Julie was surprised by his knowledge of business economics. He was a security officer, after all, not an MBA. “It’s not a publicly held company,” she argued. “It can’t be bought if it’s not for sale.”
“If Charlotte can’t bring in enough income to keep up with her payments, she’ll have to sell it. Either that or she’ll lose the place to the bank holding her mortgage.”
Julie wished he didn’t sound so convincing. “The cash-flow situation isn’t that dire,” she assured him. “The hotel has had its ups and downs, but that’s normal in this industry.”
“The hotel needs another up,” he argued. “It’s had more downs than ups lately.”
She wondered how much she could trust him. He’d been thoroughly vetted before Charlotte had hired him, and he was soliciting her advice out of concern for the hotel…and most important, he’d been the one to find the broken glass in time to remove those dangerous towels before they caused serious harm. Surely that marked him as trustworthy.
On the other hand, she was pretty sure he’d been in her office sometime between last night and this morning, and he’d lied about it. As a security professional, of course, he had access to every office. He hadn’t stolen anything, hadn’t sabotaged anything—hadn’t even touched anything, as far as she could tell.
She supposed she could trust him, at least a little. “A huge chunk of money mysteriously disappeared from the budget a few years ago,” she told him. “As I understand it, this happened right around when Remy Marchand died. That money still hasn’t been tracked down.”
“A huge chunk? How huge?”
“One million dollars.”
He digested that bit of information with a nod. “There are ways of tracking down missing money,” he pointed out. “Security firms can trace it.”
“I’ll suggest that to Charlotte.” That was actually an excellent idea. Her respect for Mac jumped another notch. “It was a staggering loss at a time when the Marchand family was reeling from the tragedy of Remy’s death. If the hotel’s finances are shaky, it probably dates back to that period. But we still have bookings. The restaurant still requires reservations on weekends. Ever since we reopened after Katrina, money has been coming in.”
“I hope it’s enough money to keep the hotel afloat,” Mac said, squinting as he gazed into the sun. “And I hope to God we don’t have any more episodes with broken glass.” He shoved himself to his feet and extended his hand to Julie. “I’d appreciate your keeping your eyes and ears open, and letting me know if there are any big changes in the financials. I can monitor the security situation, but you’re in Charlotte’s office. You can monitor what happens there.”
“Why didn’t you discuss this directly with Charlotte?” Julie asked as they started down the walk toward Decatur Street. He released her hand, and she flexed her fingers, as if that would remove the lingering warmth of his clasp.
“It’s her family,” he said. “She may not be ready to face the facts, or she may already know the facts and be ten steps ahead of me.” He shrugged. “Or maybe she wants to sell and isn’t ready to let the staff know. I just thought it would be better to talk to you about it.”
Julie sighed. She wished Mac had confided in someone else, if only so she wouldn’t be burdened by this new worry. But he’d chosen her because… He trusted her.
The sidewalks were beginning to fill with people leaving work early and tourists swarming the French Quarter in search of food and entertainment. The saxophonist one block down was still playing his heart out, a sweet bluesy wail emerging from the bell of his instrument. At the corner Mac patted Julie’s shoulder and signaled her to wait, then darted across the street. She expected him to toss some money into the man’s case, but he didn’t. Instead he waited until the sax player ended his song, then clapped him on the back. The musician grinned wide enough to split his face in two and the two men embraced.
Who is Mac Jensen? Julie wondered, watching as he and the other man chatted for a minute. Mac was a glorified rent-a-cop working for the hotel, but he had a sophisticated understanding of business. He knew something about tracking missing money. He was a street jazzman’s pal.
And standing near him, sitting next to him, feeling his fingers close around her hand or brush against her chin did dangerous things to her equilibrium.
After a brief exchange, Mac and the saxophonist bumped fists and Mac crossed the street to her side once more. “A buddy of mine,” he said unnecessarily. “I would have introduced you, but he can be kind of crabby sometimes if you interrupt him while he’s playing.”
