“THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS!” Anne Marchand stabbed a polished fingernail in the center of the document, crumpling the paper against the table from the force of her gesture. Twin spots of angry color darkened her cheeks. “These men are no better than thieves.”
All four of the Marchand sisters reacted at once. As Sylvie hummed soothing noises and Melanie offered Anne a glass of ice water, Renee gently patted her mother’s hand, allowing Charlotte to whisk the purchase offer from the table and return it to her briefcase.
Anne regarded each of her daughters in turn, giving them a quelling look that only a mother could manage. Love and exasperation mixed in equal parts.
Jackson pulled one of the extra dining chairs away from the wall, reversed it and straddled the seat. As he’d hoped, Anne was holding up well and showed no signs of needing a doctor’s services. Even at sixty-two she was as vibrant a woman as ever. Folding his arms across the chair back, he settled in to watch the byplay between Anne and her strong-willed daughters.
He’d always admired Anne Marchand. In spite of the fact her mother, Celeste, hadn’t deigned to remain in the same room with him, Anne had been unfalteringly kind. She had never made any reference to his mother’s background or his father’s lack of wealth. Anne had treated him fairly when he’d been a kid, giving him the run of a place that his own parents couldn’t have afforded to enter.
The exclusive private dining room that Charlotte was using for the meeting was tucked into the back of the hotel restaurant. It had the same elegant linen-and-old-wood ambience of the main room on a smaller and more personal scale. Although Charlotte’s mother and sisters had been surprised to see that she had included Jackson in their family conference, they’d accepted his presence once they’d learned what had transpired during the past two days. Charlotte’s sisters hadn’t come to this meeting alone either—they’d brought their fiancés.
While the discussion at the table turned to the subject of how to deal with the Corbins, Jackson glanced at the other men in the room. He’d met Robert LeSoeur, Melanie’s fiancé, in the kitchen earlier. But Jefferson Lambert, Sylvie’s fiancé, had been a surprise. The buttoned-down New England lawyer looked like the last person a free spirit like Sylvie would have chosen. The third man, Renee’s beau, hadn’t needed an introduction: Pete Traynor was a Hollywood director with leading-man looks that the tabloids loved. Jackson had recognized him on sight.
As different from one another as these three men were, their expressions of concern were almost identical.
“Why can’t the cops arrest them?” Pete demanded. “It’s obvious the Corbins have crossed the line.”
Charlotte looked past Renee to where Pete stood beside the window. “Jackson and I spoke with Detective Fergusson about the Corbins on Wednesday and again yesterday. Fergusson said he questioned them already, but he has no grounds to arrest them because there’s no evidence they’ve done anything illegal. Until he gets some proof, he can’t touch them.”
“That’s the problem with police,” Jefferson commented, his rich courtroom voice filling the small room. “By definition, they have to uphold the law, while the suspects they pursue aren’t hampered by it.”
“Fergusson is hiding behind that excuse,” Jackson said. “He didn’t strike me as someone who would go out of his way to solve a case.”
“Didn’t you like him?” Robert asked.
“No. He seems too good-humored for a cop. I got the feeling he was only going through the motions.”
“At least now we know what we’re up against,” Renee said. “That knowledge gives us an advantage.”
“So does the timetable the Corbins specified,” Charlotte added. “Their offer expires after Mardi Gras.”
Jackson glanced at the briefcase where she had put the Corbins’ offer. “It’s interesting that they would choose Mardi Gras as their deadline. If their goal is to obtain the hotel, why set a time limit that’s only a few days away?”
“They obviously realize that if we have a successful season, they won’t have a chance of acquiring the hotel,” Charlotte replied.
“Then this should be over next week.”
Charlotte dipped her chin. “Yes, it should be. One way or another. Mac and I plan to keep the hotel security on high alert throughout the next several days to minimize any possible risk to our guests, but it appears the Corbins have shifted their focus. The recent vandalism has targeted my personal property rather than the hotel’s.”
“A strategic move,” Jefferson said. “They’ve decided it’s more effective to harass the people who control the hotel rather than the hotel itself.”
“But those knives…” Sylvie shuddered, setting the bracelets she wore at her wrists jangling. “Charlotte, it makes my flesh crawl. If the Corbins were bold enough to strike at your office and your car, what’s next? A horse head in your bed? No offense to Renee and Pete, but this is like something out of a bad Mob movie.”
“It’s all too real,” Charlotte said. “I underestimated the lengths the Corbins would go to, so I was slow to grasp the connection between them and our recent problems. I apologize for that and take full responsibility. While I plan to continue with my duties, I don’t expect the rest of you to—”
“Charlotte Anne Marchand,” Anne said sharply. “This has gone far enough. When will you realize you don’t have to carry us on your shoulders?”
“Mama—”
“That’s right,” Melanie chimed in. “You’re still doing the big-sister thing. This is our problem, too.”
“Well put,” Renee said. “The Corbins are the ones who made the mistake, not you, Charlotte. They chose the wrong target for their scare tactics.”
Sylvie leaned across the table and grasped Charlotte’s hand. “You’re not alone, chérie.”
