“What does that mean?” she demanded.
“Gambling and prostitution,” Jackson said. “That’s what he’s talking about. He’s probably going to make the Hotel Marchand his headquarters.”
Blount saluted him with his wineglass. “I knew you were a bright man, Dr. Bailey. That’s exactly what I’ll do.”
Anger tightened Charlotte’s lips. “I would sooner see the hotel burned to the ground than have it perverted like that. My family has put their lives into that business. They would never want any part of something so sordid.”
“Your family?” Blount sneered. “Let me tell you about them, Miss High-and-Mighty Marchand. It was because of your family that I noticed the hotel. It should have been mine more than four years ago.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve had to put up with people like you Marchands all my life. You think because I grew up on the bayou and worked with my hands you’re better than me, but I get the last laugh. I’ve made a fortune separating fools like your family from their money. Your uncle couldn’t get enough of my games. Poker was his choice.”
“My uncle? Who are you talking about?”
“Did you forget about your Uncle Pierre?”
“Pierre?” She strained forward. “Mon Dieu, what do you know about him? Where is he?”
Jackson eased apart another length of tape. He wanted them to keep talking, but he was concerned about Charlotte. She’d barely had a chance to deal with one blow before she was being dealt another. He’d heard of Pierre Robichaux, the black sheep of Anne’s family. The man had disappeared well before Charlotte was born, driven out of his home in disgrace by Celeste.
“He’s dead now,” Blount said. “But not before I got what I wanted out of him.”
Charlotte’s eyes filled with a renewed wave of tears. She bit down on her lower lip, stubbornly refusing to let her tears fall.
“I knew Pierre’s family had money,” Blount continued. “That’s why I let him keep losing. He got into me for a million before I called in his markers. I thought he’d go to his rich mama to bail him out, but he didn’t. He went to your papa. Didn’t make any difference to me who gave me the money as long as I got it.”
The pieces clicked in Jackson’s mind at the same time they must have fitted together in Charlotte’s. She gasped. “My father transferred a million dollars to the Cayman Islands just before he died,” she said. “Are you saying that went to you?”
“Remy was a real stand-up guy. Paid off his brother-in-law’s debts without blinking as soon as I threatened to kill him.” Blount snickered. “He knuckled under almost as fast as your mama did today.”
“Oh, good Lord,” Charlotte murmured, still trying to come to grips with it. “The money was for Uncle Pierre. Mama never knew.”
“I figured with you Marchands down that much cash, the hotel would be up for grabs in no time.” Blount pointed at Charlotte. “I don’t know how you and your mother kept it going, but it’s mine now. And it’s about time. I’ve been a patient man.”
“You cochon,” Charlotte said through her teeth. “You’ve been preying on my family.”
Blount drained his wineglass, placed it on his desk and retrieved his knife. “Your father was easy prey. So were your uncle and your cousin. And your insults don’t bother me. I’d rather be a rich pig than a dead fool.”
“My cousin?” Charlotte asked. “What—”
“Ah, that’s right, you didn’t know about that either.” Blount smiled. “You’re a bigger fool than you realize. You never guessed that Luc Carter was your cousin.”
“Luc?”
“Sweet, isn’t it? He hated you Marchands so much he would have brought you down for free.”
More pieces clicked in Jackson’s head. Luc was Charlotte’s cousin. It had been the Marchands and Celeste Robichaux he’d been talking about in the bar; they were the family he’d blamed for his father’s failure. Of course! Pierre had been born rich, his mother had kicked him out—it all fit. Now those ramblings made sense.
Too bad he hadn’t made the connection before, Jackson thought. Charlotte looked as if she’d been punched. Her breathing was fast and shallow—she was nearing the end of her control. “Luc wanted to tell you the truth, Charlotte,” he said, longing for some way to comfort her. “He wanted to be part of your family.”
She swung her head toward him. “You knew?”
“Not who he was, just that he regretted what he’d done.”
“Again, this is all very touching,” Mike said. “But it makes no difference. You’re all going to end up in the same place.”
