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Obsession
Tori Carrington


The French Quarter: where seduction is a game…The Game: ObsessionThe Players: Josie Villefranche, notorious hotel owner; Drew Morrison, business sharkObject of the Game: Have a Cajun-hot love affair, without getting burnedBordello-turned-hotel-owner Josie has a hands-off rule when it comes to men. Too many have wanted her only for her talents in bed. But when too-sexy-to-resist Drew checks in, she decides to make an exception: use him, then lose him–no regrets.Ruthless businessman Drew has a hidden agenda: to buy the cash-strapped hotel. But he's been bedding its bewitching proprietor instead. When a murder puts Josie in both financial and legal trouble, Drew must make a choice: grab the hotel and run–or sacrifice everything for another night in her bed….









Look what people are saying about the

Dangerous Liaisons miniseries…

About Possession…


“This is a classic Tori Carrington tale. It has all the

wonderful elements of category romance with

handsome, interesting characters, a ‘bad boy,’ a

‘good girl,’ meddling parents, meddling brothers,

and emotional and familial baggage galore. The sex

is steamy and provocative, woven nicely into the

reader’s understanding of the characters…. This

book will appeal to all fans of Tori Carrington,

and future books in the series, if as good as this

one, will be something to anticipate.”

—The Romance Readers Connection

“The atmosphere is as thick as the

New Orleans heat.”

—Romantic Times BOOK club

“The Rogue and the FBI Agent. Possession, the

latest by Tori Carrington, is a gripping whodunit

that is interwoven with hot, scintillating love

scenes. Don’t miss the latest sizzling romantic

thriller from the dynamic Tori Carrington!”

—BN.com

“Sexy sizzler. The Carringtons at their very best,

and a look back at the Big Easy, when it was easy.”

—The Best Reviews







Dear Reader,

When we first decided to set our DANGEROUS LIAISONS miniseries in New Orleans, Hurricane Katrina wasn’t even a light breeze in the Atlantic. Now, well, after having witnessed the wrath of the storm and its devastating effects on one of our favorite cities and her many denizens, our hearts are filled with sorrow…and hope. Oh, we have no doubt that The Crescent City will rise again like a Phoenix rising from the ashes. Our hope is that the journey toward that end will be quick and as painless as possible.

In Obsession, the second title of three in the series, sexy Josie Villefranche’s French Quarter roots stretch deep into the shadowy past of the infamous area. But when handsome Drew Morrison, aka The Closer, is assigned to force her to sell the hotel and onetime brothel that has been in her family for generations, he has no idea what he’s up against….

We hope Josie and Drew’s story captures a mere fraction of what was—and will someday soon be again—sexy and unique about this wonderful city. We’ve all given to the American Red Cross. Now may we suggest we turn our attentions to Habitat for Humanity to help in the rebuilding efforts? Go to www.habitat.org for more info. And keep an eye out for the final book in the series, Submission, in May.

With warmest wishes,

Lori & Tony Karayianni

aka Tori Carrington

P.O. Box 12271

Toledo, Ohio 43612

toricarrington@aol.com

www.toricarrington.com




Obsession

Tori Carrington





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


We dedicate this book to the

many victims of Hurricane Katrina.

Our hearts and thoughts are

with you now and throughout

the difficult struggles ahead…




Contents


Chapter 1 (#u3ea207a8-ea09-5480-a38e-134afc20b2fa)

Chapter 2 (#u5b8269ef-2ae7-5a7b-b613-f248f26ec194)

Chapter 3 (#u8bf3a99d-e8a2-5fb6-b630-866cad2163ce)

Chapter 4 (#u29ae9831-ac88-528e-ac34-97e29f152bca)

Chapter 5 (#ucc99159d-8ece-5812-8229-b5253ced3f66)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)




1


THERE WERE TIMES when Josie Villefranche felt like the French Quarter hotel she owned and ran was still a brothel of legend.

Maybe it had something to do with the timelessness of her surroundings. Could be her mixed-race heritage was to blame. She was one quarter African American, like many of the women who would have run or worked in the onetime bordello over the past 150 years. Or perhaps her assistant manager was right in that one of her ancestors’ ghosts still haunted the place, an ancestor who was rumored to have been one of the most successful madams in the Quarter’s history.

Whatever the reason, this hazy Sunday afternoon was one of those times. She sat behind the check-in counter fanning herself with a starched lace fan. She’d found it among her granme’s things in the fourth-floor room Josie had left untouched since Josephine Villefranche’s death nearly a year ago.

Josie fingered the tattered edge of the fan, wondering where her namesake had picked it up. Was it a gift from a male admirer? Had she bought it herself at a local shop? And had she once sat right where Josie was sitting now, fanning herself, longing for someone, anyone, to walk through those front doors? Or thankful that all was quiet so she could catch a few moments to herself?

She released a long sigh. Of course, in the here and now, those quiet few moments were adding up, which was the reason Josie’s mind now traveled to times long ago. The hotel had been doing very little business since the murder of that girl in 2D two weeks ago.

She glanced idly toward the winding, wooden staircase leading to the room in question. A sense of unease wound through her veins. Yesterday she’d been forced to cut her only maid, Monique, back to part-time. A temporary measure, she’d called it, until she could generate some business that would give the young woman more rooms to clean and more resources with which Josie could pay her. So as owner and operator, she, herself, had taken over some of the cleaning duties.

Merely being in room 2D earlier this morning had made her feel out of sorts. As if somehow the dead woman’s soul remained behind, reluctant to leave until her killer was brought to justice, although all physical traces of her had long since been washed away.

Claire Laraway, that had been her name. Her one-night lover, and a onetime frequent customer of Hotel Josephine, Claude Lafitte, had been accused of her murder and arrested, then ultimately released. But not until after he’d taken a female FBI agent hostage and had shot off a round at the check-in desk to ward off New Orleans police officers. The bullet was still embedded in the front of the counter, just another part of the history of the old building. A building in dire need of repairs and sweeping renovations Josie couldn’t afford.

If she didn’t find a way to drum up some business, and quick, the hotel would become the property of the U.S. government by way of her overdue tax bills.

Then, of course, there was the matter of the killer still out there somewhere, on the prowl. A killer Monique half feared would strike at the hotel again. A view apparently shared by Josie’s regulars, if the current vacancy of the rooms was any indication.

Josie caught herself waving the fan too quickly, kicking up a breeze that did nothing to cool the moisture that coated her skin. On the shelf under the top counter lay the latest of several offers made by a large national hotel chain to buy the Josephine. Offers she routinely refused to consider. Offers that offended her. Not because of the generous amount offered, but because Hotel Josephine was her birthright and it wasn’t for sale. What would she do if she didn’t have the business to run?

