"Why did she come to New York to work?"

He laughed. "Why do you think? Money. She had no husband and three kids. We lived at my grandmother's house. She had a degree in education and would have taken her master's if she could have afforded it. Your father paid her twice the going rate for teachers in Louisiana."

"How did he find her?"

He shrugged. "Greta found her, she said. You'd have to ask her."

"How old were you when she left?"

"Six. The same age you were, right?"

She nodded.

"So, in a way, we both lost our mothers at the same time."

She smiled bitterly. "Yes, but you got yours back."

"Once you were done with her."

There was a pause.

"You still hated me when I got here. What changed?"

"I met you. It's hard to hate someone in person, don't you think?" Especially when they look like you Especially when they look like you, he thought to himself, and when they're in trouble. and when they're in trouble.

She thought about the woman outside the courthouse and the man on the phone. "Apparently not. Plenty of people hate me right now."

"They don't know you." He stood up and stretched. "I'm going to throw on a shirt, and then we're going to play some music. We've got a gig in two days, and I'd like you to sing with us, if you're not working."

She nodded. "I think I got fired, but I'm not sure." But he didn't seem to hear her.

He wandered down the hall, and maybe he could feel her eyes on him as he did so, or maybe not. But he was back quickly, wearing an old Crescent City Brewery T-shirt.

"Nice shirt."

"Local brewery. Got to support the native talent, right?"

He sat down at the old piano and played a few chords. She watched his strong hands and felt a shiver go over her. She'd always been a sucker for good hands. He vamped a little, then turned to her.

"OK, Charlie, what do you fancy? Standards?"

She nodded. "Your mom used to play me old jazz discs all the time. Nina Simone. Dinah Washington. Julie London. More recent stuff, too. Diana Krall, stuff like that."

"My mom is a traditionalist, that's for sure." He played the opening to "Girl Talk," a bluesy standard made famous by Julie London. "Let's hear it, baby."

Suddenly, Charlotte wanted to sing. She thought of her mom, holding her so tenderly, her voice as much an expression of love as anything could be. She began to sing. It was a lighthearted tune, with lyrics that are basically about gossip, and it took on new meaning now that people were talking about her. She gave it a sarcastic edge, drawing out the words, bending the notes, and Jackson matched her interpretation easily.

He was surprised. At the nightclub, she'd done a great job with the blues, but she was handling this lighter song just as well. That a skinny little girl from Manhattan could produce as full and rounded a sound as this was simply proof that G.o.d enjoyed music as much as the next man.

"OK, let's see how well she educated you."

He switched songs, but she kept pace. He moved through several jazz standards: "Love for Sale," "Summertime," "How High the Moon," and she made each one her own, revealing and reveling in her wide range. He sneaked a glance at her, swinging gently next to him, her eyes closed, an expression of real happiness on her face. He smiled himself to see her and joined in with some harmonies. Then he started playing some newer stuff, some Norah Jones, even some Fiona Apple. She knew it all and simply added more or less edge to her voice as the song required.

After nearly an hour, Jackson suddenly stopped and got to his feet. "Hey, do you want to learn something new? I have something I wrote that I've been doing at occasional gigs, but I want to hear you do it."

He almost ran down the hall, and she leaned against the piano and grinned. It was wonderful to sing, wonderful to be with another musician, and even though she was still a little nervous with Jackson, she realized how good a pianist he was. In many ways, it was like making love, learning each other's styles, feeling out what worked and what didn't, antic.i.p.ating what would make your partner smile. He was back, and she put those naughty thoughts out of her head and turned her attention to the music.

AFTER A COUPLE of hours, Charlotte headed back to the hotel to meet Scarsford. When she spotted him, he looked just about ready to murder someone. He grabbed her by the arm in the hotel lobby and bent his head to her ear. of hours, Charlotte headed back to the hotel to meet Scarsford. When she spotted him, he looked just about ready to murder someone. He grabbed her by the arm in the hotel lobby and bent his head to her ear.

"Don't say anything, just follow me to the elevator, OK?"

She nodded and waited until the doors closed. Then she pulled her arm free and turned to frown at him. His fingers had left marks on her soft skin, and she rubbed them angrily.

"What the f.u.c.k, Tarzan?"

Scarsford watched the floor numbers tick by. "We're being watched. Or, rather, you're being watched, and I'm along for the ride."

"You're talking c.r.a.p. Of course I'm being watched-you're watching me."

He shook his head impatiently, rushing off the elevator and striding toward his room. She had to quicken her pace to keep up, her heels catching on the carpet. d.a.m.n Louboutins.

"You're all over the Web. Someone's following you, and if it isn't your phone stalker, then it won't be long before he works out where you are and follows you down here."

Charlotte dropped her bag on the bed and came to stand next to Scarsford, who was clicking keys on his computer. He straightened and stepped back.

"See?"

She bent to look and sucked in her breath. Holy s.h.i.t. Holy s.h.i.t.

