“Spam,” she said. “Thank God for the delete key.”
He swallowed a curse. “You deleted it?”
“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with spam?”
“Run-of-the-mill spam, sure,” he said. “Anything personal you should save. And you should alert someone.”
“The police?”
“Or a security professional. Like me.” He smiled to keep from alarming her. As if she wasn’t already alarmed.
She tried valiantly to pretend she wasn’t. “It was nothing, Mac. Not even worth the breath I’ve wasted talking about it. But thank you for offering to help.”
“No thanks necessary.” He stood, his brain whirring. He was going to have to hack into her computer and get a look at that e-mail. Who besides her might know her password? Her sister, maybe. “Promise me something, Julie,” he said.
She leaned back and raised her eyes. They met his and he was once again stunned by their unusual color, their seductive beauty—and by the fear in them, the emotion she couldn’t hide. “What?”
“If you get any more strange e-mails, you’ll tell me about them.”
“Mac—”
“And don’t delete them. Promise me.”
She stared up at him for a long, taut minute. “All right,” she said. “I promise.”
SHE’D PROBABLY OVERREACTED to the e-mail, Julie thought hours later, after she’d compiled all the information Charlotte had asked for concerning the party planners. She’d contacted several of them, typed up their rates and their available services and concluded that, given the hotel’s delicate financial health, Charlotte shouldn’t farm out any party jobs this year. But that decision was Charlotte’s to make, so Julie simply put all the estimates into a folder, along with a sheet outlining her own opinions.
She’d also spent twenty minutes phoning grocery and convenience stores in the area to see if any of them sold bags of cylinder-shaped ice. A deli up on Canal Street claimed to have the right kind, so she’d sent one of the bellhops to pick up a bag, which was delivered to Alvin Grote’s room with the hotel’s compliments. She’d discussed shrimp prices with Robert LeSoeur and Melanie Marchand in the kitchen and alerted Nadine LeClaire in housekeeping that a guest had noticed a pile of wet towels on the floor near the third-floor elevator vestibule, and she’d gotten an e-mail from Marcie telling her their father was much improved and might even return to work tomorrow. That was an e-mail Julie wouldn’t delete.
She rescued the glissando e-mail from her computer’s trash bin, too, just in case Mac was right about saving such missives. She wasn’t sure what its message was, though she tried to interpret it in the most positive way. “The song is over” could refer to nothing more sinister than the news that Glenn Perry’s time in prison had ended. Her testimony had won him a twelve-to-twenty-year sentence, but with time off for good behavior, he’d been released after only eight years.
So his “song,” his time behind bars, was over. Fine. Let him get on with his life. Let him pick up the pieces and live on the right side of the law and never exploit young girls again. And, please God, let him stay out of her own life.
By six-forty the top of her desk was clear and she could quit for the day. She slid the handles of her leather tote onto her shoulder and left her office, locking the door behind her. Given her long hours, she hadn’t been joking when she’d told Mac she had no time for a dog. She barely had time to sprinkle a few flakes of fish food into her aquarium. Not that she was complaining, but after a long day of work, her feet were sore, her neck was stiff and her mind was wrung out. And her song was over.
Don’t think about that e-mail, she scolded herself. It’s nothing.
She was still assuring herself it was nothing when, on her drive home, she noticed a car following her. It wasn’t directly behind her but a few vehicles back—a black BMW sports coupe. She turned left, and three cars later the black sports coupe turned left. She turned right and it turned right. She ran a yellow light and the BMW got stopped by the red, but two blocks later it had caught up to her, drifting in and out of her rearview mirror.
“It’s nothing,” she said aloud, then turned on her car’s radio in time to hear Bonnie Raitt ask her if she was ready for a thing called love. As soon as that song ended, another began. “See?” she spoke to the air around her. “The song isn’t over. There’s always more music.”
