CHAPTER FIVE

      MARC HAD BEEN enjoying his escape for the first ten minutes of the ride. Courtney didn’t know what to make of him, had no clue what she’d signed on for. But she put on a good show. He respected that. Maybe because he sensed how uncertain she was, bouncing back and forth between appreciating his presence in her car but being worried about the way he’d gotten here.

      Even he couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t exactly been accommodating, and his guess was she considered him the family wild card. Anthony would never have given her a hard time.

      But any enjoyment Marc felt about escaping the prison his life had become ended when Courtney steered her overpriced toy car out of his neighborhood and headed into hers. He shouldn’t be surprised that manicured lawns stretched back from the streets or that chain-link and weather-battered wooden fences yielded to expensive brickwork and ornate iron gates.

      By the time she wheeled off a side street and pulled into a driveway, Marc remembered why he hadn’t thought much of this woman’s family. The Garden District mansion in front of him, all pitched eaves and wraparound gallery, looked like a house kids might tour on school field-trip day.

      “So this is home.” Not a question, but a stupid comment he should have kept to himself. The irony of all the stairs must be wearing on his impulse control. Stairs leading to the front porch. Stairs inside leading to one, two, three floors. Unless that top floor was an attic? He could hope.

      Courtney nodded, silky hair threading over her shoulders with the gesture, drawing his gaze once again to her slender neck and the delicate curve of her jaw. “Well, half of this is home anyway. House was split into two residences.”

      “So you rent?” Okay, he wasn’t really interested, but his lack of impulse control had started this conversation. Couldn’t blame her for that.

      “No, I own my side. Like a co-op.”

      Mortgage on half a place this size must be a small fortune that she surely couldn’t be swinging on her social worker’s salary. He knew what real estate went for in New Orleans because Nic had been hunting for a place to move his family into after the wedding. Especially in this part of town. Cheaper to pay a mortgage in this economy, which was why Marc owned two properties himself.

      “Who owns the other half?”

      “Admiral Patton and his wife.”

      No response was necessary, which was good since Marc didn’t have much to say. Not anything that would be considered a constructive start to their working relationship.

      And he was here to work. Period.

      He needed to remember that, because everything about Courtney distracted him, from the hair she wore loose to the feminine way she moved. The only thing that grounded him was her mouth. Every time she opened it, he remembered who she was.

      He’d known the Gerard family had money. The name was attached to some heavy hitters, and he’d heard of them all while growing up in New Orleans, names belonging to the longtime district attorney, some politicians and other visible city power brokers. Civil service seemed to run in the family like a luxury most people couldn’t afford.

      Courtney eased up on the brake, coasting the short distance to the garage, where she came to another stop. Slipping out the driver’s side, she stood watching him put on a show as he pulled himself out of the car. She made a few false starts, as if she wanted to offer help but had decided against it.

      A good call on her part.

      When the cane clattered to the driveway, she snatched it up and offered it to him, seemed relieved to do something to dodge the tense silence. His frustration and her guilt for subjecting him to her toy car weren’t a pretty combination. He didn’t feel inclined to reassure her by cracking a joke or making excuses for the pitiful display he made.

      Once he was solidly on his feet, Marc met her frowning gaze, felt every inch as broken as he was.

      “I have an idea,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

      Then she presented a show of her own, only she stole his breath as she ran lightly across the grass and up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. She unlocked the door, and the beeping of a security alarm startled the afternoon quiet.

      Marc stood, propped on his cane, willing his pulse to slow. His heart throbbed so hard he could hear it. Unless that was just a trick of the quiet. He guessed this part of town was usually pretty calm. Maybe not along Rue St. Charles, but a few blocks back, where this place was. Another world, sheltered from the shrieks of sirens that riddled other neighborhoods. Or the exhaust-filled traffic that marked the business district and the French Quarter at all hours.

      The beeping stopped and Courtney reappeared, resuming her attractive display with her fast, graceful movements and breathless smile. She dangled a key ring as she approached. “Your office.”

      She surprised Marc by leading him along a flagstone path toward the rear of the property. He hadn’t paid attention to the building partially concealed in the shelter of trees. Had thought it was another detached garage at first. But on closer inspection, he realized it was too small to be a kitchen or the old slave quarters. Only one floor and no stairs.

      “A guesthouse?” he asked.

      “A cottage.” Courtney preceded him to the door. “It’s small. And no one has used it since a friend needed a place to stay through a divorce. We’ll need to air it out.”

      “Your place or the admiral’s?”

      “Mine.” She fitted the key into the lock while he clambered onto the porch. Thrusting the door wide, she grimaced. “I need to remember to open this place up occasionally.”

      She stepped inside, then held the door for him.

      “A house and a cottage? A lot of room around here for one person.”

      “Wasn’t meant for just one.” She gave a shrug that was probably meant to be casual but didn’t manage the job.

      Unless he missed his guess, there was a lot more to that statement. A relationship gone south? There was enough room around here for a few families. Did a woman who made a career of micromanaging other people’s kids even want a family? He didn’t have a clue about Courtney’s personal life, but Marc knew one thing—she had a story. His family probably knew every detail.

      Courtney obviously didn’t want to discuss her personal life and sailed into the living room, saying, “Fortunately, the place never gets too hot because of all the shade.”

      She took off again, heading straight to the windows that cornered two walls, and thrust aside long white sheers to reveal paned glass that overlooked the well-tended foliage and the back wall of the property.

      Marc followed her only far enough to survey the place. Leaning against the wall, he appreciated this unexpected good fortune. No stairs. Not one.

      She was right about the size. There was a living room, eat-in kitchen and two doors that most likely led to a bedroom and a bathroom. Under a thousand square feet by his estimation, but the open floor plan and floor-to-ceiling windows gave it a bigger feel. The living room was large enough to accommodate a furniture grouping around a television and an area with a corner desk that served as an office.

      “Wi-Fi?” he asked.

      “Mmm-hmm.” She struggled with a stubborn window.

      He didn’t offer to help. Once he might have saved a damsel