Looks certainly could be deceiving. Jefferson Lambert seemed more like a professor from some small-town university than the dynamic criminal lawyer who handled high-profile cases that the application she’d been given said he was. And quite honestly, he looked as if he might enjoy spending an evening listening to a chamber ensemble play three-hundred-year-old music rather than dancing the night away to the beat of a hard rock band.
But he did look nice, she thought. Very nice. And he was tall. Probably about six-six. She’d always liked tall men. They made her feel more feminine and petite. And she liked his eyes. They were gray-blue, but more importantly, they were kind-looking. Right about now, she was fairly confident that she would take kind over sexy. Her last two lovers had had very sexy eyes. And, it turned out, very empty souls.
She continued to scrutinize the man, priding herself on being able to see people through an artist’s eyes. Her prospective date looked as if he had a pretty good build, she decided. Of course, the clothes he was wearing didn’t exactly highlight any portion of his physique, but there were no telltale bulges strategically covered, no buttons straining against an expanding waistline. And unless a tailor enhanced his jacket, the man had more than a decent set of shoulders. She was rather partial to broad shoulders.
“Maybe you’re meeting her early,” Sylvie suggested, a smile playing on her lips.
His eyes swept over her again. She was wearing what he thought Emily called a peasant blouse, and a skirt that seemed to come in two parts. A short, straight solid layer that covered a little more than the bare essentials and a much longer, wider, see-through layer of deep purples and royal blues. It was enough to make a man’s pulse stop. This was a case of the whole being even greater than the sum of its parts—which from where he was standing were pretty damn good on their own.
“You’re Sylvie Marchand.” It wasn’t a statement, it wasn’t a question. It was an expression of shock.
Her eyes crinkled at the corners a little as she laughed. “Ever since I was born. Actually, it’s Sylvia, but no one calls me that,” she told him. “Sylvia is a little too conservative for me.”
A faint, distant alarm went off somewhere in his head. Sylvie had wrinkled her nose ever so slightly when she’d said the word conservative. He wasn’t sure if that was a signal of disdain. What he did know was that if there was one word that accurately described him, his life, his tastes, his goals, it would be conservative.
Training and manners, bred in him from the time he was toilet-trained, had Jefferson politely extending his hand to this vision.
“I’m Jefferson Lambert.” And then he looked at her ruefully as she wrapped her fingers around his, returning the shake. The woman probably thought he was a dolt. “But then, I guess you’ve already figured that out.”
Rather than render a sarcastic remark, Sylvie merely laughed. It was a sound reminiscent of wind chimes moving softly in a hot summer breeze. “I’m quick on the uptake that way, Jefferson.”
“I just bet you are.” And then he stopped, slightly stunned. He’d only meant to think those words, nothing more. “Did I just say that out loud?” He watched her face for some sign of offense and was relieved to see that there was none. On the contrary, she seemed sincerely amused by his bemusement. Perhaps by him.
Sylvie laughed as she withdrew her hand from his. He was kind of cute in a strange, funny sort of way. “Yes, and I kind of liked it.”
“Um, Miss Sylvie, about the room,” David began hesitantly.
Sylvie stopped him, instinctively knowing what the man was going to say. Life within the hotel might give the appearance of being as slow moving as molasses, but there were a great many type-A personalities working behind the scenes to perpetuate that illusion. Charlotte and her mother to name only two. But this issue was one that she was going to resolve in her own way.
“David, you have to learn to go with the flow. Now, unless my sister specifically instructed you to defend that empty suite with your last dying breath, between you and me, I think that it’ll be all right to let Mr. Lambert make use of it for the duration of his stay in this fair city of ours.” She looked at David pointedly. “Especially since someone on our staff must have lost his reservation.”
David didn’t look convinced. “Yes, ma’am, I mean Miss Sylvie.”
Sylvie knew what was bothering him. Charlotte could be overbearing at times. And David was one of those people who lived in fear of a disapproving look.
