Unmasked (7 page)

She opened her eyes and blinked them into focus, only to discover her nose was on a level with the base of Jackson’s throat. The scent of hotel soap and male skin overwhelmed the memories. So did the glimpse of crisp dark hair and the muscular contours that she could see down the loose neckline of his sweater. The last time she’d seen Jackson’s bare chest, he’d had only a few fine hairs in the center.

Her gaze moved up to his jaw, lingering on the hint of beard
shadow along the edge. When she’d known him, he’d only needed to shave every other day. That had obviously changed, too. She tipped back her head to look at his face.

The shift in her balance brought her lower body more firmly against his, and the heat that shot through her from the contact had nothing to do with nostalgia. Behind the barrier of his denim jeans she could feel the long, hard length of his erection.

There was no way to confuse the fact that she was being held by a man, not a boy.

Jackson met her gaze squarely. His pupils had expanded, making the blue that remained more intense than she’d ever seen it. He had to realize that she was aware of the reaction of his body, yet he made no attempt to conceal it. Instead he closed his fingers over a lock of her hair and boldly dropped his gaze to her mouth.

There were no nerve endings in her hair, yet she could still feel his caress. Only his gaze touched her mouth, but her lips tingled as if he were stroking her. Her breasts swelled against his chest and her pulse throbbed, warm and heavy.

She couldn’t confuse this with a memory, either. It was too vivid, too…new. She hadn’t felt such a strong physical reaction to Jackson in the past, yet she’d lost count of the number of times he had stirred this response in the last three days.

The sexual awareness had to be a side effect of the circumstances, she reasoned. It was completely natural, nothing to be distressed about. It would only become a problem if they let things go further.

She spread her fingers quickly, unlocking her grip from Jackson’s waist.

“Charlotte…”

She held up her palm to stop whatever he was going to say. She hoped he wouldn’t notice that her hand was shaking. “I need to check in with the hotel,” she said, stepping back. “I’ll use the phone in the kitchen.”

G
RITTING HIS TEETH
, Jackson slid into the steaming water until his head rested on the rim of the bathtub. There was no shower in Charlotte’s bathroom, only a vintage claw-footed tub that wasn’t designed for a man his size. He had to fold his knees in half and angle his elbows over the sides just to fit himself in, but it was good for one thing—already he could feel the heat loosening his tensed muscles.

The night on Charlotte’s sofa had left his body in knots. That particular piece of furniture hadn’t been designed for a large man either, yet he knew that wasn’t the main reason for his discomfort. It was from staying awake half the night thinking about how he’d rather have been in Charlotte’s bed.

It was his own fault. He shouldn’t have touched her. And once he had, he should have maintained better control over his thoughts. Yes, Charlotte was a desirable woman, but he wasn’t some randy teenager anymore, he was a mature, responsible man.

The problem was, he was also mature enough to recognize when desire was mutual. There had been no mistaking the way Charlotte’s body had softened against his when she’d nestled into his arms. He’d seen her eyes darken and felt the surprised puff of her breath as her lips had parted. That hadn’t been the first time it had happened, either, and the knowledge only added to his restlessness.

It was a good thing she’d had the sense to walk away, right?

He thudded his head back against the tub. He couldn’t let himself get drawn into anything with her again. It was worse than pointless. Their bodies and the ages on their driver’s licences might have changed, but nothing else had. The hotel was still Charlotte’s priority, just as it had been twenty years ago. Once this threat to her business was over, she wouldn’t need him anymore. And that was good, because if Yves could repair his hand—

No, not if. When. He still wouldn’t allow himself to consider the alternative.

He lifted his right wrist from the water, scowled at his lax fingers, then twisted his head to look at the watch he’d left on top of his clothes. He wanted to stop by the hospital to visit Uncle William again before he took Charlotte to the hotel this morning, and if he was going to manage shaving left-handed without slitting his throat, he couldn’t afford to rush. He unfolded himself from the tub and grabbed a towel.

