“No, it wouldn’t.”
“Worse than holding you yesterday?”
“Much worse.”
He leaned closer. “Then I’ll make it quick, okay?”
“Jackson, we both know this can’t go anywhere—”
He touched his lips to hers, ending her protest. She sighed through her nose, her breath warming his cheek, and tipped her face closer to his. She tasted of toothpaste, coffee and the girl who used to giggle when he would tug her into a corner to steal a kiss.
It had all been so simple then. Easy and innocent. The attraction they’d felt for each other had been a source of joy, and they’d never thought to suppress it. They hadn’t known any better.
They did now. He felt Charlotte’s restraint in the faint tremor of her lips. Neither of them had closed their eyes—he could see the caution in her green gaze as clearly as he could see her interest.
Damn, he wanted to linger. He wanted to explore the woman she was now. But off balance as he was and leaning over a glass-topped table that held two steaming mugs and a fax machine, he couldn’t make the kiss any more than a light brush of their mouths.
It was just as well. He already had enough problems with a wound that wouldn’t heal.
He didn’t want to reopen one that was twenty years old.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“IT’S LOVELY!” Renee exclaimed. She grasped a fold of Charlotte’s skirt to hold it out to the side. “Genevieve has outdone herself this time. You’re going to be the belle of our Mardi Gras ball.”
Charlotte turned back and forth in front of the dressing room mirror, trying to regard the gown objectively, yet that was as pointless as trying to analyze a beautiful sunset. This was something that had to be felt.
Genevieve Gagnon was as much an artist as she was a seamstress. She’d been designing and making Mardi Gras costumes for the Marchands for as long as Charlotte could remember. Her workmanship was exquisite, and this dress was no exception.
Loops of white sequins glittered from satin the color of the sky on a dusky summer evening. Drifts of delicate white feathers trimmed the edges of the diaphanous sleeves and the hem of the skirt that flowed to the floor. The effect was as whimsical as the matching mask had been, evoking the impression of a fairy-tale princess.
“It’s a work of art, Genevieve,” Charlotte said. “I don’t know how you manage to top yourself every year.”
Genevieve chuckled and stabbed her finger at her wheelchair controls to propel herself toward the long, low table in the corner. The tiny white-haired woman was a dynamo, her spirit undiminished in spite of the waterskiing accident that had cost her the use of her legs several years ago. She brushed a heap of colorful fabric scraps from the table and picked up a small book. “I confess I cheated this year, Miss Charlotte.”
“How could you possibly cheat?”
She held out the book. “This was my inspiration.”
Charlotte gasped in surprised recognition as she took the book from Genevieve. “This looks like the book of fairy tales Papa gave me when I was a kid.”
“It is,” Renee said.
“How…”
“Miss Renee lent it to me,” Genevieve said, her face crinkling into a grin. “She thought you would enjoy seeing it come to life.”
Renee nodded. “I got the idea when you started to read some of the stories to Daisy Rose. She seems to enjoy them as much as you did.”
“The book’s still a bit old for her, but she loved the pictures,” Charlotte said. “Especially the depiction of Sleeping Beauty…” She paused to glance at herself in the mirror, then flipped through the book to the illustration at the end of the story.
For a moment, all she could do was stare. She knew the picture well. It had fired her imagination as a child, setting an impossibly romantic ideal. Against the misty backdrop of an ivy-cloaked castle, in front of an audience of smiling forest creatures, Sleeping Beauty had awakened and was waltzing with her handsome prince. The elegant dusky blue gown she wore winked with jewels and swept daintily behind her to blend with the feathery edge of a cloud.
“I can’t believe this,” Charlotte said. “You did bring it to life, Genevieve. I should have recognized it right away.”
“It’s perfect,” Renee said. “You look exactly like the picture.” She smiled. “Now all we need to complete the scene is Prince Charming.”
