Unmasked (3 page)

Charlotte suppressed a shudder. “We’re all more grateful to him than words can say. Your uncle likely saved our mother’s life. What he did was very brave.”

“Anne said the police haven’t made any progress in the case.”

“No, she never got a good look at the carjacker. It all happened too fast.”

“She seemed well when I saw her. But from what the nurses told me, she’s barely left William’s side.”

“She feels responsible for what happened. He was coming to her aid when he was shot.”

“There’s more to her vigil than gratitude. They told me they’re engaged.”

“Yes.”

He dipped his head, his gaze searching hers. “How do you feel about that?”

“I think it’s wonderful,” she said immediately. And she did, she reminded herself. Although she loved her father, he’d been dead for more than four years. William was a good man.
While Charlotte had been suspicious of his relationship with Anne at first, he’d proven his feelings for her mother were sincere. Above all, Anne was a warm, loving woman and she deserved a second chance at happiness.

“What about you?” she asked. “It doesn’t bother you that William’s remarrying, does it?”

“Why should it? He and Anne seem happy together and they have a lot in common.” His arm flexed beneath her touch. “And I’d say they’re old enough to know what they’re doing.”

Not like us,
she added silently. She and Jackson had had nothing in common—they’d been a textbook example of opposites attracting. And they’d been too young to know how to do anything.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There had been some things they’d eventually fumbled their way through despite their youth and their ignorance…

The heat in her cheeks deepened as Charlotte realized with a start that she was still touching him. She’d meant it as a polite but brief gesture, yet somehow her fingers had spread. Through the smooth fabric of his sleeve she could feel a ridge of lean muscle along his forearm.

His arm certainly hadn’t felt like that twenty years ago.

She shifted, intending to pull away to prevent the moment from getting awkward, but before she could withdraw, he laid his hand over hers.

The contact of his skin with hers was electric. There was no other way to describe it. He didn’t squeeze or hold her. The weight of his fingers—and the memories—kept her in place.

They used to hold hands a lot. It had been a chaste caress, but to two teenagers in love it had been something special.
Whether they’d been sitting in the bleachers cheering their team or riding the streetcar or walking home, they’d always been touching. She’d loved the way her small hand had fit in his large one. The simple touch had made her feel protected. Sometimes when he’d smiled a certain way, it had made her feel giddy.

Above all, it had made her feel cherished.

She moved her gaze to their joined hands. The long, supple fingers that covered her knuckles now weren’t those of the boy she’d known. They belonged to a successful and well-respected surgeon.

Jackson had become a doctor, she reminded herself. Just as he’d always dreamed.

Then he’d left her behind so he could go off and save the world.

Something ugly stirred deep inside. It surprised her—she’d thought she’d buried that resentment a long time ago. At least the pain had faded to a distant ache. As she’d told Melanie, he wasn’t
her
Jackson anymore.

Cutlery clanked near the tables where the buffet was being set up. Voices drifted on the breeze, mixing with the sound of birds and the rustling of leaves to bring Charlotte firmly back to the present. The warmth from the memories was snuffed out, finally allowing her to focus on what she was seeing.

A jagged red line cut through the sprinkling of dark hair on the back of Jackson’s right hand.

“Mon Dieu,”
she murmured. “You didn’t tell me you were injured, too.”

“What?”

“In the fire. How—”

“No, that happened a while ago,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “There was a bombing at the hospital in Kabul where I was working. I caught some shrapnel.”

“How awful.”

“It’s a hazard of the job.”

“Miss Marchand, we heard you had some trouble here yesterday.”

At the voice, her shoulders stiffened. She had been so wrapped up in her conversation with Jackson she hadn’t been aware that anyone had approached, yet she recognized Richard Corbin’s cigarette-roughened drawl. Until now she’d only spoken with him on the phone. What on earth was he doing here now? She turned, not bothering to put on a pleasant expression.

Two men stood in front of her. The taller one met her gaze aggressively, yet it was his companion who made Charlotte uneasy—the way his flat gaze darted around the courtyard gave him the look of a vulture searching for his next meal.

Jackson moved closer to her side, positioning himself so his chest pressed gently against her shoulder. “Do you know these men, Charlotte?”

“We haven’t met,” she replied.

The shorter man nodded. “Not in person, but I believe Miss Marchand knows who we are. I’m Dan Corbin and this is my brother Richard.”

“The Corbins are interested in buying the hotel,” Charlotte said to Jackson. “My mother has repeatedly declined their offers.”

“How is Mrs. Marchand?” Richard asked. “We heard she had some trouble, too.”

