The Setup (12 page)

The offer caught her off guard. Sylvie stared at him, bemused despite the gravity of the situation. “You’re going to tell me that you’re a closet private investigator, as well?”

He was good at looking beyond the obvious, and he was good at blending in and listening. Those might not seem like very sexy or stimulating traits, but they did serve their purpose. “People tend to talk when I’m around,” he admitted. “They don’t see me as a threat and they don’t think I’m paying attention.”

Though in a hurry, and feeling the tension building within her, Sylvie still stopped to stare at Jefferson. He made himself sound so bland, so average. Nothing, as far as she was concerned, was further from the truth. He was a distinguished, good-looking man with a brain, who knew how to treat and please a woman. How could he describe himself in terms that made him sound like wallpaper?

“Have people always made a habit of underestimating you like this?”

He liked the way she’d phrased that. Liked, he thought, pretty much everything about her. He knew that whatever was between them didn’t have a prayer of going anywhere, but he wanted to help. “I’d better get up to my room and change if I’m going to be any use to you.”

“Change,” she echoed. Sylvie looked down at what she was wearing. Definitely not daytime wear. That reminded her—she had yet to check in on her daughter. There would be questions to answer, mainly from
Grand-mère.
She braced herself. “Oh, God, me, too.”

Even her mother was going to wonder about her being out all night, Jefferson guessed. In the eyes of a parent, a child was always a child, no matter how many candles burned on the birthday cake.

“Relax. You were
supposed
to spend the night in the gallery, remember?”

Her eyes twinkled. “Not the way I spent it,” she countered.

He leaned his head closer to hers. “Power was down,” Jefferson whispered conspiratorially. “More than likely, the local news stations won’t have time to carry the story of what happened in the back room of a hotel gallery.”

She laughed and picked up her purse. As she led the way out, her heels clicking on the parquet floor, she could have sworn they kept repeating,
Gone, gone, gone.

Hopefully, not for long, she prayed, locking the doors.
Locking the barn door after the horses are gone,
she mocked herself. But if there were looters, she didn’t want to take any chances on their making a return appearance. The Wyeth had been the most costly item in the gallery, but there were paintings and jewelry from local artists, and their work was important to them.

“I’ll call you later,” Jefferson promised.

About to hurry down the corridor, Sylvie looked at him quizzically.

“To let you know if I hear anything,” he added, gently reminding her of his offer to keep his eyes and ears open about the missing painting. That he wanted to call her because of last night was something he needed to quietly explore himself before he admitted it to her. He doubted that she’d be receptive anyway. Women like Sylvie had to beat men off with a stick.

“Right.”

At this moment, Sylvie felt as if there were a thousand random thoughts swimming around in her head at the same time. As soon as she tried to focus on one, something else came flying at her. She needed to get hold of herself, to think clearly about one thing at a time.

She took exactly two steps before she swung around and doubled back. Jefferson stared at her as she grabbed him by the lapels, raised herself up on her toes and kissed him on the mouth, hard.

The next moment, she was off and running again.

Jefferson ran his index finger along his lips. The woman did leave an impression. For a moment, he thought of hurrying after her and walking with her as far as the elevator, but then he decided that maybe Sylvie could use a little time alone to pull herself together.

So could he.

Last night had been a page out of someone else’s book, not his. It was more like something Blake would have experienced.

Blake. He realized that he’d lost track of the man. If he knew Blake, his friend had probably made the most of the situation.

Well, hadn’t he done the same himself?

And then Jefferson reconsidered. Last night hadn’t been about making the most of an unexpected opportunity, it had been about discovering himself. About discovering life. He hadn’t felt this alive, this vibrant, this—okay, happy—in years.

And confused. Definitely confused. But when it came to knowing Sylvie Marchand, he had a strong feeling that being confused kind of went with the territory.

“Y
OU SEEM FLUSTERED
, Sylvie,” Anne observed, following her daughter into her bedroom. Sylvie had come sailing into her apartment, practically at a dead run, and dashed into the bedroom, saying she had to get back to the hotel as soon as she showered and changed. “Is everything all right at the hotel?”

