The Setup

by Marie Ferrarella

  “Give me a break, Sylvie. Don’t say no.” He ran his hand up along her arm. “Patty would make a great mother.”

  She pulled back as she regarded him coldly. “So make her one.”

  He sighed, exasperated. “She doesn’t want to get pregnant. Too messy.”

  Shane had finally met his match, she thought. Someone as acutely narcissistic as he was. “Sounds like a winner already. I can see why you’re in love.”

  Angry at the hoops Sylvie was making him jump through, he glared at her. “You always were a ball buster.”

  “Apologize,” Jefferson ordered evenly. His voice was low but there was no mistaking his intention to back up his command if need be.

  Shane tossed his head, his hair flying over his shoulder, nostrils flaring.

  Alarmed, Sylvie tried to draw Jefferson away. She couldn’t budge him. “Jefferson, really, it’s okay.”

  “No,” he replied, his eyes never leaving the tall, thin guitarist, “it’s not. Apologize.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  VOICES OF HOTEL GUESTS in the lobby faded into the background as the two men stood toe to toe before the front desk.

  It was a well-known fact that Shane Alexander was not accustomed to hearing the word no. He’d spent almost two decades having his every whim attended to. But, in the end, Shane’s sense of survival prevailed over his inflated ego and he grudgingly spat out the required words that would bring an end to this standoff.

  Without looking at Jefferson, Shane mumbled, “Didn’t mean anything by it, luv. You know that. Just me talkin’.” His mouth curved as he inevitably made another stab at seducing her. One side of his mouth lifted. “You and me did a lot of talkin’ once.”

  Sylvie knew that look. Shane wasn’t referring to any verbal language. The “talking” he was reminiscing about had taken place beneath the sheets. A million years ago, in another lifetime….

  “Once,” she agreed, her tone dismissive, telling him that all that belonged buried in the past. A past she did not want to revisit. She nodded toward the elevator bank. “Don’t you have a would-be future wife to see to?”

  Temper flared in his eyes. Shane didn’t like being dismissed. But because of the man standing beside Sylvie like some kind of medieval gatekeeper, he retreated. For the time being.

  His parting words did not reassure her. “I’m not giving up, you know, luv. There’re a lot of ways to skin a cat.”

  Jefferson wasn’t completely sure what was going on here, or just what Sylvie and Shane’s history entailed beyond the daughter she obviously adored, but he did know when someone was being threatened. He looked at the aging rocker coldly.

  “But then all you have is a mess on your hands,” he said to Shane pointedly.

  There was barely suppressed fury in Shane’s eyes. He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his artistically torn jeans. “Ain’t over yet,” he promised again with no trace of what he viewed as his trademark accent. And he stormed off.

  Charlotte released the breath she’d been holding. When she looked at Sylvie, her eyes were filled with concern. “That jackass doesn’t really stand a chance, does he? He can’t take our Daisy Rose, can he?”

  Just one damn thing after another. This newest disaster had Sylvie so furious she could hardly form coherent sentences. She hung on to the anger. It helped blot out the vein of fear that ran through it.

  “So that the bimbo he’s marrying can play with a life-size baby doll?” she snapped. “Over my dead body.” Her mind scrambled for an immediate solution that didn’t involve buying a box of ammunition. “I’ll go into the Witness Protection Program with her first.”

  In the face of fear, there was an increased need for logic, Jefferson knew. Very gently, he pointed out, “You won’t be put into Witness Protection just because you don’t want your child’s father to have joint custody.”

  Joint custody was bad enough, but Sylvie had a feeling that Shane was talking about full custody. She knew how his mind worked. Thank God she’d come back here to her family, to a stable life. Two years ago, despite the fact that he had once been part of a rock band that had less than a stellar reputation, he probably would have had more financial security to offer Daisy Rose. At least on paper. Given the right judge, things might have gone Shane’s way.

  She clenched her hands at her sides. Shane was never going to get custody of Daisy Rose, not as long as there was breath in her body.