For as long as she could remember, the hotel had been a part of her life. It was included in one of her earliest memories, when her mother used to bring her there for brunch every Sunday after church. They’d sat with her grandmother in the courtyard restaurant in their best clothes—even now she could remember the delicate white gloves and hat she’d worn—enjoying café au lait and toast with jam.

Later, when her mother had met what she’d called “the one,” the man who would change her life, there’d been no room in the picture for a girl whose black heritage was apparent, while her mulatto mother had been blond and blue-eyed. So Josie had been dropped off in front of the hotel with a plain paper bag holding her meager belongings, left staring at a grandmother who had been just as surprised to see her as she’d been to be there.

Josie smiled faintly. Of course, Granme had made the best of the situation, as she always had. And Josie couldn’t imagine how her life would have turned out had her grandmother not raised her.

Some may have viewed the work she’d done around the hotel beginning at a young age as an abuse of the child labor laws. Josie had seen it as inclusion. She’d preferred being around the adults, dragging a mop along the floor or stripping the beds and washing towels, to being on the street playing with other children her age. It had made her feel as if she were an adult. Someone in charge of her own life. She realized now that much of that desire to be older than her years stemmed from her never having known her father and from abandonment by her mother, but back then she’d only known a desire to be in control, however illusory that control was.

And now? Now that she’d inherited Hotel Josephine and was one missed tax payment away from losing her?

Often in past days she’d wondered what her grandmother would have done. Surely, she, too, had experienced tough times, and she’d obviously managed to come through them okay.

Josie would find a way, as well.

Footsteps on the banquette outside the hotel. She looked up to find a tall, wide-shouldered man in a suit considering the exterior of the place, then glancing inside. One of the few buildings loyal to French influences in the Quarter after the fire of 1794, the structure boasted double doors, a marble-tiled lobby with high ceilings and ornate cornices that spoke of glamorous times past. Her granme had loved plants, and they stood in every corner, giving the illusion of coolness to compensate for the lack of air-conditioning and insufficient ceiling fans. Josie squinted at the would-be customer, noticing his weathered yet expensive brown leather suitcase and his hat. Somewhere in his early thirties, he was an attractive man. But it was more than his good looks that made him that way.

“He’s got that zing, that it,” Granme would have said. “You stay away from men like that, Josie. Not a one of them is worth the heartbreak they’ll bring.”

Despite her advice, men seemed to break Josie’s heart on a regular basis. While the city and its atmosphere of casual sex and impermanence might be partially to blame, she’d only ever found herself in the role of lover, but never partner. Never had she been referred to as someone’s girlfriend or enjoyed the title of fiancée. It hadn’t helped that four out of the five men she’d had temporary relationships with had been guests at the hotel. But since so much of her life revolved around the hotel, it was understandable that the majority of the men she crossed paths with would be guests, people just passing through. And leaving her behind without a backward glance when it was time to check out.

The visitor looked at something in his other hand. Josie realized it was one of the flyers Philippe Murrell, her assistant manager, had talked her into making up a couple days ago to distribute at the airport. She hadn’t expected anything to come of the endeavor. Yet here was someone obviously brought to her doorstep as a result of Philippe’s idea.

She rose to her five-foot, three-inch height and pretended busyness, praying for the man to come in.

When he finally did, she had to suppress a breath of relief, even though it would take a lot more than this one handsome man to save her hotel.

DREW MORRISON HADN’T REALIZED how far he’d fallen until he stood outside the run-down Hotel Josephine convinced he had the wrong address.

“The Closer.” That’s how he’d once been almost reverently referred to. He was an independent contractor who’d brokered multimillion-dollar deals on behalf of clients who were running out of options to obtain what they were after. From the employee-run window manufacturer putting a dent into a neighboring corporation’s profits, to the stubborn casino owner who wouldn’t give under pressure from his competitor, Drew eased his way into people’s lives, became their friend, their confidant, and ultimately convinced them that selling would not only alleviate their worries and make them independently wealthy, but that it was also the brave, almost honorable thing to do.

Nowhere was it mentioned that it was the only thing to do.

Now he was reduced to penny-ante jobs like this one. Jobs similar to the type he’d taken on ten years ago when he’d been a wet-behind-the-years business grad, compliments of three years in the military serving overseas and the G.I. bill.

He ignored the sweat running down the back of his starched shirt under his Hugo Boss jacket. He guessed that’s what happened when your loyal wife took you to the cleaners and screwed your divorce attorney without your knowing, walking away with everything you’d spent years building—and, in the process, costing you two important deals because your mind wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

Drew stepped into the lobby of Hotel Josephine and took off his hat. One thing he’d never been was a complainer. He accepted full responsibility for the position he was in. After all, he hadn’t seen behind Carol’s greedy, money-grabbing ways. Had deluded himself into thinking she’d loved him, when, he’d figured out much too late, her affection had been a job to her, a means to an end.

And Carol had been very good at her job.

“Bonjour,” the young woman behind the check-in desk greeted him, apparently busy doing something.

“Good morning.” He put his suitcase on the floor, then placed his hat on the counter. “Are there any rooms available?”

From what he could make out of the quietness of the place, it was more than likely every room was available.

He watched a slender, honey-skinned hand reach for the guest book and skim through it, although the lined page she turned to was obviously empty.

“Room 2C should be cleaned by now.”

She looked up at him.

And Drew Morrison felt like he’d just taken a hard one to the chest.

He couldn’t be sure what it was about the woman. For sure, she was attractive. Beyond merely attractive, if truth be told. She had a lush body that her simple, understated slip dress merely served to emphasize. Her dark hair hung in soft ringlets to her sleek shoulders. But none of that made her any different from countless other women he ran into on the street.

It was her eyes, he realized. The color of rich whiskey when you reached the bottom of a crystal tumbler. Eyes of a Caribbean witch who looked too old to be in this young woman. Eyes that could see straight to the core of a man, talk him into giving up his heart, before she left him to rot like garbage at the curb.

For a minute Drew forgot why he was there. Dangerous, that. He cleared his throat and tugged at his tie. “I’m in town for a convention at the Marriott.”

Her expression remained the same. “How long do you want the room?”

He looked around, then remembered the flyer he’d serendipitously picked up at the airport. Copied onto light purple paper, it looked like the original had been haphazardly drawn up with Magic Marker. And added a little extra credibility to the story he would weave.

“This coupon still good?”