Charlotte was already up by the time he reached the kitchen. Even though it was a Saturday, she was dressed in an ivory silk blouse and a tailored jade skirt. A matching jade suit jacket was draped over the back of a wicker chair. She stood at the window that overlooked a small terrace, early-morning sunlight gilding her delicate features and streaking her hair with gold. The quality of the light and the elegance of her appearance made her look as if she could have stepped straight out of an Impressionist painting…if she hadn’t been holding a coffee cup in one hand and a telephone receiver in the other.

“It would be wonderful if you could contact the people on that list,” she said. “Thanks, Renee. Oh, Genevieve left a mes
sage. She said our costumes are ready.” She paused. “Okay, I’ll see you later.”

Jackson waited in the doorway while she terminated the call. “I didn’t expect you to be awake already,” he said.

She put the phone on a small glass-topped wicker table that rested beneath the window. A fax machine sat near one edge, a sheaf of papers stacked in front of it. “I had a lot to do. Would you like some coffee?” She nodded toward the coffee-maker on the sideboard. “I usually have breakfast at the hotel, so I’m afraid I don’t have much else to offer you.”

“I take it you still don’t cook?”

“Not if I can avoid it.” She glanced at his chest, then quickly averted her gaze. “I leave that to the people who are good at it.”

He realized he hadn’t yet fastened his shirt buttons. He pulled the sides together and began with the bottom one. “It sounded as if you’ve already started working.”

“Yes. I’ve been thinking things over and I have to admit I share your lack of confidence in Detective Fergusson. I decided it would be best to get some other opinions about the cause of the fire.”

He fumbled the first button into the hole and started on the next. “How?”

“First I’m having Mac and Tyrell get detailed statements from the staff who were there that night. In addition, Renee’s going to contact all the emergency personnel who responded to the fire. She knows how to get in touch with them, since she had invited everyone to breakfast at the hotel.” She took a long sip from her mug. “We thought if we found enough people who don’t agree with Fergusson’s finding, we could
force the police to reopen the investigation into the fire. At the very least, we should get some ammunition to make a stronger case with the insurance company.”

“Sounds good. I’ll add my input.”

“Thanks.”

“If you’re lucky, you might uncover something that can lead the police back to the Corbins.”

“That would be the best-case scenario, all right.” She hesitated, glancing back at his chest. “Do you want some help with those?”

He shoved the next button closed. “No, it’s okay. It takes me a while, but I’ll get there.”

She chewed her lip briefly, then took another mug from a glass-fronted cabinet and filled it with coffee. Without asking, she added two spoons of sugar and a few drops of cream, just the way he used to take it. He liked the fact that she had remembered, so he didn’t tell her he preferred to take it black now.

“Is that the reason you’re wearing cowboy boots?” she asked. “Because they don’t have laces?”

He cocked his head to glance at the scuffed leather toes of his boots. “No, that’s a habit I picked up years ago. I found they were faster to get on than sneakers. They lasted longer, too, which was an advantage when there weren’t any stores around.”

She carried the mugs to the table and sat in the chair where she’d draped her jacket. “Your life has been so different from mine, it’s difficult for me to imagine.”

He buttoned his right cuff but had to leave the left one undone. He took the chair opposite hers. “I live part of each year in Philadelphia, too. Operating on paying customers is how I pay my own bills.”

“But you prefer to be overseas, don’t you?”

“That’s where I can do the most good.”

“What’s it like, Jackson? Traveling the world, working in disaster zones and refugee camps?”

“It’s hard to generalize because each place has its own unique flavor, just like New Orleans.”

“Then tell me something specific.”

The first scenes that rose to his mind were too grim to bring into this sunlit room. He searched for one that he could share. “I spent a few weeks in Kashmir after the earthquake in ’05. The mountains were beautiful, in a raw, powerful way that stole my breath every morning.” He slid the sweetened coffee toward him, still sifting through the memories. “I was thankful for my boots then. The rains that came right after the quake soaked everything. The town’s hospital wasn’t safe to work in, so we set up shop in makeshift tents, only they leaked like sieves.”

