Blood began to pulse in every tender area. Stress, need, whatever she wanted to call it, it was happening again. She shifted her hips so she could put her hand on his thigh. “You’ve changed, too.”
“I’ve grown bigger?”
She could tell by his smile what he wanted to hear, so she decided to tease him. “You’re hairier.”
He slid on top of her, then leaned back on his heels to straddle her thighs. “Is there anything else you happened to notice?”
“You’re, uh, slower.”
A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. “I should hope so.”
She sat up and slipped her hands under his shirt. “What time is it?”
“Almost seven. What time do you need to be at the hotel?”
“My first appointment isn’t until ten.”
“That gives us—” He stopped. “Damn!”
“What’s wrong?”
He kissed her forehead, then eased backward, away from her touch. “I wasn’t prepared for what happened last night, but we can’t take any more chances. I need to find a drugstore.”
It took her a second to realize he was talking about birth control. It was lucky that he’d remembered—why hadn’t she thought of it herself? Her brain really was having trouble functioning when it came to this man. She caught the edges of his shirt before he could retreat further. “Check my purse. It’s in the living room.”
“Your purse?”
“Renee gave me a box of condoms yesterday.”
Jackson hadn’t slowed down that much after all, Charlotte decided, laughing as he sprinted through the doorway.
JACKSON HOOKED HIS heel on a rung of the bar stool, unconsciously moving his head and shoulders in time to the beat that wove through the jazz. He’d heard that the woman who was singing, Holly Carlyle, used to perform regularly here at the Hotel Marchand until she’d started to sing in her boyfriend’s club, but in the party spirit of Mardi Gras, she was putting in a guest appearance tonight. The show was a treat—Holly’s vocals were pure, easy and perfectly in tune with the mellow tones of the saxophone that played in the background.
And speaking of being in tune… Jackson moved his gaze to the table where Charlotte sat. Although she was immersed in her conversation with Melanie, her foot was keeping time with the beat. He liked the look of her in those high heels. They made her legs look sexy and gave a little wiggle to her walk. He liked her habit of wearing skirts rather than pants, too. She’d left the tailored suit jacket and blouse at home today and had worn a sweater instead. To someone who didn’t know her, the beige cashmere might seem conservative, almost bland, giving no hint of the passionate woman it masked.
As if she felt his regard, she turned her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes sparkled in a brief private smile before she returned her attention to her sister.
That was all it took for his body to respond. He shifted to find a more comfortable position on his stool, his mouth lifting wryly at his lack of control. He would have thought after those hours in her bed this morning his desire would have started to wane. Instead it was only getting stronger. He might not be a teenager anymore, but he still had the appetite of one.
He wouldn’t have guessed that he and Charlotte would be so compatible in bed, considering how disastrous their teenage attempts at sex had been. On the other hand, the circumstances they found themselves in were exceptional. As he’d reasoned earlier, given their current situation, they’d both benefited from physical release. In fact, it was healthy.
What had he been so worried about? It was sex, that’s all. He wasn’t going to open any old wounds. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to make the mistake of falling in love with Charlotte Marchand again.
At the thought, his smile faded. No, he wouldn’t fall in love. It wasn’t part of the equation this time. They were both clear about why they were together—he was helping her get through the next few days, that was all.
Jackson did a slow survey of the barroom, noting the uniformed security guards near the entrances. Several more who weren’t wearing uniforms blended in with the crowd. As he looked past the door to the service corridor, he saw a tall man walk through and head purposefully toward Charlotte’s table. Jackson didn’t try to intercept him—it was Robert LeSoeur. The women had been waiting for him to arrive so they could discuss the refreshments for Tuesday night’s ball.
Robert sat beside Melanie and draped his arm across the back of her chair. He didn’t try to hide how he felt about the youngest Marchand sister. The love on his face was obvious, and why not? Those two shared the same profession. They worked in the same place and had the same goals. They were obviously well suited for each other. Neither one was expected to give up anything for the other.
