Читать книгу Obsession - Tori Carrington - Страница 8

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.