The power was on here, for what that was worth. He went inside, climbed the stairs, unlocked his door and stormed directly to the kitchen, to the cabinet where he stored his bourbon. He took a swig straight from the bottle.
What a bastard he was. He’d betrayed just about everyone who mattered. When Julie’s sister had hired him, she’d made him promise not to let Julie know he was guarding her, and he’d betrayed Marcie by breaking that promise. He’d betrayed Frank by failing to honor a client’s trust, which was really bad for their business, and by making love to Julie, which was incredibly unprofessional. He’d betrayed Charlotte Marchand and the hotel’s staff by pretending to be something he wasn’t.
And Julie. God, he’d betrayed her.
He crossed to the living room window and stared at the dark, sleeping world beyond the pane. No carousers paraded up and down the sidewalks here. No lights illuminated the windows. No headlights stabbed the night. He gazed out and saw nothing at all.
He couldn’t see the bottle from which he was drinking, either, but he was able to gauge from its weight and the sound of liquid sloshing inside it that it was at least half-full. Enough bourbon to knock him out cold, but not enough to wash away the guilt and pain that roiled his gut and tarnished his soul.
At least Julie was safe. He was convinced Glenn Perry posed no threat. And Andrea, in police custody, would never cause Julie any harm. The only person who could hurt her now was him, and he’d done a damn good job of that.
He didn’t suppose she’d feel better knowing he was hurting far worse than she was.
The bourbon slid down his throat, warm and potent. A few gulps and Julie’s scent, a mix of gardenias and female arousal, faded from his memory. A few more gulps and he could almost ignore the need humming through his body. There wasn’t enough bourbon in the bottle to enable him to forget the dread that had stormed through him when he’d heard the pop of Andrea’s gun, or the staggering relief that had replaced the dread when he’d found Julie alive. There wasn’t enough bourbon in the entire world to enable him to forget what making love to her had felt like.
He’d have to get by with what he had—in bourbon and in life. In bourbon, half a bottle. In life, a resplendent array of screw-ups. Maybe he could repair some of the damage. Not tonight, not when he was too busy hating himself to think straight. But eventually.
He dozed off before he could drain the bottle. Seated in an easy chair near the window, he dreamed about Julie, the way her hands had floated over the length of his back, the way her hair had snagged in the stubble of his overnight beard, the magnificent length of her legs, the taste of her tongue. He dreamed about the loss of light and the heedless crowds clogging the streets of the French Quarter. He dreamed he was stranded on a corner, searching desperately for a pink feather, utterly convinced that his existence depended on finding it.
When he woke up, the sky outside the window was a milky white, and his refrigerator’s motor was churning. His head pounded as if someone was wielding a sledgehammer inside his skull, and the muscles in his neck seemed to have turned to concrete. The aches in his joints when he stood gave him some idea of what his father must feel like when his arthritis flared up.
He staggered to the bathroom, peeling off his clothing as he went, and took a long, hot shower. Then he brushed his teeth several times to scrub the sour residue of bourbon from his mouth. He swallowed a couple ibuprofen for his headache, pulled on a pair of sweats and trudged to the kitchen to brew some coffee. He added chicory. He needed the strong stuff.
Six-thirty in New Orleans would be seven-thirty in New York—not too early to begin reclamation work on the disaster he’d wrought last night.
He carried his mug of coffee to his desk, turned on his computer and listened to it click and hiss as it warmed up. Why minutes spent waiting for a computer to warm up took longer than ordinary minutes he couldn’t say, but eventually the familiar blue of his Windows screen filled the monitor. He called up his phone book, found Marcie Sullivan’s home number and dialed.
She answered on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Marcie Sullivan?”
“Who is this?”
He sipped his coffee and cleared his throat. “This is Mac Jensen in New Orleans.”
“Oh.” A brief pause. “Oh, God. I heard about your power outage. The French Quarter was out.”
“I’ve got power,” he told her. “I’m hoping the rest of the city does by now.”
“Is Julie okay?”