She accepted the piece of paper from him. It was for a one-week stay at a rate lower than anything he would find anywhere else. And a hell of a lot lower than it would be when the hotelier who’d contracted Drew got his hands on the place.

“Yes.” She picked up a pen from its stand. “So you’ll be staying a week, then?”

He nodded and pulled his wallet from inside his suit jacket, wondering if it was always so hot down here in October. Oh, he’d been to the Crescent City before. Mostly to wine and dine marks and get them laid so they’d be more relaxed and open to his suggestions. “Sign here and you’ll have the time to do this every weekend if you want”—that kind of shtick. But he’d never noticed how heavy the air was until today. Until he stood before the bewitching receptionist in front of him.

“Yes,” he answered her question. “I figured since I’m down here for the Innovation in Auto Parts convention, I might as well make a vacation of it.”

He cringed the minute the words were out. The key to selling someone on an identity was to keep it simple. The less said the better. Yet he found himself laying it on a little too thick here.

Those eyes focused on him again. “Why aren’t you staying at the convention hotel?”

Reason Number One why you never offered up more than necessary: unwanted questions.

Drew switched his attention to his wallet and smiled. “I wanted something a little more…private.”

He figured she was used to people saying that, because she didn’t question him further.

“The full amount is due up front,” she said, taking his information then turning around for a key that hung on a hook near the mail slots.

Drew’s gaze lingered on the way the silky material of her dress clung to her long back and rounded bottom. She moved in a way that could inspire a poet. Slow and fluid, there was something almost ballet-like in her movements. Something alluring and sexy and very provocative.

“How about half now, half on checkout?” he asked.

Her movements slowed even more as she turned back to face him. “If you want the deal on the flyer, it’s all due up front.”

He pretended to consider her words, then offered up a grin with the money. “A woman who means business.”

She smiled back, although it didn’t reach her watchful eyes as she accepted the money.

Drew put his wallet away then extended his hand across the counter. “Thank you… I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Josie.” She briefly took his hand and then turned around to put the money into some sort of lockbox. He noticed her feet were bare and that she wore a chain of tiny shells around her left ankle. “Josie Villefranche.”

Drew was mildly surprised she was the owner. His target.

He picked up his hat from the counter. Maybe this one last crappy job before he moved on to bigger and better things might not be without its fringe benefits.




2


DREW LET HIMSELF into room 2C, put his suitcase on the wrought-iron bench at the foot of the matching double bed, then crossed to the open French doors. He stepped out onto the narrow balcony and gripped the ornate railing, Bourbon Street spilled out like a strand of black pearls before him. He’d never actually stayed in the Quarter before. He might entertain his clients there, but he’d always stayed at the better hotels on the fringes of the famed district.

There was something almost…decadent about being there now. Although it was Sunday afternoon, he made out the sounds of a jazz band warming up in a bar across the street, watched as a few teenage girls, apparently on vacation, shopped for beads in a place a couple doors up, the faint smell of decay and beer and Cajun spices filling his nose.

A homeless black man wearing a crocheted African hat and holding a trumpet case walked by the hotel, raising his hand to wave inside, presumably at the alluring owner, Josie Villefranche.

The view Drew took in was worlds away from the cityscapes he usually saw outside his hotel-room window. For that matter, it was certainly worlds away from the trailer park he’d grown up in outside Kansas City. In KC, being poor meant to the bone, no romance in the situation as families and single parents tried to make the rent and put cheap food on the table. Here…well, here poor seemed to be worn as a badge of honor. It didn’t appear to be something you were, but a state you just happened to be in. In the French Quarter, strippers mingled with CEOs of large corporations, while in KC, most of the strippers would be lucky to meet a guy who worked at the Midland factory.

The contrast interested him. How would he have ended up had he been raised in a place like this, rather than the only son of a diner waitress in Missouri? A woman who’d smoked and drunk too much and had never let him forget where he came from? Who’d ceaselessly told him that his father was a useless, good-for-nothing deadbeat who had probably died when Drew was three to get out of paying child support?

Then again, you could change the story’s setting, but the characters would still be the same, so Kansas City or New Orleans, it likely wouldn’t have made a difference.

He stepped back into the room and looked around. It wasn’t bad. Not too big. Not too small. The high ceilings helped, even though the ceiling fan did little more than stir the heat. The carved woodwork and cornices were original if painted over and chipped. The walls needed a fresh coat of paint, and he made out what looked like a water stain in one corner, but overall the structure looked solid. He ran his finger along the top of the dresser. It was also clean. A double wrought-iron bed, two matching nightstands and lamps, and the bench were the totality of the furnishings, although the room was large enough to accommodate a desk and a couple of chairs. He moved toward the bathroom and switched on the light. The blackand-white mosaic tile that might date back at least a century needed re-caulking, and the claw-foot tub could use some attention. The cloudy mirror needed to be replaced and the sink held iron stains. He switched the light back off. The entire hotel would need a complete renovation before it could even be considered as part of the Royal Emperor Suites empire.

Then again, that wasn’t part of his job, questioning his clients’ motives. It was how to get them what they wanted. And this particular client wanted Hotel Josephine.

The black, rotary phone on the nightstand rang. Drew stared at it, then crossed to pick up the receiver, idly wondering when the last time was that he’d seen such an old phone.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Morrison.” He recognized Josie’s sexily husky voice. “I just wanted to let you know that our hotel offers a full menu and room service should you be interested.”

Drew sat down on the bed, listening as the bedsprings squeaked. “That’s nice to know. I might just take you up on that.”

“Room service, then?”

He shrugged out of his jacket, hung it on one of the iron posts of the footboard, then began rolling up his sleeves. “Do you offer service downstairs?”

“Yes. In the courtyard.”

“Then that’s where I’ll take my meal.” After all, there was no time like the present to begin convincing the lovely Miss Villefranche that her life would be much easier without the hotel…and along the way perhaps entice her into sharing his bed while he was there.

“I NEED YOU TO RUN to André’s and get an order of crevettes and filet de truite amandine,” Josie said to Philippe as she swept through the swinging door into the kitchen.

The cook-slash-waiter-slash-busboy-slash-assistant manager sighed and began to undo the ties of his apron. “Couldn’t talk him into only the gumbo and a salad?”

She took a twenty out of the amount Morrison had given her for the week’s stay and handed it to her only staff member on duty at the moment. At any other time it took five to ten people to run the establishment. “Unfortunately, no.”