“He didn’t seem crabby today,” Julie observed, wondering how Mac would have introduced her. As a friend? A coworker?
“I didn’t know that until I was already over there. Next time, I’ll drag you along.”
What did he mean by next time? Did he plan to take regular walks to Jackson Square with her?
Her brain was full to bursting. She had enough worries on her plate with her weird e-mails, the financial straits the hotel was in and Mac’s suspicions about a possible buyout. Thinking about what was going on between her and Mac—assuming something was going on—pushed her into overload. She could practically hear alarms clanging inside her skull, warning her of an imminent short-circuit.
Fortunately, he didn’t run into any more old friends as they walked the rest of the way back to the hotel. A bellhop held the door open for them, and they stepped into the lobby. Julie usually arrived and left using the service door out back. Entering the Hotel Marchand’s lobby from the street was an entirely different experience. The gold-hued walls, the dark hardwood floors, the plush rugs, the sofas and chairs upholstered in cream and ruby fabrics and accessorized with tapestry pillows, the majestic curved staircase to the second floor and the mirrors, artwork and antiques combined to give the airy room the atmosphere of an eighteenth-century plantation house.
Behind the credenza that served as a check-in desk lurked computers and telephones, and a short walk down one hall led to vending machines, but the lobby allowed as little of the modern world as possible to taint the atmosphere. Anne had handpicked most of the furnishings herself years ago, rummaging through antique shops and estate sales, mixing genuinely valuable pieces with inexpensive, comfortable furnishings to create the hotel’s warmth and welcome.
The wooden shutters framing the windows had in fact come from a plantation house on the Mississippi River, miles north of the city. Julie still remembered helping the maintenance workers to bolt those shutters before Hurricane Katrina. They’d protected that old plantation house through nearly two centuries of storms, and they’d protected the Hotel Marchand, too.
That someone might attempt to snatch this precious hotel out from under the Marchands was simply unacceptable. Julie hated that Mac had planted the notion in her head, even though he’d done so with the intention of preventing such a thing from happening. He wanted the hotel to remain in Marchand hands, where it belonged.
He was one of the good guys.
She peered at him. His gaze had zeroed in on Luc, who was at his post behind the concierge desk, cheerfully describing something to a middle-aged couple, shaping the air with his hands. Mac’s attention veered from there to the French doors leading out to the courtyard, and from there to a bellhop arranging luggage on a cart, and from there to a check-in clerk wearing a telephone headset and typing on her computer. At last he’d completed his inspection of the lobby and turned to Julie.
“Thank you,” she said.
He favored her with his devastatingly sexy grin, and she wondered just how good a guy he was. “For what?”
“For caring what happens to this place,” she said. She touched his arm, smiled and then pivoted and headed for the stairs, refusing herself a backward look. If he was still grinning, if his dark eyes were still luminous and his skin still gave off that seductive scent, she didn’t want to know.
“GOOD GOD, JULIE, you look like an extra from Night of the Living Dead,” Creighto
n exclaimed as Julie climbed out of her car. He’d driven into the parking area just ahead of her and waited by his car to greet her.
“Really?” She attempted a smile. “Not even one of the stars?”
“Come with me,” Creighton said, hustling her up the front walk to the porch, his silver hair rippling in the evening breeze and his open duster coat flapping with each step. “I’m going to fix you a drink.”
“Thanks, Creighton, but I don’t think—”
“It wasn’t a question,” he said, silencing her. She waited patiently while he unlocked the front door and they entered the ramshackle old mansion together. “Is it that handsome man you introduced me to yesterday?” he asked as they collected their mail.
“Is what that handsome man?”
“Is he the reason you look so dreadful?”
Creighton was such a sweetheart, Julie couldn’t take offense at his criticisms. Instead she laughed. “I don’t think I look dreadful. I look like someone who’s put in a long day. Which I have.”