“Don’t worry,” Sylvie assured him. “I’ll explain it all to Charlotte. She won’t say anything, since it was her idea to set me up with Mr. Lambert in the first place.”
Caught off guard by the throwaway remark, Jefferson stared, dumbfounded, at the woman at his side. “Excuse me?”
Like some free-spirited gypsy holding court, Sylvie turned toward him, an expression he found unreadable, and at the same time irresistible, in her eyes. “I find honesty is always the best policy, don’t you agree?”
He believed in honesty. It was his job not only to believe in it, but to uphold it. The firm he was with had a spotless reputation and had welcomed him into the fold, after a lengthy investigation, like a long-lost brother. He’d long ago vowed never to let his firm, himself or Emily down. Not even little white lies could be attributed to him.
“Yes. Of course. But I don’t see what that has to do with—”
She second-guessed where he was going with his question and headed him off. “My sisters Charlotte, Melanie and Renee thought I was working too hard and needed a little fun in my life.”
Because Emily and Blake had gone behind his back and filled out an application for a matchmaker on his behalf, Jefferson made the connection. Although, in Sylvie’s case, he didn’t understand why there wasn’t a whole flock of men standing in the hallway, waiting for the slightest indication that she was interested.
“And I’m it?” he asked incredulously.
Sylvie had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing out loud. He did have the sweetest look of surprise and disbelief on his face. He was flattering her without really uttering a word. And he seemed to be modest. How unique.
“Apparently.”
Jefferson thought about Sylvie’s application, which Emily had given him to read. It seemed to have been written about another woman, a more conservative woman, for lack of a better word. Definitely not the vision in purples and blues before him. Maybe it would be better all around if he stopped this before it became too embarrassing. For both of them.
“You know,” he began slowly, “I think there’s been some mistake.”
Aware that David’s ears seemed to be growing as he leaned, none too subtly, over the desk, Sylvie drew Jefferson aside. “Why?”
He’d half expected her to cheerfully declare “Okay,” and walk away. It was something a gypsy would have done, he was sure. But because she asked, he did his best to explain. “Well, to begin with, your age.”
She didn’t follow him. “What about my age?”
As if she didn’t know, he thought. “The form said you were thirty-four.”
She opened her mouth, about to say that she was, but remembered her remark about honesty. She had to tell him the truth. “That’s wrong.”
Well, at least she didn’t think he was born yesterday, Jefferson thought. “Yes, I know.”
“I’m thirty-five.” Renee must have been the one to doctor that, Sylvie figured. Renee thought it was a sin for a woman to admit to being over thirty. Sylvie was surprised her sister hadn’t made her twenty-nine.
Jefferson could only stare at Sylvie in disbelief. Most women did not delight in saying they were older than they were. “What?”
“Thirty-five,” she repeated slowly, her lips caressing each syllable. “That’s the number that comes after thirty-three and unfortunately, thirty-four.”
He ignored the humor in her eyes, although it wasn’t easy. “That’s not possible.”
The man really was a dear, Sylvie thought. He sounded as if he
truly meant what he was saying. “I’ve got a birth certificate to prove it,” she volunteered, amusement curving her lips.
His eyes narrowed. “You look like you’re twenty-five.”
Compliments, genuine compliments, were something a girl never tired of hearing, she decided. And his had a ring of sincerity. She wondered if that was a skill he’d acquired as a lawyer.
“The form didn’t mention that you had a silver tongue, Jefferson.”
She made his name sound like a melody, Jefferson thought. “No, but I do have twenty-twenty vision,” he countered. He didn’t add that the numbers had been recaptured only after he’d had the eye surgery he’d been putting off for so long. It wasn’t vanity that had prompted him, but rather a desire to be free of the headaches that wearing glasses for half his life had caused him.
Sylvie was silent for a moment as she reassessed the situation. And the man. At first glance, he seemed stuffy, but that could have been because he was uncomfortable about this blind-date situation. Not everyone could move as freely as she could from person to person, situation to situation. And even she was beginning to find herself less flexible that way.
