One-Night Man

“She hired me for round-the-clock protection. She’s afraid if there’s a personal threat it might place you at risk, since you’ve been active in opening the gallery, too.”

“What do you think?”

He brushed stray hairs from her cheek, knowing he had no right to touch her, yet unable to help himself all the same. “I’d hate to see anything happen to you, chère.”

She leaned away from him and forced a smile—an act of sheer determination if ever he saw one. “Well, it’s very nice of you to be concerned, but you don’t want to get stuck baby-sitting me through all the erotic activities we’ve got scheduled.”

Josh could think of any number of erotic activities he’d willingly get stuck in with Lennon, but before he could see past pImages** of her long legs naked and twined with his, she said, “I’ll be fine. I understand why Auntie Q is worried, but no one has thrown a grenade at me.”

He shrugged. “I promised.”

Leaping off the bench, she handed him the empty coffee cup, cocked her fists on her hips and glared at him. Josh settled back against the wall while she came up with an astonishing number of reasons why she didn’t need protection.

He didn’t buy a single one. Her heart-shaped face revealed barely suppressed panic. He considered the possibility that he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the chemistry between them. The lady clearly found something disturbing about sharing close quarters for the long weekend.

“What’s the trouble, chère?”

“I just told you—”

“The real trouble. You’ve got loads of reasons, but no explanation why having me undercover as your bodyguard won’t work.”

To say Lennon looked offended would have been an understatement. Josh bit back a smile.

Going undercover as Lennon’s anything worked on a personal and professional level. His connection to the McDarbys and the Eastman Gallery would be an asset to solving this mystery. And this mystery needed to be solved. The whole flash-and-bang attack struck him wrong on a gut level. He’d learned long ago to trust his gut.

This attack meant someone had been waiting outside for Miss Q—or more likely both of them—to leave the gallery and head to Lennon’s car. And though that someone had obviously meant to frighten rather than physically harm, that someone already knew too much about the McDarby women. He’d known their schedule, what vehicle they were driving and that he’d catch them together without Olaf, who’d been sent home before midnight to tend to details there.

For anyone to know this much about their activities meant they were being stalked. And stalkers made Josh nervous.

“Olaf can keep an eye on me, too,” Lennon suggested.

Josh didn’t think so. “Olaf will have trouble keeping up with Miss Q. From what I hear about the schedule, you two will be so busy entertaining and fund-raising, it’ll be impossible for one of us to keep track of you both. You need me.”

“I refuse to let people see me being…guarded.”

That Lennon’s argument had deteriorated into semantics about appearances meant he almost had her.

“Miss Q hired me, chère, so I’m on your tail until you convince her to fire me.”

Lennon scowled. “You said Olaf took her home?” Before he had a chance to answer, she spun on her heel, gifting him with a lovely shot of her departing backside. “Let’s go. I’ll talk some sense into her.”

Josh followed. Inclining his head at his grandfather’s portrait as he passed, he decided he wasn’t sorry he’d picked up the phone tonight, after all. The ensuing fireworks should prove entertaining, and he quite enjoyed being on Lennon’s tail.

3

“I’LL WAIT IN THE CAR while you unload the suitcases,” Quinevere told her assistant from her comfortable seat in the limo. No sense standing on the sidewalk when she needed a moment to collect her thoughts and evaluate her game plan. “I want you with me when I meet with the sales director.”

Olaf caught her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Problems?”

“I want to check on a few details and make sure the hotel doesn’t make any last-minute changes to our room assignments.”

He held her gaze before nodding, curiosity written all over his smooth features. With his dark skin and bald brown head, Olaf looked like he’d be at home in a South American jungle. He was also strapping enough to make any prizefighter think twice about raising a fist his way. Exactly how his Goliath proportions and Scandinavian name factored into his French Guianese–Creole background was a question Quinevere had frequently asked through the years, but had yet to receive a straight answer to. She’d known the boy since he was nine years old and didn’t think he’d ever get tired of spinning outrageous tales about his unusual name, not when she suspected he knew how much she enjoyed his fabrications.