“A carjacking, wasn’t it?” Dan shook his head. “How unfortunate. Crime is everywhere these days.”

“I hate to be rude, gentlemen,” Charlotte said, “but I’m really very busy, so if you’ll excuse me?”

“Since your mother hasn’t been around lately, Miss Marchand, we’d like you to pass this on to her.” Dan reached into his suit coat and withdrew a thick white envelope. Her mother’s name was scrawled across the front in black ink. “This is a business proposition,” he said, holding it out to Charlotte. “Under the circumstances, it should be of interest to all of you.”

She crossed her arms. “As my mother already made clear, we have no business to discuss. The Hotel Marchand is not for sale.”

“Don’t be so hasty. These troubles you’ve been having at the hotel must be cutting into your profits.” He tapped the envelope against her wrist. “You’d be smart to sell now. If you wait, the price might go down further.”

Before Charlotte could respond, Jackson stepped forward, placing himself between her and the Corbins. “That sounded like a threat.”

Dan had to tip his head back to meet Jackson’s gaze. He paused for a moment, then replaced the envelope inside his suit and stepped back. “Not at all. It was merely some professional advice.” He turned his flat gaze on Charlotte. “You have our number. Let us know when you change your mind.”

They left after that, using the alley beside the bar rather than going through the French doors to the lobby. Charlotte remained where she was until they were out of sight. She had handled all manner of people in her years with the hotel, including bullies like these, and she was seldom disturbed by
them. Still, she was more grateful for Jackson’s solid presence than she wanted to admit.

The Corbin brothers had always been pushy, but their manner today had seemed openly belligerent, bordering on smug. Obviously they must have realized what a blow yesterday’s fire had been to the hotel’s business.

“Are you okay?” Jackson asked quietly.

No, she thought, she wasn’t okay. The sunshine seemed too bright, the clink of dishes and background murmur of voices and birdsong seemed too loud. She’d believed she was getting on top of things, but encountering the Corbins had served to remind her how much remained to be done. “I need to get back to my office,” she said, heading for the lobby doors.

He fell into step beside her, the solid thud of his boots blending with the tap of her heels. “Are the business offices still where your parents had them?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll walk you up.”

“Thank you, but—”

“I think you should call the police, Charlotte.” He slowed to let her enter the lobby ahead of him, then placed his palm on the small of her back as they wove their way past the potted plants and a pair of wing chairs. He didn’t speak again until they started up the curving staircase. “That man threatened you.”

“He didn’t threaten me, he was only taking advantage of the situation as an attempt to intimidate me.”

“I get the feeling it’s more than that. The Corbins look like a couple of crooks.”

That had been her first impression, as well, but she tried to be fair. “Both Mac and your uncle William checked them
out after they made their first offer. Their manners may be unpleasant, but they appear to be legitimate businessmen. They have a chain of hotels in the Far East and are hoping to expand their operation in America.”

Jackson fell silent as Charlotte paused at the top of the stairs to greet a few guests on their way to breakfast. She thought he would drop the subject, but as soon as they were out of earshot he continued where he’d left off. “One of the Corbins mentioned your profits. Is the hotel in financial trouble?”

This was something else about Jackson that hadn’t changed, she thought. If he saw a need, he never hesitated to get involved in other people’s problems. It was one of the qualities that she’d admired about him—he was forever defending the underdog.

Yet that very quality had also set him on the path that had taken him away.

Another echo of the old resentment stirred. Even as she acknowledged it, she reminded herself that it was unreasonable. They were no longer teenagers. They had both made choices and had moved on.

She stopped in the corridor outside her office and automatically tried for a professional smile, once more hoping to get the conversation under control. “The entire city has had its problems, and the Hotel Marchand is no exception. We’ve experienced some lean times, but we’re recovering.”

“Is that why you haven’t been sleeping?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re covering it well, but I can see that you’re exhausted.”

“It’s been a busy night. I’m fine.”

He cupped her shoulders and regarded her closely. “Are you, Charlie?”

The urge to lean into him struck without warning. She wanted to step into his arms and fit her head to his shoulder just the way she used to. She longed to feel his warmth enfold her and his breath stir her hair. For one mad, rebellious instant she wanted to pretend she was his Charlie again, with no one depending on her and nothing to worry about except studying for the next midterm and trying to find the right prom dress.

She curled her nails into her palms and held herself rigid. What on earth was the matter with her? “I appreciate your concern, Jackson,” she said. “But don’t treat me like one of your causes.”

“Whoa, where did that come from?”

