Unmasked

by Ingrid Weaver

  “Is that why you haven’t been sleeping?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re covering it well, but I can see that you’re exhausted.”

  “It’s been a busy night. I’m fine.”

  He cupped her shoulders and regarded her closely. “Are you, Charlie?”

  The urge to lean into him struck without warning. She wanted to step into his arms and fit her head to his shoulder just the way she used to. She longed to feel his warmth enfold her and his breath stir her hair. For one mad, rebellious instant she wanted to pretend she was his Charlie again, with no one depending on her and nothing to worry about except studying for the next midterm and trying to find the right prom dress.

  She curled her nails into her palms and held herself rigid. What on earth was the matter with her? “I appreciate your concern, Jackson,” she said. “But don’t treat me like one of your causes.”

  “Whoa, where did that come from?”

  “Sorry, I’m a bit stressed.” She stepped aside to unlock her office door, using the motion to move away from his touch. “Give my regards to your uncle when you see him next. I’m sure you’re anxious to get back to the hospital….”

  Her words trailed off as she noticed a glimmer on the threshold. It was a cluster of tiny white sequins.

  She pushed the door open and stepped inside. A white feather wafted in the breeze from the window. More sequins were scattered on the hardwood floor and gleamed beneath the carved pecan chairs that she kept for visitors.

  “Charlotte, wait!” Jackson looped his arm around the front of her waist and pulled her back to his chest. “Don’t touch anything.”

  The sudden contact with his body stole her breath and muddled her mind, making it hard to understand his warning. Sensations bombarded her. The muscle she’d felt beneath his sleeve was nothing compared to the firm strength she felt everywhere else. He definitely wasn’t a boy any longer.

  And her response to him wasn’t that of an innocent girl. Her pulse pounded, knocking her senses into overdrive. Awareness that was purely sexual shot into every private region of her body.

  She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to ignore the reaction. It had to be surprise mixed with fatigue. She concentrated on looking around. Apart from the sequins, the room appeared as clean and orderly as it always did.

  But then her gaze reached the antique cherrywood table that served as her desk, and her knees gave out. She pressed into Jackson, welcoming his support.

  Amidst a pile of white feathers, the shell of her beautiful, whimsical Mardi Gras mask lay in the center of her desktop. It was stripped naked of its trimmings and skewered to the wood by a knife.

  CHAPTER THREE

  JACKSON FOLDED HIS arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the door frame, watching as Detective Otis Fergusson jotted something in his notebook. If his white mustache were a beard, he’d look like Santa Claus checking his list. His weight alone wasn’t responsible for the impression, it was his round face and jovial demeanor. Given the resemblance, Jackson wasn’t sure why he didn’t trust the man. Maybe for someone who worked in law enforcement he seemed too good-natured to be true.

  Still, he appeared to be going through all the right motions, so he was probably competent enough.

  Apart from the raw gouge that had been left in the wood, the surface of Charlotte’s desk was clean. All traces of the savaged mask had been removed. Fergusson had pried the knife out of the desktop and bagged it as evidence, yet he wasn’t hopeful it would lead anywhere. According to the detective, the weapon was a skinning knife, a favorite choice of poachers who worked the marshes and bayous. This one had been an inexpensive, run-of-the-mill variety, available in any sporting-goods store.

  “I assure you, Detective, the door was locked when I arrived.” Charlotte sat behind her desk and folded her hands primly on her lap. “The connecting door to my assistant’s office was locked, as well.”

  Fergusson eased himself down on one of the chairs in front of the desk, propped his notebook on his crossed leg and waved his pen at the doors. “I don’t mean to criticize, but those locks are on the flimsy side.”

  “Until now we’ve had no need for better ones.”

  “Do you have any idea who could have done this, Miss Marchand?”

  Charlotte kept her face impassive as she glanced around the room. For someone who had obviously been up all night and had been fielding one problem after another for too long, she was holding herself together well. She had gone into what Jackson was starting to think of as her tea-in-the-parlor mode, doing her best to act composed, but he knew she wasn’t as calm as she appeared. He’d felt the truth when she had trembled in his arms.

  He was surprised how much he’d wanted to keep her there. Logically he knew he shouldn’t get involved. She’d been right to deflect his questions earlier; the hotel was none of his business. She was a strong, competent woman. She didn’t need him—she never had. She’d made that clear when she’d married Adrian Grant.

  Yet somehow he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

  “I think you should talk to the Corbins, Detective,” Jackson said.

  Fergusson twisted to glance over his shoulder. “Corbins? Who are they?”

  “Richard and Dan. They were in the hotel minutes before we found the knife.”

  Charlotte seemed about to protest, but then she dipped her chin in agreement. “I hate to cast suspicion on fellow hoteliers, but I must be realistic. The Corbin brothers are the only ones who stand to gain from an act of intimidation like this.”

  The detective’s chair creaked loudly as he faced Charlotte once more. “Why would you think that, Miss Marchand?”

  “They’re hoping to buy this hotel. Perhaps they wanted to shake me up.”

  “Why would they leave a mask? Do you think that’s some kind of message?”