“We won’t give in to those cowards.” Melanie clasped her sisters’ joined hands.
An instant later, so did Renee. “There’s strength in numbers. With all four of us—”
“Five,” Anne corrected, placing her hand over those of her daughters. “Don’t any of you forget I am still the official owner of this hotel. Under no circumstances will I see what your papa and I built go to a pair of cochons who masquerade as businessmen.”
Charlotte’s eyes were luminous as she gazed around the table. “Before you promise anything, I have to tell you that Detective Fergusson has already stated the police can’t give us any protection.”
“I wouldn’t want to rely on Fergusson anyway,” Pete said, striding forward. He stopped behind Renee’s chair and squeezed her shoulders. “As you said, Renee, there’s strength in numbers. Until the Corbins’ Mardi Gras deadline is safely passed, I don’t plan to let you out of my sight.”
Jefferson cleared his throat. “While I second Pete’s macho sentiment and will be keeping a close watch over my darling Sylvie and Daisy Rose, we need more than that. None of us is trained in security.”
“Mac is,” Robert said. “He can advise us on other measures to take that might reduce our risk.”
“This sounds good,” Anne said. “I know William would insist on protecting me if he could be here, but since he isn’t, I’ll move in with Grand-mère. Charlotte, you should, too. Her house is well fortified against intruders. We can assign someone from hotel security to escort you during the day.”
“My home is perfectly safe,” Charlotte said, withdrawing her hand from the other women’s. “The security staff need to concentrate on the safety of the hotel and our guests, and I wouldn’t want to put an extra strain on their resources simply because I’m an unattached female. I believe the Corbins want to scare us, not physically harm us, so as long as I’m cautious and remain on my guard—”
“You’re doing it again,” Melanie said, pointing at her sister. “Worrying about everyone else instead of yourself.”
Jackson saw Charlotte lift her chin as she always did when she was about to argue. He spoke before she could. “I’ll stay with you, Charlotte.”
T
he silence that followed his remark was eloquent. While her sisters exchanged interested glances, Charlotte retrieved her briefcase and rose to her feet. “Thanks, Jackson,” she said. “I realize you want to help, but it wouldn’t be fair to impose on you this way.”
“It wouldn’t be an imposition. It’s a sensible solution.” He grasped the back of his chair and swung it aside as he stood. “I know how bullies like the Corbins operate. I’ve seen the same principle in every corrupt regime and dictatorship around the world. The scope might vary, but the methods don’t. They only pick easy targets, so your family is right—you can’t appear to be alone.”
“My house is small.”
“That wouldn’t bother me. I’ve slept in a mud hut.”
She held her briefcase to her chest. “You’d have to keep up with me while I work.”
“I know the layout of the hotel as well as anyone else who works here. It would be easy for me to watch out for you.”
“He has a point, chérie,” Anne said. She flicked her gaze between Charlotte and Jackson, then folded her hands together and regarded him carefully. “And judging from what I’ve seen since you’ve come home, Jackson, you’ve already been watching out for Charlotte.”
Her words made him pause. His offer was meant to be practical, but Anne had made it sound…personal.
Renee arched one eyebrow and looked at her sisters. Melanie grinned as Sylvie winked.
Jackson swallowed a groan. Those looks were familiar. He and Charlotte used to get the same reactions twenty years ago when they’d been caught necking under the stairs.
CHAPTER SIX
CHARLOTTE HAD NEVER considered her home small before. It wasn’t large—it could fit into one corner of her grandmother’s mansion—yet the quaint Creole cottage suited her needs. It had been a good investment, since the neighborhood bordered on the French Quarter and had gradually become more gentrified. It was inviting at first sight, with its gingerbread trim and the graceful live oak that arched over the front yard. Charlotte had decorated the rooms the same way she’d seen her mother acquire furnishings for the hotel, scouring antique stores and estate sales to find pieces that evoked the region’s rich history. She’d gone for quality rather than quantity, keeping the lines clean and the colors light, so the house didn’t appear crowded by any means.
That is, until Jackson Bailey had stepped inside.
His presence filled the space around him instantly. He should have looked out of place against the backdrop of polished wood, cream-colored upholstery and delicate rose-patterned wallpaper. Instead he appeared completely at home, as if all the femininity around him had been waiting for a man to balance it.
“It’s you, Charlotte,” he said, following her into the living room.
“Mmm?”
“This house.” He dropped his pack beside the sofa. “Your personality is all over it.”
“Thank you.” She switched on the lamp beside the bookcase, hoping some extra illumination would dispel the cozy atmosphere. Instead the soft yellow light emphasized the chiseled hollows and angles of Jackson’s face, making Charlotte more conscious than ever of how masculine he looked.
She grasped for a neutral topic. “Fortunately this neighborhood is on relatively high ground, so we escaped much of the flood damage that other areas have had to deal with.”
“How long have you lived here?”
She moved to the front window and closed the drapes. “Almost twelve years.”
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“It doesn’t look like the kind of place Adrian would have liked,” he said.