And that wasn’t all he knew. The smart, streetwise kid Joshua had brought home from a trip into the jungle had matured into a keenly intelligent and insightful man. He eyed her in the mirror with a look that told her he wasn’t for a second buying her explanation about room assignments.

“Why are you worried, Miss Q?” he asked. “I thought the LeBlancs confirmed their reservation yesterday.”

She smiled. She would let him in on her little secret when she was ready and not a moment before. “They did.”

“Then what’s the trouble? The extra room?”

Evidently Olaf didn’t want to wait until she was ready. He knew something was up and intended to pick her brain. “I’ll have management release the extra room from our block. With Mardi Gras, I’m sure they’ll have it booked before we unpack.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I’d hang on to it for a day in case Mrs. DesJardin changes her mind again.”

Quinevere grimaced. “Oh, phoo on Lisette. I’d forgotten about her. She’s just yanking my chain to see who shows up before she consents to grace us with her presence.”

“You’re right, but think about Tête-à-tête. You don’t want to miss the chance to acquire the drawing for the collection.”

“Or a monetary contribution to alleviate her guilt if she decides she can’t part with the piece.” Quinevere wanted Lisette to feel good and guilty if she hung on to the superb black chalk on paper, a François Boucher original. “You’re right. I’ll keep the spare room, but I’ve got to confirm that the room assignments will stay exactly as I’ve arranged them. No last-minute changes.”

Olaf narrowed his gaze, but he knew when to ask questions and, more importantly, when not to. She silently thanked Joshua for leaving behind someone so intuitive to help care for her. Most of the time a blessing…

“I’ll see to the luggage,” he said, maneuvering his six-foot-plus frame from the front seat.

Closing the door behind him, he sealed her in the cool interior of the car. “Olaf dotes on me almost as much as you did, Joshua,” she whispered above the hum of the running engine. “And he’s going to help me fix this mess, whether he knows it or not.”

She sighed, leaning back into the plush leather seat and fixing her gaze through the tinted window on the valet entrance, where Olaf supervised the bellhops.

“I intended the auction to provide Lennon with a place to fall in love, not choose a companion. If I didn’t know my great-niece so well, I’d think this was another trick of yours.”

The drone of the engine was the only reply. But Joshua could hear her, she knew, and he would approve the steps she’d taken to disabuse her great-niece of the ridiculous notion that she should marry for anything but passion.

Life was far too precious to waste even a second. If Lennon wanted safe, companionable love, she should adopt a pet. A cute little Maltese, maybe, or a needy mutt from the pound.

Companionable was not a defining quality in a husband.

“Boring,” Quinevere said with a shudder.

Some women might be content with that sort of life, but not Lennon. Even though she’d been buried in her writing lately, she’d had relationships before with some very suitable men. Nice, healthy romances that had put color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. She thrived on love, so why she’d convinced herself she would be content with a companionable man while keeping grand passion reserved for her books…

Then again, why wouldn’t Lennon think passion belonged outside marriage, given the examples she’d seen?

Her mother had made a career of one-night stands or affairs that never lasted much longer, while Quinevere’s relationship with Joshua… She twisted the antique sapphire ring on the third finger of her left hand, finding comfort in the motion, feeling a connection with the man who’d given her the beautiful piece to symbolize their marriage of the heart—a marriage not recognized by the laws of Louisiana.

“There were times, my love, when I wished we could have lived more conventionally, maybe even had our own family,” she whispered, a sad, lonely sound that contrasted sharply with the activity outside the car. “But I knew what I was getting into when I decided to spend my life with you. I’ve never once regretted my choice.

“Oh, Joshua, all Lennon has ever seen is that she can’t have marriage and passion together. We showed her that, and her mother did, too. Why else would she think she has to choose?”

A heavy sort of sadness—the kind that weighted a person all the more because there was no way to rewind the clock and say things that should have been said long ago—seeped through Quinevere like the muggy air of a New Orleans summer afternoon right before a rainstorm.

Oh, Joshua. Tears prickled her eyes—she cried so easily now. Whether her tears were a function of old age or simply loneliness for the man she’d chosen to share her life with, Quinevere couldn’t say. She only knew that she wanted so much more than companionship for Lennon, a great-niece who was her daughter in every way but by birth.

