Читать книгу Bulletproof Billionaire - Mallory Kane - Страница 10

Thank God for sisters.

Seth Lewis sent a silent prayer heavenward as he pulled up in front of the fancy wrought-iron gate of the three-story house in the Garden District of New Orleans. The hot mid-July evening and the recent rain lent a freshly painted look to everything, even the manicured lawn. Damn, he hated this part of the city and the people who lived here. He’d promised himself a long time ago that he’d never set foot in this part of town again. But this wasn’t his party. He was on assignment.

He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror of the new Mercedes Cabriolet convertible that was part of his cover. He still wasn’t used to the face that stared back at him. Clean-shaven. Expensive haircut. Designer suit. He lifted his chin and cocked a brow.

Seth Lewis, billionaire businessman. His lip curled in a wry grin. More like Seth Lewis, master of disguise.

It was only because of his three younger sisters that he had any chance of pulling off this assignment. When he’d told them he needed to impersonate a suave continental financier, no questions asked, they’d rallied around him. Just like they had seven months ago when he’d been shipped back to the States by the army with both his kneecap and his dreams shattered.

Mignon had forced him into her upscale Warehouse District salon and given him a complete makeover. It had been humiliating but necessary, he supposed. After all, he couldn’t enter the chic multimillion-dollar mansion of one of the wealthiest widows in New Orleans with shaggy hair, a ratty beard and rough, broken nails. He’d drawn the line at a full body wax and a spa treatment though. A man had to hold on to some pride.

Mignon had worked miracles, just like her ad campaign promised. He’d walked in looking like a homeless man and walked out looking as if he’d stepped out of GQ. No one would have known he was the same person.

Serena, the elder of the twins, had taken him shopping for a designer wardrobe that probably cost more than his VA disability pension for a year, using an untraceable credit card issued by Conrad Burke, the head of New Orleans Confidential. Teresa, the younger twin who planned to marry a millionaire as soon as she found one who fit her high standards, had decided what kind of car he should drive and had rented and furnished him a trendy apartment in the renovated Warehouse District. The lavish apartment would be his home for the duration of his “visit” to the States.

He’d almost choked at the amount of money the elite Confidential agency had spent on his cover story. It backed up Burke’s emphasis on the importance of Seth’s part in the investigation.

A limousine pulled up behind him and Seth recognized New Orleans District Attorney Sebastion Primeaux arriving with the mayor. He’d known he’d be in exalted company at this shindig. But the D.A. and the mayor? His target, the woman who was hosting this charity auction, sure traveled in important circles.

As Seth stepped onto the sidewalk, he assessed the other vehicles parked along First Street. Teresa had been right. Nobody drove economy iron. Every vehicle here cost at least six figures.

Seth closed his eyes for an instant, getting into character for the part he was about to play.

He was no longer a Special Forces Weapons Sergeant. His career had ended when his knee had been in the right position to save two young Iraqi kids from a bloody death. Nor was he the bored, pissed-off-at-the-world drifter who’d moped around the French Quarter for several months. Not since he’d accidentally happened upon a bank robbery and neatly disarmed the idiot waving a semiautomatic weapon. His fast action and his faster field-stripping of the weapon on the spot had ended up on the evening news and had caught the attention of a Southern gentleman with a whiskey-smooth drawl and the unyielding strength of steel.

Conrad Burke had contacted Seth and invited him into an abandoned warehouse that turned out to be a high-tech operations center the like of which Seth had never seen, even in the army.

There Burke had introduced Seth to the Confidential agency. At first, Seth had laughed at the idea of a secret agency operating above the law under the auspices of the Department of Public Safety. It sounded like something out of a spy movie, but he soon discovered that Burke was deadly serious. He’d given Seth a brief rundown of the history of the agency and the reason this branch had been established in New Orleans.

Seth had listened, fascinated and bewildered. The idea that Conrad Burke had chosen him to join New Orleans Confidential because he’d been in the right place at the right time and foiled a bank robbery was daunting.

For the first time since he’d come home, Seth found himself interested in something besides his own rotten luck. Listening to Burke, he began to believe he might be able to do some good. Be somebody. Make a difference.

