The Setup

by Marie Ferrarella

  The next moment, she was in the shower stall, moving as fast as she could.

  Anne frowned to herself, picking up the dress her daughter had hastily discarded. Sylvie was racing around like someone on borrowed time. Something wasn’t right. The hotel had had its share of trouble lately. Was this about more of the same?

  Taking a large bath towel, she placed it within Sylvie’s easy reach on the rack and then paused as a realization struck her.

  “Sylvie?”

  Sylvie raised her voice to be heard above the running water. “Yes, Mama?”

  “Where is your underwear?”

  Sylvie felt as if she’d just been struck with a two-by-four across the forehead. For a second, everything froze.

  Sylvie closed her eyes. Her underwear. She’d been in such a hurry to get back, she must have forgotten her bra and panties at the gallery. But saying that would only lead to more questions. Like, what were they doing off in the first place?

  Digging deep, Sylvie managed to retrieve behavior that had been all but forgotten, buried in her long-ago yesterdays.

  She brazened it out. “I decided to be daring last night.”

  “And were you?” Anne finally asked, trying to keep her voice as nonchalant as possible. “Daring,” she added when there was no response.

  Mothers and daughters shouldn’t be having this kind of conversation, Sylvie thought. And then an image of her own daughter flashed in her mind. If Daisy Rose ever tried to shut her out…

  As she got out of the shower and quickly toweled herself dry, Sylvie took pity on her mother. Seeing this from the other side really was a bear, she thought. This new perspective created an entire list of things for which she wished she could apologize to her mother.

  “The blackout made things difficult for everyone, Mama.” It was a nonanswer, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances and not lie. She absolutely hated lying.

  Sylvie realized she was getting away with a mild version of the Spanish Inquisition. Had her grandmother been up, as well, the brass knuckles would have come out within seconds of her crossing the threshold. It wouldn’t matter that Sylvie didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want to leave herself open to criticism because of her indiscretion and especially didn’t want Celeste to find out about the missing painting. Her grandmother had a way of extracting information no one wanted to volunteer.

  Sylvie moved as quickly as she could. The first order of business was to see if any of the surveillance cameras had somehow managed to stay working, despite the power failure. If she had a clue, just one little clue as to who had taken the painting, she was convinced she could get it back. Blessed with a glib tongue, she knew how to swing a deal, whether it was with a patron, a guest, or some opportunist off the street. She would have liked nothing better than have the thief thrown into jail, but that wouldn’t solve anything. Patience, bribery and a certain amount of luck were the keys to getting the Wyeth back.

  But no police.

  “I’ll see you later, Mama. I’ll call if there’s anything to tell.” God but she was getting good at double-talk, Sylvie thought. “Thanks for taking care of Daisy Rose for me.” Planting a kiss on her mother’s cheek, Sylvie took a quick peek at her sleeping daughter, then hurried out of the apartment again, her fresh clothes clinging to her still damp body.

  SYLVIE WAS BEYOND BREATHLESS as she hurried back into the hotel, leaving the beleaguered valet to try to figure out just where to park her car this time. The lot the hotel used was filled to capacity.

  Crossing the lobby in record time, she nodded at Luc, who was back at his post at the information desk. Although she would have liked to put off telling Charlotte about the stolen painting, she hated having things hang over her head. Now that she had washed the scent of Jefferson’s cologne from her skin, she felt a little more capable of facing her sister.

  She spotted Charlotte talking to a group of men and women—tourists, she thought by the way they were dressed. They were smiling, so that was a positive sign. This was probably as good a time as any to check in with her sister.

  As the group dispersed, Charlotte looked up and saw her. Sylvie felt as if their eyes locked. As she approached, she saw that the expression on her oldest sister’s face had turned somber.

  Tiny fingers of panic fluttered over her. Had Charlotte heard about the Wyeth? Had she come into the gallery looking for her, and seen the empty spot for herself? Did Charlotte know that in all likelihood, she’d been making love with Jefferson when the painting was taken?

