Lead Me On (3 page)

Chance rubbed his forehead. "If that's true, we could be in big trouble."

"Why?" Rory struggled up from her chair. "You're not guilty of anything. None of us are. Surely an investigation of bank records will show that."

"It will." Chance sighed. "But I still have to pay a lawyer to help prove I'm innocent"

"No, we pay a lawyer. This involves all of us." Rory glanced to her brother and sister. They both nodded.

"Now hold on," Chance said. "We need to be practical. The inn can't afford to fight this, but I can. It's basically a nuisance lawsuit, and John LeRoche knows it. Which means his goal isn't to win a settlement. It's to weaken us financially and run us out of business. If we go bankrupt, we'll have to sell the house, and he'll buy it back."

"Can he do that?" Rory paled.

"He can try," Chance said. "And let's face it, the man may be having some money problems, but he still has plenty of resources." Chance looked at each of them. "If he's determined to get the Pearl back, this could get nasty."

"So we should stand back and let you fight it with your own money just because you're a trust fund baby?" Adrian snorted. "I don't think so. When you married Rory, you became family. We fight this together."

Chance held up his hands. "Let's all be realistic about this. The three of you sank your entire net worth into this venture. You can't afford to fight a lengthy legal battle."

'Tough," Adrian said. "It's our inn, so it's our battle."

"It's my inn, too," Chance pointed out. "I bought a full one-fourth partnership before Aurora and I even married."

"Okay"—Adrian nodded—"then you can pay one- fourth the cost of fighting this bogus lawsuit"

Chance rolled his eyes. "Allison, Aurora, talk some sense into your brother, will you?"

Allison exchanged a glance with her sister, silently

telling her she sided with Adrian. Rory nodded and turned to her husband. "Alli and I vote to fight this as a family."

"How do y'all do that?" Chance demanded, referring to the way they communicated without words.

"We're sisters," Rory said. "If you weren't an only child, you'd understand."

Chance shook his head. "I still say let me handle this."

'Too late." Rory kissed him soundly on the mouth. "The vote's been cast. You lose, three to one."

"But—"

"But nothing." Rory wrapped both her arms about one of his. "Now if you really want to be useful, come help me clean rooms."

When they'd gone, Alli looked to her brother, trying to fight the panic. "This doesn't sound good."

"No, it doesn't. And Chance is right. It could get nasty. Even if we let him use his own money, he's no match for John LeRoche."

"What do we do?"

Adrian's cheeks puffed as he let out a heavy sigh. "Hope Marguerite's magic is firmly on our side?"

Allison remembered what she'd said to Scott Lawrence: A charm only works if you believe. Unfortunately, life had taught her that blind faith too often led to shattering heartbreak.

 ~ ~ ~

Morning arrived much too early after a night of tossing and turning and worrying over money, but that didn't mean Allison could sleep in. By six o'clock, she and the others were in the kitchen, preparing for "Show Time," as Adrian liked to call it.

As B and Bs grew in popularity, so grew the expectations of guests. With the former chef of Chez Lafitte manning the stove, the Pearl Island Inn was more than up for the challenge. Mouthwatering pastries, fluffy soufflés, and poached eggs drenched in hollandaise were served alongside fresh fruit, homemade yogurt, and their own toasted granola.

At seven o'clock the first two guests had already come downstairs.

"Good morning," Allison greeted the couple cheerfully as she swept into the dining room with a wicker basket of pastries. Chance and Rory followed with silver trays to fill the serving stands on the sideboard. "I hope y'all slept well."

"Reasonably well," Colonel Grubbs, a retired army officer, answered as he took a seat beside his wife at the long table. "Considering Elsie forgot to pack my pillow."

"Oh, Arthur, stop complaining." His wife gave him an indulgent smile before turning to Allison. "I'm afraid my husband's never been much of a morning person."

Alli saw Rory and Chance exchange glances and roll their eyes. One thing they'd all learned about running a bed and breakfast was that innkeepers met a lot of people, from the delightful ones to the ones who took a bit more patience. With Colonel and Mrs. Grubbs, they had one of each.

"What do you two have planned for today?" Alli asked the couple as she took up a pitcher of fresh squeezed orange juice.

"We were thinking about the Texas Seaport Museum," Mrs. Grubbs answered.

"Oh, you'll like that," Rory said. "The
Elissa
is a beautiful old sailing ship that's been fully restored and the museum's display on smuggling is fascinating." As Rory, a former tour guide, launched into a list of other things to do down by the pier, the phone in the office rang.

"I'll get it," Alli said. With orange juice pitcher in hand, she hurried into the office and reached the desk just before the answering machine would have picked up the call. "Pearl Island Inn. Allison speaking."

"Well, now there's a disgustingly chipper voice for

so early in the day," a deep voice grumbled.