She’d told him the topic of her marriage was off-limits, but he wasn’t talking about that, he was talking about the house. And his insight was completely correct. Adrian would have considered residing in this small yet picturesque bungalow beneath his dignity. He’d insisted on living in an echoing old mausoleum of a house that had been a block from her grandmother’s place.
She watched Jackson tilt his head as he studied the water-color landscape that hung above the pecan side table. The lock of hair that never seemed to stay in place flopped over his forehead. He was wearing faded jeans and a V-neck navy-blue sweater today. It wasn’t a thick sweater. The wool was fine enough to mold every curve and ridge of his wide shoulders.
Adrian had been fastidious about his appearance, seldom appearing in public without a suit and tie, even in the summer. He’d been blessed with exceptionally handsome features, a dazzling smile and soulful brown eyes. He’d been the quintessential Southern gentleman. Everyone had agreed that she and her husband had made a lovely couple.
But Adrian at his best couldn’t compare to Jackson with mussed hair and old jeans.
Charlotte rubbed her temples. How could she notice Jackson’s looks at a time like this? Did she want to play right into her sisters’ hands? Those women were acting as if she were back in high school—their winks and nudges had been following her from the moment the family conference had adjourned.
She had good reasons—logical reasons—for having Jackson stay with her. It had nothing to do with the fact that she used to be in love with him. He was just an old friend who was helping her out. The crisis at the hotel was Charlotte’s top priority. Rekindling a romance was the last thing on her mind.
“Is something wrong?” Jackson asked. “Do you have a headache?”
She shook her head and adjusted a fold of the drapes, then moved back to the bookcase and straightened one of the photos of Daisy Rose that rested on top. “I was just thinking about my family,” she said. “They mean well, but I hope you understand that you’re free to change your mind about staying here.”
“Why would I change my mind?”
“I realize you have problems of your own to deal with,” she said. “It’s very generous of you to want to help me with mine, but—”
“If by problems you mean this,” he said, holding up his right hand, “there’s nothing much I can do until Yves finishes his tests and gives me his prognosis. You’re doing me a favor, not the other way around.”
“How’s that?”
“Waiting is hell. I’d rather keep busy.”
She should have thought of that. Of course Jackson would want to take his mind off his own situation. That’s why he’d been so quick to appoint himself her bodyguard. It was in his nature to help wherever he saw a need, but he also needed a distraction.
In light of that, worrying about how this arrangement might look seemed petty. She and Jackson were both facing far bigger concerns. Her reservations dissolved. “Thanks, Jackson,” she said. “I do appreciate your help, and if there’s anything I can do to return the favor, please let me know.”
He lowered his hand to his side. “If you were offering me an out because you think I won’t be capable of being any use to you with my disability—”
“Oh, no,” she said hurriedly. “That’s not the issue. It never entered my mind.”
“It’s only my right hand that doesn’t work. Everything else still does. If any trouble comes up, I’ll be calling the police anyway.”
She waved her hands in front of her as if clearing away what he had said. “I told you, Jackson, that’s not the issue. I just don’t want people to get the wrong idea.”
“Ah,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting into one of his lopsided smiles. “I get it now. This is about those looks your sisters gave us.”
“You noticed?”
“It was hard to miss. They were about as subtle as three-month-old shrimp.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Actually they were kind of cute. It reminded me of the old days.”
“How? Because they were pains then, too?”
“Sometimes. They used to be inordinately fascinated by our relationship then, as well.”
“I’ll make it clear to them that we’re just friends.”
“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it.”
&nbs
p; There was no chance to respond, even if she’d known what to say. In the next instant her phone began to ring. She slipped it from her jacket pocket and pressed it to her ear.
“Hello, Miss Marchand.”
At the raspy male voice, she froze. “Who is this?” she demanded.
In a few swift strides Jackson moved around the sofa to where she stood. Pressing close to her side, he clasped her wrist and tipped the phone away from her ear so that he could listen with her.
A phlegmy cough sounded through the receiver. “Archie Manning,” the caller said, his voice smoothing into one she recognized. “From Manning Insurance.”
She blew out a relieved breath. It was only their insurance agent, not Richard Corbin, as she’d thought when she’d first heard him. “Oh, hello, Mr. Manning. How are you?”
“As you can hear, the cold I seem to have picked up is doing fine, but I’m not so sure about myself.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I called to give you an update on your claim.”
Charlotte glanced sideways at Jackson. He was still holding her wrist, his head inches from hers. She tugged lightly, trying to free her hand, but he didn’t let go. “Which claim do you mean, Mr. Manning?” she asked. “The car or the hotel?”
He coughed again. “I haven’t had a chance to process the claim for your car yet and, unfortunately, I have some bad news for you on the other. I’ve just seen the official report on the fire. It was caused by faulty wiring.”
“Detective Fergusson told me the investigation isn’t complete.”
“It appears to be now. I’m sorry, Miss Marchand. According to the terms of the policy, we can’t allow the claim if your own negligence caused the damage.”
She frowned. This didn’t make sense. She’d been sure the Corbins had set that fire. “I’m familiar with the terms of our policy. This couldn’t have been negligence. We used licensed contractors with every renovation. We took all reasonable precautions.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “The report was very clear. There’s nothing I can do.”
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