At www.charlottewilliamssucks.com, there were pictures of her from yesterday. Under the headline "Charlotte Williams Turns Tricks in the Big Easy," there was a shot of her and Scarsford entering the hotel lobby, and the words underneath were even less flattering than the headline.

"Now that Charlotte Williams has to do without Daddy's millions-which weren't his in the first place-she's reverted to type and is selling the only thing she owns, her own a.s.s. I guess there wasn't anyone left in New York she hadn't slept with already, so she ran off to New Orleans to ply her trade. I guess once you've been f.u.c.ked by Katrina, it's easy to get blown by Charlotte!"

Below that was another shot, of her and Jackson standing at the restaurant. The caption to this one was insulting to both of them.

"Good to know Charlotte is an equal opportunity wh.o.r.e-she'll take money from anyone, black or white."

And finally, there was a shot of her and Kat entering the nightclub two nights before, all dressed up. It was actually a great photo; she and Kat both looked gorgeous and were laughing and happy. The caption was cruel.

"Looks like Charlotte found another friend to ruin. Here local rich girl Kat Karraby gets all s.l.u.tted up for a night on the streets. Watch out, Kat, you're hanging with the wrong crowd now."

Tears stung Charlotte's eyes. "That's so unfair. Who's doing it? Are they allowed to say those things about me?"

Scarsford was grim. "He just signs himself 'The b.i.t.c.h Watcher,' and the site is registered anonymously through one of the big URL houses." He shrugged. "It'll be hard to get a warrant to find out the registered owner-he or she isn't doing anything illegal."

Charlotte sank onto the chair. "But isn't it libel or something?"

"No. It's free speech. The online world is still pretty much the Wild West, and any good lawyer would argue that this person is just expressing a personal opinion. Besides, it would take months to get this to court, and in the meantime, they'll just keep posting."

He was gazing down at the streets below, thronged with tourists, all carrying cameras, cell phones, tiny video cameras. A thousand prying eyes per block.

"Unfortunately, we have another problem, or at least I do. When my bosses see that photo of us together, they'll probably take me off the case."

Charlotte felt her stomach sink. "Why? You could just have been questioning me, right?"

He still hadn't turned around. "Alone? At night? At my hotel? At the very least it's bad judgment, and at worst, it's collusion with a suspect."

"And what are we supposed to be colluding about?"

"Money. What if you secretly know where all the millions are hidden and we're sleeping together and are planning to share the money?" Now he turned, and his face was as hard and cold as she'd ever seen. "I could lose my job, and even if I don't, I've endangered the investigation and given your father's lawyer something to bring up in court to distract the jury."

"Well, if it's any consolation, I don't know where any money is. I don't even know if there is any money. For all I know, he's been giving it away."

Scarsford laughed suddenly. "You're amazing, you know that? You're living in a dream world. What, you think he's been feeding orphans and widows with the money?"

She shook her head, getting angry. "No, clearly. But he could easily have been paying for the apartment and everything else with just his salary. He made millions every year."

Scarsford just snorted, and Charlotte eventually gave up and walked away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

Sunday morning had stretched into afternoon, but the atmosphere at the Karraby restaurant was timeless. Just walking in made Charlotte feel better, and when she saw Kat sitting with her dad, she broke into a wide smile. f.u.c.k the world, let them say what they want. f.u.c.k the world, let them say what they want.

Kat and her dad looked happy to see her, and when she sat down it became clear that they had been talking about her.

David Karraby leaned back and pointed his finger at her. "You know what it is, Charlotte Williams? You're in a piece of trouble right now, and it seems to be a Karraby trait to attract trouble."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Karraby. I thought I'd left it behind in New York, but I guess the world is a smaller place than I thought."

Kat laughed. "We're not in the middle of nowhere, you know. We've even heard of the Internet down here."

Charlotte blushed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound like that. Speaking of the Internet, I don't suppose you saw the stuff online? I'm really sorry, Kat."

They both frowned, and Charlotte bit her lip. Kat pulled out her laptop, and Charlotte silently navigated them to the offending Web site. Kat went pale when she saw herself online and pushed the laptop over to her dad.

There was a pause as David Karraby read the page, and a small line appeared between his brows. He looked at his daughter.

"Well, honey, it's up to you. I can fire her, and you can walk away if you like."

Kat was shocked. "Daddy! How can you even suggest such a thing?"

Charlotte's stomach was turning, and tears came to her eyes.

Surprisingly, David Karraby laughed. Loudly. "I'm joking, honey. The Karrabys aren't cowards. It's online, it's out there, and probably by now, many people we know have seen it. So what? A little gossip never hurt anyone, particularly in New Orleans." His voice dropped a little. "You know that already, sugar." He turned to Charlotte. "Look here, young lady. I don't want my guests disturbed by photographers or other bulls.h.i.t like that, so if you want to keep working, you can work in the kitchen for a while, OK? Same money, same hours, different level of privacy."

Charlotte was enormously relieved. "That would be great, Mr. Karraby. Thank you so much."