Blinking furiously, Quinevere caressed her wedding band and took a deep breath. “I’ve got this under control, my love. I’ve got a plan to get Lennon back on the right track again, and maybe even that grandson of yours, too. I can’t join you in the ever after until I’ve taken care of the details down here.”

And that meant ensuring those she and Joshua left behind had a chance to find happiness, too.

By the time Olaf appeared at the passenger side of the car, Quinevere managed a smile. Perhaps with luck, and Joshua’s divine assistance, she’d soon smell grand passion blooming beneath her nose. Given the way Lennon had fought tooth and nail this morning to convince them she didn’t need Josh Three around, Quinevere suspected she’d smell grand passion blooming sooner rather than later.

Especially given Josh’s reaction to Lennon.

He’d sat in her parlor, just as comfortable as you please, all respect and attention and stoic deliberation of Lennon’s rants, but his beautiful green eyes had twinkled devilishly.

Quinevere recognized that look. She’d seen it in his grandfather’s eyes too often not to know exactly what it meant.

Josh Three was interested in Lennon.

So Quinevere had simply told her great-niece to cope with her bodyguard or stay home. That was that. Lennon had chosen to cope.

Ah, l’amour.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN you can’t upgrade my suite to one with two bedrooms?” Lennon asked the desk clerk incredulously. “I know there’s a spare suite with the art gallery reservations.”

This was the Château Royal, a hundred-seventy-year-old establishment in the French Quarter known for its five-star hospitality. That was why Auntie Q had chosen this hotel. That and the fact it was within walking distance of the art museum. Fighting Mardi Gras traffic from their home in the Garden District didn’t make sense when they had activities scheduled between the hotel and the museum practically all weekend.

“We’ve been told we’re not allowed to reassign any rooms.”

“But I’m with the art gallery.”

“I’m sorry,” the desk clerk said apologetically. “You’ll have to take it up with the coordinator.”

Auntie Q.

She should have known. No doubt her great-aunt had foreseen the trouble with Lennon and Josh’s room arrangement and wasn’t about to allow for plan B.

Lennon wouldn’t give in so easily. “I’m booked in the Carriage House. Can’t you just move me into the main hotel?”

“It’s Mardi Gras.” The desk clerk shrugged in entreaty, silently begging Lennon to cut her some slack. “I don’t have a suite in the main hotel to give you.”

Staring at the uniformed clerk, she tapped her credit card on the desktop. Didn’t this woman realize she was asking her to share a king-size bed with her new bodyguard?

Of course not. How could she know? Most of the normal population—which included anyone not related to Auntie Q—couldn’t appreciate the ramifications of living with a great-aunt who played life by her own rules.

But Lennon knew what that king-size bed would mean—an awkward conversation about sleeping arrangements. It was bad enough being forced into such close proximity with a man who looked like a romance hero in 3-D, a hero who didn’t seem to mind the logistics of guarding her body 24–7.

Sure, this assignment probably seemed like a dream to a man who routinely hunted down criminals, bail jumpers and the ilk that hid from government authorities, but it was a nightmare as far as she was concerned. She’d known it the instant she’d awakened to find Josh staring down at her with those green bedroom eyes.

At first she’d thought she’d been dreaming, that the handsome man in the gallery portrait had come to life. Which was certainly an understandable reaction on her part, given how exhausted she was and how much Josh looked like his grandfather.

But once Lennon had realized who her visitor was, she’d recognized trouble in Josh’s potent gaze, in the quick smiles that made her heart beat too fast. He’d been watching her sleep and she knew with that fluttery sense of intuition deep inside that he’d liked what he’d seen.

“Is there a problem?” Mr. Hero himself asked, suddenly appearing behind her.

Yes, a big one, but Lennon wasn’t going to tell him that. She could sense him towering over her, and his voice resonated through her like a caress.

Jeez! Who’d have guessed the black sheep would have grown up to be the stuff sinfully delicious heroes were made of? Not her, for sure. She hadn’t thought much about Josh Eastman since she’d been ten years old. She may have heard about him from his grandfather, but for some reason Great-uncle Joshua hadn’t mentioned how seriously attractive his grandson had grown to be.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Lennon turned around and lifted her gaze.

