Watching the slow, methodical process was frustrating for her, so she could imagine how agonizing this must be for Jackson. Every tingle he felt—and especially every tingle he didn’t feel—was like the vote of a jury that would determine his fate. She could see his tension in the stiff set of his shoulders and the angle of his jaw, yet each time he met her gaze, he managed a smile.
He’d warned her the tests could be lengthy and had been prepared to leave her at the hotel and come back for her when they were done, yet she hadn’t considered letting him go through this alone. Lending him moral support was the least she could do, given how generously he was involving himself in her problems.
She shifted on her chair, uncomfortable with the excuses she was continuing to make. Her reasons for being here weren’t that unselfish. In spite of what she’d told Renee, and all the warnings she tried to give herself, she wanted to be here. She liked being around Jackson, regardless of why.
She liked his friends, too. Yves and Marie had greeted him like a brother. Their affection had shone through Yves’ gruff joking and Marie’s bossy instructions as she’d helped position the equipment. They’d been surprised to see Charlotte but had accepted her presence with good grace, happily finding her a spot in the corner where she could remain without getting in the way.
The husband-and-wife team appeared to be in their fifties and worked together with the ease of lifelong partners. They reminded Charlotte of her parents, since their careers had meshed with their marriage. Unlike her parents, though, the Fortiers had no children, so they were both free to travel the world, dedicating their time to helping others. Their relationship had worked because they shared the same goal and the same dream.
And if the looks they exchanged were any indication, they also shared a deep tenderness for each other.
How different might things have been if Charlotte had gone with Jackson twenty years ago instead of choosing to marry Adrian and build her life here? What if she hadn’t loved the hotel or wanted children and if the bonds of her family and her roots hadn’t held her in New Orleans? Would she and Jackson have ended up as comfortable and in love as the Fortiers?
The questions were pointless—she couldn’t change the past. If she’d made a different choice, she probably would have grown to resent Jackson. Giving up her own dreams would have led to bitterness. She couldn’t change who she was any more than Jackson could have changed.
Yves rolled his stool a few feet back from the keyboard and stretched his arms over his head. “That’s enough for tonight, Jacques,” he said. “Marie, you can go ahead and turn off the gizmos.”
Marie flipped a switch, and the low hum that had been vibrating in the floor ceased. She patted Jackson’s arm. “I don’t see what Yves was complaining about. You’re a wonderful patient.”
Yves snorted and glanced from Marie to Charlotte. “He’s always on his best behavior around beautiful women.”
“That’s a fact,” Jackson said. He began plucking the sensors from his hand. “Beautiful women bring out the best in any man.”
“Ah, so that’s why you’re still a bachelor,” Yves said.
“How’s that?”
“There are times when a woman prefers a man to behave badly.” Yves winked. “Isn’t that right, Marie?”
Laughing, Marie walked over to her husband and gave him a swat. “I don’t know why I tolerate you.”
“Because I’m a genius, of course. That’s what Jacques said.”
“Genius?” Marie asked. “Since when?”
“I was smart enough to marry you, wasn’t I?”
Jackson smiled at their banter as he continued to remove the sensors. Charlotte rose from her chair and went over to help him lay the wires flat on the table as he pulled them off. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Better ask Yves,” he said. “That was the whole point of this exercise.”
Despite the smile he was giving his friends, Charlotte could see the tightness in Jackson’s movements. She smoothed the final wire on the table and looked at Yves.
“It’s too soon to say for certain.” Yves slid off his stool and rolled it back underneath the computer keyboard, then gave an elaborate shrug. “These toys need more time to process the results completely.”
Jackson reached for a cloth to wipe off the gel that had held the electrodes in place. He kept his gaze on his fingers. “What are your findings so far then?”
Yves looked at Marie. It was only a quick glance, but Charlotte recognized the private communication of sympathy between them. She knew immediately that the results wouldn’t be what any of them were hoping for.
No! she thought. This had to work out. She took the cloth from Jackson, lifted his hand and gently wiped off the gel that still gleamed from his knuckles. From the top, the wound looked too minor to be serious. It was still hard to believe that the damage could be permanent.
“Many of the readings were inconclusive,” Yves hedged.
Jackson put his good hand over Charlotte’s, stilling her movements. “So it’s bad, huh?”
“Jacques…” Yves sighed. “As your friend, I am tempted to lie. But as your colleague, I respect you too much to do so. Yes, it is bad.”
Jackson took the cloth from Charlotte’s grasp and tossed it on the table, then got to his feet and shrugged on his jacket. Rather than stepping back, she moved closer to his side until her shoulder pressed against his chest, silently using the contact of their bodies to express her support.
A hush fell over the lab as he slid his arm around her waist. “What about the possible bone fragments you talked about the other day, Yves?” he asked. “You could go in and clean them out.”
“If there were more than what I saw on the X-rays, your body would already have incorporated them into the scar tissue. The damage is done. They’ll dissolve eventually, but if I intervene now, it’s more likely that you could lose the nerve function you’ve managed to recover.”