In the other bedroom, Anne’s mother and granddaughter were still sleeping the sleep of the very young and the very old. Stuck in the middle with more pent-up energy than she was allowed to use these days, Anne had been awake for over an hour, puttering in the kitchen, when she heard the front door open. One look at Sylvie’s face and she was concerned. It wasn’t often that her daughter appeared so harried.

Anne became more concerned when Sylvie hurried by her, not stopping to give any straight answers to her questions.

Grabbing the first fresh blouse and skirt she came to in her closet, Sylvie paused only long enough at her bureau to pull out a bra and panties, tossing everything on her bed before rushing off to the bathroom.

“As fine as they can be, Mama, given that there was a power failure and everyone gets a little nervous in the dark.”

Raised in an unselfconscious atmosphere that Anne had done her best to foster, Sylvie had no qualms about changing in front of her mother. She quickly stripped off her clothing without bothering to close the bathroom door in case there was some other question she needed to answer. Or evade.

The next moment, she was in the shower stall, moving as fast as she could.

Anne frowned to herself, picking up the dress her daughter had hastily discarded. Sylvie was racing around like someone on borrowed time. Something wasn’t right. The hotel had had its share of trouble lately. Was this about more of the same?

Taking a large bath towel, she placed it within Sylvie’s easy reach on the rack and then paused as a realization struck her.

“Sylvie?”

Sylvie raised her voice to be heard above the running water. “Yes, Mama?”

“Where is your underwear?”

Sylvie felt as if she’d just been struck with a two-by-four across the forehead. For a second, everything froze.

Sylvie closed her eyes.
Her underwear.
She’d been in such a hurry to get back, she must have forgotten her bra and panties at the gallery. But saying that would only lead to more questions. Like, what were they doing off in the first place?

Digging deep, Sylvie managed to retrieve behavior that had been all but forgotten, buried in her long-ago yesterdays.

She brazened it out. “I decided to be daring last night.”

“And were you?” Anne finally asked, trying to keep her voice as nonchalant as possible. “Daring,” she added when there was no response.

Mothers and daughters shouldn’t be having this kind of conversation, Sylvie thought. And then an image of her own daughter flashed in her mind. If Daisy Rose ever tried to shut her out…

As she got out of the shower and quickly toweled herself dry, Sylvie took pity on her mother. Seeing this from the other side really was a bear, she thought. This new perspective created an entire list of things for which she wished she could apologize to her mother.

“The blackout made things difficult for everyone, Mama.” It was a nonanswer, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances and not lie. She absolutely hated lying.

Sylvie realized she was getting away with a mild version of the Spanish Inquisition. Had her grandmother been up, as well, the brass knuckles would have come out within seconds of her crossing the threshold. It wouldn’t matter that Sylvie didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want to leave herself open to criticism because of her indiscretion and especially didn’t want Celeste to find out about the missing painting. Her grandmother had a way of extracting information no one wanted to volunteer.

Sylvie moved as quickly as she could. The first order of business was to see if any of the surveillance cameras had somehow managed to stay working, despite the power failure. If she had a clue, just one little clue as to who had taken the painting, she was convinced she could get it back. Blessed with a glib tongue, she knew how to swing a deal, whether it was with a patron, a guest, or some opportunist off the street. She would have liked nothing better than have the thief thrown into jail, but that wouldn’t solve anything. Patience, bribery and a certain amount of luck were the keys to getting the Wyeth back.

But no police.

“I’ll see you later, Mama. I’ll call if there’s anything to tell.” God but she was getting good at double-talk, Sylvie thought. “Thanks for taking care of Daisy Rose for me.” Planting a kiss on her mother’s cheek, Sylvie took a quick peek at her sleeping daughter, then hurried out of the apartment again, her fresh clothes clinging to her still damp body.

S
YLVIE WAS BEYOND BREATHLESS
as she hurried back into the hotel, leaving the beleaguered valet to try to figure out just where to park her car this time. The lot the hotel used was filled to capacity.