  Excuses rose to her lips with lightning speed. Sylvie forced them back. She wasn’t going to say anything, wasn’t going to take the initiative and tell Charlotte her side of the story. Not yet. She’d learned that it was best to let the other person do the talking. That way she could gauge exactly what Charlotte knew. Or, with luck, didn’t know.

  “Hello, Charlotte.” She did her best to sound breezy, even though she felt anything but. “You look as if you’re about to attend a funeral. Your own,” she added after a second’s pause. She offered Charlotte a thousand-watt smile. “It can’t be that bad, really,” she declared. “Whatever it is, the hotel will recover.” She thought of the damage they’d suffered because of Katrina. “It always has before.” It was a sentiment, a phrase, that she intended to keep on repeating in hope that it would eventually calm Charlotte down.

  To her surprise, Charlotte wasn’t looking at her as if she was horribly disappointed. If Sylvie wasn’t mistaken, that was compassion in her sister’s eyes. That didn’t make any sense.

  Sidetracked for a moment by what Sylvie had just said, Charlotte tried to be reassuring. “Some of the guests are complaining that there was minor theft during last night’s excitement. I’m going to have Security check them out, separate any real theft from the opportunists trying to cash in on the chaos—”

  “Good idea,” Sylvie said with a degree of enthusiasm that might have been, in her judgment, just a little over the top. Charlotte was a workaholic, but she wasn’t stupid.

  “Sylvie…”

  Oh, God, here it came. The blame, the recriminations. The disappointment. She couldn’t wait for it, couldn’t just stand docilely by and allow herself to be drowned in it. “Look, Charlotte, I have an explanation—”

  Charlotte blinked, her face a road map of confusion. “What?”

  Sylvie suddenly realized that maybe they weren’t on the same wavelength. She didn’t want to bring her lack of judgment to Charlotte’s attention if her sister didn’t know anything about it. Pressing her lips together a moment, she stopped her words of defense. “You first.”

  Charlotte took a deep breath, hating to be the bearer of bad news. “He’s here.”

  Sylvie stared, no more enlightened now than she was a minute ago. “Who’s here?”

  “Shane.” Charlotte said the name as if it burned her tongue. As far as she was concerned, the man who had left her sister to face parenthood alone was worthless scum. Had she known that he was checking into their hotel, she would have told him that his room had been given to someone else. But now her hands were tied. “He’s here and he’s asking for you.”

  For a second, Sylvie could only stare at her sister blankly. Then she remembered the phone calls. She should have returned the phone calls. If she had, maybe he wouldn’t have come. Oh, God. “Shane?”

  Charlotte looked into her eyes as if searching for something. “Daisy Rose’s father.”

  Fatigue and worry had shredded Sylvie’s patience. “I know who Shane is. I was a little wild back then, Charlotte, but I wasn’t out of my head.” Damn, what was he doing here? Why now? “Did he say why he’s asking for me?”

  Before Charlotte could answer her, Sylvie felt herself being grabbed around the waist from behind. The next moment, she was airborne and being spun around.

  And then she heard someone ask, “How are you doin’, luv?”

  Recognition was immediate. The slightly overpowering cologne, the affected British accent
that habitually came and went during the course of a sentence. It could only be Shane Alexander, the man who had cast a spell on her for a crazy two months—until she came to her senses.

  People were staring at them. Sylvie was about to demand that Shane put her down and explain his sudden reappearance in her life, when she saw Jefferson getting off the elevator and walking into the lobby.

  And looking straight at her.

  At them.

  She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but in his place, she wouldn’t have been thinking anything good. Sylvie put her hands on top of Shane’s and tried to push them off.

  “Put me down, Shane.”

  Shane laughed. It was a deep, throaty, sexy sound. “Hardest bird to sweep off her feet,” he said to Charlotte as he set Sylvie down again.