So he’d stepped into the persona Burke had outlined for him. He told himself it would be a like a special operation and he treated it that way—studying, preparing himself mentally and physically. He forgot about Seth Lewis, street kid. He was continental, suave and filthy rich.

This assignment was nothing like a desert campaign. Even so, he felt as if he were on foreign soil. He’d grown up in the Ninth Ward, a poor, beaten-down section of the city. Now he was in the exclusive section of New Orleans that ran along St. Charles Street. His assignment—to win the confidence of the lovely widow of rumored Cajun mob mouthpiece Marc DeBlanc, then seduce her for any information she might have.

Refusing to imagine what this Garden District rich bitch who casually threw hundred-thousand-dollar parties without blinking an eye might look like, Seth squared his Gaultier-clad shoulders and prepared to beard the lioness in her den.

He hesitated with his hand on the ornate knocker, his confidence challenged by a twinge of doubt. It worried him that he was so anxious to live up to Burke’s expectations. What if he failed? All he knew was that he was tired of waking up every day wondering what the hell he was going to do with his life. Burke’s offer was a second chance. He was not going to blow it.

He affected a polite, bored expression as the door swung wide, releasing muted conversations, an undertone of New Orleans jazz, and soft lighting, along with a whoosh of air-conditioning.

When his eyes lit on the vision who’d opened the door, he had to clamp his jaw to keep his mouth from dropping open.

Framed in the doorway was an angel. He blinked. Working hard to maintain his cool, he remembered what Mignon had told him about the patrons of her exclusive spa salon. The very rich are never in a hurry. They don’t have to be. So he stood there as if he had all the time in the world and let his gaze roam over the woman.

She was golden-white all over. From her sleek, pale hair pulled back from her face into some kind of intricate knot to her simple floor-length dress, which looked white but shimmered with gold, she glowed. She looked like a fairy princess sprinkled with gold dust.

Seth took the hand she proffered and could have sworn he saw a spark as his fingers touched her silky smooth skin. He knew he felt it.

When he met her gaze, his heart thudded to somewhere south of his stomach. Her eyes were a deep sapphire blue. But it was the look in them that hit him like a blow. She looked sad and surprised and fearful all at once. He had an unfamiliar urge to gather her close and protect her from everything bad in the world.

“Hi,” she said, her mouth turning up in a smile that stole a bit of the sadness from her eyes and lit them with delightful flickers of lighter blue. “Do come in. I’m Adrienne DeBlanc. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Calling on his military control to keep his gaze bland and bored, Seth swallowed his surprise. This was the mob widow, answering her own door? She didn’t look at all as he’d imagined. She was young, beautiful, elegant. Her neck, bare of jewelry, curved enticingly above the plain neckline of her dress. Her nape invited a kiss, while the delicacy of her diamond-studded earlobes made his mouth water.

“Seth Lewis,” he said, affecting the vague continental accent he’d been rehearsing for days. “Brechtman Forbes. We just opened Crescent City Transports here.” Now came the tricky part. He gestured vaguely. “A new business acquaintance mentioned the charity auction. Hope you don’t mind me dropping by. I have a soft spot for literacy causes.”

Adrienne DeBlanc’s smile drooped almost imperceptibly and her fingers went rigid in his. “A business acquaintance. Of course.”

She sounded disappointed.

“Please come in. Now who did you say—?”

She paused as a young man in a crisply starched white coat apologetically whispered in her ear.

She inclined her head briefly. “Please pardon me. I have a small hors d’oeuvres crisis to avert. Make yourself at home.”

Seth nodded. He’d dodged the first bullet. His breath whooshed out in relief as he snagged a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.

The large front room with its hardwood floors and gauzy flowing curtains was sparsely furnished, giving it a cool open feeling. The furniture was all white, with varicolored pillows and accent pieces. She didn’t have children, he surmised, or all that gleaming upholstery would be gray and stained.

Scattered around the dark wood-accented room were a dozen slender easels that held pencil sketches. Seth worked his way through the crowd, affecting a bored nonchalance he didn’t feel. The room was filled with familiar faces. Burke had shown him photographs of the suspected members of the Cajun mob, quite a few of whom were here tonight.