“Sorry, I’m a bit stressed.” She stepped aside to unlock her office door, using the motion to move away from his touch. “Give my regards to your uncle when you see him next. I’m sure you’re anxious to get back to the hospital….”

Her words trailed off as she noticed a glimmer on the threshold. It was a cluster of tiny white sequins.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside. A white feather wafted in the breeze from the window. More sequins were scattered on the hardwood floor and gleamed beneath the carved pecan chairs that she kept for visitors.

“Charlotte, wait!” Jackson looped his arm around the front of her waist and pulled her back to his chest. “Don’t touch anything.”

The sudden contact with his body stole her breath and muddled her mind, making it hard to understand his warning. Sensations bombarded her. The muscle she’d felt beneath his sleeve was nothing compared to the firm strength she felt everywhere else. He definitely wasn’t a boy any longer.

And her response to him wasn’t that of an innocent girl. Her pulse pounded, knocking her senses into overdrive. Awareness that was purely sexual shot into every private region of her body.

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to ignore the reaction. It had to be surprise mixed with fatigue. She concentrated on looking around. Apart from the sequins, the room appeared as clean and orderly as it always did.

But then her gaze reached the antique cherrywood table that served as her desk, and her knees gave out. She pressed into Jackson, welcoming his support.

Amidst a pile of white feathers, the shell of her beautiful, whimsical Mardi Gras mask lay in the center of her desktop. It was stripped naked of its trimmings and skewered to the wood by a knife.

J
ACKSON FOLDED HIS
arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the door frame, watching as Detective Otis Fergusson jotted something in his notebook. If his white mustache were a beard, he’d look like Santa Claus checking his list. His weight alone wasn’t responsible for the impression, it was his round face and jovial demeanor. Given the resemblance, Jackson wasn’t sure why he didn’t trust the man. Maybe for someone who worked in law enforcement he seemed too good-natured to be true.

Still, he appeared to be going through all the right motions, so he was probably competent enough.

Apart from the raw gouge that had been left in the wood, the surface of Charlotte’s desk was clean. All traces of the savaged mask had been removed. Fergusson had pried the knife out of the desktop and bagged it as evidence, yet he wasn’t hopeful it would lead anywhere. According to the detective, the weapon was a skinning knife, a favorite choice of poachers who worked the marshes and bayous. This one had been an inexpensive, run-of-the-mill variety, available in any sporting-goods store.

“I assure you, Detective, the door was locked when I arrived.” Charlotte sat behind her desk and folded her hands
primly on her lap. “The connecting door to my assistant’s office was locked, as well.”

Fergusson eased himself down on one of the chairs in front of the desk, propped his notebook on his crossed leg and waved his pen at the doors. “I don’t mean to criticize, but those locks are on the flimsy side.”

“Until now we’ve had no need for better ones.”

“Do you have any idea who could have done this, Miss Marchand?”

Charlotte kept her face impassive as she glanced around the room. For someone who had obviously been up all night and had been fielding one problem after another for too long, she was holding herself together well. She had gone into what Jackson was starting to think of as her tea-in-the-parlor mode, doing her best to act composed, but he knew she wasn’t as calm as she appeared. He’d felt the truth when she had trembled in his arms.

He was surprised how much he’d wanted to keep her there. Logically he knew he shouldn’t get involved. She’d been right to deflect his questions earlier; the hotel was none of his business. She was a strong, competent woman. She didn’t need him—she never had. She’d made that clear when she’d married Adrian Grant.

Yet somehow he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

“I think you should talk to the Corbins, Detective,” Jackson said.

Fergusson twisted to glance over his shoulder. “Corbins? Who are they?”

“Richard and Dan. They were in the hotel minutes before we found the knife.”

Charlotte seemed about to protest, but then she dipped her chin in agreement. “I hate to cast suspicion on fellow hoteliers, but I must be realistic. The Corbin brothers are the only ones who stand to gain from an act of intimidation like this.”

The detective’s chair creaked loudly as he faced Charlotte once more. “Why would you think that, Miss Marchand?”

“They’re hoping to buy this hotel. Perhaps they wanted to shake me up.”

“Why would they leave a mask? Do you think that’s some kind of message?”

“It could be. Every hotel in the city is counting on making a profit during this Mardi Gras period. Destroying the mask…” She paused. “It could be interpreted as significant. But whoever did this didn’t bring the mask with them. It was already here.”

“Oh?”

“It was part of my costume for our annual ball next week. The last time I saw it was yesterday evening just before the fire.”