  Sylvie swung around to face him. “I’m not a bird, Shane, I’m a woman. I think that might have been your first mistake.” And mine was in thinking that you could ever build a relationship with anyone but the reflection in your mirror.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Jefferson had stopped walking her way. She didn’t exactly want him in the same area as Shane because she didn’t know what the latter was capable of saying, but she didn’t want Jefferson going away, either. The last thing she wanted was for him to think there was something still going on between her and this rock-and-roll has-been.

  Mustering the best smile she could, Sylvie beckoned Jefferson over, fervently wishing she’d had more than the space of a faster-than-the-speed-of-light shower to mull over their situation. If they even had a situation.

  There was a lot to sort through.

  Relationships, she thought, never used to be this hard.

  Satisfied that Jefferson wasn’t about to walk away nursing a wrong impression, Sylvie turned to really take a look at Shane for the first time in three years.

  He’d aged, she realized. More than just a little. More than three years’ worth. He still wore his hair long—it was past his shoulders—but there were streaks of gray in it now. He looked like a mountain man who had lost his way. The hard living he’d subjected his body to throughout the years was all there in his face. He looked like thirty miles of bad road.

  He sure wasn’t pretty anymore, Sylvie thought, almost feeling sad for Shane. She wondered if he still had his voice, or if that, too, had suffered the ravages of his lifestyle.

  “What brings you here?” she asked, her tone just shy of curt. “Touring with the band?” If Lynx had gotten back together and was providing Mardi Gras entertainment anywhere in New Orleans, she hadn’t heard of it. Glancing at Charlotte, she saw her sister shake her head.

  “If you’d answered your phone, you’d know why I’m here.” Draping one long arm around her shoulders, Shane laughed harshly. “The band and I are history, luv. They had too much ego. I’m looking to start my own band. I was carrying them, anyway.”

  If anyone in the band had had too much ego it had been Shane, she thought.

  “Well, good luck with that,” she said, cutting him off before he could launch into a lengthy discussion about his fights with the band or his plans for a new group. She had all the crises she felt capable of handling right now. Listening to Shane go on and on was something she didn’t have the stomach or the time for.

  Sylvie began to move away, but Shane caught hold of her wrist, stopping her.

  She saw Jefferson step forward, his shoulders squared. Like a big protector. Arthur, about to banish a renegade Lancelot. The image made her smile. And though she wouldn’t have thought it was her style, the image also warmed her.

  Shane had both age and weight in his favor, but of the two, Jefferson looked more fit. In a contest, he could probably hold his own, if not take Shane. Even so, it wasn’t something she wanted to see happen. She’d grown up, Sylvie realized. She didn’t want to witness an exchange of blows or even heated words on her behalf.

  Sylvie could tell by Shane’s stance that he was feeling territorial. Because she didn’t want him to think there was a chance in hell he could just pick up where they’d left off before Daisy Rose, Sylvie turned and brushed her lips against Jefferson’s cheek.

  She managed to surprise not only Jefferson and Shane, but Charlotte, as well.

  “Hi, honey,” she said cheerfully to Jefferson. “Getting impatient?”

  SYLVIE HAD CAUGHT him up short. Jefferson was still scrutinizing the somewhat eccentric-looking man in front of her. He was vaguely aware that the woman she’d introduced last night as her sister was now looking at him in the same way: as if she was weighing and measuring him.

  Not altogether certain exactly what Sylvie needed of him, only that he wanted to be able to provide it, he responded, “Something like that.”

  Shane looked temporarily confused, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he’d been insulted. The next moment, he leered at Sylvie, then cast a condescending glance toward the man she’d just greeted. “She’s a pistol, that one, isn’t she?”

  Jefferson took an instant dislike to the man. He vaguely recognized him from a poster Emily had had on her wall advertising a Lynx tour. So, this was the father of Sylvie’s child. What the hell had Sylvie been thinking?

  And what the hell was he thinking, having feelings for her?