Seth’s palms itched. His collar was too tight. Out in the desert, he could break down and reassemble an M-16 in seconds. Field-dressing a wound was routine. But navigating a party crawling with New Orleans big shots and members of the Cajun mob made him sweat. He was way out of his league here.

A woman rumored to be eyeing the governor’s seat in the next election looked him up and down as he passed. Others he’d seen on the news—politicians and socialites—assessed him. He put on a half smile and let his gaze slide over them as if he could not possibly care less who they were.

He read the note attached to one of the easels. Starting bid $5,000. All proceeds to go to the Garden District Literacy Foundation.

He shook his head in wonder. The drawing looked like something Serena or Teresa might have scribbled at age seven. But then he wasn’t here to judge the value of the art or the legitimacy of the charity. He was here to seduce the hostess.

He sipped his champagne, wishing it was a frosty cold beer, and let his gaze roam around the crowded room. Where had Adrienne DeBlanc gone?

“So what you think of this one, eh?” a voice said next to his ear as a strong hand clapped his shoulder.

Seth turned. The speaker was taller than Seth, powerfully built with a thin puckered scar running down the right side of his deeply tanned face. Seth recognized him immediately.

It was Tony Arsenault, a tall drink of swamp water rumored to be Jerome Senegal’s most trusted lieutenant. Only a few days before, Alexander McMullin, one of Burke’s agents, had confirmed from a dying drug dealer that Senegal was the leader of the mob.

Seth took a swallow of champagne and shrugged off Arsenault’s hand. “No accounting for taste, I suppose.” Damn. He sounded like a freakin’ pansy!

The tall Cajun laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “That is a polite way of putting it. C’est rabais,” he said and leaned closer. “It is…” He shrugged eloquently. “I come because it is expected. So where you from?”

Here goes. “I’m here to assist with the opening of Crescent City Transports. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Arsenault’s expression became guarded. His dark eyes glittered. “Crescent City Transports. That is the new trucking company on Tchoupitolous?”

“Right. We’re quite proud of the location.”

“So. What’s your connexion?” he asked, putting a French inflection on the word.

Seth held out his hand. “Seth Lewis. I work for Brechtman Forbes, the company that is expanding its transport business to New Orleans.”

“Never heard of ’em.”

“Based in Germany. Multinational corporation,” he tossed out. Was he overdoing the bored continental rap?

“Yeah?” Arsenault ignored Seth’s hand. “Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici? What brings you to this place tonight?”

Seth grinned, then inclined his head toward the killer who was known for his inventive use of his machete. He could almost smell the blood on Arsenault’s hands. There was a reason Arsenault was known as “The Knife.”

“Business, mon ami,” he said quietly. “I overheard someone at a coffeehouse talking about the auction, and thought this might be a good place to meet some of the bigger players in New Orleans.”

Arsenault’s eyebrows rose. “You heard about this event at a coffeehouse, eh?”

“Yep. I like to keep my eyes and ears open.”

“And so now you want to meet the big players?” Arsenault laughed again. The scar on his face gave him a demonic look.

Seth shrugged. “It is a waste of time to deal with those who have no authority to—shall we say—deal.”

Arsenault appraised him. “You are a bright boy.” He clapped him on the shoulder again. “Be sure and buy one of those pieces of junk.” He nodded toward the easel. “We like to see everybody help out.”

“And I like to help out, however I can.”

The scar-faced man grabbed a flute of champagne from a tray and saluted Seth. “I will remember that. Keep in touch.” He walked away.

Seth released the breath he’d been unconsciously holding. Shaking off his tension, using breathing techniques he’d learned in the army to keep his mind clear and his body prepared, he looked for Adrienne De-Blanc. He didn’t see her, but he saw a lot of money.

Serious money. The kind of cash that had caused his father to abandon him and his sisters and his mother when he was just a kid. The thought stoked his anger.

God, he hated money.

A soft touch on his arm got his attention.

“Mr. Lewis?”

It was Adrienne. “I noticed you talking with Tony Arsenault. Was he the business acquaintance you mentioned?”