She reached her house at the edge of the Garden District, an old, genteelly seedy mansion that still showed water stains on its white stucco surface, just above the foundation, from Hurricane Katrina’s floodwaters. She supposed her landlady had more important things to do than get the house’s exterior painted. The landlady’s apartment and one other were on the first floor of the building, and they’d suffered a fair amount of damage from the storm. Julie’s flat was on the second floor, and when she’d returned home after the evacuation and found her possessions all as she’d left them—with the exception of her fish, who’d died from neglect and been mourned and replaced—she’d vowed never to complain about having to tramp up and down the stairs again.
She pulled into the small off-road parking area near the front door and spotted the black BMW easing up to the curb in front of the house. Cursing softly, she grabbed her tote and slammed the car door. Her song was not over, and whoever the silhouetted driver of that car was, he was not going to end it for her.
She raced to the front door and jammed her key into the lock, ignoring the tremor in her hand. Once she was inside the foyer, she leaned heavily against the door and let out a shaky breath. Only after her heart stopped pounding did she allow herself to peek out the side-light window framing the door.
The black car remained at the curb. She couldn’t tell if the driver had emerged.
At least she was home. She had neighbors. She had a phone. She could dial the police. She could sing. She recalled how, years ago, she and Marcie used to drive their parents crazy when they sang a silly children’s jingle that began, “This is the song that never ends…” If she sang that song until the black car left, she would be safe.
She climbed the stairs to her second-floor flat, humming the catchy tune as if it were a mystical chant with which she could ward off evil. Still humming, she unlocked her apartment, entered, shut the door and threw the dead bolt. She stepped out of her shoes, slid off her jacket and started toward the bedroom, singing under her breath.
She had just slipped off her blouse and shimmied out of her skirt when her intercom button sounded. The sharp buzz cut her song off, and the silence that filled her small apartment sent a chill through her.
One e-mail and she was turning into a wreck. One e-mail, sent just weeks after Glenn Perry had been paroled, and now a mysterious black car had followed her home. The intercom sliced through the peace of her apartment again, turning Julie into a basket case.
She threw her robe on over her slip, double-knotted the sash and padded in her stocking feet to the kitchen, where her intercom phone was. “Hello?”
“Julie? It’s Mac Jensen.”
Mac Jensen? What was he doing here?
He offered some sort of answer to her unspoken question. “You forgot to lock your car.”
She’d forgotten to pick up her mail, too. She’d been too anxious to reach the safety of her apartment to waste time on her car door or her mailbox.
Then it hit her: Mac had been driving the black BMW. Mac had followed her home. The bastard, scaring the hell out of her!
What was she supposed to do now? Invite him up for a cup of coffee? Go downstairs and lock her car? Slap him silly for having frightened her?
She didn’t want to invite him up, that was for sure. She didn’t trust any man who would follow her home, even if he’d had a good reason for doing so. Mac struck her as the sort of person who never did anything unless he had a good reason.
More important, she didn’t trust a man who could extract a promise from her as easily as Mac had in the hotel’s courtyard just hours ago. Why
had she promised to tell him if she received any more weird e-mails? Why would she promise him anything at all? She didn’t need some big, strong, protective man looking out for her. The last time she’d placed her fate in a man’s hands had been with Glenn Perry, and he’d done things that had ultimately landed him in prison. She’d learned how to take care of herself then, and she wasn’t about to unlearn that lesson now.
“I’ll be down in a few minutes,” she finally said. She hung up the intercom phone, stalked back to her bedroom and replaced her bathrobe and slip with a pair of jeans and a tunic-style sweater of textured white cotton. A few quick strokes with her brush settled the frizz the evening’s dampness had teased out of her hair, and she slid her feet into a pair of clogs and grabbed her keys. She’d lock her car, get her mail and tell the overprotective guy to go home.
Downstairs, she peeked through the leaded-glass side light once more. Mac stood on the brick front porch, clad in the same gray suit and black polo shirt he’d been wearing all day. Maybe he’d look a little less dashing if he were dressed in the security uniform his underlings wore. Tomorrow Julie would suggest that Charlotte put Mac in uniform.