A pang of longing took Charlotte unawares. She closed the book and put it back on the table, then reached under her arm to unfasten the zipper that was concealed in the side seam. She was careful to keep her movements steady, but she felt as if she couldn’t get the dress off fast enough. What she really wanted to do was rip it from her body and somehow shove it back into that book of fairy tales.
Because that’s where dreams of Prince Charming and happily ever after belonged.
But she had to be practical. This was a costume, nothing more. The Mardi Gras ball was about business, not make-believe. Her guests would expect her to get into the spirit of the occasion. So would her family. She was simply being oversensitive
“Thank you, Genevieve,” Charlotte said, pulling up the dress so she could ease her arms out of the sleeves. “Renee is right, you’ve outdone yourself this time.”
“It’s my pleasure, Miss Charlotte.” Genevieve cocked her head as a bell tinkled from the other side of the curtain that separated the dressing room from her shop. She steered her chair toward the doorway. “I’ll be right outside. Let me know if you need anything else.”
The curtain swung back into place as a low murmur of male voices drifted through it.
“It sounds as if Pete and Jackson got impatient waiting for us,” Renee said, moving behind Charlotte to help her slip the dress over her head.
“I’m sure Genevieve will keep them entertained.”
Renee put the dress on a hanger and carried it to a wheeled wardrobe rack that was jammed with a rainbow array of other Mardi Gras costumes. “She’ll flirt with them shamelessly, you know,” she said. “Are you sure you want Jackson out there?”
Charlotte grabbed her skirt and yanked it on. “He can do what he likes. It makes no difference to me.”
“You’ve put it on inside out.”
“What?”
“Your skirt.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Charlotte muttered, taking it off. She fixed it impatiently, then pulled on her blouse. “Thanks so much for your help.”
“You seem distracted.”
Charlotte looked around for her shoes. “No, I just have a lot to do today. Did you get any responses yet from the emergency personnel?”
“Some. Nothing promising so far, but it’s only been a few hours. I’m trying to contact Detective Rothberg. He seemed more capable than Fergusson.”
“I agree. He appeared more capable, but I was told he wasn’t available.”
“Well, I’m not giving up.”
“None of us will.”
“And while we’re on the subject of not giving up, how are things going with you and Jackson?”
Charlotte slipped her feet into her heels and walked over to Renee. “I know you mean well,” she said, pitching her voice low so it wouldn’t carry to the next room. “But I don’t want to talk about Jackson. We’re just friends.”
“That sounds familiar. It’s what I tried to tell everyone about Pete and me.”
“This situation is different. With the current crisis at the hotel, I don’t have the time to think about getting involved with anyone.”
“The excuse doesn’t wash, Charlotte. A crisis is exactly the time you need someone beside you.”
“That’s not why Jackson and I are staying together.”
“Isn’t it?”
Charlotte pressed her fingertips to her temples and rubbed at the tension that was forming there. She realized she was doing that particular gesture far too often lately. “Simply because Jackson and I are living under the same roof doesn’t mean anything will happen. It can’t. Neither of
us wants it to.”
Renee walked to the chair where they’d left their purses, took a small box from hers and put it into Charlotte’s. “That sounds familiar, too, but you never know.”
“What are you doing? What did you put in my purse?”
“A package of condoms.”
“What?”
Renee winked. “It wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.”
Charlotte moved her hands to her cheeks and stared at her sister. The quick thud of her pulse had to be from embarrassment, right?
Renee pulled her hands down and squeezed her fingers. “We’ve all seen the sparks between the two of you. I think something is already happening. It probably never really stopped.”
Genevieve’s laughter drifted through the curtain, mingling with Jackson’s deep voice. From the sound of things, he and Pete were debating the definition of jazz with her. It all seemed so ordinary and comfortable, Charlotte was surprised to feel the sting of tears. “Jackson and I were barely more than children when we dated, Renee,” she said finally. “I admit I have a fondness for the boy I knew, but we’ve both grown up and moved on.”