  “Then I’ll have to come up with something they’ll want to protect me for, won’t I,” she replied, her voice low, steely and determined.

  Taking one of her hands in his, Jefferson moved his fingers in between hers and unclenched her fist. His tone was soothing. “You will,” he assured her, then amended, “We will.” He wasn’t sure just where that had come from. He only knew that he meant it. Meant to protect her and the child she loved.

  How did he know? she wondered. How could he look at her and say that with such confidence? Was he just humoring her? But even as the questions seemed to bounce around in her brain, she could feel herself calming down. It was going to be all right. She could handle this—

  “Mama! Mama!”

  Sylvie stiffened as she heard the cry. Daisy Rose? Startled, she turned in the direction of her daughter’s voice. She was just in time to see a child hurtling toward her. In less than a heartbeat, Daisy Rose had wrapped her little arms as far around her mother’s thighs as she could manage.

  Stunned, grateful that Shane had left, Sylvie ran her hand over the little girl’s curly hair. “What are you doing here, sugar?”

  “Hugging you,” Daisy Rose told her simply, her voice muffled.

  Sylvie could feel her daughter’s warm breath against her legs, right through her skirt.

  “She wanted to see you,” Anne told her, coming up behind the girl. Daisy Rose had bolted from her the moment she’d seen her mother. The little girl’s legs moved a great deal faster than Anne’s did these days.

  But much as she loved her daughter, she didn’t have time for Daisy Rose right now. She needed to track down the missing painting, Sylvie thought. Though, Shane’s threat had her holding onto her little girl tightly.

  “Mama, you’re squishing me,” Daisy Rose protested.

  “Sorry.”

  “Daisy Rose really wanted to see you,” Anne said.

  Sylvie looked at the small, round face that was regarding her so intently. “I’ve got a lot to do today, cupcake—”

  “Not the least of which is to give me details,” Charlotte interjected, as if suddenly coming to.

  “Details?” Sylvie prayed that Charlotte was not referring to the missing Wyeth. Wouldn’t she have said something immediately if she knew that it had been taken?

  Guilt pricked at her. She shouldn’t be playing these games. She should have told Charlotte the second she saw that it was missing.

  But she did so like this newfound respect that her sister accorded her. If Charlotte knew that she’d spent the night acquainting herself with Jefferson’s anatomy and vice versa while someone was making off with the Wyeth, there was no way she would be able to redeem herself, not for the next twenty years.

  “Don’t give me that,” Charlotte scoffed, and looked pointedly at the man whose arm Sylvie had just been hanging on to. The man who looked as if he’d been prepared to fight for her honor when that loudmouth jerk threw a slur her way. After all the losers who had passed in and out of Sylvie’s life, it looked as if she had finally wound up with Clark Kent and Superman, rolled into one.

  Since it had been her doing, along with Melanie’s and Renee’s, that had gotten Sylvie and this modern-day white knight together, Charlotte couldn’t help wondering if she should feel pleased with herself—or worried as hell. After all, Sylvie had just indicated they were going to get married!

  Shifting gears, Charlotte looked at Jefferson. “Are you really her fiancé?”

  At any other time, Sylvie might have indulged herself and continued to pull Charlotte’s l
eg just for the fun of it at least for a little while. But she had to find that missing painting. Her grandmother would never forgive her carelessness. Yes, the Wyeth was insured, but no one could put a dollar value on a masterpiece—not to mention that the hotel’s reputation would be forever damaged. She could just hear it now: “Come to the Hotel Marchand—but watch out for thieves!”

  “Sylvie?” Her mother looked at her quizzically.

  She waved away the concern of both women. “Of course not. I just said that so Shane would think he’s up against more than just a ‘mere woman,’ which is the way that jackass thinks.” She flashed Jefferson a grateful smile. “Thanks for playing along.”

  A wishful expression flickered over his features. “Does this mean the engagement is over?”

  Damn, Sylvie thought, he just kept getting sexier looking all the time. She grinned at him. “’Fraid so.”