Jackson wrenched his hand sideways, sending shards of pain through his wrist and up his arm. The tape was loosening—he could feel space between his knuckles—but the progress was too slow. Blount’s boasting was taking on an air of finality, not a good sign. “You’re going to need someone to run the hotel,” Jackson said. “If you want to use it as a front, you’ll need to keep up its reputation. Charlotte’s the best manager—”
“Nice try, Doctor, but I have no further use for Miss Marchand.” Mike returned to the doorway. “I only put people I can trust on my payroll.”
How much time had passed since the phone call to Anne? Jackson wondered. Whoever Blount had sent to pick up the signed contract could be returning at any moment—that had to be what he kept watching for. Jackson felt a bead of sweat snake down his temple as he concentrated on closing his hand into a fist. The tape stretched, ripping apart another half inch.
A sudden shout came from the darkness beyond the office doorway. It sounded like Richard. Blount stepped onto the landing of the staircase, his attention caught by something in the shadows.
Jackson fumbled to get his fingers under the remaining tape and focused on the small revolver that Richard had left on the desk. He knew all about guns, but he’d never held one. He’d seen too much of the damage they could do to consider firing one for sport. He’d never considered intentionally harming another human being either, but he’d meant every word of his threat to Richard. He would do whatever he needed in order to save Charlotte.
More shouts echoed from the warehouse floor, along with the sound of running footsteps. There was a rapid series of gunshots.
Charlotte looked at Jackson, her eyes shining with the first gleam of hope he’d seen since he’d come to. “It must be the police,” she whispered. “Oh, Jackson, we’re going to make it!”
The steel staircase rang with the tread of a heavy man. Blount backed into the office as a familiar jovial face appeared in the doorway.
It was Detective Fergusson, his badge pinned to the outside of his jacket and a large automatic pistol gripped competently in his hand.
Jackson tipped back his head and exhaled in relief, glad that he’d underestimated the cop’s abilities.
“Thank God,” Charlotte breathed.
“Any trouble, Otis?” Blount asked.
“No problems, Mike,” Fergusson said. “The Corbins are taken care of. I had to shoot them when they resisted arrest. Is that Richard’s gun?”
Jackson’s blood froze. No. God, no!
“That’s it. His prints are on it,” Blount replied. “It’s the same one he used to shoot Carter, so this should wrap everything up in a nice, neat package.”
Fergusson holstered his own gun, pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and slipped them on. “Thanks, Mike. I could get that commendation yet.”
Charlotte began to tremble. “Detective Fergusson?” she asked. “What’s going on?”
It was Blount who replied. “My old friend Otis is helping me get rid of those loose ends I mentioned.”
Fergusson picked up the revolver. “The Corbin brothers have been responsible for a regular crime wave at the Hotel Marchand, culminating in a daring kidnapping.” He pointed the gun at Charlotte. “Unfortunately I didn’t arrive in time to stop them from killing their hostages.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHARLOTTE HAD O
FTEN heard that before a person died, their life flashed before their eyes. Hers didn’t. No, she didn’t see any orderly mental snapshots of memorable events or people. All she saw was a haze of rage.
Not now! she screamed in her head. This couldn’t be her fate, to die like this. It wasn’t fair. Not when she’d finally figured everything out. She rocked forward suddenly, using the weight of the metal chair for momentum to carry her to her feet.
“Charlie, get down!” Jackson yelled, surging past her.
The realization that he’d managed to free himself sent her pulse soaring. But layers of duct tape still bound her arms to her chair. She couldn’t straighten up, so she lowered her head and ran at Fergusson.
Jackson got there before her. He grabbed Fergusson’s arm and swung the gun aside a split second before Charlotte rammed into the cop’s stomach.
The collision with his bulk knocked her backward. She reeled, trying to stay on her feet, when the legs of her chair swung into something solid.
Blount cursed, and the knife he had been holding went skidding across the floor. Charlotte was shoved forward. Unable to keep her balance, she fell to her knees. She tried to scramble up, but without the use of her hands, her stocking feet slid out from under her, sending her down hard on her side.
Footsteps sounded on the staircase and shouts came from the darkness outside. “FBI,” someone yelled. “Freeze!”
