The hotel had a lot of employees. Mac Jensen was going to wear himself out if he took on all of their personal problems. She’d have to explain that to him—or perhaps Charlotte should be the one to tell him to lighten up. Charlotte was his boss, after all.
“Where are we going?” Julie asked as he steered down a sleepy street of darkened storefronts.
“A little place I know. Great food, cheap prices and no atmosphere. You up for that?”
No atmosphere sounded good. Mac clearly saw nothing remotely romantic in this outing.
The restaurant was located down an alley dark enough that she’d never have ventured there alone. In fact, she’d never have found it. Halfway through the alley, she and Mac descended a short flight of stairs to enter a basement club.
He’d lied about the atmosphere. The place teemed with it: dim lights, scratched wooden floors, paneled walls and a din of cheerful voices competing with the tinny zydeco music emerging from cheap ceiling speakers. Mouthwatering aromas of hot oil and fiery spices wafted through the dining room.
No maître d’ hovered near the door, waiting to greet and seat them, but a waitress in blue jeans and white T-shirt swooped down on them as they entered. More specifically, she swooped down on Mac, planted a juicy kiss on his cheek and drawled, “Hello, loverboy! You’re lookin’ fine tonight. We’re pretty full, but I got the perfect table for you. The catfish is so fresh tonight, it might flop around on your plate a little.” She flashed Julie a toothy smile, then led them on a meandering path around the tightly arranged tables and chairs to a cramped table for two pushed up against the far wall.
“Loverboy?” Julie murmured once the waitress had departed.
Mac shrugged innocently.
He waited for her to sit before lowering himself onto the ladderback chair across from her. The table was small, and their knees collided underneath. The world, Julie had learned, was not designed for tall people with long legs. Mac apologized, shifted and bumped his knees against hers again. That time he smiled instead of apologizing.
“The food’s really good here,” he said, leaning forward to be heard above the chattering of voices around them and the lilting rhythm of accordion music pumping through the speakers.
“I like fresh fish, but I prefer that it not be flopping around on my plate,” Julie countered. “Do you think they’ll kill my dinner for me before they serve it?”
Mac grinned. “Only if you ask nicely.”
“Or if Loverboy asks for me. Something tells me that waitress will do anything you ask of her.”
“Probably,” he said, a playful boast. “Assuming she’s not being afflicted by one of those moods women are known to have.”
Maybe by “no atmosphere,” Mac had meant paper napkins. Maybe he’d meant computer-printed menus and water in plastic tumblers. Maybe he’d meant that more than one waitress seemed to hold him in extraordinarily affectionate esteem. Several stopped by their table to fawn over him.
Finally, one of them took their order. “The crawfish stew is great today,” she gushed when Julie ordered it. Then she winked at Mac and said, “I just know you’re gonna want that catfish, ain’t you, honey?”
“You have a lot of friends here,” Julie commented dryly, once the waitress bounced off with a promise to bring Mac’s beer and Julie’s glass of wine straightaway.
“You’ll notice that not one of them has called me by name,” Mac shot back.
“No, but they’ve got plenty of endearments for you, darling.”
“You’re in N’awlins, Julie. Down here, the word darlin’ doesn’t end in a g.”
Their waitress returned with the wine and beer and a plastic basket filled with warm rolls. Another wink for Mac’s benefit, and she was gone. “How did you even find this place?”
“I get around,” he said casually. He lifted his beer mug, tapped it against her wineglass and took a sip.
“Were you born in New Orleans?”
He shook his head. “I grew up in Cajun country. St. Mary’s Parish.”
She would not have taken him for a rustic. He was poised, polished and always well dressed. Someone had brought him up to city speed somewhere along the way. “Jensen doesn’t sound like a Cajun name,” she said.
He grinned. “Even in the bayou, they allow crossbreeding. We didn’t all marry our cousins.” He pulled a roll from the basket and broke it open. A puff of vapor rose from its steamy center. “I was a jock. Won myself a scholarship to Loyola, left St. Mary’s Parish and never looked back.”