Maybe it was a sign of pending maturity, but she’d begun to question the purpose of her life even before she’d become pregnant with Daisy Rose. She knew she was a more subdued version of herself these days. She had a feeling that Jefferson Lambert might find that difficult to believe.
Sylvie glanced at the suitcase on the floor beside him. It couldn’t contain all that much, no matter how great a packer the man was. “Is that the only luggage you brought with you?”
Jefferson felt he’d packed everything he needed. He was a man who knew how to make do. “I don’t like having to stand around at the airport, waiting to see if someone finally decided that my suitcase should be sent down the luggage chute rather than on a separate trip to another state without me.”
He watched her mouth turn up in response to his words. It was like watching the sun rise, casting golden rays in all directions.
He felt caught up in a sunbeam.
“I like traveling light, too,” she told him as she slipped her arm through his. Turning to the desk clerk, she put her hand out. “Can I have the key card for the Jackson Suite, David?”
Aside from long, shapely legs, a neat trick for a petite woman, Sylvie Marchand also had long fingers, Jefferson noted. He wondered if she played any kind of instrument. Fingers like that looked as if they could glide effortlessly along a keyboard.
Or a man’s skin.
The thought came out of nowhere. Banking it down, Jefferson attributed it to the fact he was in New Orleans. Thoughts like that belonged to a much younger man, a man who had the world before him.
“I’ll need you to sign in and also give me a credit card for an imprint,” David replied.
“Oh, sorry,” Jefferson murmured. The woman had gotten him completely disoriented, he thought, handing the clerk a credit card. The young man swiped it as Jefferson registered.
The desk clerk handed back the credit card, along with a key card to the room. As he accepted both, Jefferson found himself on the receiving end of a brilliant smile from Sylvie Marchand. He felt his knees weakening just a tad.
“C’mon.” She tugged gently on his arm. “I’ll show you to your room.”
“Um, how should I bill this, Miss Sylvie?” David called as they started to leave.
“The same as our regular rooms, David,” she tossed capriciously over her shoulder. “Our mistake, remember? Can’t have people saying we turn out our guests now, can we?”
“No, Miss Sylvie,” David murmured, retreating.
“Your eyes twinkle,” Jefferson observed as they made their way through the crowded lobby. There was a grand spiral staircase just past the front desk, but Sylvie kept walking. “I didn’t think eyes could really do that.”
“This is New Orleans, Jefferson,” she drawled. “Everything is possible.” And then she winked. “Especially around Mardi Gras season.”
The doors to the elevator were just beginning to close when they reached it. Instead of standing back, the way he’d expected, she surprised him by pulling him along in her wake and wedging herself into the small space that was still available in the crowded car. He found himself standing almost closer to her than her clothes.
Sylvie rose on her toes, her body brushing against his. “You can breathe, Jefferson,” she whispered in his ear. “It’s okay.”
So he breathed. And felt every inch of her against him.
He figured this was what dying and going to heaven had to be like.
When the doors opened on the third floor, Sylvie shouldered her way out, her hand still wrapped around his. He had no choice but to follow, apologizing to the man whose knees he hit with his suitcase.
“Voila,” she announced after swiping the key card and opening the door. Sylvie stood back, allowing him to enter the suite first.
If he traveled at all, which was infrequently, Jefferson was accustomed to small, functional rooms that usually came with tiny kitchens. Away from home, he liked to cook his own meals, avoiding the expense and noise of restaurants and the discomfort of eating alone while everyone around him had someone to carry on a conversation with. He was not prepared for the grandeur that met his eyes.
The room was huge. There were paintings, originals, on two of the walls, depicting an antebellum New Orleans. And on either side of the king-size, canopy bed was a window that afforded him a view of the courtyard.
He crossed to the window on the left and looked out, thinking of the snowy scene he’d left back home just hours ago. A feeling of peace and seclusion pervaded the entire area. The sun grazed the top of the pool, shimmering invitingly. He forgot that it was January.
