The Setup (10 page)

“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 quizzically. “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 un
orthodox 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.

“W
E’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 needed.

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.

“Daisy Rose,” Sylvie murmured, more to herself than in acknowledgment of his question.

Jefferson could hear affection in every syllable. There was something incredibly appealing to him about a woman who so obviously loved her child.

Without fully realizing it, he felt a bond growing between them. “She’s as beautiful as her mother.”

Sylvie looked up and flashed a smile at him as she placed the photograph back on her desk. “Did you say your daughter was a teenager?” she asked.

“Emily’s sixteen going on forty,” Jefferson said. And some days, too much of a handful for him, he added silently. “Enjoy your years with her,” he advised. “They go by too fast.” He nodded at the photograph she’d just replaced. “At three, you can still tell them what to do.”

Sylvie laughed. There were days when Daisy Rose made her think of a pint-size little old lady. An
opinionated
little old lady.

“Obviously, you’ve never met my Daisy Rose.” She took the napkins from the tray and placed one on his side of the desk. Sympathy nudged her. They were both paddling canoes through the same churning waters. “Not easy being a single parent, is it?”

No, he thought, it wasn’t, although he suspected that Sylvie might have an easier time of it than he did, since her child was the same sex as her. And from what he gathered, she had a good support system in place, surrounded by her family the way she was. He’d had Donna’s mother Sophie for emergencies, but for the most part, he’d had only himself to rely on. There had been times when he was sure he wasn’t going to make it. But somehow, he always managed, due, in no small part, to the fact that Emily was a great kid.

As he watched Sylvie set out their dinner, he found himself wondering about her. There’d been nothing on the form to indicate she’d been married. All it had said was that she was single.

Was she widowed, like him? Was she still nursing a wound that refused to heal? Empathy flooded through him. “When did you lose Daisy Rose’s father?”

Setting the tray aside, she looked up, a flicker of humor in her expression. “I never had him.” Because she had a feeling he stood on ceremony, she picked up his plate and offered the sandwich to him.

Jefferson hardly noticed the sandwich with its thick cuts of ham. Sylvie had all of his attention as he took the plate she handed him. “Excuse me?”

Sylvie laughed, shaking her head. “You have just
got
to be the politest man I have ever met,” she commented. Then, in case he thought she was dodging the question, she explained, “Daisy Rose’s father and I were never married.”

Like someone venturing over a fence, then seeing a sign clearly marked “Do Not Trespass,” Jefferson swiftly, if not smoothly, retreated. “Oh, sorry. None of my business.”

Most men would have pried, feeling they deserved answers because they were investing their time in a woman. That he didn’t impressed her.

“No,” she agreed, “it isn’t.” And then she grinned. “But I’ll tell you anyway.”

He waited, curious, while she took a bite of the sandwich and finished chewing and swallowing.

“He was a rock musician—on his way down, actually, when I met him. Shane Alexander of Lynx.” She looked at him to see if the name meant anything and thought she saw a flicker of recognition. “He could be very charming when he wanted to, of course, and I know I should have been a little smarter than I was, but I fell for his act, which was, sadly, all it was. Just an act.” But she was too grateful to have Daisy Rose to lament the past. “Man didn’t have much going for him upstairs, but he sure did know how to rock my world in the lovemaking department.” About to take another bite of her sandwich, she saw that Jefferson had stopped eating. “Am I embarrassing you, Jefferson?”

Yes, she was. But it annoyed him that he was so
transparent. He had a poker face when it came to arguing cases in a boardroom or the courtroom, but for some reason, he couldn’t get it to function outside his professional life. Her remark just underscored how different he and this sprite of a woman were.

Jefferson shrugged. “You’re just being honest.”

Sylvie had always been in tune with what people thought. Sometimes it was only after the fact, which was why she’d been on the receiving end of heartache so often, but she could usually read people pretty well. And Jefferson had just avoided answering her. “That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m not accustomed to people being so honest,” he hedged. “I’m a lawyer,” he reminded her, the corner of his mouth twitching just enough to make her wonder if he was putting her on.

Amusement filtered through her. She really did like this man, she thought. And she was attracted to him. She made a mental note to find a way to repay her sisters without coming straight out and saying thank you. If she did that, they’d be impossible to live with.

“Don’t lawyers tell the truth?”

“Certain versions of it,” he allowed. He popped the tab of the soda can and foam fizzled onto the lid.

Sylvie finished her sandwich, then said, “I didn’t realize there were several versions of the truth.”

“There are several versions of everything,” he assured her.

And right now, Jefferson thought, the truth was
that Sylvie was making the food he was eating stick in his throat as if it had been doused in glue.

The hunger he’d felt had passed, now that he’d eaten the sandwich, but it was replaced with another type of hunger, one he had not fed for a very long time. One he had been fairly convinced had died years ago due to lack of attention.