Fergusson tapped his pen against his notebook. “This has possibilities. I’ll look into it.”

“Thank you,” she said. “For the sake of the hotel’s reputation, I do hope you will be able to keep your investigation discreet. Our guests have come here to have a good time, and I want to make sure their stay is as pleasant as possible.”

The detective’s teeth gleamed beneath his mustache in a benign smile. “I’ll do what I can to accommodate you, Miss Marchand. You people sure are having more than your share of problems lately.”

“It seems that way, Detective. Have you made any progress regarding yesterday’s fire?”

“We’re still working on it,” Fergusson said. “These things take time.”

Charlotte leaned forward. “You mentioned the possibility of arson. Do you still feel that way?”

“At this point, it appears as if the cause could have been faulty wiring. But we’re not ruling anything out.” He pushed to his feet and turned to Jackson. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping to speak with you today, Dr. Bailey. I understand you were one of the first on the scene.”

“That’s right, but I can’t tell you much about the fire. I was concentrating on treating the injured.”

“You’re only visiting New Orleans, is that right?”

“Yes. I divide my time between my NGO work overseas and my position with a hospital in Philadelphia.”

He flipped back a few pages in his notebook. “What can you tell me about Luc Carter, the concierge?”

“I bandaged a wound on his arm.”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard. How did he seem to you?”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“How was he acting? Did you notice anything suspicious?”

Charlotte looked at him from behind her desk, her gaze alert, as if she were waiting for his reply.

Jackson shook his head. “If you think he had something to do with it, you’re wrong. He’d been trying to put out the fire with his jacket.”

“Did you witness that?”

“No, but that’s what he told me, and I had no reason to doubt his sincerity. He was obviously upset, and his jacket was charred black. And in spite of his own injury, he helped me give first aid to a burn victim.”

Fergusson made a noncommittal noise, then closed his notebook and stored it in the pocket of his suit coat. “Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Bailey. Miss Marchand, I’ll be in touch.”

Jackson pushed away from the door frame. “Wait. Aren’t you going to give Charlotte any protection?”

“Sorry, sir. Not unless there’s a confirmed threat to her person.”

“Someone rammed a skinning knife into her desk. I might not have any expertise in law enforcement, but that looks like a personal threat to me.”

“I can ask our regular patrols to keep an eye out for anything suspicious in the neighborhood,” Fergusson said, walking to the door.

“It’s Mardi Gras,” Jackson said. “How would they spot anything suspicious in the crowds?”

“Sorry, with the department budget the way it is, that’s all I can do.”

Jackson had dealt with enough bureaucrats in his time to recognize a brick wall when he saw it. He waited until the detective was gone, then closed the door and turned to Charlotte.

“Jackson, it’s all right,” she said before he could speak. “I’ll alert Mac to the situation and have him step up security.”

“Mac told me that he’s leaving, going back to his private security business.”

“Yes, but not until after Mardi Gras. Our night security manager, Tyrell Haynes, will take over the job then. He’s quite competent, and I have every confidence in him.”

“Are you sure that stepping up the security here will be
enough? The design of this hotel makes it impossible to keep anyone out.”

“It will be fine.”

“There are too many entrances. You saw how easily the Corbins walked in this morning.”

“This vandalism could still prove to be nothing but a sick prank. Yet if the Corbins are indeed responsible, they would want me to panic. That’s why I can’t afford to overreact.”

“But—”

“I’m not going to lock the place down during Mardi Gras, Jackson. Nor do I want to alarm the guests with a police presence. Other than stepping up our in-house security, my only option is business as usual.” She ran a fingertip over the scar in the desktop, then rose to her feet. “And I would ask that you don’t mention this incident to your uncle.”

“Why not?”

“My mother has enough worries already, and this ugliness will only upset her further. With her heart condition, I don’t want to take any chances.”

“You can’t expect me to forget about this.”

“That’s exactly what I expect. While I appreciate your concern, I’ll handle things from here. As you just said, you don’t have any expertise in law enforcement. And, to be blunt, this isn’t any of your business.”

Frustrated, he raked his fingers through his hair. He knew she was right—he’d already told himself he didn’t want to get involved—but hearing her say it bothered him. “You told Mac we’re old friends.”

“It’s true. We were friends once, regardless of the way we parted.”

“Then as a friend I have the right to be concerned.”

“Perhaps, but not to pry.”

“If my uncle marries your mother, we’re going to be family.”

“Which is why I’ve tried to be courteous. But this is my problem, not yours. You’re leaving soon anyway, aren’t you? Running off to Afghanistan or wherever?”