But he wasn’t going to open old wounds, Jackson reminded himself.
“Sorry, Luc. I think you’ve had enough.”
Jackson looked toward the voice. The pair of customers who had occupied the stools beside him had departed, giving him a clear view of the man who sat at the end of the bar.
It was Luc Carter, the hotel’s concierge. He was still wearing his uniform blazer, but the knot of his tie hung loosely and his shirt collar was unbuttoned. His normally neat blond hair was furrowed, as if he’d been raking his hands through it. He rapped his empty glass against the bar. “I haven’t had anywhere near enough, Leo. Give me another.”
“I’m trying to do you a favor, man,” the bartender said, easing the empty glass from his hand. “You want to make an ass of yourself in front of the boss? Miss Charlotte is right over there.”
Luc twisted to look behind him and nearly tipped off his stool. He grabbed the edge of the bar to retain his balance. “Come on, I finished my shift. Just one more.”
Jackson moved down the bar and sat beside Luc. “How’s your wrist?”
Luc blinked to focus on him, his eyelids sluggish. “Fine, doc. Couldn’t be better.”
The scent of alcohol on Luc’s breath confirmed what his disheveled appearance and lack of coordination had already made apparent. It was no wonder the bartender had refused to serve him—this man appeared to be as drunk as Jackson had been tempted to get the night before.
Jackson glanced at Leo. “A black coffee, please,” he said quietly. He waited until the bartender brought the cup, then tapped his finger against Luc’s sleeve near the place where he’d bandaged the cut. “Has anyone looked at this since the night of the fire?”
“I told you, it’s fine.”
Keeping his movements casual, Jackson slid the sleeve back until he saw the edge of a clean gauze bandage. He touched his fingertips lightly to the skin beside the gauze and found it cool. He couldn’t detect any sour aroma, either, so the cut likely wasn’t infected. Whatever was bothering Luke, it wasn’t his injury. “I’d like to thank you again for your help with Emilio last week,” Jackson said. “The hospital staff told me his burns are healing well.”
Luc closed his hand into a fist and smacked the bar, causing the coffee cup to rattle in its saucer. “Damn them.”
“Who?”
“The Corbins. They’re scum.”
There had been no advantage to keeping the Marchands’ suspicions about the Corbin brothers a secret—all the hotel employees had needed to be put on alert for their appearance and for any further attempts at sabotage. Because of that, Jackson didn’t find Luc’s statement unusual, but the vehemence with which he spoke seemed off. “We’re doing everything we can,” Jackson began.
“They have to be stopped before they hurt anyone else.”
“We won’t give them the chance.”
“The Marchands have been good to me. They’ve treated me like family. They don’t deserve this.”
“No, they don’t,” Jackson said, pushing the cup closer to Luc. “They’re good people.”
Luc eyed the coffee. “I don’t want that. I want another drink.”
“It won’t help.”
“What?”
“Getting drunk. Avoiding a
problem won’t solve it. It’ll still be there when you’re sober, only it’ll look even worse through a hangover.”
Luc slumped forward, put his elbows on the bar and dropped his head into his hands.
Jackson looked past him to where Charlotte was sitting. She was still involved in her conversation with Melanie and Robert. Mac’s men were circulating unobtrusively, keeping a watch on the patrons and the doorways. The singer started another number. Everything appeared normal, so Jackson returned his attention to Luc.
The man was deeply troubled. Jackson suspected it had to be about something more personal than the problems of his employer. “Is it money or a woman?” he asked.
Luc turned his head just enough to glare at Jackson through one eye. “What?”
“Whatever’s bothering you.”
Luc snorted. “Is this a hobby with you, going around sticking your nose into other people’s problems?”
“As a matter of fact, it is,” Jackson said. “I can’t help it, been doing it all my life.”