“She’s fine,” he told her. “She ran into a little trouble, but it’s been taken care of and she’s fine.” He proceeded to tell Marcie about Andrea Crowley, whose name meant nothing to Marcie. He explained that Andrea had waited for Glenn Perry all the years he was in jail and blamed Julie for having ruined his life and Andrea’s.
“Andrea Crowley is under arrest,” he reported. “And every indication says Perry had nothing to do with her attempt at revenge and wants nothing to do with Julie. I know Perry’s the one you were worried about. Turns out we were wrong to focus on him, but right to worry.”
Marcie demanded several more times that Mac swear her sister was safe and sound. He could manage that without too much difficulty. But when Marcie started gushing about how wonderful he was, he couldn’t bear it. He was in no mood to let anyone say anything positive about him.
“Listen, Marcie,” he said, cutting her off. “I’m not wonderful. I told Julie I’d been hired to watch her.”
“Oh, no,” Marcie said, anxiety edging her words. “You told her? You swore to me you wouldn’t.”
“I know.”
“She’ll hate me. She’ll be so mad—”
“I didn’t tell her you hired me,” he clarified. “Just that someone hired me to be a kind of bodyguard for her.”
Marcie digested this news. “She isn’t an idiot. She’ll figure out it was me.”
“Maybe.”
“Why did you tell her?” Marcie railed. “She hates when people try to take care of her. That’s why I made you promise not to let her know. How could you—”
He wasn’t about to tell Marcie what had happened. If Julie wanted to share the details of her sex life with her sister, that was her business. “I’m sorry. I’ll refund your money.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Marcie said without much enthusiasm.
“We had a deal, Marcie. I made a promise and I broke it. That puts me in breach of contract. I’ll have a check cut and sent to you.” Before she could argue, he disconnected the call.
Wasn’t confession supposed to be good for the soul? Mac had done the right thing in confessing to Marcie, and his conscience would emerge even more purified once he’d returned the money she’d paid him. But he still felt like hell, and the quantity of bourbon he’d consumed mere hours ago wasn’t the reason.
His next call was to Frank. Unlike Marcie Sullivan, Frank lived in the same time zone as Mac, and the call awakened him. “What are you, nuts?” Frank growled. “I spent half the night trying to get Sandy pregnant. I deserve some sleep.”
“It’s not that early,” Mac argued. Just as Marcie didn’t need to hear about Julie’s sex life, Mac didn’t need to hear about Frank’s. “I screwed up, Frank. I told Julie Sullivan.”
“You told her what?” Frank asked, sounding less irritable than concerned.
“Everything. Everything except who hired Crescent City.”
Frank cursed. “Why?”
“That’s personal,” Mac said.
Frank was a good enough friend not to press him. He was also a good enough friend to speak honestly. “You blew it, buddy.”
“Tell me.”
“What happens now?”
“I informed the client I’d reimburse her for the fees she’d paid. That’ll come out of my pocket, Frank, not out of the firm.”
“Don’t turn into a martyr on me, Mac,” Frank shot back. “It’ll come out of the firm. At least you’re bringing in a salary from the Hotel Marchand. Crescen
t City can absorb the hit.”
“Can it absorb the hit to its integrity?” Mac asked.
“Sure,” Frank said, though he didn’t sound as positive as Mac would have liked. More of that damn honesty, he reckoned.
“All right, look. The shit hit the fan last night. Someone from New York—not Glenn Perry but some model who’d been in love with him—tried to kidnap Julie and took a shot at her. Julie’s okay, the model’s in custody and, as they say, my work here is done. I’ve still got a ton of stuff to take care of at the hotel. While you and Sandy were making babies last night, I was dealing with more crap than you can imagine. So I’ve got to go and tie up loose ends, and then maybe help the hotel hire a replacement for me as their head of security. It’s the least I can do.”
“Don’t quit the hotel yet,” Frank said. “I’m still trying to track down that missing money. Did you know Anne Marchand had a baby brother?”
“Is he in the hotel business, too?”
