the rush of wind. Chase McAllister pressed his hand against the window, feeling the cold December air seep through the glass and chill his fingertips. He looked at the little white lights that the brothers at St. Mark’s Home for Boys had strung through the tree’s branches for Christmas.
One. Two. Three. Four. He began counting the lights. Counting the lights was more fun than watching the other kids getting all mushy with their families. He didn’t want to see them climb into the cars and drive away to spend the Christmas holidays with their moms or dads or grandparents. He didn’t want to think about how there wasn’t anyone coming for him.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
Chase’s gaze drifted to the big white car that Billy Taylor was getting into. The woman inside pulled Billy to her and hugged him to her chest. Chase looked away. He rubbed at his eyes, feeling that sting behind them again. He wasn’t going to cry, Chase told himself. Crying was for babies. And he wasn’t a baby anymore. He was eight years old. A “little man.” That’s what his mother had called him. And men didn’t cry.
“Poor little tyke. Guess he’ll have to stay here at the big house for Christmas.”
Catching the reflections of the housekeeper and her new assistant in the window, Chase swiped at his eyes again. Go away, he ordered silently, willing them to leave. He didn’t want to talk to them. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.
“But I thought you said all the boys got to go home for Christmas,” the new housekeeper said. “How come he don’t?”
“’Cause he ain’t got no place to go. His momma killed herself, and he ain’t got no daddy—at least none that claims him. Surely you heard the story,” the older woman said, her voice dropping to a whisper.
Ignoring the two women, Chase watched the car with Billy in it drive off down the street. He swallowed. He wasn’t going to cry, he reminded himself, feeling that achiness in his chest again. He was never, ever going to cry again.
Fingering the scar along his chin, he went back to counting the lights.
Nine. Ten. Eleven…
The place hadn’t changed much, Chase thought as he studied the garden room of the Saint Charles Hotel from his position near the dais. The cloths covering the tables were still made of pink damask and, given their faded appearance, he would lay odds they were the same ones that had covered the tables twenty-six years ago. The fresh flowers on the tables were fewer in number, but the vases holding them were genuine crystal.
Surveying the crowd of reporters and local bigwigs, who had gathered for the formal announcement of the new partnership between his firm and Henri Charbonnet, Chase frowned. Even the faces and names looked the same, he thought, recalling those Sunday mornings his mother had spent scouring the newspaper’s society pages and pointing out her customers to him. The crème de la crème of New Orleans, she had called them. He doubted that any of them had even known the name of the pretty waitress who had served them their coffee and five-course meals. But she had known their names. She had idolized them, had been thrilled to touch the fringes of their pampered lives.
And now they were here to see him.
Of course, their eagerness to welcome him into their privileged midst was due to his alignment with one of their own—Henri Charbonnet.
Chase shifted his gaze to the object of his thoughts. The years had not been as kind to Henri Charbonnet as they had been to his hotel. The man’s hair was thinner now and nearly all white. His middle had thickened, giving him a portly appearance. He had loomed as a giant in the memory of an eight-year-old boy, but now he appeared almost short against Chase’s own six feet. But the eyes…those hard green eyes that had been so cold and forbidding when they had stared at him from across his mother’s coffin…they hadn’t changed. They were just as cold, just as empty, just as unfeeling as he remembered.
Henri Charbonnet shook hands with one of the city’s councilmen, then tipped his head back in laughter before leading a group of his friends to one of the serving stations. The hotel’s finest crystal and silver pieces adorned the tables laden with the restaurant’s signature dishes.
Charbonnet had spared little expense for the press briefing and reception that was to follow, Chase surmised, as he took in the lavishly decorated room. Evidently cost didn’t matter to the man when it was someone else’s money he was spending. Chase gritted his teeth and rubbed his thumb across the two-inch scar that stretched across his chin. Enjoy your little kingdom while you can, old man, he thought. Because it won’t be yours for much longer.
Chase shifted his gaze to the doorway where the guests continued to filter into the room at a steady pace.
Then he saw the brunette.
Despite her small size, she was a hard one to miss in that red suit. The fabric skimmed nicely rounded curves and fell several inches above her knees on legs that seemed impossibly long for a woman who couldn’t measure more than five foot four.
Nice, Chase thought. He appreciated the female form as much as the next man. And while he had never been a man who got overly excited by big-breasted women, legs were another story.
Chase smiled as he took another look at hers. The brunette definitely had a great pair of legs. Slowly, Chase inched his gaze upward from the expensive red pumps to the mouth painted the same shade of cherry red as her suit. A mouth made for kissing, he thought idly.
The rest of her face wasn’t bad, either. She wasn’t beautiful, at least not by movie-star standards, but she was pretty all the same. She greeted several people and seemed to scan the crowd in search of someone. With her face turned to the side, he couldn’t quite make out if her eyes were green or blue. The thick cocoa-colored hair fell in a smooth and chic line just below her chin and was a great foil for her skin. Ah, and what skin, Chase thought as he studied her. The color of rich cream, it looked as soft and delicate as the petal of a rose.
An expensive rose, Chase decided, catching the flicker of diamond studs when she tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. She smiled at something the pretty boy in the Italian suit said, her luscious mouth curving up sweetly at the other man.
She’s out of your league, McAllister, a voice inside him taunted. This rose was one sweet, tempting little package with all the class and breeding her daddy’s money could buy. And no doubt if she hadn’t yet landed herself a rich husband to pick up where daddy left off, she soon would.
“Mr. McAllister.” One of the newspaper reporters approached him and introduced herself. The smile the woman gave him reminded him of a cat, a big hungry cat. “I know you can’t divulge the details of your firm’s purchase of stock in the Saint Charles, but can you tell me if it’s true that Majestic Hotels plans to invest several million dollars in the renovation of the hotel?”
So the rumor mill was already buzzing. “My firm plans to invest a considerable amount of money in renovating the property,” he said, favoring her with one of his lazy smiles. Using his smile to charm others had been one of the first tricks he had learned in the foster home circuit, and it had served him well in the hotel business. People liked dealing with a person who smiled. And women especially seemed to like his. “But how much the renovation is going to cost has yet to be determined,” he said noncommittally.
Out of the corner of
