The Setup (9 page)

“The lights flickered here earlier, but everything seems to be fine now,” Anne assured her. Then she drew her breath in sharply.

“What?” Sylvie demanded. “What is it?” Jefferson was looking at her quizzically. “Did the lights go out?”

“No, but I just realized this blackout should have hit the hotel. We have power here, but the hotel is a few miles away. I’d better go down to check and see—”

Sylvie cut her off. “Mama, you stay where you are. Daisy Rose needs you. I’m already out—I’ll go to the hotel. If there is a power failure, I should
check to make sure the paintings are all right, especially the ones on loan from the museum—and
Grand-mère’s
Wyeth,” she reminded her mother. Sylvie had been thrilled when Celeste agreed to allow the gallery to display the priceless Wyeth for a few months.

“Oh my Lord, the paintings.”

Sylvie tugged impatiently on her hair, annoyed with herself. Someday, she was going to have to learn to censor her words before she spoke. “Don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen to the paintings. I’ll sleep with them if I have to. Kiss Daisy Rose for me,” she added, just before she ended the conversation.

Jefferson looked at her. “Daisy Rose?” He hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but since Sylvie was less than a foot away, it would have been difficult for him not to hear everything.

“My daughter,” she explained. She saw mild amusement flicker across his lips. “What?”

Slipping his arm around her, he moved her out of the way as several people hurried from the building. He hadn’t seen Blake since he’d left his former roommate and Maddy at the generator. Knowing Blake, he would probably use the blackout to his advantage somehow. “I guess mine wasn’t the only daughter who didn’t make it onto the application.”

That surprised her. Just what were her sisters trying to do?

“It didn’t say that I had a little girl?”

He shook his head. “No. How little?” he asked. He missed Emily being little. When she was
younger, she had hung on his every word and hadn’t yet developed her independent streak—the one that seemed to be growing every day.

More people emerged from the gallery, stumbling a bit in the dark. Jefferson guided Sylvie off to one side, narrowly avoiding a collision with a man who looked like he was more at home on a football field than in a gallery.

“She’s three—and two handfuls,” Sylvie added fondly.

It was easy to see that her daughter was the joy of her life.

“I left her with my mother and grandmother.”

He thought of Emily and what a challenge she’d been during the babysitting years. He grinned. “Think they’ll be safe?”

Sylvie laughed. The night air was cool and she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Obviously you’ve never met my grandmother. She could send an alligator into therapy.” As she spoke, she was pressing the button on her cell phone keypad to connect her to the hotel’s front desk. When the number of unanswered rings grew, she found herself becoming more uneasy. She tried Charlotte’s cell phone. This time, a message said the user was out of the calling area.

Sylvie frowned. “Someone should be answering.”

“Why don’t we get back there and see what’s going on?” he suggested.

This was her responsibility, not his. “You don’t have to come with me.”

“Yes, I do.” And then he smiled. “I’m staying there, remember?”

“Right. Sorry.” How could she have forgotten that? Was she really that flustered? “I’m not usually this disconnected.”

His eyes swept over her. “From where I’m standing, you seem very connected.” This time, rather that taking her elbow, he offered her his arm. “Let’s see about getting a cab.”

Sylvie nodded as she slipped her arm through his.

Finding a taxi was easier said than done. An army of cabs was on the street tonight, but either they were already occupied or someone beat the two of them to the door.

The minutes were ticking by. Sylvie felt herself growing more edgy. She couldn’t very well call her mother back and tell her to go to the hotel in her place. The woman did not need this kind of stress.

“Maybe we should walk,” Sylvie suggested. She saw him looking down at her shoes. She had on open-toe high heels that made her seem several inches taller than she was. “I know the hotel is a few miles away, but it’s better than standing here.”

He had his doubts about that, and even greater doubts about Sylvie making the journey in the shoes she was wearing. Searching for an alternative, Jefferson looked around. That was when he saw it. A horse-drawn carriage standing across the street. He’d thought carriage rides were only available within the French Quarter. Apparently not.

Impulsively, he grabbed her hand and dashed across the street.

“What are you doing?” she asked, breaking into a sprint to keep up. Horns blasted around them as they zigzagged between cars. With the lights out, traffic had snarled badly. No one was in a patient mood.