She bet he’d look damn good in that uniform, though. He looked better than damn good dressed in gray and black, with a day-old shadow of beard darkening his jaw.
Sighing, she eased open the door. “Did you follow me home?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
No explanation. No apology. If confession was good for the soul, Julie thought his soul could use a little improvement. “Why?” she asked when he volunteered nothing.
“First lock up your car,” he said. “It’s not safe to leave it unlocked when you can’t garage it. Anyone could walk up the driveway and tamper with it.”
She scowled and pushed past him, down the porch steps and onto the front walk. “If anyone wants to steal the thing, they’re welcome to it. They could save me the cost of a brake job.”
“Are your brakes going?” He sounded like her father, stern and patronizing.
“They squeak,” she said, hating how defensive she sounded. “The warning light hasn’t turned on yet, so I’m sure they’re safe. Just noisy.” She locked the door, then marched back to the house, trying to ignore how closely he walked behind her.
On the porch, she halted and folded her arms. “Now tell me why you followed me home.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it, reconsidering his answer. “I could come up with all kinds of explanations, darlin’,” he said, then gave her a sheepish smile. “But mostly it’s because I’m worried about you.”
“There’s no need for you to worry. I’m okay, as you can see.” She uncrossed her arms and spread them wide, displaying how okay she was.
He scrutinized her with just a bit too much interest, and she folded her arms over her chest again. “This morning…” he began.
“I had a down moment, that’s all. Have you ever heard of moods, Mac? They afflict women sometimes.”
He chuckled. “Oh, yeah, I know about women and moods. Would you like to see my scars?”
His grin was knowing and a touch self-deprecating—and wickedly sexy. The thought of his stripping down to show her his scars sent a flush of heat through her. If there had been any question of her inviting him upstairs, it vanished now. Her apartment was too small; she wouldn’t feel comfortable with him inside it. As it was, the Garden District seemed too small for the two of them. Even in the open air she detected his scent. It made her think of a forest at night, lit only by the moon.
The sound of a car cruising up the driveway dragged her attention away from Mac. Recognizing the bright red Miata, she felt her shoulders sag with relief. Creighton Bowman lived across the hall from her. He was in his sixties, flamboyantly gay and utterly delightful. He parked his car beside hers, climbed out and greeted her with a booming, “Bon soir, ma chère!” Then he loped up the walk to the porch, his silver hair flying and a colorful silk scarf fluttering around his neck. “Who is this adorable man you’re refusing to introduce me to?”
“This is Mac Jensen,” Julie dutifully told him, even though she didn’t want Creighton to think Mac was her friend, or that she considered him particularly adorable. “Mac, my neighbor, Creighton Bowman.”
Creighton extended his hand, and Mac shook it. “I like the looks of this one,” Creighton confided to her in a stage whisper. “Much better than the last one. Or the one before that. Or…well, let’s just say this one looks tall enough to hold his own with you. Most men can’t see eye to eye with our Julie,” he continued, addressing Mac. “Not her fault, of course. She’s such a statuesque beauty—”
“Creighton, I think you’ve done enough damage for one day,” Julie said, although she was smiling. He was so good-natured, she could never get angry with him, even when he was being painfully tactless. “Mac and I work together.”
“Ah. A Hotel Marchand veteran.”
“Hardly a veteran,” Mac said smoothly. “I’ve been there only since Thanksgiving.”
“That place will suck you in,” Creighton warned. “It’s simply too beautiful for words. French Quarter to the nth degree. The decor… It makes me swoon. And the restaurant… If only I were rich, I’d dine at Chez Remy every night.”
“And you’d get fat,” Julie pointed out. “You’re a fine cook yourself—and your recipes have less butter in them.” She patted his arm. “Mr. Jensen and I have business to discuss.”
“On the front porch? You Yankees do things so strangely.” Creighton turned his shining eyes on Mac. “When she’s done demonstrating northern hospitality to you, sweet man, come on upstairs to my apartment and I’ll pour you something potent. I adore Julie to pieces, but she doesn’t know how to stock a bar.”
