Unmasked

by Ingrid Weaver

  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 pr
ogress.”

  “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.”

  Charlotte suppressed a shudder. “We’re all more grateful to him than words can say. Your uncle likely saved our mother’s life. What he did was very brave.”

  “Anne said the police haven’t made any progress in the case.”

  “No, she never got a good look at the carjacker. It all happened too fast.”

  “She seemed well when I saw her. But from what the nurses told me, she’s barely left William’s side.”

  “She feels responsible for what happened. He was coming to her aid when he was shot.”

  “There’s more to her vigil than gratitude. They told me they’re engaged.”

  “Yes.”

  He dipped his head, his gaze searching hers. “How do you feel about that?”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” she said immediately. And she did, she reminded herself. Although she loved her father, he’d been dead for more than four years. William was a good man. While Charlotte had been suspicious of his relationship with Anne at first, he’d proven his feelings for her mother were sincere. Above all, Anne was a warm, loving woman and she deserved a second chance at happiness.

  “What about you?” she asked. “It doesn’t bother you that William’s remarrying, does it?”

  “Why should it? He and Anne seem happy together and they have a lot in common.” His arm flexed beneath her touch. “And I’d say they’re old enough to know what they’re doing.”

  Not like us, she added silently. She and Jackson had had nothing in common—they’d been a textbook example of opposites attracting. And they’d been too young to know how to do anything.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There had been some things they’d eventually fumbled their way through despite their youth and their ignorance…

  The heat in her cheeks deepened as Charlotte realized with a start that she was still touching him. She’d meant it as a polite but brief gesture, yet somehow her fingers had spread. Through the smooth fabric of his sleeve she could feel a ridge of lean muscle along his forearm.

  His arm certainly hadn’t felt like that twenty years ago.

  She shifted, intending to pull away to prevent the moment from getting awkward, but before she could withdraw, he laid his hand over hers.

  The contact of his skin with hers was electric. There was no other way to describe it. He didn’t squeeze or hold her. The weight of his fingers—and the memories—kept her in place.

  They used to hold hands a lot. It had been a chaste caress, but to two teenagers in love it had been something special. Whether they’d been sitting in the bleachers cheering their team or riding the streetcar or walking home, they’d always been touching. She’d loved the way her small hand had fit in his large one. The simple touch had made her feel protected. Sometimes when he’d smiled a certain way, it had made her feel giddy.

  Above all, it had made her feel cherished.

  She moved her gaze to their joined hands. The long, supple fingers that covered her knuckles now weren’t those of the boy she’d known. They belonged to a successful and well-respected surgeon.

  Jackson had become a doctor, she reminded herself. Just as he’d always dreamed.

  Then he’d left her behind so he could go off and save the world.

  Something ugly stirred deep inside. It surprised her—she’d thought she’d buried that resentment a long time ago. At least the pain had faded to a distant ache. As she’d told Melanie, he wasn’t her Jackson anymore.

  Cutlery clanked near the tables where the buffet was being set up. Voices drifted on the breeze, mixing with the sound of birds and the rustling of leaves to bring Charlotte firmly back to the present. The warmth from the memories was snuffed out, finally allowing her to focus on what she was seeing.

  A jagged red line cut through the sprinkling of dark hair on the back of Jackson’s right hand.

  “Mon Dieu,” she murmured. “You didn’t tell me you were injured, too.”

  “What?”

  “In the fire. How—”

  “No, that happened a while ago,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “There was a bombing at the hospital in Kabul where I was working. I caught some shrapnel.”

  “How awful.”

  “It’s a hazard of the job.”

  “Miss Marchand, we heard you had some trouble here yesterday.”

  At the voice, her shoulders stiffened. She had been so wrapped up in her conversation with Jackson she hadn’t been aware that anyone had approached, yet she recognized Richard Corbin’s cigarette-roughened drawl. Until now she’d only spoken with him on the phone. What on earth was he doing here now? She turned, not bothering to put on a pleasant expression.

  Two men stood in front of her. The taller one met her gaze aggressively, yet it was his companion who made Charlotte uneasy—the way his flat gaze darted around the courtyard gave him the look of a vulture searching for his next meal.

  Jackson moved closer to her side, positioning himself so his chest pressed gently against her shoulder. “Do you know these men, Charlotte?”