Seth sensed her agitation and it grated on his already sensitive nerves. Didn’t she like the idea of him talking business in her home with a sadistic hit man? According to his briefing, she knew everyone in the Cajun mob. After all, her deceased husband had been Jerome Senegal’s lawyer, which made him the mob’s lawyer.

He nodded and quirked his mouth. “I don’t think he shares my enthusiasm for the works up for auction. Tell me about the artists. Are they local? Did you pick these pieces yourself?”

“You like the sketches?” she asked, her voice polite but carefully devoid of expression.

He studied her. Her back was stiff, her smile looked fake. Judging by her body language, she was hiding something, just as he was.

“They have a certain primitive charm,” he murmured, raising a brow.

She blinked, then sent him an impish glance. “Primitive charm? You mean as if they’d been done by a six-year-old?”

He smiled. She’d known exactly what he meant. She had a good sense of humor in addition to her ethereal beauty. He leaned closer. “At six, my sister Theresa could draw better than that.”

Her blue eyes widened, intent on his face. “You have a sister?”

“Three, actually.” Seth checked the urge to tell Adrienne about his sisters. He had to be careful. No one could know that he or his family lived here in New Orleans.

He changed the subject. “So Mrs. DeBlanc, how do you manage such an interesting mix of people at a party this large? Didn’t I see the mayor a moment ago?”

Adrienne DeBlanc tried to tamp down her disappointment. She should have known better than to think Seth Lewis was different from the other people here. He was either connected or he wanted to be.

From the moment she’d opened her door and seen him standing there, his broad shoulders and lean hips perfectly clad in that ultra high-fashion Gaultier suit, her breath had stuck in her lungs. She’d almost forgotten she was a virtual prisoner in this house. She’d let herself get carried away by a pair of amused hazel eyes.

Tony Arsenault had supplied Adrienne with the guest list, written in Jerome Senegal’s own hand, and had instructed her to set up the auction. Every person here was connected to the Cajun mob in one way or another. Even most of the politicians were suspect.

Seth’s name wasn’t on the list, but that didn’t mean he was different. He’d said he was new in town. But he was wealthy, and the politicians were always looking for another source of campaign funds.

Besides, Tony had not only spoken to him, he’d laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture reserved for the few people Tony liked. That erased any doubt in Adrienne’s mind. Seth Lewis was involved with Jerome and his goons, or he soon would be.

It was a shame. He was so attractive. He was much taller than she, probably almost six feet, and younger than most of the people here. Everything about his appearance screamed money and power, and there was an aura of watchfulness about him. She had the feeling that no matter what happened, he would be prepared.

But his hazel eyes shone with honesty and intelligence, and when he focused his attention on her she felt as if she were safe, really safe, for the first time in her life.

“Mrs. DeBlanc?”

She blinked. His eyes threatened to delve beyond the surface down to the heart of her. She smiled quickly—too quickly, and ran a hand down the side of her neck, where muscles were tensing. She didn’t miss the drifting of his gaze as he followed her gesture.

“I apologize. I must be tired. I’m not usually so rude to my guests. Please, have some more champagne.” She motioned to a waiter, who hurried over with a tray and exchanged Seth’s empty glass for a full one.

She thought she caught a brief flicker of contempt in the curve of his lips. The unguarded expression was like a slap to her face. But he smiled as his gaze traced the slim line of her gold-flecked, floor-length gown, then turned to the glass he held up to the light.

“Krug?” he drawled, indicating the delicate crystal flute.

“Ninety-one,” Adrienne agreed. He certainly knew his wines. She met his gaze. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. The contempt remained, along with a touch of amusement and discomfort. His attitude didn’t fit his clothes. But there was something else—something sexual that passed between them in that look. A hunger grew in her, an awareness she’d never expected to feel again.

Seth Lewis wanted her.

The thought sent ripples of sensation over her, like the ruffling of a bird’s feathers when it awakened.

Seth took a sip of wine without taking his eyes off her. He rolled it around on his tongue as he held the glass up to the light.

“This is nice. A lovely representation of the class,” he drawled, his gaze flickering to her face, her mouth. “Not so young as to be undeveloped, but not too old to have fun with.”

