by Nancy Gideon
She came across a magazine photo of Legere and Vantour posing on the site of a riverfront reclamation project. Their staunch opposition had been news for months, as they fended off those who would leach civic progress into their tightly held territories. Legere in his wheelchair, Vantour behind him, hands resting easy on Jimmy’s thin shoulders . . . wearing what looked like a huge ruby ring.
“Sonuvabitch.”
THE BURN UNIT was chilly and emotionlessly antiseptic. With the risk of infection so great, she wasn’t allowed in Mary Kate’s room. She watched her nearly mummified friend through glistening eyes as she listened to the doctor.
“We’ve done all we can for her here. Arrangements are being made to fly her to a center in California. They specialize in the kind of intensive care she needs for both the head trauma and the burns.”
“She doesn’t have any insurance. Who’s going to pay for it?” Cee Cee knew St. Bart’s didn’t have the resources, and doubted that the state would be that generous.
“It’s all been taken care of, detective.”
Her attention sharpened. “By whom?”
“By a party who asked to remain anonymous.”
She knew immediately: Max. Somehow he’d arranged to get around probate to use Legere’s fortune. What irony—Jimmy most likely wanting her dead, and Max using his money to keep her alive.
She looked back into that stark, colorless room where tubes and machines worked busily. “Is she in pain?” Her voice hitched slightly.
“We try to keep her as comfortable as possible.”
Which meant yes. She clenched her hands to keep them from trembling. “How long a recovery will she have?”
A pause.
“It’s a very long, very arduous process, Ms. Caissie. Debridement of damaged tissue, grafting, physical therapy. She’s been drifting in and out of a comatose state. At this point, we have no way of gauging her cognitive function. Nothing’s going to happen quickly unless she takes a turn for the worse.”
“Years,” she summed up quietly. “When can I see her? Talk to her?”
“Someone from the Center will contact you when she reaches that point.”
If she reached that point. “I would appreciate that.”
She turned and found herself face-to-face with Dolores Gautreaux.
“I came to pay my respects,” the slender woman murmured. “I owe the sister everything.”
Cee Cee gave her an assessing sweep. She was a strawberry blonde with deep blue eyes. That surprised Cee Cee, for the woman she remembered seemed so colorless. With the bruising gone and a little makeup, Dolores Gautreaux was pleasantly attractive. It would seem the death of her husband not only saved her life but also breathed it back into her body.
“Dolores, can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
ACROSS A SMALL square table, over harsh coffee in the crowded hospital cafeteria, Cee Cee laid her cards out.
“Dolores, I’m about to lose the two people who mean the most to me in this world, and it all started with you. I’m not here as a cop. I’m speaking to you as the best friend of that woman suffering for imagined sins, and on behalf of the man who lost everything to set you free. I think you owe me and them an explanation.”
Very quietly, Dolores asked, “What do you want to know?”
“Whose idea was it to kill your husband and his pal?”
“Mine.” Softer still.
“And you went to Sister Catherine with that request. Why would you do that? Why would you think a nun could arrange a hit for you?”
Hands twisted about the foam coffee cup. “The sister and I talked about it last time I was there. I told her I wished he were dead, and she told me to be very, very sure I meant that.”
“And?”
Haunted eyes lifted. “I wasn’t sure. He was so good to me when I came home, buying gifts for me and the baby, fixing things around the house. But I knew it wouldn’t last. So I told him if things got bad again, I would take my case before my people.”
“Your people?”
Her gaze grew evasive. “My clan. Those I left when I married.”
“Your family?” Cee Cee asked carefully.
Her stare drilled into Cee Cee’s, and her answer answered everything. “No. My kind.”
“MAX, A WORD with you before you go meet with D’Marco.”
Francis Petitjohn was sitting behind Jimmy’s desk, sorting through papers. The sight tightened around Max’s belly like razor wire. He stepped just inside the room and waited to hear what Petitjohn had to say.
“We need to come to a decision between the two of us. Better now than later.”
“All right.”
“You and I haven’t always gotten along well, have we?”
Max didn’t answer. There was no need to.
“It’s time to put all that aside. If we’re going to hold everything together, we’re going to need to work together starting right now.”
“How?”
“We both bring different things to the table, Max. Important things. I have my family’s name and the respect it carries. I’m a familiar face. The others know me. They’ll work with me.
“But I don’t kid myself. I’ve never had the kind of power and authority Jimmy had. The kind of strength to control the rest of them. I’m smart enough, but I’ve never managed to earn their trust or their fear.
“But you have, Max. You’ve always been the power behind Jimmy’s words. If he said them, no one doubted you would carry them out. That could work for us, too.”
“How?”
“We’d be partners. I do the talking, you do the enforcing. It’s what they’re used to, and it won’t spook them. They’re scared of you and the way you do things, so they’d be more likely to take you out than learn how to work with you. They know you’re different, and they fear different.
“I can be a buffer between you and them, the same way Jimmy was. Your secret would be safe, and I’d be strong. What do you think, Max? Deal?”
Max studied the man behind the desk, seeing shades of Jimmy Legere in his features and gestures. Hearing him in his voice. Comforted by the similar scent that blended with Jimmy’s here in this room where he’d been raised and loved. That familiarity triggered a stirring of anguished loneliness.