The bitterness in her voice startled him. This was the first crack in her calm she’d allowed since they’d arrived at her office. “If everything goes well, yes,” he replied. “I’m still needed there.”

She tugged the hem of her jacket to straighten it and moved around her desk. “Then since your visit here is only temporary, there’s no reason for you to get involved in my problems.”

“Charlotte—”

“I realize there was a time when I asked you to stay, but believe it or not, I’ve managed fine without you.”

“I can see you have. I’m only trying to help.”

“Running one small family hotel wasn’t noble or exciting enough for you twenty years ago. You had no trouble keeping out of my life then, so I’m sure it won’t be that difficult to stay out of it now.”

There were countless things Jackson could say in return. He had plenty of accusations he could toss out, as well as pain of his own to remember. He’d kept out of her life because she’d pushed him out. There wouldn’t have been room for both him and her new husband.

Yet this was ancient history, he reminded himself, and he hadn’t come here to change the past. Charlotte’s reaction was out of proportion to the circumstances. Combined with the exhaustion he had noticed earlier, she was exhibiting the symp
toms of someone under extreme stress. His concern for her deepened. “What’s going on here, Charlotte?”

She brushed past him and jerked the door open. “Goodbye, Jackson.”

He reached around her and shoved the door closed with his palm.

She held herself motionless for a good ten seconds, her mouth compressed into a tight line. Then she tipped back her head and glared at him. Her eyes shone with a confused mix of emotions, and anger was the least of them.

Charlotte’s calm wasn’t merely cracked, Jackson thought, it had shattered and fallen away like the mangled Mardi Gras mask.

Damn, he wanted to hold her again. But if he touched her now, it wouldn’t be as a friend or as a potential cousin-in-law. He would be responding to a reflexive male urge to hold an attractive woman. Neither of them needed a complication like that. He took a steadying breath and kept his arms at his sides. “All this passion isn’t really about us, is it?”

“What?”

“As much as it would stroke my ego to think you’ve been pining for me for the last twenty years, I don’t believe that’s true.”

“Of course it isn’t true.”

“Well, then, if the passion isn’t about us, it has to be the hotel, right?”

Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I was doing fine until you showed up.”

“No, you weren’t or you wouldn’t be this close to the edge. But I get the feeling that I’m the last straw.”

“Yes, damn you!”

“Why?”

“How dare you act concerned about my difficulties when the truth is you’d be happy to see the hotel fail?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it isn’t.” She pressed her index finger to his chest. “You hate this place. That’s what you said the last time I saw you.”

She was right; he had said that. “I was angry. You know I didn’t mean it.”

“No? You certainly were in a hurry to go on your one-man crusade to save the world.” She tapped him with her nail. “How lucky for you that you came back now. You’re just in time to gloat.”

He tried to restrain himself from responding in kind, but it was tough. The argument was an old one, and they’d never really finished it. “Charlie—”

“Don’t call me that!” She walked back to her desk, her normally graceful strides hard and choppy.

He rubbed his jaw. “Are things really that bad? Could the hotel fail?”

“We have no more financial reserves. We’re mortgaged to the limit. If we don’t turn a profit by next week—” She halted suddenly and stooped to pick up something from the floor. It was a tiny, white feather.

Her shoulders trembled, as if the sight of that feather crumbled the final layer of her control. She closed it in her fist and turned to face him. “I’ve made this hotel my life, Jackson. It’s all I have. The possibility of losing it…” Her voice broke. The tears she’d been struggling to hold back trickled down her cheeks.

She must have been bottling this up for weeks, Jackson
thought. It probably did her good to let it out, so he wasn’t going to try to stop her. But the urge to hold her was nearly overpowering…

The significance of what she’d just said struck him all at once.
She could lose the hotel.

The irony was almost too much to believe. After all these years, what were the chances the same thing would be happening to both of them? “I understand what you’re going through, Charlotte,” he said.

She swiped her knuckles under her eyes. “No, I don’t think you could. You followed your dream. You always lived your life how you wanted to. No one can take that away from you.”

“You’re wrong. I know exactly what it’s like to watch everything you’ve built, everything you are, slip out of your grasp.”

“How could you?”

He lifted his right hand, palm out. “Do you know how many nerves there are in the human hand? How many muscles, bones and tendons?”

“I have no idea. Why?”

Still holding up his hand, he walked toward her. “Look carefully.” He spread his fingers until the throbbing warned him to stop. “You already saw the back. Take a good look at the rest. This is where the shrapnel went in.”