His eyes, greener than the lawns along Rue St. Charles, gave her a jolt. Another deep breath. “They can’t upgrade my suite to a two bedroom.”

“I don’t mind sharing a bedroom with you, chère.”

He smiled, only his wasn’t a smile as Lennon had ever thought of one. His smile lit his face with arresting candor, drew her attention to how his white teeth dazzled in contrast to the dark shadow of stubble along his chiseled jaw.

For her last three books, she’d begged her editor to find a cover model with such strong, cut features, only to have Ellen laughingly tell her that those heroes didn’t exist anywhere but in the stories she wrote.

Wrong. She’d be sure to tell Ellen when they next spoke.

Turning back to the desk clerk, Lennon handed her the credit card, but Mr. Hero plucked it from the clerk’s grasp.

“Use mine,” he whispered in her ear, a burst of warm breath that tickled her hair and sent goose bumps down her arms. “You’re my client, which means I pick up the tab from now until the case is over. Standard procedure.”

Lennon didn’t argue. The man was a reputed professional, after all, and she had no desire to wind up scattered in pieces all over the parish. She had to do whatever she could to help Josh contain any threat to her great-aunt’s safety.

But she didn’t have to abandon her own plans.

Auntie Q may have thrown her a curve by providing her with a roommate, but Lennon was here to scope out Mr. Right. Josh Eastman was not Mr. Right. Near as she could tell, he lived in the wrong part of town, worked in the wrong career, and he didn’t even look the part of a decent husband with his too-long black hair, rugged hero face and green bedroom eyes.

And, jeez, he must be nearly as tall as Olaf, a strikingly obvious fact as he towered above the bellhop after they arrived in the Carriage House. An intimidated bellhop, if the way the young man jumped at his directions was any indication.

Lennon wanted to rear normal children, and any child of Josh’s might grow to be a giant. Not such a bad thing for sons, when she thought about it, but she didn’t want her girls to tower above their classmates. Of course, tall girls could always become fashion models or basketball players….

That settled it. Josh was Mr. Wrong incarnate. And how difficult would it be to find Mr. Right with Mr. Wrong dogging her heels all weekend? Lennon didn’t want to think about it.

Placing her laptop on the table, she checked out the suite. As a turn-of-the-century addition that occupied the rear of a lovely inner courtyard, the Carriage House afforded her privacy.

If not for her new roommate, the suite would have been perfect. Though not large, it comprised a bedroom and living area spacious enough for a neat arrangement of antique chairs and a sofa. With fourteen-foot-high ceilings and French doors that opened onto a small balcony, the airy layout should offset the addition of her unexpected guest. Hopefully.

“That looks like the last of it, sir,” the bellhop said, and Lennon couldn’t miss the hopeful note in his voice. “Was there anything else you needed?”

“That’s it.” Josh tipped the boy.

Lennon hoped he’d been generous, given the ridiculous amount of electronic equipment he’d brought, and decided he must have been when the bellhop disappeared with a smile and an enthusiastic, “Let me know if you need anything else.”

An adjoining suite with another bed would have been nice.

But Josh seemed more interested in taking stock of their surroundings than with the sleeping arrangements.

Lennon opened her laptop case and checked the battery. She’d brought it to try and catch up on her deadline. This manuscript was due on her editor’s desk by the end of the month, and she had to leave time to edit, make corrections, then add Ellen’s revisions…. Lennon shook her head. She just couldn’t think about all she had to do without getting overwhelmed.

Heading into the bedroom, she exhaled in resignation. What she’d considered quaint and charming on her tour of the hotel a year ago seemed completely inadequate now. The petite Queen Anne sofa occupying the living room would be nowhere near large enough to accommodate a man of Josh’s size, leaving this king-size sleigh bed as the only alternative.

Hefting her garment bag over her shoulder, Lennon headed back out to the living room.

Josh stood from where he’d been crouched beneath the table, presumably connecting a surge board to the power supply. “Problem with the closet?”

“I want my things out here, where I’ll be sleeping.”

His green gaze caught hers, potent with amusement, making Lennon suddenly feel self-conscious. “Problem with the bed?”