“Sure, it’s easy to play the nice guy when you’re born with a silver spoon in your mouth. You wouldn’t understand what it’s like to be on the outside looking in.”
Jackson tilted his head. “I’ve never had money, Luc. I don’t know where you got that idea.”
“You’re tight with the Marchand family. And you’re a doctor.”
Although Jackson might have been accepted by the Marchands, he doubted whether Grand-mère Celeste would ever change her opinion about him. But he wasn’t going to start explaining that to Luc. “I’m a doctor because I won a full scholarship to Harvard,” he said. “I couldn’t have afforded even one year of state college on what I earned delivering refrigerators for my father’s store. I know all about being on the outside looking in.”
Luc’s elbow slid against his coffee cup. He jerked upright and wiped the spatters from his sleeve. He was silent for a while, as if debating whether or not to go on. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its edginess. “My old man was born rich. Silver spoon, big mansion, the whole works, but his mother kicked him out.”
“She must have had a reason.”
A muscle twitched in Luc’s jaw. “She did. He never saw that he brought it on himself. He blamed everyone else for trashing his life.”
“Where is he now?”
“Dead.”
Jackson watched him closely. He didn’t believe Luc was drinking because of grief, so he didn’t offer any condolences. Instead he waited in silence for the concierge to speak again.
Luc stared down at the coffee cup in front of him. “The problem is—” His voice hitched. He cleared his throat and grabbed the cup with both hands. “I blamed everyone but him, too. I never gave his family a chance. I thought I owed it to my old man to settle the score and now I’ve ended up trashing my own life.”
“How, Luc?”
“It’s too late to fix things.”
It was hard to follow Luc’s cryptic ramblings. Jackson took a stab anyway. “You want to reconcile with your family. That’s what’s bothering you, right?”
Luc moved his head back and forth in a slow negative. “There are too many lies. I don’t know how.”
“It’s simple. Just tell them the truth.”
Luc gulped down half the coffee, then coughed and wiped his eyes. He looked around the barroom, stopping when his gaze reached the table where Charlotte, Melanie and Robert sat. Abruptly he shoved himself off the stool.
Jackson grabbed his arm. “Careful there.”
He jerked his arm free and staggered sideways a few steps. “You were right.”
“Luc—”
“Sitting here getting drunk won’t solve anything. That’s the kind of thing my old man would have done.” He smoothed his hair and straightened his tie, his hands shaking with the clumsy concentration of someone striving to appear sober. “I need to tell the truth.”
Jackson frowned in concern. “Let Leo call you a taxi.”
Luc patted his pockets and came up with a cell phone. “Thanks, doc, but I got it covered.”
There was nothing more Jackson could do short of forcing the man back on the stool and waiting until he sobered up. Besides, his priority was to keep an eye on Charlotte, not to dispense free advice. He looked at her table, only to discover it was empty.
All thoughts of Luc were smothered by a surge of pure adrenaline. She was gone. God, no!
But the panic that kicked up his pulse was short-lived. Before he could get more than two strides from the bar, he heard her voice behind him.
“Hi, handsome. Do you come here often?”
He blew out his breath and pivoted to face her. She was smiling. A real smile, not one of her professional ones. The sight didn’t exactly calm his pulse, but it brought it down to a rate reasonable. He tried to ignore the tightness that persisted in his chest—he didn’t want to examine why he’d been so quick to panic in the first place.
Holding out his good hand, he endeavored to keep his voice casual. “No, I don’t, but I heard this is where the most beautiful women are.”
She took his hand and laced her fingers with his. The briefcase she’d brought into the bar with her was gone. Instead she held a white paper bag in her free hand. “Are you enjoying the music?”
“Sure. You were right—Holly’s good. Did you finish your business?”
“Yes, we’re all done. I made sure of it, see?” She held up the bag. “I traded my briefcase to Melanie for a midnight snack from Chez Remy.”
“Sounds as if you got the better half of the deal. What’s in there?”