“How did you cope?”

“One day the parents of a patient I was working on rigged up a canopy from a piece of plastic and some metal rods from a wrecked bus. They stood on each side of me and made sure the operating table was dry while I set their son’s leg. After that, they passed their improvised umbrella to the next family.” He smiled. “Problem was, the next bunch was only kids, none of them tall enough to keep that contraption above my head, so they took turns sitting on each other’s shoulders to hold it up. I had a hell of a time keeping the stitches straight because they kept knocking into me.”

“Who were you stitching?”

“Their mother. That’s why I couldn’t order them out of the
tent. She’d been seriously injured while she’d been digging her kids out from the rubble of their house. She got frantic if one of them stepped out of her sight.”

Charlotte’s eyes misted. She reached out to fasten the button on his left cuff. “I’ve never known a man who is as compassionate as you are, Jackson. They’re lucky you were there.”

“The work never stops.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

He looked at his right hand where it rested on the glass tabletop in front of him. Frustration with his handicap was never far from the surface, but he wouldn’t allow himself to start complaining. Compared to others he’d seen, he really was one of the lucky ones.

“You might not realize this,” Charlotte murmured, “but I always admired you for sticking to your ideals, even when I resented you for leaving.”

“Same goes for me. You always knew exactly where you belonged.”

She nodded. “We both did.”

“It’s ironic that we find ourselves back together now, isn’t it?”

“I had the same thought myself.”

Silence fell between them. It wasn’t awkward, yet it wasn’t comfortable either. The old argument was still there, unresolved and waiting. Something more needed to be said. “Charlotte, I’ve never had any illusions that I’m saving the world, but if I can save one more person, I have to keep doing it.”

“I know you do.” She brushed her fingertips over the red line on the back of his hand. “And I understand that you’ll go back as soon as you’re able to. That’s who you are.”

Her touch was featherlight, and the area where her fingers
rested had recovered less than sixty percent of normal sensation, yet at her caress, his body responded as quickly as it had the night before. Without thinking, he turned his hand over to clasp hers.

His fingers didn’t have the strength to hold her in place, yet she didn’t pull away. Even when he rose from his chair, braced his other hand on the table and leaned across the space between them, she didn’t retreat. He focused on her lips. “It wouldn’t be a good idea if I kissed you right now, would it?”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Worse than holding you yesterday?”

“Much worse.”

He leaned closer. “Then I’ll make it quick, okay?”

“Jackson, we both know this can’t go anywhere—”

He touched his lips to hers, ending her protest. She sighed through her nose, her breath warming his cheek, and tipped her face closer to his. She tasted of toothpaste, coffee and the girl who used to giggle when he would tug her into a corner to steal a kiss.

It had all been so simple then. Easy and innocent. The attraction they’d felt for each other had been a source of joy, and they’d never thought to suppress it. They hadn’t known any better.

They did now. He felt Charlotte’s restraint in the faint tremor of her lips. Neither of them had closed their eyes—he could see the caution in her green gaze as clearly as he could see her interest.

Damn, he wanted to linger. He wanted to explore the woman she was now. But off balance as he was and leaning over a glass-topped table that held two steaming mugs and a
fax machine, he couldn’t make the kiss any more than a light brush of their mouths.

It was just as well. He already had enough problems with a wound that wouldn’t heal.

He didn’t want to reopen one that was twenty years old.

“I
T’S LOVELY
!”
Renee exclaimed. She grasped a fold of Charlotte’s skirt to hold it out to the side. “Genevieve has outdone herself this time. You’re going to be the belle of our Mardi Gras ball.”

Charlotte turned back and forth in front of the dressing room mirror, trying to regard the gown objectively, yet that was as pointless as trying to analyze a beautiful sunset. This was something that had to be felt.