“Seizing the moment,” he cried.

She was about to protest that she had a hotel to get to and didn’t have time for an adventure when she saw what had attracted his attention. Her mouth dropped open.

“How much would you charge to take us to the Hotel Marchand?” Jefferson asked the driver, a wizened old man who practically seemed to disappear into the coat he was wearing.

The driver squinted at him. “I’m on my way to the stables. Time for Apples to rest. Besides, I don’t know where that hotel is.”

Sylvie found that a little odd—the hotel had been around for decades—but she quickly volunteered the address. The driver shook his head so hard, his top hat slipped. He made a grab for it and pushed it back on.

“Sorry. I don’t remember things as well as I used to,” he apologized. “Me and Apples here just go around the area, nothing more. Less competition.”

Jefferson wasn’t about to give up. “Tell you what, why don’t you sit in the back with Miss Marchand and I’ll drive you there.”

Distrust was stamped on the man’s gnarled features. “And steal my carriage?”

“I don’t want your carriage or your horse,” he insisted. “The lady and I just need to get back to the hotel. You keep an eye on the route we take and you can make your way back.” Jefferson gave him an encouraging look. “Sharp man like you should have no trouble, right?”

“Right.” But he didn’t sound sure.

Taking out his wallet, Jefferson extracted five twenties and pressed them into the man’s hand. The driver stared at the money. His scowl faded a little. Finally, he shoved the bills deep into his pocket.

“Okay. But nothing fancy. Apples doesn’t like surprises.”

“Nothing fancy,” Jefferson promised. Turning, he started to help Sylvie into the back, but she shook her head.

“I’m riding up front with you,” she informed him. Drawing closer to him as the driver got into the back, she lowered her voice. “You sure you know how to drive one of these things?”

Jefferson climbed up into the seat reluctantly vacated by the driver. Leaning over, he offered Sylvie his hand. “My grandfather had a horse ranch in Wyoming. I spent a lot of summers there.”

Sylvie wrapped her fingers around his and climbed up into the seat beside him. “So, you’re a cowboy, too, besides being a crowd controller and a lawyer. I must say, I’m impressed, Jefferson.”

He liked the way she said his name. “Nothing to be impressed about,” he demurred.

A lawyer, a cowboy—and modest, too,
Sylvie
thought. She caught herself smiling as they began to make their way along the crowded street.
Not a bad combination.

T
HE SOUND OF THE HORSE’S HOOVES
hitting the cobblestone street leading up to the Hotel Marchand echoed in the night air. Sylvie had no idea why that seemed romantic to her, especially given the nature of the situation, but it did. Her vulnerability made her uneasy. There was no point in having her emotions stirred up by this man. This was a date, nothing more. By this time next week, they would be separated by several states.

But the funny little glow she was experiencing remained.

They’d had one uncertain moment when the impatient driver of a low-slung sports car leaned on his horn. Apples had seemed about to rear. Sylvie had grabbed on to her seat, envisioning herself spilling out onto the sidewalk. Miraculously, Jefferson seemed to anticipate the horse’s reaction. Leaning forward as far as he could, still holding the reins tight, he talked the animal into a calmer state.

As the carriage approached the hotel, Sylvie looked at Jefferson with unabashed respect. He might resemble Gregory Peck, but she was becom
ing convinced that the man was hiding a large letter
S
just beneath his shirt.

“So now you’re a horse whisperer,” Sylvie had said.

He’d merely shrugged. “Just doing what needs to be done, nothing more.”

They didn’t make men like this anymore, Sylvie thought.

And then her attention was redirected to the hotel. Usually well lit, the Hotel Marchand now looked like a candle whose wick had all but been extinguished. Through the windows Sylvie detected the flickering shadows cast by lamps and candles.

Why hadn’t the emergency generator kicked in? she wondered. The old-fashioned hurricane lamps were mostly for decor, but obviously they had been pressed into service. Charlotte was nothing if not innovative.

“Oh, God,” Sylvie murmured, more to herself than to Jefferson, “the guests aren’t going to be very happy about this.”

He glanced at her. “The hotel can’t be held responsible for the blackout,” he said. “And neither can you or your family.”