She swung the bag behind her back. Her hair rippled as she shook her head. “Oh, no, you don’t. It’s not midnight yet.”
He smiled at the note of teasing in her voice. This was more like the Charlie he used to know. He slid his arm around her waist, swaying gently to the beat of the music. “So what did you decide on for the ball? I’m guessing it wasn’t po’boys and beer.”
“Robert and Melanie want to pull out all the stops for this one. They said they intend to make it a night to remember.”
“You’re still not looking forward to it.”
“I’m looking forward to it being over. The Corbins’ offer expires at midnight, the same time we end the ball.”
And once the hotel was no longer the target of a take-over, Jackson thought, his stay with Charlotte would be over, too.
But Yves would have finished the second test by then, anyway. If the news was good, he’d be scheduling surgery and Jackson could begin planning his return to work.
Charlotte laid her hand on his chest. “What’s wrong?”
It was a good question. Why did the thought of getting what he wanted—of them both getting what they wanted—leave him feeling hollow?
The music slowed. The saxophone resonated with the opening bars of an old torch song, a melody of loss and yearning. Jackson didn’t want to listen to that—or to the questions in his head. He put his lips beside Charlotte’s ear. “Want to go someplace where we can get naked?”
She laughed. “I thought you’d never ask.”
ONLY A TRACE OF THE melody reached the courtyard, yet the longing in the notes came through loud and clear. Luc wove his way past the lounge chairs and moved into the shadow of a lemon tree. Leaning his back against the trunk, he inhaled deeply in an effort to clear his head.
It would be simpler to walk away and just keep going. He could talk himself into another job without any trouble, just as he’d talked himself into this one. People trusted him, they called him charming, and he’d always had the gift of making people like him. He’d inherited that talent from his father.
Just as he’d inherited his cowardice?
Luc regarded the cell phone he clutched in his hand. He didn’t have to make the call. It still wasn’t too late to cut his losses. If he left now, the Marchands would never have to know who he was. He could fade out of their lives the same way his father had. His grandmother hadn’t me
llowed—she was still the unbending tyrant who had banished her only son. He wouldn’t miss her.
Yet he’d miss the others. Anne was a good woman, as were her daughters. They’d fought back against all the problems he’d caused during the past months and had kept the hotel going. They hadn’t collapsed under pressure; they were the same generous, compassionate women he’d grown to know and admire. Their courage shamed him, as did their trust. He couldn’t simply walk away and leave them to fend for themselves.
But the only way he could stay was by telling the truth. And if he did that, they might not want anything to do with him. Not that he could blame them…
He dropped his head back against the tree trunk. That was the point: he couldn’t blame them. He shouldn’t have in the first place. Too bad it had taken him so long to figure it out. As he’d told that doctor, he’d trashed his life. The best he could hope was that he’d end up in jail. That is, if Blount didn’t have him killed first.
The thought sobered him faster than the fresh air. Luc glanced around the courtyard, but apart from a few groups of guests who strolled near the pool, he couldn’t see anyone hanging around. That didn’t guarantee anything, though. Mike Blount was planning something big, Luc was certain of it. The vandalism the Corbins had done was only a prelude. And no one was telling him anything, which didn’t bode well. Every bit of common sense he possessed was warning him to get out now.
But his heart was telling him something else altogether. He’d believed the Marchands owed him, but it was the other way around. If he wanted the chance to be part of this family, he had to stop thinking about what he could take from them and start focusing on what he could give.
The music swelled to one last lingering note, then ended in a round of applause. Luc lifted his phone and dialed the number he’d found in Charlotte’s office when he’d planted the Corbins’ offer in her briefcase. He’d committed the phone number to memory days ago—some part of him had known all along that this was the only way out.
The voice that came on the line was businesslike yet still good-natured.
Luc took a steadying breath and began to speak. “Hello, Detective Fergusson, this is Luc Carter….”
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