“The important things don’t change, Charlotte. When Pete came back into my life, I hadn’t thought there was any chance for the two of us. There were so many problems to work through, I wasn’t sure I wanted to try. I’m glad we did.”
“And I’m happy for you, Renee. I think it’s wonderful that you found someone to love. I’m happy for Sylvie, Melanie and Mama, too. But please, leave this alone.”
“Charlotte—”
“You’re right that the important things don’t change, and that includes our problems. Jackson and I were wrong for each other twenty years ago and we still are.”
“Are you sure?”
“I love you for caring.” She stretched to kiss Renee’s cheek, then looked at the blue gown that gleamed from the rack of costumes. “But this is real life, not a fairy tale. No one’s going to wave a magic wand and…”
Her words trailed off. The feathers that trimmed the gown were stirring on some current of air that Charlotte couldn’t feel, setting off a flash of sequins that made the costume appear to be winking at her.
And for a heartbeat she saw an image of herself wearing that gown in front of an ivy-cloaked castle as she danced with a man whose dusky blue eyes were an exact match for the color of the satin.
In the fairy tale, Sleeping Beauty had been awakened by a kiss.
Jackson had kissed her that morning.
But that hadn’t been a real kiss. It had been too light and too short. He’d barely touched her lips with his.
Yet his taste still lingered. And the sound of his voice from the next room gave her pleasant little tingles. And her pulse did a shimmy every time she thought of him spending another night so close that she could almost hear him breathing.
Something had changed with that kiss. Not an awakening as much as a shift in perception.
But that wasn’t magic. It was hormones and proximity, a normal physical reaction between an emotionally strung out woman and an incredibly attractive, sensitive and sexy man. She was far too sensible to attribute her feelings to anything else.
At what point did rationalization become denial?
The thought made her groan, but she managed to catch herself before she began massaging her temples again. Keeping her gaze firmly averted from the fairy-tale dress, she slipped on her jacket, picked up her purse and followed Renee from the room.
MIKE DRUMMED HIS fingers against the armrest of the limo, watching as the two couples left the building. The place wasn’t far from his syrup company’s warehouse, but he’d had no reason to take notice of it before. It was nothing but a small costume store, sandwiched between a pawnshop and a boarded-up space that had once held a dry cleaner’s. Like countless businesses in the city, it relied on the seasonal income from Mardi Gras, so its profits would be too unreliable for Mike to demand a piece.
Still, the store would have been a good location for an ambush. The street was a long way from the crowds of the French Quarter, and anyone who was around would know enough to mind their own business. The old cripple who ran the store wouldn’t have presented any problem either. With two of the Marchand sisters in the same place at once, he could have gotten more bang for his buck.
But he’d have to wait for another opportunity. The men who had accompanied the women to the costume store didn’t look as if they’d scare easily. He’d seen Pete Traynor before—the idiot Corbins had gotten him stirred up when they’d staged a hit-and-run that had injured his nephew. It had been a foolhardy risk, as reckless as Richard’s half-baked attempt a week ago to abduct Anne Marchand. They’d been lucky their whole scheme hadn’t blown up in their faces. The Corbins would have been no use to him if they’d ended up in jail.
When Mike made his move, he would be leaving nothing to chance. Especially the cops. He pointed to the dark-haired man who walked beside Charlotte. “Who’s that guy in the denim jacket, Otis? I saw him with that Marchand woman on Thursday, too.”
Detective Otis Fergusson squinted toward the window, then folded his hands over his bulk and resettled against the padded seat across from Mike. “His name’s Jackson Bailey. He’s a hotshot surgeon visiting from Philadelphia. He seems to be an old friend of the family.”
Mike accepted the information with a nod. Putting Otis on his payroll had been one of the smartest moves he’d made. His relationship with the New Orleans detective had started decades ago, when Mike had been fresh from the bayou and starting up a numbers racket in Algiers. Otis had been only a beat cop then and he’d been happy to look the other way in exchange for an envelope of cash. As the amount in the envelope had increased, so had the cop’s usefulness.