  “Shane?” Anne repeated, both stunned and horrified. “You mean that—” moving so that she was standing behind Daisy Rose, Anne covered her granddaughter’s ears and lowered her voice “—that no-good snake-in-the-grass, her father?” When Sylvie nodded, Anne demanded, “What’s he doing here?”

  Sylvie would have preferred having this discussion somewhere more private, but her mother didn’t appear to want to wait for an answer. “He came to ask for custody.”

  Anne looked as if she had just been physically threatened. Instinct had her placing a protective hand on Daisy Rose’s shoulder. “Custody?” she echoed.

  Sylvie nodded. Daisy Rose gave no indication that she knew the importance of what was being said. “He’s getting married and his new wife wants to play house, with all the trimmings.”

  Anne blew out a breath. As far back as the girls could remember, she had never shouted, never raised her voice or lost her temper. But there was fury in her eyes as she said, “That man is the worst kind of useless vermin.”

  “Mama,” Charlotte cried, stunned.

  “Well, he is,” Anne said matter-of-factly. “Now, if you’re fine with Daisy Rose, Sylvie, I’m meeting someone for brunch.

  “Someone?” Sylvie asked, her eyebrows rising.

  Anne’s cheeks pinkened slightly, but she gave no further details as she kissed her granddaughter goodbye.

  Sylvie watched her mother leave. “You know, the best thing that could happen to mother would be to have a man in her life again.”

  “What!” Charlotte looked appalled.

  “A man,” Sylvie repeated. “Mama deserves some happiness and there’s nothing like the right man to put the curl back in your hair. According to Grand-mère, she’s been going on morning dog walks with Grand-mère’s neighbor, William Armstrong, and—”

  Sylvie caught her bottom lip between her teeth. This was not a conversation she and her sister needed to have now.

  Changing gears, she glanced down at her little handful-and-a-half. “So, munchkin, you missed me?”

  “Uh-huh.” Always curious, Daisy Rose stared up at the man beside her mother, interest blossoming on her small face. “Who are you?”

  Jefferson glanced at Sylvie before answering. Who was he? he wondered. Up until last night, he had thought he knew. But last night had turned everything on its ear. Shaken everything up. Made him want things he’d thought he was beyond.

  “That,” he said to Daisy Rose with a wink, “is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

  Like most only children, Daisy Rose was smart for her age. Everyone at the hotel wanted to teach her something, and her language skills and grasp of numbers were far more advanced than those of most children her age. But this was a larger number than she’d ever tackled before. “Is that more than a gazillion?”

  Jefferson pretended to think the question over. “No, I believe a gazillion beats out sixty-four thousand pretty easily.” His answer earned him a huge grin not only from Daisy Rose, but from her mother.

  Nothing touched Sylvie faster than someone being nice to her child. “You know child-speak.”

  He was a single parent who dearly loved his daughter. Who had treated her, from the first, as an adult in the making, even as he savored every moment of her childhood. “I used to be very versed in it when Emily was a little girl.”

  Sylvie’s stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t had anything to eat since the sandwich at her impromptu picnic dinner. The pie must still be on the tray in her office. She wasn’t going to be able to search for the painting with Daisy Rose, anyway, and her daughter loved to eat out. It made her feel like a grown-up.

  “Are you up for some breakfast?” she asked Jefferson, then turned to Charlotte. “Is the kitchen back in gear?”

  Charlotte nodded. “The staff practically worked overnight, but they’ve managed to get everything back in order. Speaking of which, I’ve got to check with Robert about dinner.” With a wave, she left the three of them in the lobby.

  “If you’re real good,” Daisy Rose informed Jefferson solemnly, as if imparting a great secret, “the chef makes the pancakes look like Mickey Mouse.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to be real good,” he told her.

  Daisy Rose beamed.

  Sylvie approved of his answer. And of him. She watched her daughter slip her hand into Jefferson’s. Daisy Rose was a friendly child, but she gave her affection cautiously. Yet it was there, in her smile, as she looked up at Jefferson.