Genevieve Gagnon was as much an artist as she was a seamstress. She’d been designing and making Mardi Gras costumes for the Marchands for as long as Charlotte could remember. Her workmanship was exquisite, and this dress was no exception.

Loops of white sequins glittered from satin the color of the sky on a dusky summer evening. Drifts of delicate white feathers trimmed the edges of the diaphanous sleeves and the hem of the skirt that flowed to the floor. The effect was as whimsical as the matching mask had been, evoking the impression of a fairy-tale princess.

“It’s a work of art, Genevieve,” Charlotte said. “I don’t know how you manage to top yourself every year.”

Genevieve chuckled and stabbed her finger at her wheel
chair controls to propel herself toward the long, low table in the corner. The tiny white-haired woman was a dynamo, her spirit undiminished in spite of the waterskiing accident that had cost her the use of her legs several years ago. She brushed a heap of colorful fabric scraps from the table and picked up a small book. “I confess I cheated this year, Miss Charlotte.”

“How could you possibly cheat?”

She held out the book. “This was my inspiration.”

Charlotte gasped in surprised recognition as she took the book from Genevieve. “This looks like the book of fairy tales Papa gave me when I was a kid.”

“It is,” Renee said.

“How…”

“Miss Renee lent it to me,” Genevieve said, her face crinkling into a grin. “She thought you would enjoy seeing it come to life.”

Renee nodded. “I got the idea when you started to read some of the stories to Daisy Rose. She seems to enjoy them as much as you did.”

“The book’s still a bit old for her, but she loved the pictures,” Charlotte said. “Especially the depiction of Sleeping Beauty…” She paused to glance at herself in the mirror, then flipped through the book to the illustration at the end of the story.

For a moment, all she could do was stare. She knew the picture well. It had fired her imagination as a child, setting an impossibly romantic ideal. Against the misty backdrop of an ivy-cloaked castle, in front of an audience of smiling forest creatures, Sleeping Beauty had awakened and was waltzing with her handsome prince. The elegant dusky blue gown she wore winked with jewels and swept daintily behind her to blend with the feathery edge of a cloud.

“I can’t believe this,” Charlotte said. “You did bring it to life, Genevieve. I should have recognized it right away.”

“It’s perfect,” Renee said. “You look exactly like the picture.” She smiled. “Now all we need to complete the scene is Prince Charming.”

A pang of longing took Charlotte unawares. She closed the book and put it back on the table, then reached under her arm to unfasten the zipper that was concealed in the side seam. She was careful to keep her movements steady, but she felt as if she couldn’t get the dress off fast enough. What she really wanted to do was rip it from her body and somehow shove it back into that book of fairy tales.

Because that’s where dreams of Prince Charming and happily ever after belonged.

But she had to be practical. This was a costume, nothing more. The Mardi Gras ball was about business, not make-believe. Her guests would expect her to get into the spirit of the occasion. So would her family. She was simply being oversensitive

“Thank you, Genevieve,” Charlotte said, pulling up the dress so she could ease her arms out of the sleeves. “Renee is right, you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

“It’s my pleasure, Miss Charlotte.” Genevieve cocked her head as a bell tinkled from the other side of the curtain that separated the dressing room from her shop. She steered her chair toward the doorway. “I’ll be right outside. Let me know if you need anything else.”

The curtain swung back into place as a low murmur of male voices drifted through it.

“It sounds as if Pete and Jackson got impatient waiting for
us,” Renee said, moving behind Charlotte to help her slip the dress over her head.

“I’m sure Genevieve will keep them entertained.”

Renee put the dress on a hanger and carried it to a wheeled wardrobe rack that was jammed with a rainbow array of other Mardi Gras costumes. “She’ll flirt with them shamelessly, you know,” she said. “Are you sure you want Jackson out there?”

Charlotte grabbed her skirt and yanked it on. “He can do what he likes. It makes no difference to me.”

“You’ve put it on inside out.”

“What?”

“Your skirt.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Charlotte muttered, taking it off. She fixed it impatiently, then pulled on her blouse. “Thanks so much for your help.”