She’d hired Philippe three months ago when Samuel, the hotel’s assistant manager for the past fifty years, had died suddenly from a heart attack. Philippe had been a godsend at a time when Josie had been ill equipped to handle the loss of two very important people in her life so close together.

“Who’s going to eat all this gumbo?”

Josie didn’t provide an answer because Philippe didn’t need one. The two of them would be eating the large pot of the New Orleans staple, with Philippe taking some of it home with him to his mother, although he was thirty and should have long since moved out on his own.

“Fine.” He began moving toward the door that would take him through the back where their only guest wouldn’t see him. “He is a looker, that one, isn’t he?”

Josie frowned at him. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Hadn’t noticed, my narrow behind. He could charm the paint off the walls, that one could.” He crossed his arms in an exaggerated way.

“I don’t think he’s your type.”

“Of course, he’s my type. He’s male, isn’t he?”

Josie smiled. “Yes, but I don’t think he’s gay.”

Philippe sighed. “Pity. Why does it seem like all the good ones want women?”

Josie shook her head as the door slapped closed behind his retreating back. She readied a sparkling glass along with a pitcher of water, put a basket of day-old bread into the microwave to warm it and therefore make it seem fresher, then went back out into the courtyard to serve Mr. Morrison.

“Ah, thank you,” he said as she filled his glass. “Tell me, is it always this hot down here?”

It was a question Josie was asked often by tourists. While most seemed irritated with the thick heat, Morrison seemed merely to be asking a question. “It will cool down some soon,” she said, glad he hadn’t commented on the emptiness of the eating area.

“It doesn’t even get this hot in the summer where I’m from,” he said.

Josie removed the other three sets of silverware and wineglasses from the table. “Where’s that?”

“Kansas City.”

She didn’t say anything as she moved to a cabinet near the kitchen door and put down the extra place settings. She’d never been outside the city. Had never had any cause to go anywhere else. While she’d heard somewhere down the line that her mother had ended up in Chicago, the northern city on Lake Michigan couldn’t have seemed farther away from Josie had it been across the ocean.

“Excuse me,” Morrison said, looking to catch her attention.

Josie turned toward him.

“What’s that music?”

She’d switched on the tape system after she’d called his room, and he’d said he’d be coming down for his meal. “Zydeco.”

He repeated the word. “Thanks.”

Josie went back into the kitchen and leaned against the prep table. Long minutes later she was still standing in the same spot, breathing deeply, her hand resting against her collarbone. As much as she tried to ignore it, she was attracted to Drew Morrison with an intensity that surprised her. His hair was the rich color of an antique copper pot, the short cut failing to disguise that the strands were thick and wavy. The kind of hair a woman could thrust her fingers into and hold on to as she braced herself for a violent orgasm. He’d come downstairs without his jacket, his crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up, and she saw that his forearms were muscular, his wrists solid. She’d caught herself staring at his hands as he’d picked up his water glass, noticing that his fingers were long and nicely tapered. The type of hands that would feel good against her bare skin.

It had been a long time since she’d been this aware of her sexuality and the fundamental need for human touch. Since before her grandmother had died, to be certain. She’d been so busy trying to keep up the hotel, she hadn’t had time to look closely at the guests, talk to them. The brief contact she’d had so far with her current guest had made her register the deep blue of his eyes, the way they creased at the corners when he listened to her, and the fullness of his mouth—a mouth that would undoubtedly know what to do with a woman who needed to be kissed.

Is that what it was? she wondered. Had it been so long since she’d indulged herself sexually that her body was responding to the first good-looking man who crossed her path?

No. It was more than that. The instant the stranger had crossed the threshold of Hotel Josephine, an undeniable awareness had traveled over her skin like a lover’s touch. It wasn’t just that she was in the market for any man. She was drawn to Drew Morrison.

Something sounded outside the screen door. A rattle of a garbage can, maybe. A rat? A cat? There’d been a black cat around the Josephine for as long as she could remember, but this last one had stuck around the longest. She and her granme had named her Jezebel. Probably it was the old cat looking for her evening meal.

“Jez?”

She moved toward the back of the kitchen and stared out into the narrow alleyway. There was the sound again. Josie pressed her hand against the wood of the screen door, the hinges giving a low squeak as she peeked out toward where the hotel cans were lined up against the back wall.

Jezebel would have shown herself by now if it had been her.

“Shoo!” she said loudly, kicking the bottom of the can closest to her.

Nothing. No scurrying of a rodent or a hungry feline.

She stepped completely outside, the door slapping shut behind her. Picking up a stick, she poked at the next garbage can, then made her way down to the one after that. She’d reached the fourth one when a shadow leaped out behind the last can, running in the opposite direction.

Josie put a hand to her chest, as if to contain her rapidly beating heart. Jesus.

Philippe appeared from the direction the man had run.

“Damn homeless,” he muttered. He handed her the bag of food from André’s, then looked at her closer. “Are you all right?”

Josie swallowed hard, then managed a nod. “Um, yes. He just startled me is all. I thought he was a cat.”

“An awfully big cat. More like a rat.” He righted the empty can the man had overturned in his hurry to make haste. “You’d think he’d have figured out that we don’t have anything to pick from here.”

Josie led the way back inside the kitchen, vaguely wondering if she’d ever again have anything left to pick from.

Philippe washed his hands at the sink while she rearranged the food on a hotel plate.

“Do you want me to take it out to him?” he asked with a suggestive grin.

Josie shook her head. “No. I’ll take care of him.”

As she placed a sprig of parsley next to the trout, she ignored the many ways she’d been fantasizing taking care of Drew Morrison.




3


LATELY, NIGHT WAS the worst time for Josie. It was when she most profoundly recognized the reality that there was nothing she could do to help what was going on with the hotel. When long, quiet hours stretched out before her devoid of hope.

It was when the ghosts came out to play.

The muted night amplified the panting sound of the ceiling fan turning lazily above her. She looked up from the papers spread before her on the front desk to gaze out onto Bourbon Street. The stream of tourists’ faces was occasionally interrupted by familiar faces from the neighborhood, some laughing, others drawn in thoughtful conversation. Some faces that were a lot more familiar up until recently, because they’d frequented the Josephine with their paying guests towed behind them.

She heard the creak of the stairs.

To conserve energy, she’d turned the dimmer on the lights down to low, the small banker’s lamp on the desk illuminating the papers before her.

There was only one guest, so she didn’t have to look up to know that Drew Morrison was coming downstairs, probably to add his face to the others flowing past her door.

Josie concentrated harder on her work.

“Evening,” Drew said quietly, his voice closer than she was prepared for as she made a note in the margin of one of the ledgers.