A gun went off close by. The noise was followed by the thudding punch of flesh on flesh and the crunch of bone. Charlotte lifted her head, twisting her torso in an attempt to see what was happening behind her.
Men in helmets and bulletproof vests crowded through the doorway, their weapons leveled. Mike Blount raised his hands and clasped them behind his head just as Detective Fergusson dropped his gun, staggered sideways a few steps and slumped to the floor. Other details registered in some part of Charlotte’s mind, but as soon as she saw Jackson, nothing else mattered.
Pieces of duct tape dangled from his wrists, the bruises on his face were darkening to violet, but he was still on his feet. He was all right.
“Jackson!” she cried.
Before his name got past her lips, he was kneeling on the floor beside her, his hand on her shoulder and his face pressed to hers. “Are you okay?”
She nodded against his cheek, gasping for breath. There was so much to say, but her throat was too tight for speech. They were alive. She would get another chance. That was all that really mattered.
He ripped away the tape that bound her. The chair clattered to the floor as he pulled her into his arms. She couldn’t tell whether the trembling she felt was his or her own.
“You’re safe, Charlie,” he said. “No one’s going to hurt you now.”
A radio crackled. “Send an ambulance,” someone said. “We have multiple gunshot victims.”
Charlotte anchored her fingers in Jackson’s shirt. Fergusson’s gun—no, Richard’s gun—was less than two feet away. Blount’s knife gleamed in the shadow under the desk. She belatedly realized she must have knocked it out of his grasp when she’d stumbled into him with her chair. Her teeth started to chatter as the full scope of what had happened hit her. She ducked her head, seeking the hollow of Jackson’s shoulder, needing the reassurance of his touch more than she needed air.
He’d risked his life for her. He’d even offered his own life to spare hers. She hadn’t thought it was possible to love him more, but she did.
“You’re safe,” he repeated. “Look.” He shifted his hold, turning her so she could see past him. “They won’t hurt anyone.”
Secure in the shelter of Jackson’s embrace, Charlotte watched the scene unfold. Blount was handcuffed and led away by a pair of men in dark blue windbreakers with FBI emblazoned across the back in white letters. Someone must have switched on the warehouse lights—the glass wall of the office gleamed with reflected brightness. Sirens sounded in the distance, along with more voices, but she couldn’t hear anyone running now.
Several uniformed New Orleans police officers had surrounded Fergusson. He was still on the floor where he’d fallen, moaning and clutching his nose. Blood trickled between his fingers and soaked his white mustache, yet no one was making a move to help him. Not even Jackson.
“It’s okay,” Jackson said, rubbing his mouth against her hair. “It’s all over.”
His words made her shiver. “Oh, God! It was so close. Are you okay, Jackson? Is your head still aching? Does your hand hurt?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
She leaned back to look for herself, but she didn’t get past his lips.
The kiss was as natural as drawing breath. She closed her eyes and drank in the taste of him, driving back the fear that still clouded her mind.
And in spite of the cold floor, the milling police and FBI agents, the din of radios and men’s voices, Charlotte felt a sense of rightness, as if everything was finally settling into place.
“Miss Marchand? Dr. Bailey?”
Jackson touched his forehead to hers. “We’ll finish this later, Charlie,” he whispered.
“Jackson—”
“I promise,” he said.
A man in plain clothes had separated from the rest of the police and was approaching them. The face seemed familiar. A second later, Charlotte recognized him. It was the policeman who had dealt with the death of a hotel guest several weeks earlier. Renee had mentioned that she was trying to contact him. “Detective Rothberg!”
He held out his hand to them. “I apologize for the late arrival. Do either of you need medical attention?”
Charlotte hiccuped, unable to think of a coherent response. Did he have to sound so…polite?
Jackson gave her a kiss on the cheek, then slipped his arm around her waist and helped her to stand. “No, we’re all right.”
“That’s some punch you pack for a doctor,” Rothberg said. “It looks as if you broke Otis’s nose.”