  “We haven’t met,” she replied.

  The shorter man nodded. “Not in person, but I believe Miss Marchand knows who we are. I’m Dan Corbin and this is my brother Richard.”

  “The Corbins are interested in buying the hotel,” Charlotte said to Jackson. “My mother has repeatedly declined their offers.”

  “How is Mrs. Marchand?” Richard asked. “We heard she had some trouble, too.”

  “A carjacking, wasn’t it?” Dan shook his head. “How unfortunate. Crime is everywhere these days.”

  “I hate to be rude, gentlemen,” Charlotte said, “but I’m really very busy, so if you’ll excuse me?”

  “Since your mother hasn’t been around lately, Miss Marchand, we’d like you to pass this on to her.” Dan reached into his suit coat and withdrew a thick white envelope. Her mother’s name was scrawled across the front in black ink. “This is a business proposition,” he said, holding it out to Charlotte. “Under the circumstances, it should be of interest to all of you.”

  She crossed her arms. “As my mother already made clear, we have no business to discuss. The Hotel Marchand is not for sale.”

  “Don’t be so hasty. These troubles you’ve been having at the hotel must be cutting into your profits.” He tapped the envelope against her wrist. “You’d be smart to sell now. If you wait, the price might go down further.”

  Before Charlotte could respond, Jackson stepped forward, placing himself between her and the Corbins. “That sounded like a threat.”

  Dan had to tip his head back to meet Jackson’s gaze. He paused for a moment, then replaced the envelope inside his suit and stepped back. “Not at all. It was merely some professional advice.” He turned his flat gaze on Charlotte. “You have our number. Let us know when you change your mind.”

  They left after that, using the alley beside the bar rather than going through the French doors to the lobby. Charlotte remained where she was until they were out of sight. She had handled all manner of people in her years with the hotel, including bullies like these, and she was seldom disturbed by them. Still, she was more grateful for Jackson’s solid presence than she wanted to admit.

  The Corbin brothers had always been pushy, but their manner today had seemed openly belligerent, bordering on smug. Obviously they must have realized what a blow yesterday’s fire had been to the hotel’s business.

  “Are you okay?” Jackson asked quietly.

  No, she thought, she wasn’t okay. The sunshine seemed too bright, the clink of dishes and background murmur of voices and birdsong seemed too loud. She’d believed she was getting on top of things, but encountering the Corbins had served to remind her how much remained to be done. “I need to get back to my office,” she said, heading for the lobby doors.

  He fell into step beside her, the solid thud of his boots
blending with the tap of her heels. “Are the business offices still where your parents had them?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll walk you up.”

  “Thank you, but—”

  “I think you should call the police, Charlotte.” He slowed to let her enter the lobby ahead of him, then placed his palm on the small of her back as they wove their way past the potted plants and a pair of wing chairs. He didn’t speak again until they started up the curving staircase. “That man threatened you.”

  “He didn’t threaten me, he was only taking advantage of the situation as an attempt to intimidate me.”

  “I get the feeling it’s more than that. The Corbins look like a couple of crooks.”

  That had been her first impression, as well, but she tried to be fair. “Both Mac and your uncle William checked them out after they made their first offer. Their manners may be unpleasant, but they appear to be legitimate businessmen. They have a chain of hotels in the Far East and are hoping to expand their operation in America.”

  Jackson fell silent as Charlotte paused at the top of the stairs to greet a few guests on their way to breakfast. She thought he would drop the subject, but as soon as they were out of earshot he continued where he’d left off. “One of the Corbins mentioned your profits. Is the hotel in financial trouble?”

  This was something else about Jackson that hadn’t changed, she thought. If he saw a need, he never hesitated to get involved in other people’s problems. It was one of the qualities that she’d admired about him—he was forever defending the underdog.

  Yet that very quality had also set him on the path that had taken him away.

  Another echo of the old resentment stirred. Even as she acknowledged it, she reminded herself that it was unreasonable. They were no longer teenagers. They had both made choices and had moved on.

  She stopped in the corridor outside her office and automatically tried for a professional smile, once more hoping to get the conversation under control. “The entire city has had its problems, and the Hotel Marchand is no exception. We’ve experienced some lean times, but we’re recovering.”