  “It could be. Every hotel in the city is counting on making a profit during this Mardi Gras period. Destroying the mask…” She paused. “It could be interpreted as significant. But whoever did this didn’t bring the mask with them. It was already here.”

  “Oh?”

  “It was part of my costume for our annual ball next week. The last time I saw it was yesterday evening just before the fire.”

  Fergusson tapped his pen against his notebook. “This has possibilities. I’ll look into it.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “For the sake of the hotel’s reputation, I do hope you will be able to keep your investigation discreet. Our guests have come here to have a good time, and I want to make sure their stay is as pleasant as possible.”

  The detective’s teeth gleamed beneath his mustache in a benign smile. “I’ll do what I can to accommodate you, Miss Marchand. You people sure are having more than your share of problems lately.”

  “It seems that way, Detective. Have you made any progress regarding yesterday’s fire?”

  “We’re still working on it,” Fergusson said. “These things take time.”

  Charlotte leaned forward. “You mentioned the possibility of arson. Do you still feel that way?”

  “At this point, it appears as if the cause could have been faulty wiring. But we’re not ruling anything out.” He pushed to his feet and turned to Jackson. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping to speak with you today, Dr. Bailey. I understand you were one of the first on the scene.”

  “That’s right, but I can’t tell you much about the fire. I was concentrating on treating the injured.”

  “You’re only visiting New Orleans, is that right?”

  “Yes. I divide my time between my NGO work overseas and my position with a hospital in Philadelphia.”

  He flipped back a few pages in his notebook. “What can you tell me about Luc Carter, the concierge?”

  “I bandaged a wound on his arm.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’ve heard. How did he seem to you?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

  “How was he acting?
Did you notice anything suspicious?”

  Charlotte looked at him from behind her desk, her gaze alert, as if she were waiting for his reply.

  Jackson shook his head. “If you think he had something to do with it, you’re wrong. He’d been trying to put out the fire with his jacket.”

  “Did you witness that?”

  “No, but that’s what he told me, and I had no reason to doubt his sincerity. He was obviously upset, and his jacket was charred black. And in spite of his own injury, he helped me give first aid to a burn victim.”

  Fergusson made a noncommittal noise, then closed his notebook and stored it in the pocket of his suit coat. “Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Bailey. Miss Marchand, I’ll be in touch.”

  Jackson pushed away from the door frame. “Wait. Aren’t you going to give Charlotte any protection?”

  “Sorry, sir. Not unless there’s a confirmed threat to her person.”

  “Someone rammed a skinning knife into her desk. I might not have any expertise in law enforcement, but that looks like a personal threat to me.”

  “I can ask our regular patrols to keep an eye out for anything suspicious in the neighborhood,” Fergusson said, walking to the door.

  “It’s Mardi Gras,” Jackson said. “How would they spot anything suspicious in the crowds?”

  “Sorry, with the department budget the way it is, that’s all I can do.”

  Jackson had dealt with enough bureaucrats in his time to recognize a brick wall when he saw it. He waited until the detective was gone, then closed the door and turned to Charlotte.

  “Jackson, it’s all right,” she said before he could speak. “I’ll alert Mac to the situation and have him step up security.”

  “Mac told me that he’s leaving, going back to his private security business.”

  “Yes, but not until after Mardi Gras. Our night security manager, Tyrell Haynes, will take over the job then. He’s quite competent, and I have every confidence in him.”

  “Are you sure that stepping up the security here will be enough? The design of this hotel makes it impossible to keep anyone out.”

  “It will be fine.”

  “There are too many entrances. You saw how easily the Corbins walked in this morning.”

  “This vandalism could still prove to be nothing but a sick prank. Yet if the Corbins are indeed responsible, they would want me to panic. That’s why I can’t afford to overreact.”

  “But—”

  “I’m not going to lock the place down during Mardi Gras, Jackson. Nor do I want to alarm the guests with a police presence. Other than stepping up our in-house security, my only option is business as usual.” She ran a fingertip over the scar in the desktop, then rose to her feet. “And I would ask that you don’t mention this incident to your uncle.”

  “Why not?”

  “My mother has enough worries already, and this ugliness will only upset her further. With her heart condition, I don’t want to take any chances.”

  “You can’t expect me to forget about this.”

  “That’s exactly what I expect. While I appreciate your concern, I’ll handle things from here. As you just said, you don’t have any expertise in law enforcement. And, to be blunt, this isn’t any of your business.”

  Frustrated, he raked his fingers through his hair. He knew she was right—he’d already told himself he didn’t want to get involved—but hearing her say it bothered him. “You told Mac we’re old friends.”

  “It’s true. We were friends once, regardless of the way we parted.”

  “Then as a friend I have the right to be concerned.”

  “Perhaps, but not to pry.”

  “If my uncle marries your mother, we’re going to be family.”

  “Which is why I’ve tried to be courteous. But this is my problem, not yours. You’re leaving soon anyway, aren’t you? Running off to Afghanistan or wherever?”

  The bitterness in her voice startled him. This was the first crack in her calm she’d allowed since they’d arrived at her office. “If everything goes well, yes,” he replied. “I’m still needed there.”