"Sorry." Alli smiled. "I forgot it was before the chipper hour. How may I help you?"

"Run away with me to Tahiti?"

She laughed, wondering who the caller was. "I'm afraid that will have to wait until after I finish serving breakfast."

"Darn! Well, if you won't run away with me, how about patching me through to Scott Lawrence's room?"

"I'm afraid I can't do that, either."

"Don't tell me—the son of a bitch beat me to Tahiti."

"No." Her laughter grew. "We don't have phones in the rooms."

"No phones in the rooms? Man, no wonder he picked your inn. The jerk must be doing handsprings."

"Would you like me to give him a message?" Setting aside the pitcher, she reached for a pen and piece of paper.

"Sure. Why not? I'll give it a shot Not that I expect it to do any good, but tell him Hugh called. As in Hugh Ashton. His agent in New York, in case he's forgotten the name. While I almost admire the way he's turned avoiding me into an art form, we do have some business to discuss. So, tell him I would appreciate him actually returning one of my calls sometime in this millennium. Got that?"

His agent! Calling from New York! "Y-yes, sir. Absolutely."

"Great. Now what did you say your name was?"

"Allison. Allison St. Claire."

"Allison, eh? Pretty name. Pretty voice. I don't suppose you have a face to match, do you?"

"Excuse me?" She couldn't believe she was talking to Scott Lawrence's literary agent.

"Are you good-looking?"

Why on earth would he ask that? Rattled, she grasped for a way to handle the situation, to seem sophisticated

rather than awestruck. An image of her aunt, the Incomparable Vivian, star of the stage on Broadway, rose in her mind. How would Aunt Viv handle a flirtatious caller? Alli tossed her head to help get into character and pitched her voice low enough to sound husky. "Devastatingly gorgeous, darling."

"Oh, be still my heart. So, what do you think of Scott?"

Confusion nearly made her break character. Why would he flirt with her, then ask her what she thought about another man? "I think he's a brilliant writer, of course."

"No, what do you think about
him
?"

"Not bad on the eyes, I suppose. If you like the tall, dark, and deadly type."

Hugh Ashton's laughter boomed forth, rich and full like a man with a bawdy sense of humor who sorely needed a chance to laugh more often. "Allison, I like you. Please tell me you're not married?"

"Why? Are you proposing?"

"No, just being nosy."

"In that case, I'm single."

"Involved?"

"I ..." Some of her initial wonder dimmed to caution. What an odd conversation. "I need to go."

"Wait! The message. Tell Scott his editor agreed to another extension on the proposal, but she needs a title suggestion and a short blurb about the premise and setting so they can start on the cover concept. Tell him to fax me something. Anything. Got it?"

She nodded as she wrote. "Yes, I have it."

"Good. Then bye for now, love. I'm sure we'll be talking again soon."

After disconnecting, Alli stared at the phone. She'd just talked to a real, live literary agent, and he wanted her to play go-between for him and Scott Lawrence!

Celebrities normally didn't intimidate her—her family tree boasted too many stars of the stage for that—but Scott was fast proving to be an exception. Perhaps because he didn't just act out stories, he created them. She glanced toward the ceiling and wondered when he would come down for breakfast.

Breakfast!
Snapping out of her haze, she picked up the orange juice, slipped the note into her apron pocket, and hurried back toward the dining room.

As if her thoughts had conjured him, Scott was coming down the stairs as she entered the hall. He wore a dark print, short-sleeved shirt tucked into black shorts. She stopped for a moment, wondering how he could possibly be more devastating to the senses than he'd been yesterday.

Breathe
, she told herself.
And stop being such a ninny.
"Mr. Lawrence?"

He stopped on the last step, which made him seem that much taller as she approached. "Scott," he said, correcting her.

"Oh. Yes. Of course." She fished the note out of her apron. "I have a phone message for you. From Hugh Ashton."

"Well, that didn't take long." He took the sheet of paper she handed him without even glancing at the message.

"What didn't take long?"

"Nothing." He folded the paper several times and stuffed it into the pocket of his shorts.

"Aren't you going to read it? He said it was very important."

"I'm sure he did. Am I too early for breakfast?"

"No, not at all." She frowned, wondering if she should just tell him what it said. The agent had made the

message sound so crucial ... but it wasn't her place to get involved in guests' private business, she reminded herself. Forcing aside her avid curiosity, she gestured to the dining room. "If you'll follow me."

Irritation tightened Scott's jaw as he followed Allison into the dining room. Calls from his agent hadn't always put him in a sour mood. In fact, he used to enjoy them. That, however, was before Hugh started calling every morning to say, "So, did you get any writing done yesterday?" Did the man actually think daily prodding would help? And what was the point of leaving town to relax if Hugh was going to track him down and remind him of why he was stressed out in the first place?