Jackson tightened his hold on Charlotte. “Could you run the test again, Yves?”
“I could, but—”
“Absolument,” Marie interrupted, giving her husband another swat. “We shall not give up yet. These toys my genius is so fond of only measure what technology designed them to measure, so they are not infallible.”
Yves pursed his lips, then blew out his breath noisily and gave a vigorous nod. “Marie is right. It won’t hurt to double-check the data. Come back on Tuesday and we’ll try it once more.”
“And in the meantime,” Marie said, “I have something that will help.” She took a flat palm-size, paper-wrapped package from a bookshelf near the door and held it out to Jackson. “This is for you.”
Jackson regarded the package skeptically. “Let me guess. Is that the gris-gris Yves prescribed?”
Marie smiled as she slipped the package into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I know you don’t believe, Jacques, but keep it anyway.” She patted his pocket. “There are some aspects to healing that no science can explain.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
JACKSON WANTED A DRINK. No, not just one drink, a whole bottle. And he wanted good, honest, burn-your-gut whiskey, not the wimpy white wine that sat in Charlotte’s refrigerator. Something that would guarantee him oblivion fast with the least amount of effort.
He muttered an oath and tightened his grip on the open fridge door. The motor clicked on, chugging out a sobering stream of cold air. He ducked his head and inhaled deeply. He knew that avoiding a problem wouldn’t solve it. And as tempting as it might be, this was no time to crawl into an alcoholic stupor.
It had only been one test, he reminded himself, and technology wasn’t always reliable. He’d seen false test results before. It might have been a long shot to ask Yves to run the procedure again, yet even bad odds were better than nothing. As long as there was the slimmest hope, Jackson had to keep trying.
But it was getting damned hard not to give up. When did hope cross the line into denial?
H
e swung the door shut, rattling the bottle against the metal shelf and plunging the kitchen into darkness. Instead of turning on a light, he gave his vision a few moments to adjust, then walked past the table to the window. Folding his arms over his chest, he looked out at the shadowed yard.
Giving up wasn’t an option. Not for him. And not for Charlotte either.
She was the other reason he couldn’t indulge himself by getting drunk. He’d promised to help watch over her. The hotel security people had assured him the alarm system in this house was a good one, and he’d followed their advice and checked that the windows were locked and the doors were dead-bolted, but it would be dangerous to put himself out of commission. The Corbins had been lying low for two days now, so they were bound to try something else soon. He couldn’t afford to lower his guard.
A few shafts of moonlight glinted through the leaves, speckling the small patio with patches of silver. The riot of light and color he’d seen this morning when Charlotte had stood here was gone. The scene was no longer inviting. It wasn’t only because the light was different, it was because the woman who had made it seem special wasn’t here.
When it came to Charlotte, he’d already lowered his guard. All those warnings he’d tried to give himself about not getting close to her hadn’t worked. He was far too accustomed to her presence. Just having her stand next to him tonight had made Yves’ words easier to bear.
He’d managed fine on his own for half his lifetime, yet the more time he spent with Charlotte, the more his old feelings stirred. She’d been his friend and ally as well as his girlfriend. He’d almost forgotten how good it felt to know that someone cared.
And she did care. He could see it in her eyes and feel it in her touch. It wasn’t the reckless infatuation they’d shared as teenagers, though. She was a mature, intelligent woman, as cautious as he was.
Yet her caution was good, right? Otherwise…
“Can’t you sleep?”
At the sound of her voice, his pulse leaped. Seeing her now was the last thing he needed.
Yet it was exactly what he wanted. He turned his head toward the doorway.
She was silhouetted against the darkened hall, a pale, ankle-length robe wrapped around her body. Like him, she was barefoot, which was probably why he hadn’t heard her approach. With her hair loose around her shoulders and her eyes gleaming in the faint light that seeped through the window she looked as if she’d just risen from her bed.
The desire that spread through him was no surprise. In one form or another it had been building all day. It was another reason he could have used a drink. “That’s right,” he said. “Sorry if I woke you up.”
“You didn’t.” She tightened the belt of her robe, and the fabric rippled with the sensuous gleam of silk. If she was wearing anything underneath, it couldn’t be much.
Jackson gritted his teeth and stayed where he was. He was grateful now that he had taken the time to pull on his jeans. As it was, he could swear he felt her gaze move across his bare chest as if she were touching him. “Did you want something?”
“I was about to ask you the same question. There’s some wine in the fridge.”
“I saw it.”
“You’re welcome to have some.”
“It wouldn’t help the situation, Charlotte.”
“Maybe it would help if you talked about it.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“That sounds like what I said last week.” She walked to the stove and switched on the light above it. A soft glow pooled around her, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. “Next are you going to tell me that it’s none of my business?”
“Charlotte—”
“I do know what you’re going through, Jackson,” she said.
Yes, she did, he thought. Her quiet sympathy felt as good now as it had in Yves’ lab.