  She tugged the hem of her jacket to straighten it and moved around her desk. “Then since your visit here is only temporary, there’s no reason for you to get involved in my problems.”

  “Charlotte—”

  “I realize there was a time when I asked you to stay, but believe it or not, I’ve managed fine without you.”

  “I can see you have. I’m only trying to help.”

  “Running one small family hotel wasn’t noble or exciting enough for you twenty years ago. You had no trouble keeping out of my life then, so I’m sure it won’t be that difficult to stay out of it now.”

  There were countless things Jackson could say in return. He had plenty of accusations he could toss out, as well as pain of his own to remember. He’d kept out of her life because she’d pushed him out. There wouldn’t have been room for both him and her new husband.

  Yet this was ancient history, he reminded himself, and he hadn’t come here to change the past. Charlotte’s reaction was out of proportion to the circumstances. Combined with the exhaustion he had noticed earlier, she was exhibiting the symptoms of someone under extreme stress. His concern for her deepened. “What’s going on here, Charlotte?”

  She brushed past him and jerked the door open. “Goodbye, Jackson.”

  He reached around her and shoved the door closed with his palm.

  She held herself motionless for a good ten seconds, her mouth compressed into a tight line. Then she tipped back her head and glared at him. Her eyes shone with a confused mix of emotions, and anger was the least of them.

  Charlotte’s calm wasn’t merely cracked, Jackson thought, it had shattered and fallen away like the mangled Mardi Gras mask.

  Damn, he wanted to hold her again. But if he touched her now, it wouldn’t be as a friend or as a potential cousin-in-law. He would be responding to a reflexive male urge to hold an attractive woman. Neither of them needed a complication like that. He took a steadying breath and kept his arms at his sides. “All this passion isn’t really about us, is it?”

  “What?”

  “As much as it would stroke my ego to think you’ve been pining for me for the last twenty years, I don’t believe that’s true.”

  “Of course it isn’t true.”

  “Well, then, if the passion isn’t about us, it has to be the hotel, right?”

  Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I was doing fine until you showed up.”

  “No, you weren’t or you wouldn’t be this close to the edge. But I get the feeling that I’m the last straw.”

  “Yes, damn you!”

  “Why?”

  “How dare you act concerned about my difficulties when the truth is you’d be happy to see the hotel fail?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, it isn’t.” She pressed her index finger to his chest. “You hate this place. That’s what you said the last time I saw you.”

  She was right; he had said that. “I was angry. You know I didn’t mean it.”

  “No? You certainly were in a hurry to go on your one-man crusade to save the world.” She tapped him with her nail. “How lucky for you that you came back now. You’re just in time to gloat.”

  He tried to restrain himself from responding in kind, but it was tough. The argument was an old one, and they’d never really finished it. “Charlie—”

  “Don’t call me that!” She walked back to her desk, her normally graceful strides hard and choppy.

  He rubbed his jaw. “Are things really that bad? Could the hotel fail?”

  “We have no more financial reserves. We’re mortgaged to the limit. If we don’t turn a profit by next week—” She halted suddenly and stooped to pick up something from the floor. It was a tiny, white feather.

  Her shoulders trembled, as if the sight of that feather crumbled the final layer of her control. She closed it in her fist and turned to
face him. “I’ve made this hotel my life, Jackson. It’s all I have. The possibility of losing it…” Her voice broke. The tears she’d been struggling to hold back trickled down her cheeks.

  She must have been bottling this up for weeks, Jackson thought. It probably did her good to let it out, so he wasn’t going to try to stop her. But the urge to hold her was nearly overpowering…

  The significance of what she’d just said struck him all at once. She could lose the hotel.

  The irony was almost too much to believe. After all these years, what were the chances the same thing would be happening to both of them? “I understand what you’re going through, Charlotte,” he said.

  She swiped her knuckles under her eyes. “No, I don’t think you could. You followed your dream. You always lived your life how you wanted to. No one can take that away from you.”

  “You’re wrong. I know exactly what it’s like to watch everything you’ve built, everything you are, slip out of your grasp.”

  “How could you?”

  He lifted his right hand, palm out. “Do you know how many nerves there are in the human hand? How many muscles, bones and tendons?”

  “I have no idea. Why?”

  Still holding up his hand, he walked toward her. “Look carefully.” He spread his fingers until the throbbing warned him to stop. “You already saw the back. Take a good look at the rest. This is where the shrapnel went in.”

  She blinked, her gaze going to his mutilated palm. It took her a moment to focus on the mass of red gouges and puckered ridges that crisscrossed the center. When she did, the color drained from her cheeks. She stepped closer and grasped his fingers. “Oh, dear God, Jackson,” she murmured. “The wound goes all the way through.”

  “Human flesh is no match for shredded metal traveling at a hundred feet a second.”

  “I hadn’t realized the injury was this serious.”

  “I was one of the lucky ones. It was only my hand, so I lived.”

  “It looks as if it’s healing.”

  “On the outside, yes.”

  She clasped his hand gingerly between both of hers and looked up at him. “And on the inside? How bad is it?”