He gave his shoulders a subtle roll to loosen them and turned his attention to something far more pleasant: the delightful view Allison presented as she walked in front of him. The shorts covered more thigh than he'd prefer, but they hugged her narrow waist and shapely behind very nicely.

"We serve breakfast buffet-style." She glanced back to explain. "Would you like me to pour you some orange juice while you grab a plate?"

"No, coffee will be fine," he said as he scanned the room. If his luck was turning, there would be some jaded but delectable creature among the other guests. Instead, he saw an elderly couple at the far end of the table where morning sunlight poured in through the windows. So much for his luck changing.

As for the room, they seemed to have made the fewest changes here, but then there hadn't been as much to change. The massive table and chairs had been there during his clandestine visit all those years before and he suspected they were original to the house. Their carvings of sea serpents and mermaids matched the molding that crowned the paneling.

The fresco on the ceiling depicted Neptune riding the waves in a giant shell drawn by sea horses as if charging to attack whoever entered the room. Scott didn't have to work his imagination much to see the formidable Henri LeRoche—with black hair and hawkish features—sitting in the throne-like chair at the head of the table. By all accounts, he'd liked to "hold court" over the rough seafaring men who had carried cargo for his shipping company.

"Rory, Chance," Allison said, distracting him. "You haven't met our new guest. This is Scott. Scott, my sister, Aurora, and her husband, Oliver Chancellor."

Scott turned toward the built-in sideboard, to find a young couple he hadn't noticed. His automatic greeting stuck in his throat along with surprise when he caught sight of Allison's sister. The two women looked nothing alike. Allison had a quiet beauty that whispered seductively to a man. The sister was a vision to incite wars. Helen of Troy. Tall with glowing skin and long golden-red curls. Unfortunately she was also pregnant. Very pregnant. And married to the skinny blond guy beside her.

"Good morning." The golden goddess wiggled her fingers in welcome. "Scott Lawrence, right?"

Scott nodded, but wished he'd had the forethought to ask them not to tell the other guests who he was.

"And this is Colonel Arthur Grubbs and his wife, Elsie, from Chicago," Allison continued, motioning to the older couple.

"Pleased to meet you." The woman smiled at him, with no flicker of recognition. Scott sighed in relief.

"Help yourself to as much breakfast as you want," Oliver Chancellor told him. "There's always plenty to go around."

"I'll do that" Scott nodded.

"Alli, if you have things covered here, we'll go help Adrian in the kitchen," the sister said.

"I'm fine."

As the two left, Scott crossed to the sideboard and found an amazing spread of food that sent his salivary glands into overdrive. Grabbing an antique china plate, he started down the line.

"Scott Lawrence ..." Colonel Grubbs tested the name, and Scott's shoulders sagged in disappointment as he realized his relief had come too soon. "Any relation to the famous writer?"

Resigned, Scott glanced back at the man. "One and the same."

"Weeell," the colonel said, his bushy black brows rising toward his white crew cut. "This is an honor. I've read a book or two of yours, even though I normally prefer historical novels, Pearl Harbor, Civil War, you know, real books. In fact"—he pointed his fork at Scott—"I have an idea for a story based on my own experience in Korea that would be a surefire bestseller. If only I could find the time to sit down and write it"

Scott nodded gravely. "Yeah, I know what you mean. The lack of a free weekend keeps more blockbuster bestsellers from being written than you can imagine."

When Allison came closer to retrieve the sterling silver coffee urn from its warming stand, he leaned close and whispered in her ear, "I'll give you my idea and we can share the money."

She gave him a startled frown.

"Hey, I have a thought," Colonel Grubbs said. "I could give you my idea, you could write the book, and we could share the money."

Allison's eyes widened and Scott arched a brow, enjoying the moment of shared humor. Except, for one flicker of an instant, he actually considered the man's offer—proof that he was truly getting desperate. He knew

from experience that ideas from non-writers were never doable. Especially when those ideas were based on personal experience.

Fortunately, he was saved from his moment of insanity when an attractive black couple wandered into the room.

"Good morning, Keshia, Franklin," Allison greeted them as she headed around the table with the coffeepot "I see you're up early."

"Too early." The woman shook off the end of a yawn as the two of them joined Scott at the buffet. "Since we checked in so late last night I was hoping to sleep until a reasonable hour. But no, Franklin's eager to strap on our scuba tanks and check out the shipwreck."

"Come on, baby." Franklin slipped an arm around her waist. "You like scuba diving, too."

"Around coral reefs where there's something to see," she said. "Not in die murky water of Galveston Bay."

"Actually," Allison said, "our cove is protected enough that it's surprisingly clear. And who knows, you might get lucky and find some pirate gold."

Keshia frowned. "I thought the ship was a Confederate blockade runner, not a pirate ship."