“I put in a long day, too, and I look magnificent,” Creighton said grandly. He tucked his mail under his arm and gestured toward the stairs. She preceded him up them, pausing only to riffle through the envelopes she’d pulled from her mailbox. Nothing important—bills, solicitations, the usual.
At the top of the stairs she crossed to her door. Creighton followed her, as if he feared she might slip inside and refuse him the opportunity to fix her a drink. She wouldn’t do that. As exhausted as she was, and as dreadful as she looked, she wouldn’t mind spending a few minutes in the company of someone whose agenda was obvious.
“I promise,” she said as she shoved her door open, “I’ll come over as soon as I change my clothes.”
“Five minutes, love, and then I’ll be banging down your door with a battering ram.”
“You’re a very bossy man,” she scolded before stepping inside. It took her less than five minutes to change out of her suit, hang everything up and slip into her old jeans and a soft gray sweatshirt with McGill, her alma mater, printed across the front in bright red. No messages awaited her on her answering machine, so she pocketed her key and crossed the hallway to Creighton’s door, which he’d left unlocked for her.
Creighton was the art director of a regional magazine, and his apartment was filled with framed photos and artifacts. Although his place was slightly larger than hers, Julie always felt a little claustrophobic when she settled onto the love seat in his living room and found herself surrounded by painted ceramic animals, hand-thrown pottery, wooden carvings and walls covered with landscapes and art photos. Creighton owned a house on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain, but he spent most of his time in his cramped Garden District pied-à-terre.
“So, tell me,” he called to her from the kitchen, where he was no doubt concocting some complicated beverage. “What’s the story with that luscious man?”
“There’s no story,” she called back, kicking off her clogs and tucking her feet under her on the love seat. “He’s just someone I work with.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
Because I’m lying, Julie muttered under her breath. Because I know damn well Mac is more than just someone I work with—only I don’t know how much more, or exactly what. “I think you have a crush on him,” she teased, figuring her best defense was a good offense.
“Well, who wouldn’t? Straight men and dykes, I suppose.” He swept into the living room, carrying two tall tumblers containing something brown and frothy. He handed one glass to her, then settled into the wing chair that faced the love seat across a coffee table adorned with a jade sculpture of a crane, a brightly colored set of Russian matrioshka dolls and a pair of scallop shells polished to a pearly white. “I think you should ask him to escort you to the hotel’s Twelfth Night party.”
Julie took a sip of her drink. It was cold, sweet and wonderful. “He works at the hotel all day. Why would he want to attend the party at night?”
“Why would you? You will, though, won’t you? It’s always a marvelous time. I’ve reserved two tickets. I’ll be taking Stanley. You remember him, don’t you?”
“You broke up with him,” Julie recalled.
“Amicably. He always enjoys a good party, too.”
“Well, if I go…” Julie leaned back into the cushions and sighed. Sinking into the spongy upholstery, she felt every ache, every twinge, the accumulated fatigue of an overlong day. “I probably won’t decide until the last minute.”
“Nonsense. You’ll go. You’ll dress like a fashion diva and everyone there will fall at your feet. Including that adorable man you ‘just work’ with. If he’s giving you a hard time, Julie, I want to know.”
“He’s not.” Another lie, perhaps, but as much as she trusted Creighton, she wasn’t ready to discuss Mac with him. Even if she was, she wouldn’t know what to say.
“Someone is giving you a hard time, love. You look wrung out. Gray is not your color, by the way,” he added helpfully, gesturing toward her sweatshirt.
“There’s a lot going on at work,” she admitted. That, at least, was the truth. She had to help Charlotte and now Anne put together the party, the hotel’s finances had Mac worried about a possible takeover attempt, someone had seeded guest towels with broken glass, she’d received two ominous e-mails from somebody who wanted to remind her of her days as the face of Symphony Perfumes, and Mac… Whenever he was close to her, her entire nervous system flew into a frenzy. And he was spending too much time close to her. She couldn’t tell Creighton all that, but she had to tell him something. “Anne Marchand has decided she wants to help with the party.”