The view was mesmerizing, and in a way, he was sorry that Emily couldn’t be here with him to enjoy it.
“Do you like it?” Sylvie asked.
“Like it?” he echoed incredulously. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “I don’t know what to say.”
She laughed, thinking of their date tomorrow evening. “Then bring flash cards.”
Her speech might be slow, he thought, but her mind was quick. It obviously jumped around from topic to topic, losing him in the process. “Excuse me?”
“To our dinner party tomorrow night,” she reminded him. “It’s at seven. I’ll meet you in the lobby at six-thirty.”
He found himself nodding like some idiot who had been struck dumb. Finding his tongue, he asked, “Do you live in the hotel?”
“No.” She still cherished her independence, such as it was. “I live a few miles away, but I’ll meet you here,” she repeated.
Now, there was another indication that she wasn’t quite as care free as she’d once been, Sylvie thought. Not all that long ago, she’d have had no qualms about telling a man where she lived. But again, that was before she had Daisy Rose. She didn’t want her little girl’s life disturbed by anyone.
Even gentlemen callers, she thought, amused.
Sylvie glanced toward the old-fashioned clock on the mantel. It was getting late. She’d promised Maddy she would come by to help her set up for tomorrow. Sylvie moved toward the door.
“Until tomorrow night, then.”
Her words floated softly to him. And then she was gone.
Jefferson stood there for a moment, just staring at the closed door wondering if he had imagined the whole thing, including Sylvie Marchand. Especially Sylvie Marchand.
But then he shook his head. No, the woman was real. He hadn’t imagined her. His imagination had never been that creative.
Turning from the door, he went to phone Blake to let him know that he had arrived. Maybe in more ways than one.
CHAPTER FOUR
JEFFERSON NODDED his thanks to the bartender—Leo, according to the name tag pinned to his navy blue vest—as the man placed the chunky glass of scotch and soda before him. The man’s face showed more than a little mileage, even in this light.
He nodded and withdrew.
Blake and Jefferson had gotten the last two empty stools at the bar. Tucked away in the far corner of the hotel across from the retail shops, the dimly lit bar was doing brisk business tonight. Tomorrow was the Twelfth Night celebration, the official beginning of the Mardi Gras season, and tourists and natives alike were starting the partying early.
Soft blue lights played off the surface of his drink, and Jefferson raised the glass to his lips and took a healthy swallow. He could feel the bitter liquid burn its way through his chest down into his stomach. Only then did he turn toward Blake and say what had been burning with equal fervor in his brain.
“She’s too young for me.”
Sighing, Blake shook his head. The reason he’d pushed so hard to get Jefferson to come down here for the reunion in the first place was to counteract this delusion of advancing age his friend seemed to be suffering. Forty-seven was the new thirty-seven, and the last time Blake had looked, thirty-seven was not considered old in anything but dog years.
He swirled the ice cubes in his glass, listening to them clink against one another. Tipping the glass back, he took a long swallow of the Southern Comfort he’d ordered.
“Jeffy, I’ve already said this more than once. It’s all in the mind.” To emphasize his point, he brushed his index finger against Jefferson’s temple. “The way you’re acting, Mother Teresa would be too young for you.”
Jefferson raised his eyes to Blake’s. “Mother Teresa’s dead.”
“My point exactly.” But that point, he could see, was not piercing the haze around his friend’s brain. He leaned in to Jefferson. Because of the din in the crowded room, he brought his lips close to his friend’s ear. “We only go around once in life, Jeff. You’ve got to loosen up, make the most of it.”
Resting his drink on the bar, Jefferson placed both hands around it, as if surrounding a thought and trying to contain it. “I already went around once in life, Blake. I got my law degree, married a beautiful woman and had a wonderful daughter with her.” His mouth curved as fond memories rushed back to him. Memories of Donna and falling in love for the first time. The only time. “The way I look at it, I’m way ahead of the average man.”
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