There’d been no one at the other end of the line when Jefferson answered the call. Probably the service was overloaded. Turning toward Sylvie, he pocketed his cell. “Have you had trouble with thieves before?”
Charlotte looked at him. She wasn’t accustomed to being questioned by people she didn’t even know by name. “And you are?”
“Charlotte, let me introduce you,” Sylvie cut in, suddenly realizing Charlotte had no idea who Jefferson was. Sylvie knew she had a habit of sailing through life, confident that everyone was on the same wavelength as she was. “This is Jefferson Lambert, the man you, Melanie and Renee thought I needed to go out with,” Sylvie told her. “Jefferson, this is my sister Charlotte Marchand.”
Jefferson took Charlotte’s hand into his. Obviously preoccupied by her concerns for the hotel, Sylvie’s sister didn’t seem to be processing the information. “The dating service,” Jefferson added, hoping to clarify things for her.
“Oh.” Charlotte’s eyes suddenly widened. “Oh.”
The second “oh” had a far more appreciative quality than the first as her eyes quickly swept over the man standing beside her sister. Charlotte was accustomed to making judgments quickly and she found that she liked what she saw. The word solid echoed in her brain. That word had never occurred to her before when she’d been confronted with one of Sylvie’s dates. But then, most of them had looked as if they’d fallen off a truck transporting scruffy protesters. Especially the one who’d fathered Daisy Rose.
This man looked as if he held a respectable position in society. Maybe he was a professor at a small-town college. She took a second to congratulate herself.
Sylvie inwardly cringed. God but Charlotte was transparent. You would think that a woman who wasn’t exactly successful in the romance department herself wouldn’t be so fixated on trying to match up her younger sister.
“You were saying something about the paintings in the gallery, Charlotte,” she prompted.
“Right.” Coming out of her momentary mental revelry, she addressed the immediate problem. “I’d really appreciate it if you could take one of the staff and set up camp in the gallery for the night. God knows the security team is overtaxed right now. Mac seems to have disappeared on me, along with Julie,” she said, referring to the head of security and her own administrative assistant. “There’s a sofa in the back room. You could take turns catching a few winks.”
Sylvie gave her an exasperated look. “I know there’s a sofa, Charlotte. I’m in the gallery every day, remember?”
Charlotte decided to use the blackout to Sylvie’s advantage, and slid another look toward Jefferson. “On second thought, I’m really going to need all the staff. Perhaps Mr. Lambert could—”
“No, he couldn’t,” Sylvie cried, jumping in before her older sister succeeded in completely humiliating her.
It didn’t take a brain surgeon to see where this was going. Or to foresee the eruption that was about to occur.
Jefferson cut in before strained nerves caused tempers to flare. “I’ll be happy to keep you company and take a turn standing guard over the gallery’s paintings.”
“I knew I liked you the minute I saw you,” Charlotte told him.
Sylvie knew her sister meant well, but it still irritated her to have Charlotte meddling in her life. “And we all know what a sterling judge of character you are.”
Charlotte gave her a sharp look, obviously picking up on the reference to her ill-fated marriage. “Everyone’s entitled to one mistake.” And then she smiled. “And I’m sure that Mr. Lambert is not a second one.”
“As a matter of fact, Jefferson earned two merit badges on the way over here,” Sylvie told her. “One for quieting a potentially panicky crowd at the gallery and another for bringing me here by horse-drawn carriage when we couldn’t find a taxi.”
Charlotte paused a second to see if Sylvie was putting her on. The look on the man’s face told her that her little sister was reciting chapter and verse. “I do like a man who thinks on his feet,” she said.
But could he think when he wasn’t on his feet? Sylvie mused. An image formed in her mind, one that involved bubbles, hot running water and scented candles.
She tossed her head, her hair bouncing over her shoulder. “You can have your turn with him tomorrow. Tonight, he’s mine. Let’s go, Jefferson.”