She looked up. “Evening.”

In the low light he looked like any one of a hundred attractive men capable of attracting any one of a hundred attractive women. Women who filled the bars and restaurants and Bourbon Street itself.

Why, then, was she wishing she were one of those potential females?

She absently rubbed the back of her damp neck, suddenly all too aware of how alone she was at the hotel. A fact that normally didn’t bother her. After all, she had been alone in the Josephine since Granme had passed away.

She swallowed hard and forced her gaze away from Drew and back to the ledger. Tomorrow she’d ask Philippe if he’d mind staying over for a night or two until she shook the uneasiness she’d been feeling lately.

Footsteps. She glanced up to find Drew walking toward the open doors. Probably to go on the hunt for one of those hundred attractive women. Instead, she watched him stop in the doorway and lean against the jamb, his legs crossed at the ankles as he slid his right hand into his pants pocket. His back was to her, so she felt safe in watching him without his being any the wiser. He seemed to be considering the foot traffic on the street much as she had earlier. A part of, yet separate from, the crowd.

“It’s quiet.” He cleared his throat and added, “At least it’s quieter than I would have expected.”

Josie lifted her brows. “Yes.” She fiddled with the curls pressing against her forehead then slowly closed the book in front of her, placing it under the desk. “Would you like some recommendations on where to go?”

He grinned at her over his shoulder. “No. I think I can find my way around.”

She had little doubt that he could. A man of his caliber could probably find his way around anywhere. And have a warm and willing companion in his bed for as long as he chose.

“That is if I was interested in going out.”

Josie would have been surprised to find herself walking toward the door had she taken half a moment to think about it. But the truth was, she was tired of thinking for the night. Tired of thinking about the hotel and her problems. Her mind clamored for a few minutes of peace. Of quiet conversation.

Drew moved slightly as she leaned against the opposite doorjamb and crossed her arms in front of herself. A couple strolled by, arm in arm. Newlyweds, maybe. Or perhaps in the beginning stages of love when there existed no flaws, only the need for the other’s company.

The reflection made her overly aware of the man next to her. Of how tall he was. Of the subtle scent of starch and fresh cologne.

“First time in New Orleans?” she asked quietly.

She felt his gaze on her. “Yes.”

She nodded, going silent again as a group of young men who stumbled by apparently weren’t holding their first beer. They hooted at a group of women half a block up, too young to realize the loud attention would get them nowhere. Too old to be indulging in such juvenile behavior.

“You?”

Josie looked at Drew. She wasn’t prepared for the intensity in his eyes.

“Are you from here or a transplant?”

She felt the man next to her so completely she nearly couldn’t draw a breath. “Fifth generation New Orleanian.”

“Where was your family from before then?”

Josie had never been asked that question before. She supposed because her answer was usually all that the other person needed.

“Carrefour, Haiti.”

“Ever been?”

She shook her head, keeping to herself that she’d never really traveled outside the city and its surrounding bayous.

She considered him for a long moment, trying to ignore the slow thud of her heart at being this close to him. “Anyone ever tell you that you ask a lot of questions?”

His grin was slow and wide. “All the time.”

“Part of your job?”

There was an almost indistinguishable stiffening of his limbs although he hadn’t moved. “You could say that.”

It seemed that the man liked to ask questions, but he didn’t like answering them.

Josie cleared her throat and turned her attention back to the street. Most men she crossed paths with were the same. It was almost as if they wanted to adopt a different persona while in the decadent city. Live out some kind of anonymous fantasy. Many of them forgot that she and the natives were just like everyone else. That they hadn’t been placed there strictly for their amusement or as players in whatever fantasy they’d concocted on the plane ride down.

If it was disappointment she was feeling that Drew was just like every other man who visited the city, she told herself she was being stupid.

JOSIE VILLEFRANCHE WAS A RARE and unusual beauty.

And the faint line that marred her lovely brow told Drew he’d just said something to upset her.

The mellow almost longing sound of a saxophone drifted out of the open door of the club across the street, lending a certain moment-outside-of-time element to the atmosphere.

When he’d decided to come downstairs to try again to connect with the exotic hotel owner—both to further his business intentions and to combine a bit of business with pleasure—he would never have expected her to stand next to him, inviting conversation. During dinner earlier, she’d disappeared into the kitchen, sending out a dark-haired young man, who’d smiled at him too widely, to handle him for the rest of his meal.

Now…

Well, for a moment he’d been lulled into a false sense of normalcy. Into thinking for a dangerous moment that he was there for no other reason than to enjoy her company, instead of her company being a bonus on top of something more important.

He slid his hand from his pocket and gestured to the hotel. “You work here long?”

A faint smile that seemed inspired more by irony than by humor. “You could say that.” She looked at him.

It didn’t take a NASA scientist to know that she had just turned his words back on him.

Intriguing.

“Do you like it?”

That seemed to catch her off guard. As if perhaps she’d never really stopped to think about the enjoyment factor of her responsibilities. He, of course, knew she outright owned the place. He also knew she had a female cousin who was breathing down her neck trying to extort money from her. And that she had a tax bill that was accumulating more penalties and interest on a daily basis. Not to mention that she hadn’t had a full paying guest before him since the murder that had taken place in the hotel a couple weeks ago.

Now what was there not to like about that?

She gave a small shrug that drew his gaze to the golden, damp skin of her bare shoulders. “That’s like asking me if I like my right arm. Or my toes.” She turned her whiskey eyes on him. “It’s so much a part of me that I don’t much think about it beyond it’s always been there.”

Drew had to look away. Her words hit a chord with him he was loath to dwell on.

“So the place is yours, then.” It was a statement more than a question.

She lightly bit on her plump bottom lip and nodded. “My granme, my grandmother, left it to me when she passed away last year. It’s been in my family for generations.”

Drew knew that. He also knew that her grandmother had been a shrewd old woman who’d also refused to sell. He wondered if shrewdness ran in the veins of the Villefranche women. And he referred to women because as far as he could uncover during his extensive investigation, there were no Villefranche men.

Drew pretended to look around. “Is it always this quiet?”

“No. It’s been a bit less busy than usual lately.”

A couple walked by in front of them.

“Hey, Frederique,” Josie greeted.

The overly made-up woman with a stretchy, low-necked top and short skirt smiled at her. “Hey, yourself, Josie girl.” She looked between them to the hotel lobby beyond. “How’s business after, well—” her gaze flicked to Drew’s face “—you know?”

Josie smiled. “Fine. It’s fine. Back to normal for all intents and purposes.”

“They catch…the person?”