Crossing the lobby in record time, she nodded at Luc, who was back at his post at the information desk. Although she would have liked to put off telling Charlotte about the stolen painting, she hated
having things hang over her head. Now that she had washed the scent of Jefferson’s cologne from her skin, she felt a little more capable of facing her sister.

She spotted Charlotte talking to a group of men and women—tourists, she thought by the way they were dressed. They were smiling, so that was a positive sign. This was probably as good a time as any to check in with her sister.

As the group dispersed, Charlotte looked up and saw her. Sylvie felt as if their eyes locked. As she approached, she saw that the expression on her oldest sister’s face had turned somber.

Tiny fingers of panic fluttered over her. Had Charlotte heard about the Wyeth? Had she come into the gallery looking for her, and seen the empty spot for herself? Did Charlotte know that in all likelihood, she’d been making love with Jefferson when the painting was taken?

Excuses rose to her lips with lightning speed. Sylvie forced them back. She wasn’t going to say anything, wasn’t going to take the initiative and tell Charlotte her side of the story. Not yet. She’d learned that it was best to let the other person do the talking. That way she could gauge exactly what Charlotte knew. Or, with luck, didn’t know.

“Hello, Charlotte.” She did her best to sound breezy, even though she felt anything but. “You look as if you’re about to attend a funeral. Your own,” she added after a second’s pause. She offered Charlotte a thousand-watt smile. “It can’t be that bad, really,”
she declared. “Whatever it is, the hotel will recover.” She thought of the damage they’d suffered because of Katrina. “It always has before.” It was a sentiment, a phrase, that she intended to keep on repeating in hope that it would eventually calm Charlotte down.

To her surprise, Charlotte wasn’t looking at her as if she was horribly disappointed. If Sylvie wasn’t mistaken, that was compassion in her sister’s eyes. That didn’t make any sense.

Sidetracked for a moment by what Sylvie had just said, Charlotte tried to be reassuring. “Some of the guests are complaining that there was minor theft during last night’s excitement. I’m going to have Security check them out, separate any real theft from the opportunists trying to cash in on the chaos—”

“Good idea,” Sylvie said with a degree of enthusiasm that might have been, in her judgment, just a little over the top. Charlotte was a workaholic, but she wasn’t stupid.

“Sylvie…”

Oh, God, here it came. The blame, the recriminations. The disappointment. She couldn’t wait for it, couldn’t just stand docilely by and allow herself to be drowned in it. “Look, Charlotte, I have an explanation—”

Charlotte blinked, her face a road map of confusion. “What?”

Sylvie suddenly realized that maybe they weren’t on the same wavelength. She didn’t want to bring her lack of judgment to Charlotte’s attention if her
sister didn’t know anything about it. Pressing her lips together a moment, she stopped her words of defense. “You first.”

Charlotte took a deep breath, hating to be the bearer of bad news. “He’s here.”

Sylvie stared, no more enlightened now than she was a minute ago. “Who’s here?”

“Shane.” Charlotte said the name as if it burned her tongue. As far as she was concerned, the man who had left her sister to face parenthood alone was worthless scum. Had she known that he was checking into their hotel, she would have told him that his room had been given to someone else. But now her hands were tied. “He’s here and he’s asking for you.”

For a second, Sylvie could only stare at her sister blankly. Then she remembered the phone calls. She should have returned the phone calls. If she had, maybe he wouldn’t have come. Oh, God. “Shane?”

Charlotte looked into her eyes as if searching for something. “Daisy Rose’s father.”

Fatigue and worry had shredded Sylvie’s patience. “I
know
who Shane is. I was a little wild back then, Charlotte, but I wasn’t out of my head.” Damn, what was he doing here? Why now? “Did he say why he’s asking for me?”

Before Charlotte could answer her, Sylvie felt herself being grabbed around the waist from behind. The next moment, she was airborne and being spun around.

And then she heard someone ask, “How are you doin’, luv?”