“You seem distracted.”

Charlotte looked around for her shoes. “No, I just have a lot to do today. Did you get any responses yet from the emergency personnel?”

“Some. Nothing promising so far, but it’s only been a few hours. I’m trying to contact Detective Rothberg. He seemed more capable than Fergusson.”

“I agree. He appeared more capable, but I was told he wasn’t available.”

“Well, I’m not giving up.”

“None of us will.”

“And while we’re on the subject of not giving up, how are things going with you and Jackson?”

Charlotte slipped her feet into her heels and walked over to Renee. “I know you mean well,” she said, pitching her voice
low so it wouldn’t carry to the next room. “But I don’t want to talk about Jackson. We’re just friends.”

“That sounds familiar. It’s what I tried to tell everyone about Pete and me.”

“This situation is different. With the current crisis at the hotel, I don’t have the time to think about getting involved with anyone.”

“The excuse doesn’t wash, Charlotte. A crisis is exactly the time you need someone beside you.”

“That’s not why Jackson and I are staying together.”

“Isn’t it?”

Charlotte pressed her fingertips to her temples and rubbed at the tension that was forming there. She realized she was doing that particular gesture far too often lately. “Simply because Jackson and I are living under the same roof doesn’t mean anything will happen. It can’t. Neither of us wants it to.”

Renee walked to the chair where they’d left their purses, took a small box from hers and put it into Charlotte’s. “That sounds familiar, too, but you never know.”

“What are you doing? What did you put in my purse?”

“A package of condoms.”

“
What?
”

Renee winked. “It wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.”

Charlotte moved her hands to her cheeks and stared at her sister. The quick thud of her pulse had to be from embarrassment, right?

Renee pulled her hands down and squeezed her fingers. “We’ve all seen the sparks between the two of you. I think something is already happening. It probably never really stopped.”

Genevieve’s laughter drifted through the curtain, mingling with Jackson’s deep voice. From the sound of things, he and Pete were debating the definition of jazz with her. It all seemed so ordinary and comfortable, Charlotte was surprised to feel the sting of tears. “Jackson and I were barely more than children when we dated, Renee,” she said finally. “I admit I have a fondness for the boy I knew, but we’ve both grown up and moved on.”

“The important things don’t change, Charlotte. When Pete came back into my life, I hadn’t thought there was any chance for the two of us. There were so many problems to work through, I wasn’t sure I wanted to try. I’m glad we did.”

“And I’m happy for you, Renee. I think it’s wonderful that you found someone to love. I’m happy for Sylvie, Melanie and Mama, too. But please, leave this alone.”

“Charlotte—”

“You’re right that the important things don’t change, and that includes our problems. Jackson and I were wrong for each other twenty years ago and we still are.”

“Are you sure?”

“I love you for caring.” She stretched to kiss Renee’s cheek, then looked at the blue gown that gleamed from the rack of costumes. “But this is real life, not a fairy tale. No one’s going to wave a magic wand and…”

Her words trailed off. The feathers that trimmed the gown were stirring on some current of air that Charlotte couldn’t feel, setting off a flash of sequins that made the costume appear to be winking at her.

And for a heartbeat she saw an image of herself wearing that gown in front of an ivy-cloaked castle as she danced with
a man whose dusky blue eyes were an exact match for the color of the satin.

In the fairy tale, Sleeping Beauty had been awakened by a kiss.

Jackson had kissed her that morning.

But that hadn’t been a real kiss. It had been too light and too short. He’d barely touched her lips with his.

Yet his taste still lingered. And the sound of his voice from the next room gave her pleasant little tingles. And her pulse did a shimmy every time she thought of him spending another night so close that she could almost hear him breathing.

Something
had
changed with that kiss. Not an awakening as much as a shift in perception.

But that wasn’t magic. It was hormones and proximity, a normal physical reaction between an emotionally strung out woman and an incredibly attractive, sensitive and sexy man. She was far too sensible to attribute her feelings to anything else.