Things had progressed from there to a mutually beneficial financial arrangement that had lasted longer than any of Mike’s marriages. And like any good marriage, Mike’s relationship with Otis was exclusive. Even the Corbins weren’t aware that Otis was working for him.
“I interviewed Bailey a few days ago,” Otis continued. “He was the first one to suggest I speak to the Corbins about the trouble at the hotel.”
“Are you sure he’s only a doctor?”
“I checked him out. He’s one of those do-gooders who work in disaster zones. Real straight shooter. You’re not going to like this, but he’s certain that Luc Carter was trying to put out the fire your people started.”
Mike frowned. So his suspicions about Carter’s nervousness that night had been well-founded. “The Corbins might have been right. Carter doesn’t have any guts.”
“It could be more than that. He could be growing a conscience.”
“Why? Did he spill something when you interviewed him?”
“No, but I did some digging into Carter’s background since then. It took me a while to uncover the connection—I found out he’s related to the Marchands.”
Mike didn’t like being surprised. The Corbins hadn’t told him this, so either they didn’t know or they weren’t being completely straight with him. Neither possibility was good. His frown deepened. “How’s he related?”
“Carter’s old man was Anne Marchand’s brother. He was the black sheep, got kicked out of the family when he was a kid.”
“So Luc Carter is Anne Marchand’s nephew,” Mike said slowly, digesting the information. “And those sisters are his cousins.”
“Yeah, only they don’t know. It’s just a guess, but I’d say Carter made his deal with the Corbins out of revenge. He’s probably looking to bring his family down as payback for how they treated his father.”
“And you’re sure the Marchands don’t know who he is?”
“Positive. He’s been going by his mother’s maiden name so they wouldn’t know—”
“Wait a minute.” Mike leaned forward. “You said his father was Anne Marchand’s brother? What was his name?”
“Pierre Robichaux.”
As the pieces began to click into place, Mike was
startled into a sudden laugh. “Pierre Robichaux? Damn, that’s rich.”
“Why?”
“I knew him. He was one of my best customers and he never caught on that the games were rigged. He ran up close to a million in markers….” Mike smiled and relaxed against the seat cushion, enjoying the irony of the situation. If Carter was going after the Marchands to avenge his father, he was looking in the wrong direction.
“Do you want me to take Carter out?” Otis asked.
Mike considered that for a while, then shook his head. “I don’t want to get rid of him yet. His connection to the Marchands is going to make him an easy fall guy. Once the plan goes down, you can shoot him in the line of duty. We’ll make sure to plant enough incriminating evidence to get you a commendation.”
A deep chuckle rumbled from Otis’s belly. To someone who didn’t know him the way Mike did, the laugh would sound jolly. “I can use one,” Otis said. “My captain’s been on my back about this case since the Marchands started questioning people about the fire. It looks as if they’re trying to run their own investigation.”
“You can handle it, can’t you?”
“No problem. They’re not going to find any evidence, I guarantee it.”
Mike flipped open the compartment beneath the seat beside him and handed Otis his payment for the week.
The envelope was continuing to get fatter, but the cop had earned every penny.
THE CRAMPED RESEARCH lab on the top floor of Tulane’s medical building was silent apart from the snick-click of the computer keyboard Dr. Yves Fortier hunched over and the muted beeps as the machine registered another reading. Yves’ wife, Marie, hovered beside the table where Jackson was seated, her brow creased in concentration as she monitored his pulse and the current that was going through his hand.
Charlotte understood the procedure wasn’t painful, but it would be uncomfortable. Tiny pads with electronic sensors had been placed over every millimeter of Jackson’s hand, trailing fine wires that bristled outward like a bizarre metal glove. One by one and then in carefully determined sequences each electrode was stimulated and the level of response to the charge was recorded. The data was being fed into a computer program that would build a three-dimensional map of the wound and the degree of damage to the affected nerves.
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