Recognition was immediate. The slightly overpowering cologne, the affected British accent that habitually came and went during the course of a sentence. It could only be Shane Alexander, the man who had cast a spell on her for a crazy two months—until she came to her senses.

People were staring at them. Sylvie was about to demand that Shane put her down and explain his sudden reappearance in her life, when she saw Jefferson getting off the elevator and walking into the lobby.

And looking straight at her.

At them.

She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but in his place, she wouldn’t have been thinking anything good. Sylvie put her hands on top of Shane’s and tried to push them off.

“Put me down, Shane.”

Shane laughed. It was a deep, throaty, sexy sound. “Hardest bird to sweep off her feet,” he said to Charlotte as he set Sylvie down again.

Sylvie swung around to face him. “I’m not a bird, Shane, I’m a woman. I think that might have been your first mistake.”
And mine was in thinking that you could ever build a relationship with anyone but the reflection in your mirror.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Jefferson had stopped walking her way. She didn’t exactly want him in the same area as Shane because she didn’t know what the latter was capable of saying, but she didn’t want Jefferson going away, either.
The last thing she wanted was for him to think there was something still going on between her and this rock-and-roll has-been.

Mustering the best smile she could, Sylvie beckoned Jefferson over, fervently wishing she’d had more than the space of a faster-than-the-speed-of-light shower to mull over their situation. If they even
had
a situation.

There was a lot to sort through.

Relationships, she thought, never used to be this hard.

Satisfied that Jefferson wasn’t about to walk away nursing a wrong impression, Sylvie turned to really take a look at Shane for the first time in three years.

He’d aged, she realized. More than just a little. More than three years’ worth. He still wore his hair long—it was past his shoulders—but there were streaks of gray in it now. He looked like a mountain man who had lost his way. The hard living he’d subjected his body to throughout the years was all there in his face. He looked like thirty miles of bad road.

He sure wasn’t pretty anymore, Sylvie thought, almost feeling sad for Shane. She wondered if he still had his voice, or if that, too, had suffered the ravages of his lifestyle.

“What brings you here?” she asked, her tone just shy of curt. “Touring with the band?” If Lynx had gotten back together and was providing Mardi Gras entertainment anywhere in New Orleans, she hadn’t
heard of it. Glancing at Charlotte, she saw her sister shake her head.

“If you’d answered your phone, you’d know why I’m here.” Draping one long arm around her shoulders, Shane laughed harshly. “The band and I are history, luv. They had too much ego. I’m looking to start my own band. I was carrying them, anyway.”

If anyone in the band had had too much ego it had been Shane, she thought.

“Well, good luck with that,” she said, cutting him off before he could launch into a lengthy discussion about his fights with the band or his plans for a new group. She had all the crises she felt capable of handling right now. Listening to Shane go on and on was something she didn’t have the stomach or the time for.

Sylvie began to move away, but Shane caught hold of her wrist, stopping her.

She saw Jefferson step forward, his shoulders squared.
Like a big protector.
Arthur, about to banish a renegade Lancelot. The image made her smile. And though she wouldn’t have thought it was her style, the image also warmed her.

Shane had both age and weight in his favor, but of the two, Jefferson looked more fit. In a contest, he could probably hold his own, if not take Shane. Even so, it wasn’t something she wanted to see happen. She’d grown up, Sylvie realized. She didn’t want to witness an exchange of blows or even heated words on her behalf.

Sylvie could tell by Shane’s stance that he was
feeling territorial. Because she didn’t want him to think there was a chance in hell he could just pick up where they’d left off before Daisy Rose, Sylvie turned and brushed her lips against Jefferson’s cheek.

She managed to surprise not only Jefferson and Shane, but Charlotte, as well.

“Hi, honey,” she said cheerfully to Jefferson. “Getting impatient?”

S
YLVIE HAD CAUGHT
him up short. Jefferson was still scrutinizing the somewhat eccentric-looking man in front of her. He was vaguely aware that the woman she’d introduced last night as her sister was now looking at him in the same way: as if she was weighing and measuring him.