Josie said they hadn’t.

The Quarter Killer. That’s what the murderer of the woman two weeks ago had been called by the local paper, the Times-Picayune. Drew hadn’t thought much of it. He’d reviewed the info he could get his hands on and suspected that the police had arrested the right man to begin with, and that Claude Lafitte had been released only because his older brother had married the daughter of a rich New Orleans businessman.

The woman stopped, nearly causing her overweight male companion to run into her back. “I think we’ll stop here,” she said.

The man pushed up his glasses, a nearby streetlight glinting off his balding head. “I thought we were going to your place?”

The prostitute Josie had called Frederique smiled and smoothed back the tufts of hair over each of his protruding ears, giving him a loud kiss. “I can’t wait that long, baby. I want you now.”

She kissed him again, then edged him between Josie and Drew into the lobby.

“My regular room,” she whispered. “Oh, and he’s got money, so don’t worry about overcharging, if you get my drift.”

Josie’s gaze met Drew’s and he wondered if she would raise the room rate for the drunken john.

“A regular?”

“You could say that.”

Then he watched as Josie left him to go check in her latest guests, and just like that Drew lost his tentative connection with her.

“Mr. Morrison?”

He jerked to look at Josie, who had stopped halfway to the desk. He was so taken off guard that he didn’t think to tell her to call him Drew.

“Would you like a nice, ice-cold glass of tea?”

Drew smiled. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that.”




4


ONLY DREW HADN’T GUESSED he’d be drinking that tea alone.

He lay back in his double bed staring at the whirling fan and the shadows playing across the ceiling. It was somewhere around 3:00 a.m., and in the room next to his the squeak of bedsprings had finally stopped along with the moaning he suspected was faked, but he couldn’t be sure.

What he was sure about was that the sound of a couple having sex, albeit it professional sex, ratcheted up his own growing desire for the elusive hotel owner.

He rubbed his forearm draped over his brow then sighed. It was hot. Hotter than he could remember it being for a long time. Or perhaps his keen awareness of it was due to the lack of air-conditioning.

His gaze fixed again on the ceiling. But not to look at the shadows there. Instead, he tried to detect any more sounds from the room two floors above his. A room he assumed was Josie’s because when he’d been standing on the balcony over the hotel entrance, he had heard her lock up and shortly thereafter had followed the sound of her footfalls up the stairs. There had been no more customers. But earlier, at around midnight when he’d been sipping his tea—alone—in the open doorway, he’d watched as a walking tour of some sort had stopped in front of him and a guy in period clothing had outlined the happenings of a couple weeks ago. The nine or so tourists had stared at him and the hotel in awe. Then the guide had gone into a story that went back much farther than recent history, and had made the murder of Claire Laraway pale by comparison.

“It’s said that Hotel Josephine is still haunted by the ghost of the original owner, Josephine Villefranche, who wanders the halls at night. Some say she seeks revenge for the wrongs done to her. Others say it’s a heart-wrenching attempt to find her lost love—the man who took her life during the fires of 1794.”

Drew had saluted the group with his empty glass, then headed upstairs to his own room.

He wondered how Josie felt about being associated with such notoriety.

From somewhere in the hotel he heard a phone ring. He suspected it was the main phone. He looked up at the ceiling again, wondering how long it had been since Josie Villefranche had gotten a break from all the hotel’s demands.

And wondering how he might convince her that was exactly what she wanted most in the world.

JOSIE’S HAND STOPPED its rhythmic motion of smoothing lotion over her calf as she stared at the ringing telephone. While the city might never sleep, calls after eleven were rare. And given her recent experience with late-night calls, she wasn’t sure she wanted to answer this one.

Still, she had three guests to consider. And, true to form, this late-night caller had no intention of giving up until she answered.

On the eighth ring she slowly picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

No response.

She breathed a sigh of relief. They’d hung up.

She was about to return the receiver to its cradle when a low, familiar voice asked, “Josie Villefranche?”

Familiar not because she knew the owner of it. But because she’d heard it often in the past few months.

“I know you’re there, Josie.”

The caller was a man. That was all she knew. Well, that and the fact that his sole intent was to frighten her.

“I hear the murdered girl’s ghost is still in room 2D, Josie.”

Since the calls had begun long before Claire Laraway’s murder, she had never linked the two.

Until now…

“She wants some company.”

“Who is this?”

But she knew her whispered inquiry would go unanswered.

Instead she heard an eerie chuckle. “Good night, Josie. Sleep well.”

Then the line went dead.

Josie slowly hung up the receiver, her blood flowing thickly through her veins. She rose from the wrought-iron chair her grandmother had given her as part of a vanity set when she was fourteen and moved toward the open French doors, looking into the dark night beyond the lights of Bourbon Street.

When she’d received the first call some months ago, she’d assumed it might be someone who had once stayed at the hotel who was playing an awful prank. But when the calls continued, with no pattern that she could make out, a deep sense of dread and fear had pierced her initial nonchalance, leaving her creeped out for a long while afterward.

Could the caller be Claire Laraway’s killer? Is that what all this had been leading up to? Was there some sicko out there who had targeted her for some sort of demented plan and was even now playing it out?

A sound caught her attention. She jumped then looked down to find that Drew Morrison had stepped out onto his balcony two floors below, his slacks hanging low on his hips, his well-defined torso bare. Had the ringing phone awakened him? Or was he, like her, incapable of sleep just now?

She didn’t realize that he’d looked up and spotted her until he said something.

“Is everything all right?”

Josie grew aware of her faraway thoughts and the expression she might be wearing as a result of her disturbing midnight caller.

“Yes… I’m fine.” She crossed her arms to ward off a shiver. “Is there anything else you need?”

She caught the way he scanned her body. She wore a light slip that clung to her damp skin and left very little to the imagination. The intensity of his gaze made her nipples tighten beneath the silky material.

If there was one thing she’d learned very young, it was how to read a man’s expression. And the expression Drew wore told her that he did, indeed, want something, if not need it. And that something was her.

The fact that she wanted him right back didn’t help cool her body temperature.

She cleared her throat. “Very well then. Good night, Mr. Morrison.”

She stepped back inside her room and closed the screen door.

She had little doubt that his quiet, sexy chuckle would resonate in her mind, and her dreams, well into the night.

LATE THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Josie accepted the package of cleaned and pressed guest linens and towels from the service. She stared down at the bill that had been payable on delivery. If things didn’t change soon, she’d have to see to the washing herself.

“Did you get the supplies?”

She blinked up at Philippe who’d appeared beside her behind the desk.

