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.

Drew had shamelessly used the information, and played up the grandson’s lack of direction in life beyond finishing university, to convince the old man he needed to sell his company rather than leave it to the grandson.

A month later Drew had received a visit from the old man, who had finally figured everything out.

“You have no conscience, Drew Morrison. And one day you’ll be paid back several times over for all the wrong that you do.”

He’d tried to deny his part in the scheme. Strangely, he’d grown attached to the old man, who had built his company with his own two hands. But Bernie wouldn’t hear him. He’d merely said his piece and left Drew with a new awareness of boundaries he hadn’t recognized before.

From there on in he’d left families out of the business equation, no matter how easy the target. He’d relied solely on his own skills to accomplish the task he was being paid for-most times very well.

Then there was Josie…

Certainly, he’d come across his share of marks attached in some strong way to their companies or interests. But usually they were neglecting another part of their lives that was easily amplified. Children who wanted more of their attention. A hobby that could be turned into a career. Sometimes he even allowed himself to believe he was doing the marks a favor by helping them improve their lives, although that feeling never lasted more than a couple of seconds if only because he knew his clients were the ones benefiting monetarily. After all, a mark wouldn’t be a mark if that person didn’t have something the client wanted.

In Josie Villefranche’s case, he’d never expected he’d be the one doing the wanting and that what he wanted had absolutely nothing in common with what his client wanted.


JOSIE SWIPED THE BACK of her wrist across her forehead as she stirred the boil pot on the old, industrial stove in the kitchen of the Josephine. She’d coerced Philippe into looking after the front desk again, telling him she wanted to take care of dinner tonight. He hadn’t said anything. After all, they often traded spots if just to keep things interesting, or if she felt the itch to keep her cooking skills fresh.

But she had received a raised brow when she’d instructed him to send Drew back to the kitchen when he arrived.

That was if he did arrive. She looked at her watch. It was ten past three. Considering their kiss on the street that morning, she’d half expected him to stick around the hotel until the time she’d set for their late lunch.

Instead, he’d left and had yet to return.

Second thoughts, maybe?

She shut off the fire under the pot then moved it from the burner, continuing to stir.

Since their spontaneous connection, she’d been running their kiss and their conversation through her mind, over and over again. She’d made the request of their temporary liaison for her own emotional safety. But by doing so had she taken the thrill out of it for Drew? Having a woman fall head over heels for you then leaving her when it was time to go might be part of the fantasy. By stating up front that she had no intention of falling for him, had she ended their liaison before it had a chance to get interesting?

Josie realized she’d stopped stirring and continued, doubling her efforts. Even if Drew wasn’t around for the meal, she and Philippe would enjoy eating something other than the staple gumbo they kept on hand for potential guests.

The old black cat that called the hotel home jumped up onto the counter next to the burner.

“Jezebel, what are you doing in here?” She plucked up the curious feline before she could do any damage and carried her to the back door, where she put her outside. Careful to prevent the cat from getting back in, she filled the bowl next to the door with dry food. For some reason she couldn’t put her finger on, being there made her uneasy.

The inner hotel telephone extension on the wall rang, startling her.

She backtracked to the stove, wiped her hands on her apron and answered it.

“He’s on his way to the kitchen.”

Josie’s heart nearly beat straight out of her chest.

She thanked Philippe, then hurried back to the pot, trying to regain control over herself.

It was just a meal, for crying out loud. No reason to be so nervous.

She supposed it might be because she had half expected him not to show and had gotten used to the idea. That must be the reason for the butterflies in her stomach. But when she turned her head at the sound of the door swinging open and saw Drew, she knew she was dead wrong.

It was the fact that her attraction for him seemed to have doubled since earlier that had her heart pounding in her chest.

And if the dark awareness in his eyes was anything to go by, his desire for her was just as strong.

She smiled, trying to force a swallow down her tight throat. “Come on in. I hope you don’t mind, but I thought we’d eat in here.”

He blinked as if just breaking from some sort of trance, then looked at the chopping block in the middle of the room she had set with checkered place mats, linen-wrapped silverware and a dozen candles in different colors and sizes. A bottle of red wine was breathing next to two sparkling crystal glasses.

She’d done so much rattling on during their walk earlier that she was armed with a thousand and one questions she wanted to ask him. Questions that vanished now. She could barely focus enough to keep from ruining the simple yet very Creole meal she’d prepared.

Drew hadn’t moved from the doorway.

She stopped stirring and picked up two bowls from the sideboard. After filling them, she switched on the flame beneath the boil pot, then carried the bowls to the cutting board.

“Pour the wine?” she suggested.

Finally, he moved from the doorway, slowly doing as she asked. After she finished cutting the thick, crusty bread she’d placed on the board earlier, he handed her a glass. She looked to find his eyes regarding her soberly.

“To the strangers we meet along the way,” she said quietly.

He clinked his glass lightly against hers and drank.

She broke eye contact then climbed up on one of the two stools. “This is best eaten hot.”

He sat across from her. “What is it?”

“Yam and crabmeat bisque. Have you ever had it?”

“Can’t say as I have.”

She took a piece of bread. “It’s best eaten this way.” She scooped a bit of the thick soup with the bread then reached to put it in front of his mouth. He cracked his lips and accepted the soup-drenched morsel. He chewed silently.

“Do you like it?”

“My compliments to the chef.”

Josie looked away quickly. The recipe was one her granme had shared with her, teaching her how to make it when she was eight and was no longer a danger around an open flame. Over the years, she’d learned to experiment with the spices herself and even her granme had proclaimed hers the best she’d ever tasted.

“Most Creole food is meant to be eaten with your fingers,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

His gaze seemed to linger on her hands as she licked bread crumbs from the pad of her thumb. “I think I can get used to it.” His eyes smiled at her.

“After this morning, I feel at a disadvantage,” she said.

“Oh?”

“You know more about me than I do about you.”

His gaze dropped to his soup as he expertly scooped up a dollop of it from the side before it could drip onto the place mat.

“I mean, did you always want to work in the auto industry? I can see a little boy dreaming of growing up to be a race-car driver, or even fixing up classics, but…”

“But you can’t imagine a ten-year-old thinking, ‘Gee, I think I’ll sell car parts when I grow up.’”

He loved it when she smiled.

Drew had to remind himself to eat his soup as he watched the woman across from him. It wasn’t that the soup wasn’t delicious; it was. It was just that Josie looked even more appetizing.