Some Like It Hot (9 page)

What Charlotte did want was to let her sister know how much she loved her. How happy she was that she’d come home, and how much she wanted her to stay. She’d hesitated telling Melanie this before, because she hadn’t wanted to
pressure her, but now she felt a strong urge to say all the things she’d been holding back.

Resolutely, Charlotte swung open the car door and stepped outside. She hurried up the stairs and opened Melanie’s door. She started to call out, just to let her sister know she was back, when what she overheard made her blood run cold.

Melanie was standing at the kitchen counter, her back to the door, telephone pressed to her ear.

“Cocaine,” her sister said, then paused a moment. “I want everything you’ve got. All of it.”

L
ATER THAT AFTERNOON
, back at the restaurant, Melanie was nervous. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Coby had told her this morning as she flitted between tasks at Chez Remy.

Her thoughts skipped wildly as she whisked eggs for a hollandaise sauce, then promptly forgot what she was supposed to be making. She mixed ingredients for a chutney, then abandoned it to peer inside the oven, where she’d stuck a cold salad meant for the refrigerator. And then she opened the freezer to discover the casserole that was supposed to have gone into the oven.

All the while she was creating mini-disasters for herself, she kept one ear tuned, waiting for the sound of Robert’s boots. When at last she heard his footfall, she clenched her hands and quickly turned her head to peer over her shoulder. Just the sight of him sent her hormones into hyperdrive.

He was staring at her, his hands held behind his back.

Her heart pounded and her knees trembled. This was crazy.

He smiled and winked.

“What?” she asked.

“I bought you a present.”

“You got a present for me?” That was the last thing she’d expected.

He handed her a flat box bound with a red ribbon. Feeling self-conscious, she opened it up.

“A dream catcher.” She laughed. “New Orleans style. Made with beads.”

“I saw it on my way into work and I remembered you told me your recipes came to you in a dream. The chocolate turkey was such a hit, we don’t want to miss out on any of your dreams. The good ones get caught in the web and the bad dreams fall away.”

“Robert, that’s so sweet of you.” She felt her cheeks flame pink. She was touched by his gift.

“Put it to good use. Dream us up five-star menus.”

“I’ll put it up over my bed as soon as I get home.” Nervously, she shifted her weight, almost wishing she’d never contacted Coby.

Was Robert like David? Was she making the same miserable mistake? Getting caught up in the excitement, the heady exhilaration of sexual attraction, only to find herself involved with yet another man who took drugs?

But Robert didn’t look like a druggie. Not with those clear, intelligent eyes, tiger-fast reflexes and rapier-sharp memory.

If Coby’s research was accurate, Robert was from old money. So what was he doing in New Orleans, working a job that earned him less than seventy grand a year? Had years of drug use caused him to run through his fortune?

But Robert had been charged with cocaine possession
more than a dozen years ago. That didn’t mean he was still a user. She had smoked a little pot when she was sixteen, but she’d gotten busted and learned her lesson the hard way. She hadn’t taken anything stronger than an aspirin since.

Maybe Robert had also made a youthful mistake. But whereas she’d gone before the judge, accepted the probation and served her community service, Robert’s powerful aunt had pulled strings and gotten him out of trouble.

Melanie could easily forgive a youthful, one-time, peer-pressure drug use. What she couldn’t excuse was the idea that he had cheated. He should have been forced to face the consequences of his actions as she had, not hidden behind the skirts of his powerful aunt.

Sugarcoat it all you want. Robert had not accepted responsibility for his actions.

But would you have if your parents hadn’t made you?

She cocked her head, studying him.

Her emotions warred. She was so attracted to him, but she didn’t dare make the same mistake twice. There it was, the dilemma of her life—follow her passion and risk screwing up again, or force herself to play it safe, and possibly miss out on an amazing experience.

He must have sensed her mood, because his smile disappeared and that hooded look came over his face. There it was. His darker side…tempting her. She imagined him making love to her and could almost feel his hands on her body, as hot and hungry as they’d been the night before.

How she wished there wasn’t this barrier between them. That she could trust him. Could they bridge the gap? Was it even a smart thing to wish for?

If Robert did use drugs and her mother found out, she
would fire him on the spot. Anne had a very strict no-tolerance policy concerning her staff and drug use.

Melanie felt a pang in her heart. An odd pain that made no sense, and yet there it was. Wanting. Needing. Aching. She barely knew Robert, so why this profound sense of sadness at the thought of no longer having him in her life?

“I
HEARD HER WITH MY OWN
ears. This is exactly what Melanie said on the phone— ‘Cocaine. I want everything you’ve got. All of it.’” Distressed, Charlotte paced the floor of her office at the Hotel Marchand. She had called an emergency meeting with Renee and Sylvie to discuss their baby sister. “And just before that there was an odd message on her answering machine from some guy telling her he’d scored her some primo stuff. Now you tell me what that suggests to you?”