“How did you wind up in hotel security?” she asked before taking a sip of her wine. Not the sort of vintage Leo would stock at the hotel, but not bad, either.
“I like snooping,” he confessed. “I studied psychology, but I couldn’t picture myself sitting in an office and charging a hundred bucks an hour to listen to people whine. It’s more interesting trying to psyche folks out, catching them at their worst. And keeping beautiful women safe.” He took a bite of his roll, his eyes steady on her. “But enough about me, Julie. You’re the one I want to keep safe.”
“I’m perfectly safe,” she insisted.
He appeared far from convinced. “You were whiter than chalk when I saw you this afternoon. Whatever that e-mail said, it had you spooked.”
“Sure,” she said calmly. “And when someone tiptoes up behind me and shouts ‘boo!’ I get spooked, too.” Or when someone in a hot black sports car follows me home, she wanted to add. “Once the scare wears off, I’m not spooked anymore.”
“Have you got any ex-boyfriends?” he asked.
She’d lifted her wineglass, but his question startled her and she put it back down without drinking. “I beg your pardon?”
“Any ex-boyfriends who might send you a nasty e-mail.”
“Oh.” She picked up her glass again and took a long sip, using the time to consider her answer. She’d had a few boyfriends over the years—as he could have guessed from Creighton’s comments on the front porch. She couldn’t imagine any of those old flames sending her that cryptic message about the song being over, though. The e-mail alluded to her stint as the face of Symphony Perfumes, and she hadn’t dated during her modeling days. She’d been too young and too busy. She hadn’t dated much in college, either; she’d been too traumatized by the whole ordeal in New York and the way her career had ended. And frankly, she hadn’t felt a lack in her life. She prided herself on her independence. She didn’t need a man by her side to make her feel complete.
In New Orleans, she’d gotten to know some men, and she’d stayed with one long enough that the subject of marriage arose during a few conversations. But she and Steven had ultimately decided they weren’t destined for till-death-do-us-part, so they’d broken up. Afterward, over a devilish concoction Creighton had prepared for her from the contents of his well-stocked bar, her neighbor informed her that Steven had never been good enough for her. “You have more brain power in your earwax than he has in his entire body,” Creighton insisted. Julie had disagreed, but Creighton’s support and frequent dinner invitations had helped her get through the loneliness she’d felt in the wake of Steven’s departure.
And it had been just loneliness, not heartbreak. Julie had recovered quickly.
“If you’re asking me whether I’ve got an ex-boyfriend who would send me harassing e-mails, the answer is no,” she said. “Really, Mac—”
“Anyone from your past who might be looking for trouble?”
She was spared from having to answer by the arrival of the waitress with their food. If the waitress hadn’t arrived, would Julie have told the truth? Was she turning whiter than chalk again?
Glenn Perry was out of jail. He’d served his time and won his parole. But he had no reason to seek her out, no motivation to look for trouble with her now. She was a thousand miles away, and, God willing, their paths would never cross again. Surely he wanted to put the past behind him as much as she did.
“I ought to warn you, Mac,” she said, with as sweet a
smile as she could manage, “I don’t like overprotective men.”
“I’m not overprotective,” he argued quietly. “Just protective.”
As she recalled, Glenn had said something along those lines when she’d signed with the Glenn Perry Agency. She’d been seventeen, and her parents had said she could work only on weekends and in the summer—and even at that, they’d been worried about their precious young daughter commuting from their suburban home. But Glenn had said he’d take good care of her. He took good care of all his teenage models, he’d assured them. He protected his girls from the creeps and the sharks in the business.
Too bad he hadn’t protected them from himself.
Julie might have been young, but she’d never been stupid. Unlike some of the other girls, she’d never trusted him. She’d learned how to defend herself and she’d known her own mind. Some people might have considered Julie beautiful, and others might have considered her freakish, so tall and thin and gawky for much of her childhood, but she’d always taken care of herself. And she’d taken care of Glenn, too, once she’d figured out what he was doing.