“Nope. He’s in the black-sheep business. He wasn’t a Marchand, anyway. He was a Robichaux. Disappeared from New Orleans years ago. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
Mysteries like the disappearances of family black sheep were why Mac and Frank had set up Crescent City Security in the first place. Mac had majored in psychology for a reason; he liked trying to figure out why people did the things they did. On any other occasion, he’d be sharing Frank’s curiosity about Anne Marchand’s brother.
But today he was in too much pain. His head hurt, his gut hurt, and his heart… Hurt didn’t begin to describe what his heart was experiencing.
“It’s not like the hotel’s hired us to track down the money,” Mac reminded him. “We were just pursuing this on our own.”
“Right. And it’s interesting, don’t you think?”
“I’ve just cost us a bunch of money with Marcie Sullivan,” Mac argued. “I don’t know that we ought to be taking on another case for free. We can talk about it later, okay?” He said goodbye and disconnected the call. His coffee had gone cold but he drank it anyway for medicinal purposes, then stalked to his bedroom to change into suitable clothes for work.
The city looked relatively normal as he drove across town to the French Quarter. Some cars were illegally parked and ticketed—Mac would have to clear up any parking tickets stuck under Julie’s windshield wiper—and more trash than usual sullied the sidewalks, but the storefronts remained intact and no signs of vandalism marred the buildings gliding past his car. Pedestrians ambled slowly, many of them looking hung over, but they probably would have looked that way without the blackout. Twelfth Night was a time for heavy-duty partying in New Orleans.
He drove to the street where he’d seen Julie’s car last night. It was no longer parked by the hydrant. He hoped she’d moved it herself. If she hadn’t, he’d have to assume the car was towed or stolen. The police had had more important things to do than tow illegally parked cars last night. A stolen car was always a possibility, though.
A few ripe curses tripped over Mac’s tongue as he continued to the parking lot. Those curses died on his lips when he saw Julie’s car next to a hulking SUV. Mac parked his own car and then jogged across the lot to check hers out. He noticed no obvious damage. No ticket lying on the passenger seat, either.
All of which meant Julie might be in a marginally better frame of mind than if her car had been stolen. But she still wouldn’t want to see Mac.
He tugged the door handle to make sure her car was locked, then headed down the street toward the hotel. As he walked, he gave himself a firm mental lecture. He reminded himself that he was a professional, that his firm’s reputation rested on his shoulders. How he acted at the hotel would reflect on Crescent City Security, on Frank, on Mac himself. That he’d made love to Julie was irrelevant. That she’d kicked him out of her apartment and her life…that was between him and her. No one at the hotel had to know.
“Some night, huh,” Carlos greeted him as he entered the cramped office near the service entrance. “How’d you make out?”
Mac tried not to cringe at Carlos’s unfortunate choice of words. “My building never lost power,” he said. “How about you?”
“My girlfriend and I ate a lot of ice cream,” Carlos said with a grin. “We found other ways to pass the time, too.”
Cripes. Had New Orleans been one big orgy last night?
“Then I arrive at work this morning and find out things were insane here,” Carlos continued. “I read Tyrell’s report. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Mac said, accepting the folder Carlos handed him. Tyrell had done a comprehensive job reporting the discovery of the body last night in Matt Anderson’s room. The folder included not just Tyrell’s report but also a police report and a coroner’s preliminary report, as well as a statement from Eddie in maintenance concerning the damage to the generator. He didn’t mention Luc Carter in his description, and Mac mulled over whether to add that bit of information. He couldn’t prove Luc had had anything to do with the sabotage, but Mac would be having a little discussion with the kid soon.
Of course, he wouldn’t be having any kind of discussion with Luc if he lost his job as the hotel’s head of security. Julie might have informed Charlotte about his true identity, and Charlotte might have already asked Julie to type up a resignation letter for Mac to sign.
If so, he assured himself, Tyrell could handle Luc Carter. In fact, Tyrell could probably run the Security Department successfully, if he was willing to adjust his inner clock and work days instead of nights. Mac reckoned he’d be willing, since switching to working days would mean a huge promotion for him. With an ace like Carlos backing him up, Tyrell would make an excellent head of security. Mac would be sure to recommend him.