She doubted that there were many people who’d agree with him. People who’d spent their hard-earned money on vacations, only to find less-than-perfect conditions, were usually eager to point fingers.

Sylvie shifted in her seat, impatient to get inside.

“No, but we’ll pay the price for the bad impres
sion they’re going to take back home.” She pressed her lips together, remembering what Charlotte had told her just the other day. “This is one of our best weeks so far,” she explained. “We still haven’t recovered completely from Katrina.”

Just shy of the hotel’s entrance, Jefferson brought the carriage to a stop. Paul was still on duty. He hurried over, eyeing the horse and carriage skeptically. His eyes shifted toward Sylvie. “That’s kind of a different horse power than I’m used to, Ms. Marchand.”

“Relax, Paul, you won’t be parking him,” Sylvie promised. The valet extended his hands toward her, and she let him help her get down from her perch. Feet safely planted on the ground, she glanced over her shoulder at Jefferson. “Mr. Lambert commandeered the carriage when it looked like all the taxis were spoken for.”

Jefferson could have sworn he’d heard a note of admiration in her voice. He smiled to himself. It felt good being someone’s knight in shining armor. Turning in his seat, he handed the reins he’d been holding to the little man seated in the passenger seat behind him.

The carriage driver eagerly clambered onto his perch. Back in his rightful place, he nodded curtly at Jefferson.

“Not a bad driver,” he muttered. “You ever want to do this professionally, look me up. Maybe we can work something out.”

Jefferson grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind. Never know when I might need a new career.”

The next second the man was off, as if he’d suddenly reconsidered his offer and was afraid that Jefferson might take him up on it.

“Odd little man,” Sylvie commented, watching the carriage make its way through the press of cars trying to negotiate the narrow streets of the French Quarter.

“He probably wasn’t too comfortable having someone handling his horse,” Jefferson said as he took her elbow and guided her toward the revolving door.

There were candles or hurricane lamps on every available flat surface in the lobby. Under different circumstances, Sylvie might have found this incredibly romantic. Right now she had business to attend to, however.

“You don’t have to come with me, you know,” she said to Jefferson. Maybe older men were still into chivalry, which was nice, but she didn’t want him feeling obligated.

Jefferson merely smiled as they made their way through the lobby. “Trying to get rid of me?”

Actually, she was beginning to really enjoy his company as well as appreciate it. She’d always admired resourceful people. “No, it’s just that this doesn’t exactly come under the heading of a typical date.”
More like above and beyond the call of duty,
she added silently.

She looked around for Charlotte, but only a few people were milling around the lobby or talking to the desk clerks.

Music floated in from the courtyard, where the revelers at the Twelfth Night party seemed to have regrouped. It made her think of the musicians who played to calm the patrons on the sinking
Titanic. Cheerful thought,
she admonished herself.

“In my opinion,” Jefferson was saying, “neither did that gathering we just came from.” At least, it wouldn’t have been his choice for a typical date.

She glanced at him, picking up on his disapproving tone. “I take it you don’t like performance art.”

Honesty, he’d already decided, was the right way to go. “I don’t really know what the heck that is,” he confessed.

A small furrow formed just above the spot where his eyebrows were drawn together. It made him look kind of sexy, Sylvie thought, in a scholarly sort of way. “Something else Emily put down?”

He laughed, glad she was being a good sport about this. Glad, too, that Emily had talked him into coming here. “Apparently.”

His cell phone rang just as Sylvie spotted Charlotte. He excused himself while Sylvie tapped her sister on the shoulder. “Sylvie, what are you doing here?”

“Riding to the rescue.” Charlotte had no idea how accurate that statement actually was. If it hadn’t been for the horse and carriage Jefferson had commandeered, the two of them would still be back at Maddy’s gallery. “Seeing if you could use any help.”

Relief washed over Charlotte’s features. She’d been trying to keep all the balls in the air and it felt
like they were going to come crashing down on her head at any moment.

“God, could I ever.” She placed her arm around her sister’s shoulder, vaguely aware that there was someone with Sylvie and that he was talking on a cell phone. “The emergency generator’s not working and I’m worried about the paintings in the gallery,” she said bluntly. “I think we’ve got the rest of the hotel covered as best we can.”

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.