Sylvie perched on the edge of an antique Queen Anne chair, worrying her beaded necklace with two fingers, while Renee stood with her back against the wall, hands clasped in front of her.

“I told you she’s been acting restless lately,” Charlotte fretted. “Distracted and moody. But I never imagined it was something like this.”

“You could have taken her conversation out of context,” Sylvie said. “You only heard her side of it.”

“And you didn’t hear the entire conversation,” Renee pointed out.

“But you two didn’t see her this morning. She looked like she’d been partying all night long.” Charlotte’s lips formed a hard line. She didn’t want to believe it, either, but the evidence could not be dismissed. Her head throbbed
from the tension and she felt as if she was coming completely unraveled.
Oh, Mellie, what have you gotten yourself into?

Sylvie shook her head. “I still can’t believe Melanie’s doing drugs.”

“Remember when she was arrested for smoking marijuana?” Charlotte asked. “No one wanted to believe it then, either, but it happened.”

Sylvie shifted in her seat. “Yes, Mel burned a couple of doobies when she was sixteen. Smoking a little pot does not a drug addict make, and besides, that was thirteen years ago.”

Charlotte’s hand was shaking. Everything that had happened lately was closing in on her. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions about Melanie. Maybe she was using her little sister as a distraction to keep from focusing on the bigger issue here. That someone was trying to destroy the Hotel Marchand and she couldn’t seem to stop it from happening.

Renee came over to rest a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “You’ve been under so much stress. Maybe you’re starting to see mountains where there are only molehills. Sylvie and I will quietly talk to Melanie and see what we can find out. You’ve got enough on your plate with the Charboneaux-Long wedding and Mardi Gras preparations.”

“I don’t think talking to her quietly will be enough,” Charlotte said. “If she’s using drugs, she’s just going to deny it.”

“Then again,” Sylvie said, “we shouldn’t confront her unless we have real proof. We don’t want to jump the gun. But you’re right, if we talk to Melanie we’re probably not going to get much out of her. Why don’t we ask Robert if he’s noticed anything amiss? He’s with her more than we are.”

Charlotte took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’ll talk to Robert.”

Even though it didn’t feel like enough, it was a start.

T
HE MOOD IN THE KITCHEN
had changed and Robert wasn’t sure why. After he’d given Melanie the dream catcher, she’d become subdued. And she kept making mistakes with the food preparations, which wasn’t like her. He put it down to the stress of the previous night. Maybe she was regretting having been so open about wanting to have sex with him. Or had she read more into the dream catcher gift than he’d intended, and it was throwing her off her game?

Realizing that the longer he was in the kitchen, the more errors she seemed to make, he decided to go check out the doorbell at the service delivery entrance to see if it was working.

But as he unscrewed the faceplate holding the buzzer in place, his mind was on Melanie.

Was she hurt because he’d turned her down last night? He kept remembering the look of sexual hunger in her eyes. What had his fear of getting hurt caused him to miss out on? She’d told him he was too controlled. She’d called him mannequin man.

Ha! If only she knew the truth.

Did she really think he was that uncaring? He sat down hard on the cold concrete steps and wished last night had
never happened. It had stirred up so many unwanted feelings. Feelings that scared him, because the minute he let himself think
Maybe she’s the one,
he grew terrified it would all be taken away. In his mind, love equaled loss, and try as he might, he could see no way to change his thinking.

How was he going to keep working side by side with Melanie when he had such a strong desire to take her to bed? Damn it, he’d finally found some measure of peace here in New Orleans, and now he’d gone and screwed it up.

You haven’t screwed it up. As long as you don’t sleep with her, everything will be okay. Just keep your distance and these feelings will pass.

“Robert?”

The sound of Charlotte’s voice almost jettisoned him out of his skin. He hadn’t heard her come up behind him.

“Charlotte.” He hopped to his feet and stuck the screwdriver in his back pocket.

“What are you doing out here?” Charlotte had a newspaper tucked under her arm. She wore a charcoal pin-striped suit with a pink silk blouse and looked both professional and feminine.

Robert had the utmost respect for the eldest Marchand sister. In fact, the two of them were a lot alike. Both type A personalities, both efficient and devoted to their careers, both brought up in privilege.

“Door buzzer’s not working. I tried to repair it myself, but I’ll have to call maintenance.”

“I wanted to thank you for this.” She thrust the
Times-Picayune
toward him.

He glanced down and saw a photo of the Hotel Marchand with the caption: “Hotel Haunted?” The byline was by Jeri Kay Loving.

“Thank me?”

“The jig’s up. She mentioned you in the article.”

“Oh.”