At what point did rationalization become denial?

The thought made her groan, but she managed to catch herself before she began massaging her temples again. Keeping her gaze firmly averted from the fairy-tale dress, she slipped on her jacket, picked up her purse and followed Renee from the room.

M
IKE DRUMMED HIS
fingers against the armrest of the limo, watching as the two couples left the building. The place wasn’t far from his syrup company’s warehouse, but he’d had no reason to take notice of it before. It was nothing but a small costume store, sandwiched between a pawnshop and a boarded-up space that had once held a dry cleaner’s. Like countless businesses in the city, it relied on the seasonal
income from Mardi Gras, so its profits would be too unreliable for Mike to demand a piece.

Still, the store would have been a good location for an ambush. The street was a long way from the crowds of the French Quarter, and anyone who was around would know enough to mind their own business. The old cripple who ran the store wouldn’t have presented any problem either. With two of the Marchand sisters in the same place at once, he could have gotten more bang for his buck.

But he’d have to wait for another opportunity. The men who had accompanied the women to the costume store didn’t look as if they’d scare easily. He’d seen Pete Traynor before—the idiot Corbins had gotten him stirred up when they’d staged a hit-and-run that had injured his nephew. It had been a foolhardy risk, as reckless as Richard’s half-baked attempt a week ago to abduct Anne Marchand. They’d been lucky their whole scheme hadn’t blown up in their faces. The Corbins would have been no use to him if they’d ended up in jail.

When Mike made his move, he would be leaving nothing to chance. Especially the cops. He pointed to the dark-haired man who walked beside Charlotte. “Who’s that guy in the denim jacket, Otis? I saw him with that Marchand woman on Thursday, too.”

Detective Otis Fergusson squinted toward the window, then folded his hands over his bulk and resettled against the padded seat across from Mike. “His name’s Jackson Bailey. He’s a hotshot surgeon visiting from Philadelphia. He seems to be an old friend of the family.”

Mike accepted the information with a nod. Putting Otis on his payroll had been one of the smartest moves he’d made.
His relationship with the New Orleans detective had started decades ago, when Mike had been fresh from the bayou and starting up a numbers racket in Algiers. Otis had been only a beat cop then and he’d been happy to look the other way in exchange for an envelope of cash. As the amount in the envelope had increased, so had the cop’s usefulness.

Things had progressed from there to a mutually beneficial financial arrangement that had lasted longer than any of Mike’s marriages. And like any good marriage, Mike’s relationship with Otis was exclusive. Even the Corbins weren’t aware that Otis was working for him.

“I interviewed Bailey a few days ago,” Otis continued. “He was the first one to suggest I speak to the Corbins about the trouble at the hotel.”

“Are you sure he’s only a doctor?”

“I checked him out. He’s one of those do-gooders who work in disaster zones. Real straight shooter. You’re not going to like this, but he’s certain that Luc Carter was trying to put out the fire your people started.”

Mike frowned. So his suspicions about Carter’s nervousness that night had been well-founded. “The Corbins might have been right. Carter doesn’t have any guts.”

“It could be more than that. He could be growing a conscience.”

“Why? Did he spill something when you interviewed him?”

“No, but I did some digging into Carter’s background since then. It took me a while to uncover the connection—I found out he’s related to the Marchands.”

Mike didn’t like being surprised. The Corbins hadn’t told him this, so either they didn’t know or they weren’t being
completely straight with him. Neither possibility was good. His frown deepened. “How’s he related?”

“Carter’s old man was Anne Marchand’s brother. He was the black sheep, got kicked out of the family when he was a kid.”

“So Luc Carter is Anne Marchand’s nephew,” Mike said slowly, digesting the information. “And those sisters are his cousins.”

“Yeah, only they don’t know. It’s just a guess, but I’d say Carter made his deal with the Corbins out of revenge. He’s probably looking to bring his family down as payback for how they treated his father.”