
But there was no way any woman could fail to notice a man like Jackson. It wasn’t only his height or the broad shoulders that stretched out his black sweater. Nor was it the luxurious sable-brown hair that brushed the edges of his collar and fell haphazardly across his forehead in a way that begged for a woman’s touch. It wasn’t the easy grace of the way he stood in those cowboy boots either, with his weight shifted to one side and his hands hooked carelessly in his pockets. He had a presence about him, an energy that was as undeniable as the sunshine on the trees.
In high school he’d been called a beanpole, but no one would think of calling him that now. The denim jacket and faded jeans he’d worn yesterday had been replaced by pleated pants and a fine-knit turtleneck. It was obvious by the way his clothes fit that his body had filled out in all the right places. The gangliness of youth had become the classic contours of a man in his prime.
His physique wasn’t the only thing that had changed with the years. The features that used to be too sharp for his face had been honed into ruggedness. Experiences she couldn’t begin to guess at were etched into each line and angle. The overall effect would have been compelling even if he’d been a complete stranger.
It was no surprise she hadn’t recognized him immediately last night, given the poor lighting and her state of mind. In this tall, self-assured man there was little trace left of the boy she’d once adored.
Except for his smile. That crooked tilt of his lips was still the same, even though the lines that bracketed his mouth were deeper.
And his eyes hadn’t changed either. They were the same dusky blue, like the color of an August evening. He used to have a way of looking at her as if he’d noticed more than others did, seeing straight past the perfect girl she tried to be and loving her for the imperfect girl she was.
He broke off his conversation with Mac and started forward, his gaze locked on hers.
Melanie nudged her. “Is he your cop? He doesn’t look like one.”
“He’s not my anything,” Charlotte murmured. “That’s Jackson Bailey.”
“Jackson…” Melanie gasped and leaned her head closer to Charlotte’s. “
Your
Jackson?”
“I told you, he’s not
my
anything.”
“Oh, my God! That can’t be Jackson the beanpole. He’s gorgeous!”
“You’re engaged.”
“That’s got nothing to do with my eyesight. Why didn’t you tell me he was back?”
“You were only nine when he left. I didn’t think you’d remember him.”
“Are you kidding? I had a huge crush on him.”
“You what?”
“We all did. I was devastated when you dumped him for Adrian.”
There was no time for Charlotte to think about that, let alone correct her. In a few long strides Jackson closed the remaining distance between them. The lines beside his mouth deepened in the hint of a smile. “Hello, Charlotte.”
At least he hadn’t called her Charlie again. That had taken her off guard yesterday. She hadn’t been Charlie for twenty years. “Good morning, Jackson.”
“Jackson Bailey!” Melanie said. “It really is you. What a nice surprise.”
He shifted his gaze from Charlotte to her sister. “Hello.”
Melanie stretched up to kiss his cheek. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m Melanie.”
He tilted his head to study her for a moment, a mannerism that stirred images from the past. He’d done that when he’d been younger, too. “The pest?” he asked.
Melanie grinned. “So you do remember.”
“You were hard to forget.” The smile that had been playing around the corners of his lips grew. “You look all grown up.”
“Melanie’s our sous-chef now,” Charlotte said. “And she’s engaged to our executive chef. They’re both doing a fabulous job.”
“I’m not surprised. I remember you were always hanging around your papa’s kitchen.” He winked at Melanie. “When you weren’t trying to hang around us, that is. You had an uncanny knack for timing.”
“Well, someone had to keep you and Charlotte from necking under the staircase.”
Charlotte felt a blush seep into her cheeks. She strove to retain her composure, reminding herself that she was a forty-year-old woman, not a teenager in the throes of puppy love. “Don’t you have a turkey to cook, Melanie?”
“Actually I do.” She backed away. “It was good seeing you again, Jackson.”
“You, too, pest.”
“Even though it looks as if Charlotte’s still trying to get rid of me?” She laughed and turned to leave. “Some things never change.”
Charlotte waited until her sister had moved away, then smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her suit and put on one of her most polite smiles. “I’m glad we ran into you this morning, Jackson.”
He looked at her, lifting one eyebrow in silent skepticism as if he’d known she’d been considering ignoring him.
He couldn’t still see through her, could he? It was a disconcerting thought. She laid two fingers lightly on his sleeve, determined to get the conversation under control. “We didn’t
have a chance to talk last night, but I wanted to tell you how sorry I was about what happened to your uncle.”
His smile disappeared. Jackson’s uncle, William Armstrong, had been shot while rescuing Anne Marchand during an attempted carjacking, and his heroism had almost cost him his life. “Thank you.”
“Have you seen him yet?”
He nodded. “I went to the hospital straight from the airport.”
“I understand he’s making amazing progress.”
“For a sixty-five-year-old man who had a bullet dug out of his lung three days ago, he’s doing better than anyone could expect.”