“Thanks for the heads up,” Mac said, shooting a quick look at Julie. He appeared to be struggling against a laugh.
“Well then, I’ll leave you two workers to your business,” Creighton said, sweeping past them and into the building.
It took several seconds for the air on the porch to settle. “Interesting neighbor,” Mac said.
“He’s a sweetheart.”
“Anyone who knows how to stock a bar is all right with me.” Mac grinned. “So, are we going to discuss business on the porch?”
“What business do we have to discuss?”
Instead of answering, he tilted his head back and stared up at the sky, which was dark but for the gray clouds streaking across. Julie realized why he looked up when she felt a cold raindrop hit her forehead.
“Tell you what,” Mac drawled. “It’s late and I’m hungry. Why don’t we go get a bite to eat? We can talk then.”
Julie was hungry, too, and tonight wasn’t one of the rare occasions she felt like cooking. If they went out, she wouldn’t have to invite him into her snug apartment, where his distinctive scent would linger long after he’d left.
“I have to get my purse,” she said.
“And a raincoat,” he suggested as the sky leaked a few more drops.
Reluctantly she let him into the foyer to wait. She couldn’t very well leave him standing on the porch in the rain, and really, he was perfectly safe, even if he made her nerves twitch. She unlocked her mailbox—Mrs. Grollier, the landlady, sorted the mail for her four tenants when the postman dropped it through the slot in the front door—and pulled out the few items inside: a cell phone bill, several circulars for postholiday sales and a fashion magazine her mother had bought her a subscription to, thinking she might still have some interest in the business. She didn’t, but she accepted the magazine without a fuss. At least she knew she could leaf through it without seeing any images of herself, looking as sultry as a naive teenager could look while holding a bottle of Glissando or Arpeggio.
Mac was sensitive enough not to follow her up the stairs, and she moved fast once she reached her apartment, tossing the mail onto the dining table that stood in the corner of the living room, then pulling her lined raincoat from a hook of the coat tree and
grabbing her purse. She checked her wallet to make sure she had enough cash to cover her dinner if they went to a place that didn’t accept plastic. She didn’t want Mac paying for her. This wasn’t a date.
Since he lacked a raincoat, she dug out an umbrella from her closet before leaving her apartment. He stood where she’d left him, in the entry foyer, tall and powerful, his hands in his trouser pockets and his jacket gaping just enough for her to appreciate the lean contours of his chest.
He looked stylish enough, even with his scruffy five-o’clock shadow—especially with his scruffy five-o’clock shadow—to dine anywhere in the city. In her faded jeans and baggy sweater, she wouldn’t be admitted to any of the better establishments. Which was fine with her.
“Here,” she said, extending the umbrella to him. “You might need this.”
He appeared surprised by her generosity. “Thanks,” he said, holding the front door open for her and joining her on the porch. He popped open the umbrella, then leaned toward her so she could stand under it with him.
They hurried down the driveway to the street, where he’d left his car. It looked new, its glossy surface shining in the light of a streetlamp. He opened her door for her, then circled the car and wedged himself into the driver’s seat. After shaking the rain off the umbrella, he snapped it shut and tossed it onto the floor behind him.
The car held his smell, along with a whiff of leather from the seats. “Fancy wheels,” she observed. He must have earned a lot in his previous job. The Hotel Marchand didn’t pay its security director enough to afford a new BMW.
He shrugged and cranked the engine. “It handles well,” he said, as if that was the only reason someone would spring for a car like this.
It did handle well, weaving smoothly through what was left of the rush hour traffic, the windshield wipers arcing back and forth in a steady rhythm. Julie distracted herself from his steely profile by trying to make sense of his interest in the stupid e-mail she’d received a few hours ago. She should never have mentioned it to him, but she had—and now he seemed practically obsessed with her safety. Why? He was in charge of the hotel’s security, not hers. Maybe he felt responsible for the entire staff, as well.
In the Dark Page 3