Supplies…

She handed him the plain brown wrapped linens. “No. Why don’t you see to it right after you take these up to Monique? She should still be on the second floor.”

He didn’t look pleased. But Philippe’s displeasure at the moment was the least of her concerns. If she didn’t come up with a plan to turn things around and quick, they’d all be very displeased indeed. Monique and Philippe would be without jobs…and Josie would be without her hotel.

After only a couple hours sleep, she’d gotten up early and had come down to brainstorm ideas to get the Josephine back on track. Aside from a list of names she’d taken from the phone book of attorneys she hoped might help her with her tax problem, she’d made up a page of Rent One Night, Get One Night Free coupons, which she would have Philippe copy for her and then she would give out to her onetime regulars like Frederique.

“Josie? Is everything okay?”

She looked up to find Philippe still standing next to her with the linens in his hands.

“You don’t look so hot, chérie.”

She straightened the papers in front of her. “Have I ever told you that you have a way with the ladies, Philippe?”

He grinned at her. “No. But then again that’s not exactly on my list of priorities either.”

She gave him an eye roll and laughed, although with half the heart she might have.

“Has something happened?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I got another one of those calls last night is all.”

Of course, that wasn’t all that was bothering her, but it would fill the bill for now. The rest…well, the rest she couldn’t unburden on Philippe.

He put the package back down on the desk. “I’ve been telling you forever that you need to get your phone system updated. You’re still using rotary technology when caller ID might be able to nip the little problem of your midnight caller in the bud.”

“You told me callers could block that.”

She thought again about alerting Homicide Detective Chevalier about the calls. If there was even a remote possibility that the caller could be connected to the murder…

She gestured Philippe away. “Anyway, with business the way it is, we’ll be lucky to have phones at all by next month.”

Philippe still hadn’t moved.

She raised her brows. “It might be a good idea for you to at least look busy in case, you know, I decide I can cut your pay or eliminate your job altogether.”

He squared his shoulders and looked a gesture away from saluting her. “Yes, sir. I mean, ma’am.”

He picked up the package then took the stairs two at a time. Josie shook her head and turned to collect the lockbox so she could give him the money for the kitchen supplies he needed.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile.”

Drew.

Josie recognized the smooth timbre of his voice without looking. Of course, that might also have to do with the fact that he was her only current paying customer. But the way tiny bumps raced along her skin wasn’t how she usually reacted to regular customers.

“Mr. Morrison.” She turned toward the desk.

He was wearing a badge that had the Marriott motif on it along with the name of an auto-parts organization and his own name. He followed her gaze.

“Oh. I forgot I still had this on.” He put down his briefcase and pulled the elastic fastener over his head, tousling his hair.

“Uh-oh. The smile’s gone.”

Josie couldn’t help giving him another. He looked like a breath of fresh air in a stiflingly hot room. He was as welcome as he was unexpected.

“Conference let out for the day?” she asked, counting out the money then returning the lockbox to its spot behind her.

“No. Just decided Gasket Technology of the Future wasn’t going to do it for me this afternoon. So I decided to play hooky.”

Hooky. How youthful the word sounded. And how carefree. Had she ever played hooky from anything? School? Work? She couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever shrugged off her responsibilities and given herself over to spontaneity.

She couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever wanted to.

But somehow standing there looking into Drew’s face…well, she wished she could escape from the worries of her life for a few precious hours. After all, it wasn’t like the worries would go anywhere. They’d still be there when she got back.

Philippe came down the stairs.

Josie looked at Drew. “So did you have anything planned to fill your day?”

He looked mildly surprised by her question. “Actually, I was going to try to tempt you into becoming my private tour guide for the afternoon, but I didn’t think I stood a snowball’s chance in hell.”

Josie edged out from behind the counter. “Philippe, mind the store for a couple hours. It looks like snow to me.”

DREW COULDN’T BELIEVE his streak of good luck. Not only had Josie agreed to stroll through Jackson Square and then down Bourbon Street with him, she actually appeared relaxed and, yes, happy.

Why she’d decided to come out with him, he couldn’t be sure. But he wasn’t about to tempt fate by questioning whatever plan the gods had in mind.

“So you grew up at the hotel,” he said quietly, watching the play of dappled sunlight on her tight, black curls.

She nodded then watched her feet as they walked. She wore flat sandals with straps that wrapped around her ankles, the ring of shells around her left ankle clinking as she moved. “In essence, yes.” She squinted at him. “And you? I mean, I know you were born in Kansas City, but you haven’t really said anything beyond that.”

Despite the heat of the day, Drew slid his hands into his slacks pockets, to hide the fact that he’d clenched them. “Nothing much to tell, really. My father left my mother before I was born. Although I think you actually have to be a couple before one can leave the other.” He chuckled without humor.

“So you think your mom lied to you?”

He stared at her. “Yes. Yes, I do. I think she’d had a one-night stand, or a brief relationship with someone, someone who never had a clue she was pregnant. Then she blamed everything on him.”

“Sounds familiar.”

Drew was curious. “Oh?”

Josie smiled softly. “Yes. The identity of my father is as sketchy as yours, and my mother always cursed him, although they’d never been married. Granme used to say something about my mother having dated one man too many.” She shook her head. “I never understood exactly what she meant until I got older.”

Drew was surprised by the lack of bitterness with which she shared her past.

“Do you and your mom get along now?” she asked him.

“No. She died five years ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

He lightly grasped her arm to prevent her from running into a street mime painted in silver and dressed to look like a statue.

She said, “My mother’s still alive. Living somewhere in Chicago, I think. She hasn’t been in contact with the family for over fifteen years. I couldn’t even find her to tell her Granme had passed.”

“You seem okay with that.”

Josie shrugged, her eyes clear and lovely. “I am, I guess. I mean, my granme never excused her actions when she left her old family behind to start a new family, but she never cursed her either. Merely said that everyone had their path to walk, and that was hers.”

“While yours was with your grandmother at Hotel Josephine.”

She smiled at him, challenging the sun for brightness. “Yes.”

Josie had turned them down a side street and he followed, noticing the quietness of the road compared to the constant busyness of Bourbon. The clap of her sandals sounded against the pavement.

“And the hotel…” She drifted off, staring at some undefined point in front of them. “The hotel is almost like family to me. I’ve lived in it for so long, become acquainted with her ghosts, polished her banisters, mopped her floors so many times that—”

She stopped not because she’d run out of words. But rather because she’d looked at Drew and seen in his eyes the sudden urge to kiss her.

And before he knew it, he was doing just that.