Jefferson inclined his head toward Charlotte, silently taking his leave, then lengthened his stride to catch up to Sylvie. “Am I being passed around, Sylvie?” he asked, amused.
She was trying to circumvent several boisterous tourists discussing something in a language she took to be German. “What?” Sylvie realized that he might have taken her exchange with Charlotte the wrong way. “Oh, no, I’m sorry if it sounded that way—”
He raised his hand before she could continue. “That’s okay. I was only pulling your leg. You looked as if you needed to lighten up for a minute.”
The soul-wrenching sigh came before she could bank it down. “I’ve needed to lighten up for the past year.”
“Things that bad?”
Sylvie immediately felt guilty. She had a great deal to be grateful for. “No, they’re not. And it’s probably not fair of me to grumble. It’s just that there’re times I feel like I’m losing who I am.”
“And who are you, Sylvie?”
They were almost at the lobby entrance to the gallery, but Sylvie stopped. The question hit too close to home for her to simply shake it off. And Jefferson was standing much too close to her, Sylvie realized as she looked up into his eyes. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t mind that, especially since the pull she felt toward him seemed to have been growing in intensity ever since they got into the back of the taxi earlier this evening.
But there was something more. Something that made her feel uncertain. It was almost as if she were standing on the brink of something new, something she hadn’t experienced before.
She was too old to jump into anything feet first. Carefree women did that kind of thing, not mothers of three-year-olds.
Sylvie drew in a breath. “A woman who needs to get to the art gallery and set up camp. You hungry?” she asked abruptly.
They hadn’t had a chance to sample any of the food that had been served at Maddy’s event because the power failure hit. After that, adrenaline had been pumping too hard for Jefferson to even think of eating. Now, however, his appetite announced that it was alive and healthy. And waiting to be appeased.
“Yes.”
“I’ll see if I can get someone in the kitchen to conjure up something for us to eat as soon as I call my mother and tell her I’m spending the night here.” Taking out her cell phone, Sylvie quickly placed a call to her mother, then spent the next five minutes assuring Anne that everything was fine, despite the fact that the power was still out. “This is just precautionary, Mother. Kiss Daisy Rose for me and tell Grand-mère not to drive you too crazy.”
“Too late for that,” Anne laughed softly. “You’re sure everything’s—”
“I’m sure, Mother. Bye.” With that, she ended the call. “Next, food,” she murmured.
Crossing to one of the courtesy phones, Sylvie picked up the receiver and pressed a button. Her eyes swept over the lobby as she waited for someone to pick up on the other end. So far, no one looked as if they were losing their temper, and the sounds of music and laughter drifting in from the courtyard indicated the party had kicked back into high gear.
“Room service,” a weary voice finally said against her ear.
Sylvie, recognizing the voice, snapped to attention. “Allison?”
“Yes?”
She’d gotten the heavy-set, amiable young assistant pastry chef whose passion was to create sinfully delicious desserts. “Allison, this is Sylvie Marchand. Do you think you could throw together a couple of ham sandwiches, two slices of your terrific apple pie and a couple of cans of soda—any kind—and send them over to the art gallery?”
“The art gallery?” the woman echoed quizzi
cally. “Isn’t it closed at this hour?”
“Usually,” Sylvie agreed. “But Charlotte wants me to stand guard in case someone decides to make off with the paintings.”
The idea of thieves breaking into her gallery was unnerving, even though she pretended to be blasé about it. The hotel had been home to her and her sisters when they were growing up. She couldn’t think about the possibility of thieves invading her safe haven.
But in light of what happened in the aftermath of Katrina, she couldn’t take any chances. So she would stay in the gallery overnight and ease Charlotte’s burden. Superwoman Charlotte looked as if she was going to have a nervous breakdown if one more thing went wrong for her. Everyone had a breaking point, and Charlotte seemed close to hers. As her sister, this was the least Sylvie could do for her.
Especially when her guard duty companion was growing more attractive to her by the moment.