Adrienne had the uncomfortable sensation he wasn’t talking about the champagne. Her face flushed. Suddenly, his carefully controlled body exuded sexuality. Was he trying to titillate her with double entendres?

His gaze drifted over her body like fingers of fire licking at her heated skin, as if she were his for the taking. He held up his glass. Watching him, Adrienne knew just how the bubbles floating lazily to the surface would feel fizzing against their entwined tongues.

“I like mine golden, sophisticated, with a subtle fragrance that’s difficult to describe.” He passed the flute briefly under his nose. “Mmm, seductive.”

As his wide, firm mouth curved upward, a deep thrill pooled in her loins, causing a reflexive tightening of her thighs.

Immediately, apprehension constricted her throat. The fact that she was responding with such abandon to this stranger frightened her. She quelled the urge to glance around, to see if Tony was watching her reaction. Was this some kind of test of her loyalty to the mob?

“The flavor,” he paused for an agonizing few seconds as his gaze dropped to her mouth and then farther, to her satin-draped breasts, which ached at his blatant stare.

“The flavor should be full, rich. A mouthful to be savored, to delight the tongue.”

Adrienne gasped softly as she anticipated the touch of his tongue over their distended tips, the slow, gentle suction as he pulled them into his mouth. Heat flushed her cheeks and spread through her. She shivered.

She should slap him. He was describing how she would taste when he kissed her, when he made love to her. Yet strangely, she wanted to smile. He was intriguing, charming and brash, and he was coming on to her.

She tried to swallow but her throat was dry. She should stop this conversation. Shouldn’t she?

He looked her in the eye and Adrienne noticed that his eyes were an interesting mix of green and gold and brown. At this moment, the green glinted like dark jade. She had to hear what he planned to say next.

“Of course, no truly excellent experience is complete without a satisfying finish. Don’t you agree?” He drained his glass, then grinned at her.

She bit her lip, but she couldn’t stop herself from smiling back at him. “Mr. Lewis, you are a rogue,” she said, hardly believing she was actually flirting with him.

“And you, madame—”

His eyes flickered and his attention was gone. His gaze bypassed her and settled across the room. She turned her head and saw Jerome Senegal headed into her dead husband’s study with Sebastion Primeaux entering behind him. So that was why Senegal had wanted her to host this charity event—so he could talk to the D.A. without drawing attention. A shudder of revulsion quivered through her.

The playful mood Seth had evoked was gone. How long was her nightmarish existence going to last? She’d thought that after her husband’s death, she could escape from these crooks and their underhanded schemes. Instead, because of her mother’s illness, she was more deeply entrenched than ever.

When she looked back at Seth, his jaw was tense and his expression hard. But as soon as he realized her eyes were on him, his face relaxed into a charming smile. He met her curious gaze. “Let’s have some more of this fine champagne and you tell me how you came to be so involved with—charity work.”

DISTRICT ATTORNEY Sebastion Primeaux loosened his tie as he stepped into Marc DeBlanc’s study behind Jerome Senegal. “I told you, Jerome, I do not appreciate you dragging me into these dramatic little meetings. Especially now. Do you have any idea how close I came to being caught in that raid on the McDonough Club the other night?” He smoothed his hair back, then took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his hands and face. It was too close to election time. After the raid, he’d vowed to keep his hands clean for the next few months.

Then, he’d received the invitation to this charity event from Adrienne DeBlanc and almost panicked. An invitation from Mrs. DeBlanc was an invitation from Senegal. What did the mob boss want from him?

Senegal sat down behind DeBlanc’s desk and leaned back, resting his interlaced fingers on his barrel chest. His leathery face was bland, but Primeaux knew the man, once known as “The Bat” for his weapon of choice back in the days before he’d attained his current position, was fully capable of beating a man to death without so much as a grimace. Senegal’s black eyes pinned Primeaux like a butterfly to a display board.

Primeaux swallowed hard, trying to stay calm. He patted his inside jacket pocket for reassurance. The cardboard coffee sleeve was there. One of his favorite girls had given it to him in return for the promise of a Get Out Of Jail Free card.

Primeaux reminded himself that he was the district attorney, one of the most powerful men in the city.