He wasn’t sure what had inspired the move. It could have been the way she spoke with such love and longing, her pink, bowed lips moving, her eyes as warm as melted brown sugar. Whatever the reason, his kiss had little to do with his ulterior motives and everything to do with the woman who blinked at him in surprise and wonder.

Then she easily returned his kiss.




5


JOSIE’S BREATH LEFT HER at the first touch of Drew’s mouth against hers. One moment she’d been walking, talking about…she couldn’t remember. The next, he was gently turning her toward him, brushing his fingertips against her jaw, and kissing her as if he hadn’t been able to help himself.

And the surprise she read in his eyes surely had to be reflected in her own.

When Drew Morrison had walked through the doors of the Josephine yesterday, the last thing on her agenda had been personal involvement of any sort. She’d traveled down that road before and knew the dead end she would eventually crash into.

But what she hadn’t factored into the equation was that she’d gone into her previous luckless relationships without using her head. Each interlude had offered an opportunity just to feel.

And feeling was exactly what she was doing now, as she stood in the middle of the street kissing an almost perfect stranger.

And enjoying it more than was safe.

Drew’s tongue slid along her bottom lip, then dipped inside her mouth. He tasted like coffee and powdered sugar from the beignets they’d gotten at Café Du Monde. He tasted like one hundred percent man. Like desire and want and need all rolled up into one nicely wrapped package.

And Josie wanted more than anything to open it.

She splayed her fingers against the hard wall of his chest and broke the kiss.

“That was…” She drew a ragged breath, her eyes turned downward. “Unexpected.”

Drew chuckled, the sound rumbling against her palm. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Josie stared at her short, unpainted nails against his expensive Egyptian broadcloth shirt. She was dark to his light. Poor to his wealth. Yet on a primal level they emerged equals.

She knew instinctively this man could make her body feel things as it never had before. But it was time to bring her head into the equation for a change.

“Look, Drew,” she said, meeting his gaze, “I don’t want either one of us to go into this with our eyes closed.”

“Into what?”

She smiled softly. “I’m not naive. Most of the men who come down here are looking for a brief, no-strings-attached affair with a native.”

“Josie—”

“No, don’t interrupt.” She twisted her lips. “I’m not passing judgment on you, merely stating fact. And the fact is there is no hope for a future beyond this moment. I understand that.”

He ran the back of his index finger across her brow. “Josie, we just kissed.”

“No lies, Drew,” she said quietly. “That’s all that I ask. No lies. What develops—if anything develops between us—is temporary. I don’t want either one of us to pretend otherwise. That’s all. That’s my only request.”

He stared at her for long moments then nodded. “Okay.”

A simple word, really. But one that immediately smoothed the tension from her shoulders. Wiped the memories of the other times when men she’d been involved with had sworn never to lie to her then proceeded to do exactly that.

She kissed him again, long and hard. “I, um, think we’d better get back to the hotel.”

“Best idea I’ve heard all day.”

She laughed softly. “I need to relieve Philippe so he can do his job instead of mine.”

She began walking. She felt Drew’s hand on her elbow then shivered as he moved it down to grip her fingers in his.

“Would I be moving too fast if I asked for the pleasure of your company for dinner tonight?”

Pleasure. Yes, it would definitely be a pleasure to dine with Drew.

“No. You wouldn’t be moving fast enough. How about a late lunch? Say at around three?”

DREW FELT AS IF HE’D NEVER be able to get rid of the light sheen of sweat that covered his skin. Of course, he acknowledged that the thick heat wasn’t entirely to blame, even though it definitely was getting to him, since he’d been careful to bring only the clothing a businessman attending a professional convention would need. Suits to reflect a first timer’s unfamiliarity with the Crescent City.

But the clothes and weather weren’t the only reason for his discomfort. Rather his anticipation of promised time alone with Josie Villefranche had him in a constant heated state.

It had been some time since he’d been with a woman, and he was afraid his body was showing him exactly how long. After his ex had pulled the stunt she had on him, he’d been subconsciously leery of becoming involved with anyone, even physically. The laser-like focus he’d put on rebuilding his career also explained the ease with which he’d steered clear of women.

But Josie…

While he tried telling himself his interest in her was merely professional and physical, there existed in the pit of his stomach the sensation that there was something more to his attraction to the mysterious hotel owner. He’d listened as she’d shared her story about her mother and grandmother, told of her attachment to the hotel, and he’d felt admiration for her fighting spirit and loyalty to the establishment.

And guilt that it was his job to take it away from her any way he could.

He stood outside a small shop nearer the more touristy area of Bourbon Street, not really seeing the T-shirts or the colorful beads. If he knew what was good for him, he would forgo his three o’clock date to meet Josie back at the hotel. Offer up a story about a superior requesting his presence at the convention. He’d told her he’d hoped she didn’t think he was going too fast. In reality, he was beginning to think he was. A concept that had never occurred to him before. He’d always been painfully careful about personal attachments, including with his ex-wife. But no matter how cautious he’d been, he’d still gotten burned by a woman who’d turned out to be far too similar to his mother.

And while Josie couldn’t have been further away from Carol in looks, temperament and background, and she was obviously fiercely independent, she was in financial trouble. And he’d learned long ago that money, or rather the lack of it, made people do unexpected and hurtful things. It was that very fact that he exploited in his job every day.

Then why was his gut twisting into knots at the prospect of enjoying Josie’s company at the same time he talked her into selling the hotel?

Conscience.

He’d once been accused of not having one. It had been early on in his career and he’d befriended an older man, Bernard Glass, who had built up his shoe factory over a period of fifty years into a moderately viable business he’d hoped to leave to his grandson, who would be graduating college in a year. Then one very successful television show had written the lead character as a Glass shoe fanatic and overnight the old man’s orders had quadrupled.

And his factory had become prime pickings for an Italian clothes designer who had had his eye on adding a shoe company to his impressive list of businesses.

“Can I help you find something, sir?” a voice interrupted his thoughts.

Drew stared at the young saleswoman.

He found himself fingering a necklace of tiny shells like the ones Josie wore around her slender ankle. He removed his hand. “No. No, thank you.”

He strolled down the street in the opposite direction of the hotel, not due to meet Josie there for another fifteen minutes, his mind still on Glass and his company.

Back then, Drew had still been testing the boundaries of how far he would go to close a deal. He’d had the grandson investigated and discovered David had more than a taste for gambling. Worse, he was in trouble way up to his neck, owing a loan shark near Boston University, which he attended, far more than he could ever hope to repay on his own.




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