"I don't suppose you speak French, do you?"

She nodded. "I do, actually."

He sucked in his breath. "Oh, Lord. Well, bring some cotton wool to work, then; otherwise, your ears might burn right off."

AFTER DAVID KARRABY had left them alone, Charlotte asked Kat what her dad had meant. "He said you already knew about scandal-what was that about?" had left them alone, Charlotte asked Kat what her dad had meant. "He said you already knew about scandal-what was that about?"

Kat sighed, and signaled for more coffee.

"Well, as you might have noticed, I have a particular sense of fashion."

Charlotte smiled at her. Today Kat was wearing a '70s outfit-a cream pantsuit with a dark brown ribbed wife beater underneath, a thin orange man's tie loose around her neck. Ali McGraw with red hair.

"Now, New Orleans is a place of wild music and wild women and all that jazz, well, particularly jazz, but high school is high school, right? The girls wore the right kind of shoes, the right kind of pants, the right kind of whatever. I couldn't have cared less about what was current. All I cared about was what I liked, and they didn't like that at all." She stirred her coffee. "I wasn't completely alone, I had some other freaks to hang out with, but you know, high school can be h.e.l.l." She looked up. "Right?"

Charlotte nodded, but she knew the truth. She had been one of those girls. Policing everyone else. Leading the pack. Looking down on kids who didn't have the right phone, the right car, the right labels. She was too ashamed to admit it to Kat, though.

"They couldn't physically touch me, because my daddy knows everyone, and the Karrabys are powerful people in the city. But they could ignore me and whisper about me, and they did that in spades. There were weeks at school when I didn't hear a friendly word, or any word, from anyone at all. It was as if I was utterly invisible. Well, not even, because the kids would all move away from me as I walked down the hall, but no one smiled or waved or even looked at me. It was agony. Anyway, it all came to a head at the prom, in true movie style. I went alone, because no one was brave enough to ask me to go with them." She raised her eyebrows. "Anyway, they were all in fluffy, flouncy prom dresses, and I wasn't, and it was totally miserable."

"What were you wearing?"

"Floor-length 1973 Halston. G.o.ddess style. Fiery red."

"Nice."

"I thought so. Anyway, they all cut me dead, and then I came home and swallowed a bottle of my mother's sleeping pills."

The sounds of the cafe receded. Charlotte gazed at her new friend in horror. "Oh, my G.o.d, what happened?"

Kat shrugged. "A surprising thing. My sister Jane came in to talk to me. You know, I mentioned her before, she was the Mardi Gras queen, blah blah. She's always fit in, always had loads of friends, all that stuff. She and I didn't always see eye-to-eye, but you know, there's four years between us, which is a lot when you're a teenager, right? She was already in college at this point, having made it out of high school alive."

Kat pulled out her purse and flipped through a wallet of photos. "This is Janey." The picture showed a cla.s.sic beauty, smiling sweetly for the camera. She looked every inch a prom queen.

"Anyway, she came in and sat on my bed in the dark and asked me about the prom. She'd watched me leave; she knew I'd decided to go dressed as myself, if you follow me. I told her about it, how n.o.body had spoken to me all night, how I'd sat at the side alone." Kat's face had grown dreamy, remembering. "She didn't say anything for a while, then she kind of gave a big sigh and leaned over and hugged me. She said, 'Kitty Kat, f.u.c.k them. In ten years, they'll be fat and frumpy, looking like each other and crying at night over their cellulite and their cheating husbands and their bratty little kids. You will be as elegant and beautiful and unique as you always have been, and they will look at you and know that they caged a rare bird instead of learning to fly themselves. Their loss, cherry pie, and your gain.'"

Kat had tears in her eyes, and Charlotte was deeply touched. She obviously remembered the scene all too clearly, even after several years.

"And I told her what I had done, and she called me an idiot and told my dad, and we went to the hospital, and they pumped my stomach." Kat opened her eyes wide and looked squarely at Charlotte. "Listen, girl. You cannot let the words of other people enter your brain as if they were truth. They're not. They're just meaningless gossip and pointless opinion, and if you lose sight of that, they've won." She waved her hand at the laptop. "Someone's bothering to follow you around and take pictures and then scurrying home to upload them, spending hours on it? What kind of life is that?" She got to her feet. "Come on, I'll take you back to the kitchen and introduce you to the guys. Trust me, they don't give a s.h.i.t who you are. All they care about is how cute your a.s.s is and how fast you wash a dish. We can talk about the guy with the camera later."

Charlotte followed her to the back of the restaurant, thinking about what she'd just heard. Kat was awesome, and she felt lucky to have met her. But she wasn't sure she had the strength this Southern girl had. She felt very much alone and unsure of who exactly she was. She'd been one of those b.i.t.c.hes, and she wasn't sure she knew who she was if she wasn't comparing herself favorably with some loser. What if she didn't have enough substance to stand alone? If she gave up being a rich girl with a bad att.i.tude, what did that leave her with?