“I’ll bring it over myself,” Allison promised.
She didn’t want to put the woman out. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll come get it.”
“It’s easier if I do it,” Allison countered. “It’s a bit chaotic here. There are still people in the restaurant who seem to think this is a great dining adventure. I’ve already called the electric company twice to find out how long it’s going to be before they finally restore power.”
“And?”
Allison laughed dismissively. “I can’t get through. Looks like everyone else in the French Quarter wants to know the same thing I do.”
Sylvie shrugged. The shoulder of her dress slid down. Absently, she tugged it back into place. “It’ll be over when it’s over, I guess,” she said philosophically.
There was no point in agonizing over the situation. Hanging up, she saw that Jefferson was studying her, his expression amused. He looked sexy when he smiled like that, she thought, wondering if he knew. Probably not. He struck her as a completely unselfconscious man. Unlike Daisy Rose’s father.
Now where had that come from? She hadn’t thought, really thought, about Shane Alexander in a long time. “What?” She realized Jefferson had asked her a question.
“Are you sure you and Charlotte are sisters?”
“I’m sure. She’s the type A in the family. Took after my mother.” Between the two of them, they could probably run the entire hotel by themselves, Sylvie figured, if the rest of the family would allow her mother to be that foolish.
“And you took after your father?”
“Probably.” It was a compliment to be compared to the father she’d loved, a man who was liked and admired by almost everyone he met. And then she shivered. “I’d hate to think I took after my grandmother.”
“Why’s that?”
Only someone who had never met Celeste Robichaux could ask that question. “Grand-mère has a tongue that can slice people in half at thirty paces.”
Taking out her keys, she unlocked the glass doors leading into the gallery. There was no need to disarm the security system. The power failure had done that for her.
The gallery, long and narrow, took up two floors. A spiral staircase connected the floors, and the open concept gave the gallery an airy, spacious feel.
Glancing around as she made her way to the back, she noted that everything looked to be all right. No one else was here. She hadn’t expected otherwise.
“Personally, I think Charlotte’s overreacting. The electricity’ll probably be back up in a matter of minutes.” Even as she said it, she flipped the light switch. Habit, she thought ruefully as the sound of the empty click mournfully testified to the futility of the act.
She found candles she kept for evening events and placed them in containers along one counter, lighting them as she did so.
“Let there be light,” she murmured.
The effect was hopelessly romantic, she thought. Or maybe she was still reacting to feelings that had been born at the other gallery. On the dance floor. She attempted to shake herself loose of their influence, wanting to be mistress of the moment, rather than have the moment own her.
Reaching the back room, she took off her shawl and dropped it over the sofa before turning to face Jefferson. There wasn’t all that much space available in the small room. “You really don’t have to stay here,” she offered tentatively.
“What?” He pretended to look at her incredulously. “Leave now and miss out on a ham sandwich and a piece of terrific apple pie?”
“Not just any ham sandwich.” Playing along with him, she pretended to take offense on behalf of the absent kitchen staff. “A thick, juicy ham sandwich that’s guaranteed to melt in your mouth.” She grew serious. “It’s like taking a bite of heaven.”
Just like kissing you, he thought. “And how many bites of heaven have you had?”
“A few,” she countered, looking at him.
What was there about tonight? she wondered. Why was she suddenly craving company? Specifically, why this man’s company? Had she been unusually lonely lately? Unsatisfied with this life she’d cut out for herself? Okay, she had a host of new responsibilities, but she’d already begun the transformation three years ago by becoming a responsible mother and now she’d added responsible daughter to her résumé. No big deal.
Maybe big deal, she amended. Since coming back home, she’d felt at times like a bird whose wings had been clipped.
She looked up at Jefferson, her breath lodging in her throat. Funny thing was, right about now she couldn’t really say that she minded having her wings clipped.
What was that all about?