  He reined himself in. He was getting carried away again, something he wasn’t accustomed to. There was no accounting for taste, and he knew that rock stars held a certain allure for young women. He hoped to God his Emily would have more sense.

  “Where I come from,” he informed Shane evenly, barely containing his contempt, “we don’t discuss women as if they were inanimate objects.”

  Sylvie’s eyes widened. Jefferson was defending her honor. Like some Southern aristocrat from a different era. She felt like throwing her arms around Jefferson’s neck.

  Shane’s eyes became two dark slits as he regarded the other man. “I don’t know where you’re from, bloke, but from where I’m standing, I’d say they’ve got sticks up their butts there.”

  This was going to escalate, Sylvie realized. Jefferson wasn’t about to back down and Shane didn’t have enough brains to back off.

  She quickly moved between the two men, standing closer to Jefferson, her body language telling Shane just who she was siding with.

  “This stops here, Shane,” she ordered. “You should have let me know you were coming. This is our busy season. I don’t have any time to catch up.” She was about to say that he might as well go, when he threw a grenade into her garden.

  “I tried to let you know, but you never answered your damn messages. Besides, I’m not here to catch up, luv,” he told her. “I’m here about Daisy Rose.”

  Maternal instincts had her stiffening like a road warrior, ready to do battle at a moment’s notice. “What about Daisy Rose?” she said tersely.

  “I want her.”

  The words were simple, but she found she couldn’t process his statement and make any sense of it. “What?”

  “I want her,” Shane repeated. He wasn’t accustomed to having to explain himself. His was a world where he expressed a desire and it was met. Frowning, he tried again. “Look, I’m getting married next month.”

  The news hit Sylvie like a blow to the stomach. When they’d been together, Shane had sworn six ways from sundown that he was never going to get tied down to any one woman, adding that if he ever did, it would be her. She’d been flattered by the line, had actually believed it. Now she knew he’d said it to break down any defenses she might have had.

  He’d obviously played her for a fool, and it stung, even as she strove to show him that it didn’t.

  “Congratulations,” she said icily.

  “Yeah, thanks.” Shane didn’t seem to notice that the sentiment wasn’t tendered with any warmth. “Patty wants kids,” he told her.

  Patty. That would be his bride-to-be, she surmised.

  “So why don’t you have one together?” Jefferson inquired mildly.

  Shane scowled at th
e interruption. “Who the hell is this bloke?”

  Exasperated, Sylvie struggled not to lose her temper. Since last night, it had been just one thing after another. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

  “Damn it, Shane, will you stop with the accent? Everyone knows you’re from New York. And as for who this is—” she hooked her arms through Jefferson’s “—this is Jefferson Lambert. My fiancé.”

  She slanted a glance toward Jefferson and was grateful to see that he took in stride the bombshell she’d just dropped on him. No surprise was evident in his expression. He hadn’t so much as winced. The man was one cool customer. Thank God.

  Charlotte’s jaw, however, had dropped about as low as it physically could go. And she was staring at Sylvie with huge, disbelieving eyes.

  “Sylvie,” Charlotte cried.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Charlotte,” Sylvie told her in measured tones. She turned to Shane, trying to contain her anger. “I don’t know what’s running through your head about Daisy Rose, but you can’t have her. You can’t just walk into her life after three years—after never even seeing her once—and suddenly want to play daddy.”

  Sylvie knew that Shane had never let logic deter him. Now was no exception.

  “She’s half mine.”

  “She’s not a piece of cake to be divided up equally,” Sylvie shot back. “You gave up rights to her, remember? I believe your exact words were, ‘Good luck, luv’ as you walked away. When I called you after she was born to tell you that you had a healthy daughter, you mumbled something like ‘huh,’ and hung up.”

  He looked annoyed that she would bring any of that up. “I was younger then.”

  Sylvie rolled her eyes. “You were forty. That’s not exactly a kid.”

  Obviously changing tack, he lowered his voice and smiled at her as if she were a nubile fan he’d selected to seduce for the evening.