“Our reservation clerk tells me the phone has been ringing off the hook since this edition hit the stands. Our bookings are showing an increase already.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You told the reporter about the hotel’s ghost. Apparently a lot of people want to stay at a haunted hotel.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m absolutely serious, Robert. How did you get the reporter to write that article?”

“She’s someone I used to know in Seattle. She asked me directly about the generator failure the night of the blackout, so I told her I figured it might have something to do with the resident ghost. I never imagined she’d print it.”

“Well, she did and it’s a blessing.”

“I’m just glad it helped. Are you any closer to finding out who did disable the generator?”

She shook her head. “No. And sometimes I wonder if we ever will. I’m almost hoping it was someone’s idea of a bad joke. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to harm the hotel. Fingers crossed we’ll get through the rest of the Mardi Gras without any more incidents.”

“If there’s anything I can do…”

“There is something else that I wanted to talk to you about.” Charlotte stepped closer and glanced around, presumably to see if they were alone.

Robert looked at her expectantly. Something was definitely worrying her.

“What is it?” Robert prodded.

Charlotte took a deep breath, and clasped her hands together. “Have you…” She trailed off, then started again. “Have you noticed anything different about Melanie lately?”

So that’s what this was about. “What do you mean exactly?”

“Has she been late to work?”

“Once or twice.”

“Forgetful?”

He shrugged, thinking of this morning. Melanie had made a mess of one dish after another.

“Slipping off on unscheduled breaks? Any unusual behavior?”

“You know Melanie,” he hedged, uncertain what Charlotte was fishing for and not wanting to get Melanie into trouble with her sister. “She’s a creative woman. She’s hard to predict.”

Charlotte cleared her throat. “Do you think she’s considering leaving town? Has she said anything about a job offer? A new romance in another city?”

The idea struck him like a blow. Robert had to press his lips together to keep from wincing, and then had to ask himself why the notion bothered him so much. It wasn’t as if he and Melanie were dating.

But you could be. If you wanted.

He didn’t want. She deserved someone who could laugh and play with her. Not a mannequin man who had to hold on tightly to his emotions in order to battle the ghosts from his past. Not a man who had mental illness running through his DNA.

“No,” he said. “She hasn’t mentioned anything about moving or having a boyfriend. In fact, we’ve been discussing taking Chez Remy to a whole new level. Between her cooking and my management skills, I think we can make this happen.”

“Really?” Charlotte sounded hopeful.

“Yes.”

“So you don’t think something’s troubling Melanie?”

You mean besides me?
“She told me she’s been dreading this bachelorette auction thing, but that she’s determined not to let you down.”

“I see.” Charlotte paused a moment, then said, “Robert, I’ve got a proposition for you.”

O
N
T
HURSDAY NIGHT
Melanie found herself standing behind the stage of the small auditorium in the Garden District pre–Civil War mansion that served as the headquarters for the New Orleans Historical Renovation Society.

Her hair was twisted up in a chic chignon and she wore Charlotte’s silver formal gown, cinched almost too tightly at the waist—she should have taken her advice, Melanie admitted, tried it on and had it altered before the auction—and a silver sequined mask the event coordinator had insisted she wear. Hiding behind masks was a timeless Mardi Gras theme, but Melanie had never been much for masquerades.

Grand-mère Celeste waited in the wings with her, the knuckle of her index finger pressed to Melanie’s spine to make sure she stood up straight. The silk moiré walls of the room, the Persian carpet, the gleaming cherrywood furniture, the accessories in rich neutral colors all whispered wealth and good breeding. It certainly wasn’t Melanie’s kind of place. Too stuffy by half. But it was part of her heritage.

Leave it to the New Orleans Ladies-Who-Lunch to go all out.

“You look beautiful.” Her grandmother nodded approvingly. “Thank you for standing in for Charlotte. I’m very proud of you.”

“Thanks, Grand-mère.”

“It’s ‘thank you.’ ‘Thanks’ is casual slang.” Her grandmother looked at her as if she’d just scored a big fat F on the elegant-lady test.

“Sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Don’t worry, we’ll make a Robichaux of you yet,” Celeste said, referring to her side of the family.

Here it was again. The feeling that she’d never really belonged in her own family. Melanie was the odd girl out. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from retorting. Celeste was an elderly woman, after all, even if she wielded a sharp tongue.

What was it going to take for Melanie to fit in?

Maybe you never will. Maybe you should just accept it.

The ache in her heart was sharp and unexpected. Until this moment she hadn’t realized exactly how much she wanted to change. She just wasn’t sure where to start.

“And now for our next bachelorette,” the emcee, Henry Dumas, crooned into the microphone. Henry was an old friend of Celeste’s and hailed from Texas oil money.

Melanie tensed and mentally prepped herself.
Come on, you can do this
. Her chest felt tight and she drew in a deep, unsteady breath. She was more afraid of disappointing her grandmother, she realized suddenly, than of being bid on by Wilmer Haddock.