She didn’t need Mac Jensen to look out for her. Let him protect the Hotel Marchand and its guests. That was what Charlotte paid him to do.
Julie was fine, thank you. One stupid e-mail wasn’t going to get to her.
CHAPTER THREE
MARCIE SULLIVAN HAD INSISTED that Mac conceal the truth from Julie, and since Marcie was writing the checks, he bowed to her wishes. “If Julie knew I’d hired someone to keep an eye on her, she’d blow a gasket,” Marcie had told him. “She hates anyone fussing over her or worrying about her. And I’m her sister, so I really don’t want her hating me. You can’t let her know what you’re doing.”
Not a problem. Mac had engaged in undercover work before, and this particular job was one of his easier assignments. Luck had created an opening at the hotel for him, and he’d stepped into it so he could remain near Julie without anyone realizing he was being paid to keep her safe. If Julie thought he was probing too much about her social life, he could rationalize his concern as simply part of his job as the hotel’s head of security. She’d never have to know her sister was involved.
Curious though he was about her ex-boyfriends—and while he was at it any current ones—he steered the conversation in a different direction. “How long have you been Charlotte’s assistant, Julie? Four years?”
“Five years this July,” she answered. “Why?”
“I’m just trying to figure why a woman would leave a glamorous career as a high-fashion model to push papers in a hotel office.”
She chewed, swallowed and speared another chunk of crawfish with her fork. “I was hungry,” she said.
He gestured toward her plate. “Dinner ought to cure that.”
She smiled. “This is delicious, but that’s not what I meant. When I was modeling, I had to keep my weight down. I got tired of starving myself all the time.”
“You quit so you could eat?” He laughed, even though he knew she was exaggerating.
“I also wanted to use my brain,” she continued, then leaned back and sipped some wine. “Modeling is boring. The perfume ads were really boring. Try posing hour after hour with a bottle of Symphony Perfume.” She shuddered at the memory.
“You did ads for Symphony Perfumes?” Mac asked, hoping he sounded as if this was all new to him. “Is that a big company? I’m not really up on perfume. Never wear the stuff,” he added with a grin.
“Kiss a woman who’s wearing it and you’ll wind up wearing it, too,” Julie returned, her smile teasing.
Staring at her across the small table, he was tempted to ask if she’d splash on some perfume and let him kiss her, just to see if what she’d said would happen. “So Symphony Perfumes…is it a big company?”
“Perfumes are made by drug and cosmetics companies,” she told him. “A dozen different labels might come out of one huge company. Symphony was just one brand. Then, within the brand, there were different scents. All the Symphony Perfumes had musical names—Glissando, Arpeggio, Sonata, Grace Note. It’s all marketing, Mac. Stick a label on a pretty bottle, take a photo of a bored model holding the bottle and people will buy the stuff.”
However bored she’d been, she’d looked damn sexy in those photo ads. He had a bunch of them in a file back at his office.
He’d known his share of beautiful women—and his share of bored women, too. Julie looked beautiful tonight, her hair mussed, her slender body hidden beneath a baggy sweater and old jeans and her eyes dancing with pleasure as she devoured the food in front of her. With her makeup worn off, her professional polish missing and a decade’s worth of experience adding character to her face, she looked a lot sexier than she had in the perfume ads.
He convinced her to order dessert and coffee, simply so he could spend a little more time watching her eat. When she hesitated, he ordered a bowl of bread pudding for himself. That seemed to appease her, and she resigned herself to a slice of bourbon pecan pie and a cup of decaf. He asked for real coffee; he’d need the caffeine to keep him alert when he got back to work tonight.
“Tell me about the Hotel Marchand,” he said once the waitress had delivered their desserts and coffee. “Charlotte recently took over managing the place from her mother, Anne, right?”