As if Charlotte would be open to any suggestions he might have.
Get it over with, he ordered himself, tucking the folder under his arm. “I’m heading upstairs to review this with Miss Charlotte,” he told Carlos.
Carlos’s gaze was fixed on the monitor above the desk. “Go ahead. I’ve got everything covered down here.”
Mac avoided the lobby route, unsure of whether he had the authority to interrogate Luc Carter—assuming Luc was at the concierge desk. Instead, he took the back steps to the second floor and strode down the hall to the administrative offices. He paused at the open door to Julie’s office. His gaze took in her desk, the computer he’d hacked into, the spot near her door where he’d kissed her the first time, where he’d acknowledged that keeping his hands off her was the most difficult challenge he’d ever have to face. As things turned out, it was a challenge he’d failed at.
The chair behind her desk was empty now. Julie wasn’t in the office. A blend of disappointment and relief washed through him. Sooner or later he’d have to confront her, even if that involved dropping to his knees and begging her forgiveness. He ought to take care of business before he humbled himself before her. Surely Charlotte Marchand would want to spend a few minutes humbling him first.
The door to the adjacent office was also open, and when he glanced in, he saw Charlotte seated at her desk. She looked attractive, but a bit fatigued, her hair mussed and her eyes circled with shadows. He hoped he hadn’t added to her exhaustion, but he suspected he had.
He tapped lightly on the door frame. Charlotte glanced up and smiled, such a warm, natural smile that he had to wonder whether she knew the truth about him. “Mac. Thank goodness you’re here,” she said, beckoning him inside.
He hadn’t bothered to put on a tie, but his open shirt collar still seemed to press on his windpipe. Charlotte’s office looked pretty, as always, and sunlight streamed through the tall windows overlooking the courtyard. She was dressed neatly, and her eyes seemed to brighten as he entered the room. She stood, sidestepped the desk and startled him by intercepting him in the middle of the office. She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a warm hug. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough,” she murmured, “but I am so grateful.”
>
For what? Bewildered, he gingerly patted her back, then leaned away from her embrace. “Excuse me?”
“You saved our Julie. Of all the things that happened last night, the scariest was Julie’s abduction. If you hadn’t saved her…” Charlotte pressed her hand to her chest, as if holding her heart in place. “But you did save her. I owe you—all of us here owe you so much, Mac. Julie is like a baby sister to me. Not that I need any more baby sisters,” she added with a laugh.
“I’m not sure who your source is,” he said, “but I didn’t save Julie. She saved herself.”
“That’s not the story she’s telling. Now, Mac, stop being so modest and accept the fact that you’re a genuine hero.” She gestured toward one of the chairs facing her desk and resumed her own seat on the other side. “I was surprised she came to work today, after all she went through last night. She certainly deserved to take the day off. The week, if she chose. But she insisted she wanted to be here.”
“She’s an amazing woman,” Mac said.
“Yes, she is.” Charlotte grinned. “And thanks to you, she’s alive and well.”
“She’s not in her office right now,” Mac noted. “Do you know where she is?” Avoiding me? Searching for me? Searching for me while armed with a carving knife from the restaurant kitchen?
“Well, there was a scene with Alvin Grote,” Charlotte explained. “When he realized the woman he’d brought to the party as his date had tried to kill Julie, he underwent a bit of a meltdown. He insisted that Julie have a cup of coffee with him so he could clear his name. Not that he has to clear much of anything. He gave a statement to the police, and I don’t think he’s in any way guilty.”
“He’s guilty of being an asshole,” Mac said.
Charlotte chuckled. “Indeed. When he pleaded with Julie to have coffee with him, he simply had to mention that the coffee at Remy’s is much too strong and the cups aren’t big enough. He finally subsided when Julie reminded him that refills were free and he could use as much cream as he wanted to dilute the flavor.”
In the Dark Page 23