“Good for her.” Creighton clapped his hands, nearly spilling his drink. “Her health is up to it?”
“She thinks so, and since I haven’t talked with her doctors, I only have her word for it.”
“You don’t want her help?” he guessed.
Julie took another sip. What was in this amazing drink, anyway? Crème de cacao? Rum? Milk and crushed ice? She hoped it wasn’t so potent that she’d have trouble finding her way back to her own apartment once she’d finished it—and she intended to consume every last drop. “Of course I welcome her help,” Julie said. “She’s got such good instincts. She’s changed, though. She let her hair grow, and she wasn’t wearing her usual perfect makeup. It’s like she’s cut loose a little.”
“Maybe she needed that. I can’t wait to see her at the party. She’ll be there, won’t she?”
“Before today, I wasn’t sure. But now…well, she certainly looks ready to party.”
“I wonder if she’ll bring her mother,” Creighton said, then cackled. “The Dragon Lady.”
Julie had heard a few things from the Marchand daughters about their grandmother, but she’d never met the woman. “Do you know Celeste Robichaux?”
“Darlin’, anyone who’s lived in this city long enough knows the players. Celeste is very old wealth. Rich as sin and tough as nails. You know the type. A steel magnolia and then some.”
“That would explain where all the Marchand women inherited their strength,” Julie said.
“Ah, but they’re sweet. Celeste is ferocious. You’d get a kick out of her, if she didn’t scare you to death.”
Julie laughed and took another sip of her drink. She’d rather listen to Creighton gossip about New Orleans society than think about all the worries weighing down on her. “How is Stanley doing?” she asked.
It was just the right question. For the next half hour, Creighton regaled her with stories about his ex-boyfriend, his colleagues at the magazine and his ninety-two-year-old mother, who still plaintively asked him when he was going to get married, even though he’d told her about his sexual orientation many times. He mentioned a new technique he’d learned for frying okra that didn’t spatter so much and left the vegetable remarkably tender, and he described a vacation trip he was planning to Alaska that summer. “Twenty-three hours of daylight,” he rhapsodized. “I’ll be able to
take photos in natural light at three in the morning.”
Imagining Creighton photographing glaciers and fishing villages at three in the morning was preferable to fretting over towels embedded with glass splinters. Imagining him sailing along the arms of the ocean that reached between mountains and riding on the back of a dogsled was preferable to trying to puzzle out who “4Julie” was and what her mystery correspondent was trying to tell her. Imagining Creighton winning over all of Alaska with his high-octane energy and abundant cheer sure beat contemplating the Hotel Marchand’s precarious finances.
And anything was better than thinking about Mac, about the way his piercingly dark eyes seemed able to cut right through her, the way his fingers felt against her skin, the way his honey-smooth voice wrapped around her. It was better than thinking about the way he treated her with a strange kind of intimacy, even though she hardly knew him.
Anything was better than wondering whether he would lead her someplace dangerous, someplace she shouldn’t want to visit. Someplace she was dying to see.
CHAPTER SIX
MAC WAS SURPRISED to discover Frank at the Crescent City Security office when he arrived there around seven-thirty, armed with a roast-beef po’boy, a jumbo coffee and a download of Julie’s most recent e-mails—including a new one from “4Julie”—on his flash stick. “What are you doing here?” he asked his partner. “If I knew Sandy was sitting all by her lonesome tonight, I’d be at your place instead of here.”
Frank took Mac’s taunting in stride. “Be my guest,” he said with a snort. “Go spend your evening with her. She’s driving me crazy.” He ran a hand through his curly brown hair and trailed Mac down the semilit hall to his office. “She wants a baby.”
“So make a baby with her.” Mac shoved his door open, then turned to stare at Frank. “You don’t want me to make a baby with her, do you?”
“What I want is a little sympathy,” Frank retorted, following Mac into the office and flopping down in a chair. “I love her, okay? I’d like to have a baby with her. Just not yet.”
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