The thought was too quickly followed by the next logical one. He was in the same room as one of the few men in New Orleans more powerful than him.

He wondered if Senegal knew how much he hated him.

“Sit down, Bas. Take a load off. You worry too much. You gonna have a heart attack.”

Primeaux paced, loosening his tie a bit more. “Is there any whiskey in here?” He licked his dry lips.

Senegal pulled a carafe and two glasses out of a desk drawer. “Sure thing, Bas. Marc always kept some sippin’ whiskey for his friends.”

“What do you want, Jerome?” Primeaux took the glass and downed the whiskey in one swallow. It burned going down. It felt good in his stomach.

Senegal sipped his. “I just need a little insurance.”

“Insurance?” The whiskey in Primeaux’s stomach began to churn.

“Yeah. Maybe I should say I have insurance. What I need is assurance.” He laughed. “Insurance, assurance.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he tossed a small stack of photographs onto the mahogany desktop.

“What are—” Primeaux’s throat closed up when he realized what he was looking at. “Why you—” he croaked. He picked up one of the pictures. Terror streaked through him at the sight of his own pale naked body splayed on an opulent bed. A teenaged girl knelt beside him.

He picked up another picture, and another. They were all damning. He recognized the room and the girl. The pictures had been taken at the bordello a few nights before the raid.

He sank into a leather chair. “How did you get these?”

Senegal sipped his whiskey calmly, no emotion in his sharp black eyes. “Those are video stills. And there’s plenty more. You’re a pig, Bas.”

Primeaux set the photos down on the desk and gripped the chair’s armrest. Senegal had actually chosen some of the milder shots.

“What do you want?” he rasped.

“I can see you understand the gravity of these photos,” Senegal said. “Obviously, if these, or others, were to be released to the press…” His voice trailed off.

Primeaux knew what would happen. Not only would his career as district attorney be over, he’d be indicted for statutory rape and a half-dozen other charges. “You can’t do this to me.”

Senegal sipped his whiskey. “Oh, I guarantee I can,” he drawled, as if he were discussing the price of peas. “These aren’t the only copies either. Anything happens, and they go to the media.”

Primeaux’s chest tightened and his left arm started to tingle. “Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

“I need your help with Customs. Since the bordello raid I’ve had to decentralize some of my activities.”

Primeaux realized Senegal was talking about his drug dealings. “Yeah?” he said, resisting the urge to pat his breast pocket. He poured more whiskey into his glass with trembling hands, then gulped it.

“There will be some special coffee bags coming in. I trust there won’t be any trouble passing them through?”

“Special, how?”

“You don’t worry your head about that. Can I count on you?” Senegal picked up the pictures and shuffled them, then laid them out on the leather surface of the desk like a game of solitaire.

Primeaux wondered how far he could push the Cajun mob kingpin. “I’m running a little short on campaign funds.”

Senegal sent him a glance rife with distaste. The first emotion Primeaux had seen. Then he sighed. “Bas, you never change, do you? You take care of me and I’ll take care of you.” He rose and held out his hand. “Ain’t that the way it’s always been?”

Primeaux looked at the man’s hand for a second, considering what would happen if he tried to take down Jerome Senegal. The idea was daunting. He finally gripped the mob boss’s fingers, knowing he was shaking hands with the devil. “What about the pictures?” he asked.

Senegal scooped up the photographs and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “As long as my supply of coffee is not interrupted, the pictures stay here with me. Safe and sound.” He stepped around the desk and walked toward the door. “Coming?”

Primeaux leaned heavily against the desk. “I think I’ll have one more shot of whiskey first.”

The other man shrugged before disappearing through the door.

Sebastion Primeaux sank down into a leather armchair and fumbled in his pocket for his little bottle of nitroglycerin.

“Maudit,” he muttered. His angina attacks were getting worse, happening more often. Now this. He ought to just give up the D.A.’s job and retire. Go back home to the bayous of south central Louisiana. He snorted. Easier said than done.

He craved the attentions of the young putains, he loved the money and he liked the idea of bucking the very system he had sworn to uphold.

After downing the last gulp of whiskey, he locked the study door, then surveyed the room.