"It was," Allison said. "But the captain, Jack Kingsley, was the grandson of one of Jean Lafitte's men. Some people think a portion of Lafitte's missing treasure was on the
Freedom
when she went down. Unfortunately, most of the ship is covered in silt from the nineteen hundred hurricane, so no one's been able to explore her completely."

"Pirate gold?" Keshia considered. "Okay, now that's worth getting up early."

Scott carried his plate to the chair where Allison had already poured him a cup of coffee.

"Well, treasure or not I'm looking forward to seeing the ship." Franklin chose a chair across from Scott and

extended his hand before taking a seat. "Franklin Prescott."

"Scott Lawrence." He shook the man's hand, deciding there was no sense trying for anonymity at this point.

"The author?" Keshia's brows shot up. When he nodded, she beamed at him and took a seat. "Well, isn't this my lucky day. I'm Keshia Prescott." She shook his hand. "News anchor for KSET in Houston. My producer was just talking about doing a series of author interviews as a special segment. I don't suppose you'd agree to an interview."

"Keshia, we're on vacation," Franklin complained.

"I know." She flashed her husband a dazzling smile that had probably won the hearts of thousands of viewers. "I wasn't talking about interviewing him right now, just setting it up." She turned back to Scott. "So, how about it?"

"I don't do TV interviews."

"Why not?"

For the same reason I don't have my photo on the back jacket of my books
, he thought. He didn't want every Joe on the street recognizing him. Plus, in a live interview, he had less control. On the other hand, interviews did help sales. "I tell you what," he said. "I'll consider it on two conditions. One, we schedule it for the fall, when my next book comes out." Mentioning the release date sent a small streak of panic through him since he hadn't even started the book. "And two, I get to set some boundaries on what's off limits."

Keshia's eyes narrowed. "How strict are the boundaries?"

"We talk only about my books. No questions about my personal life." He could tell she didn't like that, since the personal angle was what all reporters wanted.

"All right," Keshia finally agreed. "Although there is one question I'd like to ask you now."

"Keshia ..." her husband warned.

"It's just one question," she insisted, then turned back to Scott. "In
The Flier
, the one about the pilot whose daughter is kidnapped, I swear my heart stopped about ten times during the dogfight scene at the end of the book. How do you come up with stuff like that? Where do you get your ideas?"

Scott glanced at Allison and found her watching him, her eyes sparkling with laughter.

"Plots.com?" she suggested.

"Or the author's mail order catalogue." He smiled at her. "But you have to know the secret code word to subscribe."

"Okay." Keshia held up her hand. "I can take a hint."

To smooth over the moment, Allison introduced the Prescotts to the Grubbs. With the attention off him, Scott watched the others while he ate, mentally collecting fodder for future books. Even without the benefit to his writing, people fascinated him: their gestures, expressions, the cadence of their voices. It was one of the main reasons he liked living in the French Quarter. When his niece, Chloe, came to visit, they would sit on his balcony and play "What's their story?" for hours.

This morning, though, only Allison held his attention for long. She moved about the table with the posture and grace of a dancer, so he assumed she'd taken ballet. What other lessons had she taken? Piano, voice? He watched her hands as she refilled coffee cups and removed dirty dishes, her movements simple but agile. What would it feel like to have her trail those slender hands over his body?

He shifted in his chair as heat flowed through him.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked as she came around behind him.

"No, I'm done." He leaned sideways as she reached for his plate and her scent drifted to him—a subtle blend of fragrances he couldn't quite sort out. Lavender? Vanilla?

"Are you going to write today? Or see the sights?" She stepped back, leaving only a trace of her scent to tease him.

He thought about the laptop waiting upstairs—the screen as blank this morning as it had been yesterday afternoon—and about the message from his agent lurking in his pocket. He should go upstairs, lock himself in his room, and not come out until he had at least started a proposal. A page. A paragraph. A sentence! "I think I'll go to the beach over on Galveston."

"No need to fight the crowds at the public beaches," she said. "We have a very nice private beach here."

"Crowds don't bother me." As long as he didn't have to interact with anyone.

"Well, if you're going to the public beach, you'll want to get an early start Even this time of year, parking spaces disappear in a hurry." Allison moved around the table to clear away more dirty dishes. "Do you want to use the phone in the office before you go?"

"Use the phone?" He stared at her.

"To return your call."

"I'll, um, get to it later." He dropped his napkin on the table as he rose and made a quick exit before she could say any more about the message from Hugh. As soon as he reached his room, he crumpled the note and tossed it in the trash unread.

~ ~ ~

What a total waste of a day, Scott thought as he returned to the inn that afternoon. He had sand in his Top-Siders, his skin felt gritty from the salt water, he was dehydrated, hot, and exhausted. All that to spend a day on the beach with married couples, shrieking kids, and self-absorbed coeds.