“Here is the utterly charming youngest Marchand daughter, Melanie,” Henry continued. “Melanie is a sous-chef at Chez Remy. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and Melanie proves that’s true. I recently was treated to a meal of her chocolate turkey and instantly fell in love.”

Melanie groaned inwardly at the corniness of it all, but the
crowd, most of whom had known her since she was a tomboy in pigtails, burst into refined applause. Not a catcall or two-fingered whistle in the house.

Forcing a smile that she did not feel, Melanie stepped out onto the stage. The spotlight followed her with a digitalized drumroll. She found it unnerving, gazing out into a sea of tuxedos, ball gowns and masked faces.

She felt a nervous tic at her right eye. More than anything she wished she could twitch her nose and be magically transported to her favorite place on earth—her father’s kitchen.

Thinking about Chez Remy made her think about Robert, and thinking about Robert made her think about getting locked in the supply pantry with him and how he had turned down sex with her when things had gotten hot and heavy.

She honestly did not know how to read the guy. One minute he’d been kissing her like there was no tomorrow, and the next he was backpedaling and contradicting himself. Her ego wanted to believe it was because he’d been so hot for her he hadn’t known how to handle it. But her insecurities were mocking her, telling her he’d just been polite, only kissing her because she’d thrown herself at him.

Oh God. She felt her cheeks flush pink remembering how foolhardy she’d been.

And then there was the bomb Coby had dropped on her about Robert’s cocaine use.

It’s in the past,
she told herself.
It doesn’t matter now
.

But did she know for certain that it
was
in the past? And even if it had happened years ago, it proved he was the kind of man who wouldn’t step up to the plate and accept the consequences of his actions, but let someone else clean up his mess. Did she really want to get involved with a guy like that?

What exactly did she want from him?

“Shall we start the bidding at five hundred dollars?” Henry Dumas asked the crowd. “After all, we are talking one very hot sous-chef here.”

“Five hundred,” called a short, chubby balding man in a Zorro mask.

Wilmer Haddock.

Ugh.

Melanie suppressed a groan of disgust. Squinting against the glare from the overhead chandelier, she gazed out at the audience, searching for a knight in shining armor to save her from a fate worse than death—four hours in the company of Wilmer Haddock.

Double ugh.

Please, God, let someone else bid on me.

“Five hundred,” Henry said. “Do I hear five-ten?”

“Six hundred,” someone at the back of the room called out.

Saved! She had another bidder.

Glaring, Wilmer whipped his head around to find out who was competing against him, stated, “Seven hundred.”

“A thousand.” The counteroffer came promptly from the back of the room.

Now everyone was staring at the stranger.

Who was he?

Melanie stood on her tiptoes and craned to see who was giving Wilmer a run for his money. Unfortunately for her, the Haddock family had very deep pockets and Wilmer possessed a competitive streak. Even worse, she knew he’d been praying for an opportunity like this to recreate their sophomore year church picnic.

Charlotte, you owe me big for this,
Melanie thought.

“Fifteen hundred,” Wilmer called.

Silence fell over the room.

Oh no, was her savior dropping out? Melanie pasted a bright, encouraging smile on her face.
Don’t forsake me now, Romeo.

“Two thousand.”

Melanie scanned the back of the room and finally saw who was outbidding Wilmer. A man in a tuxedo with a Phantom of the Opera mask.

Her pulse thumped. She loved the Phantom of the Opera. Dark, brooding, sexy. And this one was willing to fork out two grand to spend the evening with her.

Rock on, Phantom.

Wilmer bared his teeth. “Three thousand dollars,” he exclaimed boldly, then shot a triumphant glance over his shoulder.

The audience applauded politely.

Melanie’s hopes shattered.

Rats. Looked like she was in for a long night of batting Zorro away from her cleavage. Oh well, it was for a good cause. No one could say she hadn’t held up her end of the bargain.

“Five,” the Phantom said quietly.

“Excuse me?” Henry Dumas cupped a hand around his ear. “Didn’t quite catch that. Did you say five thousand dollars for an evening with Melanie Marchand?”

“I did.”

Holy cow. Five grand? Melanie felt both giddy and faint. Who was this guy?

A ripple went through the crowd. None of the previous bachelorettes had raised anything close to that extravagant amount.

Henry looked at Wilmer. “Do you want to make a counter offer?”

Wilmer opened his mouth to put in another bid, but before he could say anything, Melanie snatched the microphone from a startled Henry, not caring one whit that she was breaking all the rules of decorum, not to mention the auction.

“Going once, going twice, going three times. I’m sold to the Phantom of the Opera for five thousand dollars.”

The crowd chortled.

Wilmer glared.

Henry grabbed for his microphone.

The Phantom meandered through the crowd to collect his prize.

And Melanie’s heart practically jumped right out of her chest, it was beating so hard.