Melt in your mouth. Her description echoed in Jefferson’s head. He could just as easily apply those words to Sylvie. There was something about this unorthodox woman whom Fate had placed in his path that seemed to be weaving itself under his skin, into his senses.
Was it just because he hadn’t been with a woman since Donna died?
Whoa, back up a minute, he ordered himself. He wasn’t about to be with anyone now, either. That was the kind of excuse an adolescent used to justify doing something that was reckless and out of character. That kind of behavior was all in his past.
All right, he amended, all in Blake’s past. Jefferson had been the one who walked the straight and narrow. And that was exactly what he intended to do for the rest of the evening. Be true to his own character. Be true to the memory of his late wife. One unguarded moment, one exquisite, unscripted kiss did not a downfall make.
Not unless it was a kiss with one hell of a kick to it.
Unfortunately for him, that was exactly the way he would have described the kiss he’d shared with Sylvie Marchand as they were leaving the dance floor. Remembering it made his knees weak, a condition he was completely unfamiliar with.
He found himself gazing at her, urges and desires suddenly surfacing from out of nowhere. Vibrating within him. Clamoring for freedom. For release.
Was it just him, or was it growing dimmer in this back room where he was standing with her? And smaller. The room was definitely growing smaller.
Just then, a knock sounded on one of the doors.
Room Service had arrived.
CHAPTER TEN
“WE’RE IN HERE!” Sylvie called out.
Jefferson took a step back from her, feeling slightly awkward, like someone caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.
If he noticed anything out of the ordinary, Rick, the young waiter Allison had sent, gave no indication as he made his way through the gallery.
“Some night, huh?” he asked cheerfully, walking into the back room. Glancing around, he crossed to the desk. Most of the work space was taken up by the computer and uneven stacks of mail, but he managed to find a flat surface and set the tray down. “Too bad this didn’t happen on Halloween. Then we could have told guests the power failure was all part of the celebration. Most people are being good sports, but there’re a few real complainers out there.”
Sylvie felt terrible for Charlotte. Disgruntled guests were the last thing she ne
eded.
Sylvie removed the lid from the plate of sandwiches. “How are things in the kitchen?”
“Well, the stoves are gas, so we managed to get them going,” Rick answered. “But Robert’s worried about the things in the freezer going bad. He’s not too happy the generator broke down.”
He wouldn’t be, Sylvie thought. Robert LeSoeur, the executive chef of Chez Remy, was gifted but demanding—of himself and everyone else involved in keeping the restaurant’s multi-star rating.
Sylvie wondered what had caused the generator to malfunction in the first place. “Tell Allison I said thank you for sending the tray so fast.”
Rick took that as his cue to withdraw. “Bon appétit,” he said, and hurried out of the small room. His footsteps receded, and the doors rumbled back into place as he closed them.
Jefferson had taken the opportunity provided by the waiter’s appearance to put as much distance between himself and Sylvie as the room allowed. All in all, it wasn’t a great deal. The sofa and small desk and chair took up most of the room, leaving little space to maneuver. This was definitely not a room to comfortably accommodate two or more people. Unless they were all pencil thin and on a strict diet of berries and water.
As he moved to take a sandwich from the tray, Jefferson glanced down at the desk and saw the framed photograph of a pretty little redheaded girl with incredibly lively eyes and an infectious smile. Had he not heard Sylvie mention having a daughter, he would have thought he was staring at a photograph of Sylvie as a child. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, he mused, picking up the photograph and looking at it more closely.
Jefferson held the framed photograph toward Sylvie. “Is this your daughter?”
About to go back out to the gallery to make certain everything was where it should be, Sylvie retraced her steps back into the office. She took the frame from his hands and smiled, looking down at Daisy Rose as if she were seeing the photograph, the child, for the first time in a long while. At times, when she got wrapped up in her day, Daisy Rose would melt back into the tapestry of her life. She would forget just how precious the little girl was to her. How lucky she was to have her daughter in her life.
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