Punch? Charlotte glanced at Fergusson again as she replayed the sounds of those last frantic moments. The blood on his face was coming from his nose. He hadn’t been shot; Jackson had hit him.
“If you don’t mind,” Rothberg continued, “I’d like to ask both of you some questions. The FBI would like to speak with you, too.”
“We’d be happy to cooperate after we’ve gotten some rest,” Jackson said firmly. “What we need right now is a ride home.”
Rothberg appeared as if he were about to argue, then stepped back to confer with one of the FBI agents. Nodding curtly, he gestured toward the door. Charlotte and Jackson followed Rothberg out of the office and down to the warehouse floor, where paramedics were beginning to work on Dan and Richard Corbin. The entrance to the street stood wide open. Through it came the flicker of lights from emergency vehicles, as well as the pink tinge of dawn.
It was already morning. In one way, Charlotte couldn’t believe so much time had passed. Yet in another, the night had seemed endless. She was grateful that Jackson had delayed the interviews with the authorities—she should have been exhausted, but her nerves were jumping as if she’d overdosed on caffeine.
Rothberg spoke briefly with some of the officers who were outside, then led Charlotte and Jackson to one of the police cars that were parked in front of the warehouse. Farther down the street, a long black limousine stood with its doors open. Two more police cruisers, their light bars still flashing, were angled against its front and rear bumpers.
Charlotte hung on more tightly to Jackson as an image of their abduction stole through her mind. “That looks like the limo the Corbins were using when they kidnapped us.”
“It belongs to Mike Blount,” Rothberg said, opening the rear door of the police car. “Vice has been after him for years, but he’s always skated through the charges, primarily because he doesn’t leave witnesses.”
“Blount was waiting for his driver to bring the ransom,” Jackson said. “Is that how you found us, by trailing him here?”
“No, we were act
ing on a tip from a man we have in custody. We arrived in time to stop Blount’s driver, but unfortunately we were too late to intercept Detective Fergusson.”
Charlotte paused in the angle of the open door. “Is my mother all right? I have to tell her we’re safe. This must have been a terrible strain on her heart.”
“Mrs. Marchand is in good health,” Rothberg said. “Your mother and your sisters have been cooperating with us throughout the night. I assure you they would have heard the news of your rescue by now.”
Charlotte remembered the nightmarish conversation with Blount. Letting her mother know she and Jackson were safe wasn’t the only thing she had to tell her.
Some of the exhilaration of being rescued faded. She glanced at Jackson. “I don’t know how I’ll be able to break the news about Pierre. Mama doesn’t know he’s dead. She loved him so much.”
“Anne’s a strong woman, Charlotte,” Jackson said. “She’ll be able to handle it.”
“He was her baby brother. I can’t imagine losing any of my sisters. And what about Luc? It’s going to devastate Mama to learn that he died before we got the chance to know who he was. It will hurt her even more to find out that he betrayed us.”
“But he did have regrets, Charlotte. If Luc had lived—”
“Luc?” Rothberg interrupted. “Do you mean Luc Carter, the hotel concierge who was shot?”
Jackson nodded. “He tried to warn us about the plot against Charlotte.”
“Yes, the paramedics related that to us.”
“Blount had him killed because he wanted to turn himself in.”
“But he wasn’t killed, Dr. Bailey,” Rothberg said. “He’s in our custody at Mercy Hospital.”
Charlotte grasped the top of the car door, her knees suddenly wobbly. “What? Luc’s alive?”
“Yes, the last I heard. It’s been touch and go. He wasn’t able to talk to anyone until an hour ago, but he had a lot to say when he did. He’s the one who told us where to find you.”
JACKSON LEANED BACK against the corridor wall, cradled his hand against his chest to relieve the ache and watched Charlotte through the window of the ICU. On the surface she bore little resemblance to the elegantly polished woman he’d first seen in the hotel courtyard a week ago. Her clothes were wrinkled and streaked with dirt. Instead of high heels, she wore a pair of hospital-issue cloth slippers. She’d washed her face and tried to smooth her hair when they’d arrived at the hospital, but whatever straightening product she’d used before was wearing off, because the ends had reverted to her natural curls.
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