“Last September, “Julie answered with a nod. “The hotel was Anne’s dream—hers and Remy’s. He built the restaurant into what it is today, and she managed the hotel. The hotel was their home. Their daughters grew up there, in the living quarters above the bar.”
“Remy was pretty well-known in the city,” Mac commented. “Being a famous chef, spreading the word about New Orleans cuisine. He died in a car crash, didn’t he?”
Another nod. “It was horrible. A drunk driver hit his car during a storm on the causeway over Lake Pontchartrain.” She sighed. “It was so sad. I’d barely gotten to know him—I’d been working at the hotel a couple of months before he died. But he and Anne were soul mates.”
“Was that why Anne turned over the hotel to Charlotte? Because she’d lost her soul mate?”
This time Julie shook her head. “Anne was still pretty much running the show until just before you arrived. Charlotte was taking over more and more of the management, but Anne remained in charge until last September, when she had a minor heart attack and the doctor ordered her to cut back and take it easy.”
Although he had access to the personnel records, he wasn’t privy to those of Anne Marchand or her daughters. Family—and hotel ownership—had its privileges. That Anne had had a heart attack surprised him. “She looks pretty healthy.”
“You’ve met her, then?”
“In passing. She’s not around that much. Charlotte was the one who hired me.”
“I remember,” Julie said, then busied herself with her pie. He wondered if, as Charlotte’s assistant, she’d had any say in his hiring. Wouldn’t it be ironic if she’d helped him to weasel his way into the hotel so he could keep tabs on her?
He took a long sip of his coffee. Black and strong, it rinsed the heavy sweetness of the bread pudding from his mouth. “I’ve gotten to know the other Marchand sisters, too. Sylvie, who runs the art gallery in the hotel—she’s got a daughter, right?”
“Daisy Rose,” Julie confirmed. “She’s three years old and absolutely adorable. Also a handful,” she added with a grin.
“Any other third-generation Marchands?” he asked.
“Not yet. I guess it’s lucky none of the sisters had other family ties, since they’ve all been able to help out with the hotel since Anne’s heart attack. Melanie was a chef in Boston, but she came home and fit right into the Chez Remy kitchen. Renee was doing PR work out in Hollywood before she moved back, so now she’s doing PR for the hotel.” Julie scooped up a dab of whipped cream and licked it off her fork.
“Anne knew what skills to develop in her daughters so they could take over the business,” he said with a grin. “That took some foresight.�
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“Growing up with Anne as their mother, maybe they couldn’t help catching the hotel-business bug. Anne loves the hotel almost as much as she loves her daughters. She pretty much designed the place herself, picked out the furnishings—all those gorgeous antiques in the lobby, the furniture and the fabrics, the room furnishings, even the teardrop shape of the swimming pool. She’s an amazing woman, very strong—except for her heart problem. I don’t think she wanted to give up the day-to-day management of the place, but it was for the best that she handed that responsibility over to Charlotte. Running a hotel is so demanding. Plus the financial pressures…”
“Is the hotel having money problems?” he asked. He wasn’t going to worry about his paycheck—as Sandy had pointed out, he was already getting paid plenty by Julie’s sister—but the Marchands were nice people, and their hotel was a four-star establishment. The rooms seemed to be booked, the restaurant crowded, the bar lively.
“There are some debt issues,” Julie said vaguely. “Nothing insurmountable, but Anne worries about it. Charlotte does, too.”
“And you don’t?”
This time she didn’t bother lying. “Anything Charlotte worries about, I worry about. But the hotel is kind of like Anne herself. It would take more than a heart problem to knock her flat. She’s tough. So’s the Hotel Marchand.” Julie glanced down and seemed startled to discover an empty plate where her pie had been. “That was so good,” she said, then smiled bashfully. “I can’t believe I pigged out like that.”
“You were hungry, darlin’.” Most women loved sweets but refused to eat them in front of a man. That Julie had ordered the pie and savored every bite of it… In Mac’s book, few things were as erotic as watching a woman suck the sweetness off the tines of a fork.
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