“No. But there are only two places to sleep—this sofa and that bed.” She glanced through the doorway at the item in question. “A rollaway won’t fit because the suite’s so small, and the sofa won’t work for you. You can have the bedroom.”

Josh followed her gaze and a smile curved his lips. “All right, charity case, let’s cover some ground rules.” Half sitting on the edge of the table, he folded his arms, drawing her attention to the way his strong biceps stretched the cotton of his white Henley shirt. “I’m here to protect you, and I can’t do that if I’m asleep in the bedroom while you’re out here.” He inclined his head toward the balcony. “Especially with those French doors. Anyone could break a pane and come in for a visit. Not safe.”

The man had dressed in jeans, a casual outfit markedly similar to the one he’d shown up in at the gallery. While it wasn’t inappropriate for check-in at the Château Royal, he might have worn newer jeans, or at least a pair that didn’t ride so low on his hips they were distracting.

“All right.” She willed the observation from her mind and hoped she sounded nonchalant. “If my suggestion won’t work, what do you recommend?”

“We’ve only got two choices, chère. I sleep out here with you or you sleep in there with me.”

“Are you offering to sleep on the floor so the bad guys have to crawl over you to get to me?”

“That wouldn’t be my first choice, no. I’m not real fond of tile floors when there’s a bed big enough for two.” His smile widened, carving deep lines in his cheeks and narrowing his eyes to lushly fringed slits. “Afraid you won’t be able to resist me?”

Lennon sighed. The only things missing were a cape and a sword to make him a perfect rogue. “I’ll control myself.”

Eyeing him with what she hoped was unruffled coolness, Lennon swept back into the bedroom with her garment bag. She wouldn’t dignify his teasing. He might find the situation amusing, but she had concerns. How could she concentrate on finding Mr. Right with Josh under her nose—and in her bed?

She had no easy answer, but luckily Josh gave her time to mull over the problem while he remained in the next room unpacking his equipment. She did manage to put their sleeping arrangements from her mind—until he turned up in the bedroom with his own garment bag.

Hanging it over the bathroom door, he helped himself to a seat on the bed. “I need to assess potential threats. I’ve studied the information available online and what the press has written, but you need to fill in the blanks.”

Lennon smoothed a dress into place on the rack, giving herself a chance to school her expression and calm her jangled nerves. Josh wanted to discuss business. She could do that—she could discuss anything but sleeping arrangements. Especially with him sprawled out on the bed he expected both of them to sleep in.

“What can I tell you?” Good, her voice sounded normal.

“Define a ‘risqué buffet of events designed to advance understanding of erotic antiquities’.”

She recognized the quote from the invitation. “Tonight starts with a cocktail party in the sculpture garden. Let’s see…” she ticked off the events on her fingers to keep track “…then there’s a scavenger hunt, masque, musicale, poetry reading, several fine art showings featuring different artists, a modeling session and of course, the bachelor auction.”

“A modeling session?”

Judging by the frown etching his chiseled jaw, Lennon could see he didn’t know what to make of that one. “Try your hand at becoming a model or an artist.”

“Exactly how are these events risqué?”

“Aside from featuring erotic art?”

“Obviously.”

“Well,” she drawled, wanting to rattle his air of bored calm, as if lying on a bed discussing risqué events was all part of his normal workday. “The modeling studios are set up like boudoirs, with props to create a sexy mood, and locked doors for privacy. The photography equipment is digital, of course, so our guests can get creative without worrying about anyone else seeing their artwork.” She inhaled a deep breath for dramatic effect. “Just pop the disk out of the camera and take it home to view or print.”

Even from this distance, she could see the lightning flash of surprise smoldering in the depths of his eyes. Lennon paused in her unpacking, holding a slinky beaded sheath in front of her, and met his gaze with a carefully blank expression of her own.

He must have seen right through her, though, because he recovered with impressive speed and rose to her challenge. “What’s risqué about the masque?”

“The guests have to impersonate characters who’ve contributed to enhancing erotic culture.”

“I hope you’re going as Lady Godiva. Riding naked through the village…I’d say she did her bit to support the arts.”