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.