  Uncertainty nibbled away at her. Should she be running for the hills, or enjoying this? Jefferson seemed like a decent, wonderful man who liked children, but she’d known him less than twenty-four hours. She had to be careful about leading with her emotions instead of her head. She’d done that too often in the past and it had always gotten her into trouble.

  Right now, she wished that Charlotte, Melanie and Renee had minded their own business. Then maybe the painting wouldn’t be missing and she wouldn’t be tied up in indecisive knots.

  Daisy Rose was staring at her impatiently. “C’mon, Mama, before they’re all gone.”

  “Yeah, c’mon, Mama,” Jefferson laughed.

  With a surrendering shrug, Sylvie fell into place on the other side of her daughter. “Let’s go.”

  God but this felt good, he thought. It was so easy to slip back into a role he’d occupied happily when Emily was a girl and Donna was alive.

  Part of him was sending out warning flares, telling him to back off now, while he still could. But another part knew that it was already too late. He might as well make the most of this while it lasted.

  SOMETHING WAS WRONG.

  Frowning, Emily Lambert closed her cell phone again, worried. That made ten times she’d tried to reach her father. Ten times that she’d found herself listening to his recorded voice, telling her to leave a message at the tone.

  “I have,” she told the phone accusingly. “But you’re not returning any of them.”

  Frustrated, she’d called Blake earlier today. Reaching him hadn’t been easy, but she’d succeeded. Not that it had done her any good. Her godfather had told her that he and her father had gotten separated because of the freak blackout that had hit parts of New Orleans. The blackout was the reason she’d begun calling in the first place. The TV had been on last night while she was finishing up her homework and she’d heard the news bulletin. Worried, she’d tried to call her father. And had gotten his voice mail.

  Why wasn’t he answering his messages? A blackout wouldn’t have affected her ability to get through to him. Telephones and cells didn’t use electricity. But when she’d called his room last night, there had been no answer. She assumed it was because he wasn’t there. But he hadn’t picked up first thing in the morning, either.

  Something wasn’t adding up. Her father was the most dependable person on the face of the earth. Why wasn’t he checking his messages?

  Emily had the uneasy feeling that her father needed her. He was brilliant at what he did, but he didn’t fare all that well on his own away from home, she thought, shaking her head.

  Tr
ying to call her father between classes today just wasn’t going to cut it. She would only become more and more frustrated. What she needed to do was be there. She made up her mind so fast her brain almost had whiplash, but she knew exactly what she had to do. She had to ditch her classes for the day and fly down to New Orleans. She knew exactly where he was staying. She’d been the one to help make the online reservation.

  Reaching into her back pocket, she took out her wallet. She flipped it open and looked inside. The credit card her father had given her for emergencies was right where she had left it. So far, she’d only used it to pay for small items, like books she needed for school or a pair of jeans. Although neither constituted an emergency, the purchases had been okayed by her dad.

  This, however, was something completely different. A missing father really was a bone fide emergency.

  Emptying her backpack onto the bed, she dumped out her books and hastily threw in a change of clothing and a few necessities. She zipped the backpack up again and gave it a once-over. It looked as if it were still packed with books. Good.

  “Bye, Grandma, I’m leaving,” she called out cheerfully a few minutes later as she headed out the door. “Gotta dash or I’ll be late for the bus.”

  “Have a good day, Emily,” her grandmother called.

  Emily felt guilty about lying. But she knew she would feel worse about not doing anything if it turned out something had happened to her father. As she hurried away from the house and down the block to the bus stop, she tried her father on her cell one last time. Still no response.

  Because she believed in covering all bases and was an optimist at heart, Emily redialed her godfather.

  “Talk to me,” he said when he answered the phone.

  At least she had gotten through to someone. “Uncle Blake, where is he?”

  “Emily. Hi.” He sounded surprised. “Your dad? He’s enjoying himself I guess. The last I saw, he was driving off into the night in a horse-drawn carriage with Sylvie Marchand, the date we hooked him up with. She seems to like him.”