DeBlanc’s office. DeBlanc had been a good attorney. If these walls could talk, Primeaux could probably bring down the mob single-handedly. Then he’d be a hero.

But walls didn’t talk and Primeaux needed some insurance of his own. So, using his handkerchief, he took the protective cardboard sleeve, printed with the words Cajun Perk, out of his pocket. It was thicker than a normal sleeve.

He glanced around, trying to decide on the perfect place. He hadn’t thought far enough ahead to consider when or in what circumstances the sleeve should be found, or exactly how he could use the discovery to his advantage. He had good instincts though, and those instincts had been nagging at him for days to plant incriminating evidence somewhere.

Adrienne DeBlanc’s house was the closest Primeaux would ever get to Senegal. He had more sense than to go to Senegal’s house, and Senegal had more sense than to invite him.

But he needed a place where she wouldn’t be likely to come across it.

A reflection from the bookcase behind DeBlanc’s desk caught his eye. Retrieving the silver box, he realized it was a sterling silver photo album. Marc and Adrienne’s wedding album, to be precise.

Primeaux smiled as he ran his finger along the book’s surface and picked up a fine sheen of dust. It wasn’t likely that the Widow DeBlanc would open the album, not if even half the things Marc had told him were true.

He quickly inserted the cardboard sleeve with its damning evidence between two photos, then closed the album and carefully set it back on the shelf. His fingers shook as he repocketed his handkerchief.

With the nitroglycerin kicking in and the pain in his chest and arm fading, he straightened his coat and unlocked the study door. A half smile curved his lips. It was amazing how much better he felt, now that he had an ace in the hole.

BY THE TIME the crowd had thinned out, Seth had drunk a lot of champagne, and he was beginning to feel it. So far, the high point of the evening had been the meeting between Senegal and Primeaux. Most of the others, the mayor included, appeared to actually be here in support of literacy. Surprising.

The champagne had given Seth a headache, so he slipped into the Widow DeBlanc’s massive gourmet kitchen and asked one of the caterers for some coffee. He sat there for a while, talking with the hired help, drinking java and munching on huge peeled shrimp. If he timed it right, he could wander out of the kitchen just as the last guest left. That would give him some time alone with the lovely young widow.

Adrienne. He smiled. All golden light, with delicate hands and a perfect, shapely body. Not to mention the graceful neck that made his mouth water as he imagined the soft warmth of it beneath his lips.

She was a study in contradiction. Obviously spoiled, used to servants, used to compliments, used to money. But there was a vulnerability about her that called up a protective urge in him. He didn’t like feeling that way, especially not for a rich socialite from the Garden District.

He remembered as if it were yesterday the last time he’d helped his father on a job. Seth had been twelve, and puberty and hormones were kicking in.

Robert Lewis had made a fairly good living as a gardener in the Garden District. He’d taken care of lawns for successful businessmen and rich socialites like Adrienne DeBlanc. On that last day, Seth had walked in on his father kissing the skinny-hipped wealthy homeowner, his hands hiking her designer skirt up above her thighs. His dad had looked guilty and chagrined, but the woman’s look had been hard as flint.

The mere thought of that day sent fury coursing through Seth’s veins. That moment, frozen in time, had defined his relationships with women throughout his life. He enjoyed them, but he didn’t trust them.

He’d expected Adrienne DeBlanc to be like that woman. But she’d surprised him. There was nothing hard about her. She might be spoiled, but she wasn’t cold. Not by a long shot. He’d seen the fire and longing in her eyes as he’d described the champagne.

Popping one last shrimp into his mouth, he strained to hear what was going on in the living room. The conversation had waned. The front door opened and closed a few times. Except for the undertone of quiet music, there were no other sounds. He pushed through the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room just in time to see Senegal grab Adrienne’s arm and whisper something in her ear. Her face drained of color and her back went stiff as a board. She pulled against Senegal’s grip, but he held on tight.

He was hurting her.

Every muscle in Seth’s body screamed for immediate and deadly action. He clenched his fists. He had the expertise to kill Senegal in seconds with his bare hands if he so desired. What he wasn’t sure he had was restraint.