“It’s tough to be what everyone expects you to be,” she added.
He lowered the blind over the window and leaned his back against the frame. The color of her robe was the same vibrant green hue as her eyes, only a few shades paler. It shimmered as she moved, drawing his gaze to her body. “And what’s that?”
“Strong. Responsible.” She opened and closed a few cupboards as if she were looking for something. “Perfect.”
He shook his head. “You were the one who had to live up to everyone’s expectations, not me. No one ever expected me to be perfect. I was the poor kid who wasn’t supposed to amount to anything.”
“That’s not true. I never thought of you like that.”
“Maybe you didn’t, but others did.”
“If by others you mean Grand-mère, I’d say you proved her wrong years ago.” She leaned over to open a cupboard beside the stove. There was a rattle of pots.
Jackson tried to keep his gaze off her rear end, but the way that silk tightened over her buttocks was impossible to ignore. “What are you doing?”
She straightened up and turned to face him with a small saucepan in her hand. “I’m making some hot chocolate.”
“You’re kidding.”
Her lips quirked. “I realize I told you I don’t cook, but this is one thing I should be able to manage.”
Jackson shifted, pushing away from the window frame. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, yet her cheeks were tinted with a soft blush. Without lipstick, her mouth looked lush and much too kissable. “I remember. You used to make that after school sometimes.”
“It might help you sleep.”
It was the middle of the night, he was half-naked and alone with a desirable woman. Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind right now. So was chocolate.
But indulging himself with Charlotte would be almost as bad as getting drunk.
Then again, he would probably feel a hell of a lot better in the morning if he woke up with her instead of a hangover. He’d gone into her bedroom each time he’d checked the windows. Unlike the rest of the furniture in this house, that big brass bed of hers would have plenty of space for both of them. He could all too easily imagine stretching out on it with Charlotte in his arms, her hair sliding across his chest, her silk robe on the floor…
He grabbed a chair, reversed it and straddled the seat. Think of something else, he ordered himself. He glanced at the fax machine on the table—as usual, there was a fresh sheaf of faxes in front of it. “Has Renee heard anything more from the EMS personnel about the fire?”
“Yes, she got several more statements. It appears that some people don’t think much of Detective Fergusson. Everyone’s being very cooperative.”
“What about that insurance agent? Manning.”
“He’s still not accepting my calls.” She took a carton of milk from the fridge, then hunted through the cupboards again until she came up with the chocolate and sugar. “I can’t blame him. Until we can get the official report changed, he wouldn’t be able to pay out. The insurance companies took a hit after Katrina that they’re still recovering from.”
“So did the hotel,” he said. “That’s why you’re in this financial fix anyway, isn’t it?”
She put the pot on the stove and adjusted the heat. It was a while before she replied. “Our problems started a few years before the hurricane, Jackson.”
“How?”
“It was around the time of my father’s accident.”
“I’m sorry about Remy, Charlotte. He was a good man.”
“Yes, he was, and I loved him dearly. But for some reason he liquidated a substantial part of the family’s savings and transferred the money to the Cayman Islands just before he died.”
He tried to hide his shock. Remy Marchand had been one of the most honest, ethical businessmen Jackson had ever known. What was more, the man had been completely devoted to his wife and daughters. He was the last person who would be involved in something shady.
Yet what legitimate reason could he have had to take funds from his family and transfer them to a notorious tax haven?
Charlotte kept her gaz
e on the pot as she continued to speak. “We didn’t discover the money was gone until after the funeral. At first we thought it was an accounting mistake, but the paper trail was indisputable. We still have no idea why Papa did that, but knowing him, he must have had a good reason.”
“I’m sure he did.”
“He probably meant the transfer to be temporary. He wouldn’t have willingly left us in financial difficulty. But we had to spend the bulk of our reserve funds to keep the hotel going after the hurricane, so the loss of that million hit us hard.”
“Did you say million?”
She nodded. “That’s why we’re mortgaged to the limit. There’s no more safety net. If we don’t turn a profit by next week, we’ll have to worry about the banks more than the Corbins.”
He thought about that for a while. It was still difficult for him to grasp how far the Marchands had fallen. When he’d been a kid, their wealth had seemed unlimited.
“I try to be sensible, Jackson, because you’re right—that’s what everyone expects of me. But it’s hard not to get discouraged.”
“Yeah, it is hard.”
“The theme of our Mardi Gras ball this year is fairy tales. My family’s really getting into it.” Although she kept her voice level, her hand trembled as she took the pot from the stove. “It probably sounds silly to you, but sometimes I almost wish I did still believe in magic so it could solve our problems. God knows, I’ve tried everything else.”
He folded his arms on the back of the chair. “I know what you mean. It sure would be simpler if Marie’s gris-gris worked.”
“I’d forgotten about that. Where did you put it?”
“It’s probably still in my jacket pocket. I don’t want to throw it out—it would hurt her feelings.”
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