Jefferson had never been interested in sex just for the sake of sex, even as an adolescent. First he had to feel something for the person he was with. His mind had to be invited to the banquet before his more basic interests could attend.

“Oh, really?”

She moved aside her empty plate and smiled seductively at him, enjoying his reaction. Enjoying her own reaction to him. Sylvie moved closer, aware of the heat coming from his body. Drawn by it.

“So if I said something like, ‘I feel very attracted to you right at this moment, Jefferson,’ that could be interpreted in several different ways?”

He couldn’t take his eyes from her. Couldn’t move if he’d wanted to. And he wasn’t all that sure that he did want to, even though he had a feeling he was about to get hit by something with the force of a runaway train.

“Yes,” he heard himself say.

A smile crept into her eyes, feathering out to the rest of her features. “Give me one interpretation.”

He could feel her breasts against his chest as she took in a breath. Could feel a need unfurling within him. “I can’t.”

Her amusement made it hard for her to keep a straight face. Her desire made it equally hard not to just throw herself into his arms and see what happened. “Why not?”

He took a breath, seeking to steady himself. He succeeded. Outwardly. “Because my mind has stopped functioning.”

The admission delighted her. “Why, Jefferson, I think that must be one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever been given.”

“Wasn’t meant as a compliment,” he responded. “It’s the truth.”

Sylvie had been with her share of men, and for the most part, they were given to fabrications, even if they weren’t all smooth talkers. This man was a whole new experience for her.

“Haven’t had much practice at flattering women, have you, Jefferson?”

Like a man in a dream, Jefferson saw himself placing his hands on the soft, inviting swell of her hips. It just seemed like the natural thing to do, if only to assure himself that she was real and he wasn’t having some strange, enticing dream.

“No.”

Sylvie felt a shiver travel up her spine in response. Who would have thought that honesty could be so sexy?

“Good, I like that,” she murmured. “No bad habits to unlearn. Nothing for me to try to decipher.”

He could feel her breath, sweet, enticing, whispering along his face as she spoke. His stomach
had tightened and he knew without a doubt he wanted her.

But women, for the most part, were a mystery to him. He didn’t want to be guilty of misreading the signs, of acting on things that he only imagined were true.

When in doubt, ask. In the long run, it was simpler that way. “Sylvie?”

If he didn’t make a move soon, Sylvie thought, she was going to jump him. A woman could only be so strong. “Yes?”

“Are you coming on to me?”

She could have laughed. The man was an innocent. And yet so damn virile it set her teeth on edge.

“As hard as I can.” Sylvie pressed her lips together as she looked up at him. She could feel her body priming. Yearning. “How am I doing?” she whispered.

Had he been holding anything, other than her, he would have snapped it in two. Meltdown, he thought, was close at hand. “You are a difficult woman to resist,” he confessed.

She raised her chin slightly, her eyes never leaving his. “Then I have a suggestion.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, he grinned. “Don’t resist?”

And then Sylvie laughed. He found the sound hopelessly exotic.

“You read my mind,” she said.

He pulled her closer. So close that their heartbeats mingled. She cocked her head, an amused, slightly
quizzical expression on her face. He wondered if it was just a facade. If beneath everything, she felt as shaken by what was happening as he did.

“I have to take some initiative here,” he told her.

How charmingly old-fashioned, she thought. Despite the Boston address, this man’s roots were definitely those of a Southern gentleman caller of yesteryear.

“Men don’t have to anymore,” she told him.

“Some things,” he told her, bringing his mouth down to hers, “don’t have to change.”

The moment his lips touched hers, she knew. It hadn’t been a fluke, Sylvie thought. That lightning she’d felt coursing through her veins earlier this evening when she’d kissed him hadn’t just happened because of the moment. It had happened because of the man.

And he had only grown more appealing as the evening progressed.

She supposed that he was the kind of man people described as the “strong, silent type.” He would have fit right in to the era of the quiet hero who came riding into town, trying to keep to himself but forced to take charge and save the day because no one else would step up.

He was definitely stepping up.

Excitement pulsed through her as she leaned her body into his. Delicious sensations assaulted her, warming her limbs. Sylvie wrapped her arms around his neck, savoring the very taste of him.

He made her head spin.

She’d teased him about his lack of romantic entanglements, but the truth was, she’d been auditioning for the part of vestal virgin herself recently. She’d been too busy raising Daisy Rose, running the art gallery at the hotel and forging alliances with local artists to even have a fleeting relationship with any man, much less one of substance.

But this man was a man of substance. There was just something about him—the way he talked about his daughter, or asked about hers—that told her, Here is a man who is not afraid of the word
forever.
A man to rely on.