Stronger still was the restlessness—the yearning for someone to follow, somewhere to belong. Surrendering control to Francis Petitjohn would be easy. It was what he knew, what he understood. He could serve and be safe. Purpose and direction would soothe the aching emptiness and panic shadowing his every step. All he had to do was place himself in Petitjohn’s hands.
He saw again that hand reaching down to him to offer rescue; he felt the massive relief that came with taking it. It was what he’d been trained to do, to passively accept the commands of one voice. He’d never chafed within that yoke before. Why did he find it so difficult now?
In his thirtysome years, he’d instinctively trusted two humans—Jimmy Legere, upon taking his hand, and Charlotte Caissie, upon tasting her lips—and both had twisted that trust to their own advantage. Maybe it was time to set instinct aside in favor of intellect. The words equal in all ways returned to mind.
“So,” he drawled slowly, “the next time someone decides to shoot me down on the steps of a church, you’ll be there to protect me, is that it?”
To his vast surprise, Petitjohn didn’t jump to deny it. “That was Vantour. He wanted you out of the way. He was getting disenchanted with Jimmy.”
“And you know this how?”
“Vic and I were in unofficial negotiations.” He put up his hand to stop Max’s aggressive step forward. “Jimmy asked me to do a little test of his loyalty. He failed.”
“So you killed him.”
Petitjohn never so much as blinked. “I thought you did.”
Uneasiness rippled through Max. “Did you tell Vantour how to bring me down?”
“No. I only found out about it after the fact. When you didn’t mention it to Jimm
y, I just assumed you took care of things yourself.”
Petitjohn held his stare without a flinch. He could have been telling the truth, or it could be yet another lie.
“Max, we need to stand together on this. Agreed?”
A long silence, then, “I’ll talk to D’Marco.”
A slow smile. “All right, Max. You do that.” Then his gaze chilled. “There are some other matters that need to be dealt with.”
“Such as?”
“You have a weakness, Max, a secret that could destroy you. That could destroy us.”
Max went very still.
“The good news is only a couple of us know it. The bad news is one of them is a police detective.”
Max’s expression grew as smooth as ice. “She’s not going to say anything.”
“I’m so happy to hear you have that kind of faith in her. But I don’t. And none of the rest of those who depend on you will either. Jimmy let it go for far too long. He knew what had to be done, but he was too soft on you to take care of it.
“I’m not going to do anything about it yet, Max. I’m going to leave that up to you. You want to help run things, you have to be able to make those choices. You take care of her now, or someone else is going to later. And if someone else does it they’re not going to be gentle about it, the way they were with her and her friend the last time I ordered it.”
Max went cold.
“She’s not going to just walk away with a broken arm and a concussion,” Francis continued. “Do you understand, Max?”
“Oh, yes.” He was beginning to understand a lot.
MAX MET ANTOINE D’Marco at a small sidewalk café where the immaculate attorney was sipping white wine and slurping oysters off the shell.
“Ah, Mr. Savoie, join me for some lunch.”
“No, thank you. I don’t drink and I’m not partial to seafood.” His nose crinkled up at the odor as he took a seat.
“Something more to your taste, then? Perhaps some steak tartar.”
Raw meat. Max regarded him unblinkingly. “What did Jimmy tell you?”
“Everything. There were no secrets between us. And yours is safe with me.” He extended an oyster. “Are you sure? It’s quite delicate.”
Max reared back, the odor of shellfish stirring unpleasant associations. “No. Thank you.”
A dainty slurp and a sigh. “Suit yourself. Now then, Max, I need to know what you plan to do with what Jimmy’s left you.”
He eyed the prissy lawyer cautiously but found nothing to alarm him. His flamboyant marigold-colored suit, fluffy handkerchief, and perfect hair suggested an effeminate softness, but Max had seen his eyes go cold and dark like a swamp gator’s when he latched on to an opponent and executed a purposeful death roll. Jimmy had always surrounded himself with the best his money could buy, then made sure they understood that failure was not an option. Not ever. Jimmy’s faith was good enough for Max, and he laid out the discussion with Petitjohn with quick precision.
“And are you inclined to accept this offer of partnership?” The attorney didn’t reveal any of his own opinions.
“No. I’m not so inclined. He killed Jimmy, after the situation he forced us into didn’t push me into doing it for him. I’d be a fool to trust him and I’m not a fool.”
“I didn’t think you were, but I wasn’t positive until now. You want to take it all, then? Jimmy wanted you to. He trusted you to. Let’s finalize the paperwork.”
Max sat back, his expression contemplative. “Not just yet. I need to think something out first. I can’t take it until I’m sure Francis doesn’t have any control over me. Jimmy’s final mistake was thinking Francis harmless. It won’t be mine.”
“I like you, Max. I’m going to like doing business for you.”
Max hoped the lawyer’s confidence wasn’t misplaced as he trudged down the street, hoping some idea would surface. What came up instead, screeching almost onto the sidewalk, was a little sports car.
“Get in.”
Charlotte Caissie was behind the wheel, wearing oversized sunglasses and a colorful scarf over her hair. When Max hesitated, she set her service revolver down on the shifter column.
“Get in the car, Savoie. Now.”
Without a word, Max hopped over the door to drop into the passenger seat. He grabbed on when her double clutching practically threw him into the dash.
Cee Cee drove fast, weaving around traffic with a desperate recklessness that had her passenger white-knuckling the edge of his seat. She kept her eyes on the road, but the rest of her was humming with awareness of him. He was wearing the gray suit and blue striped shirt he’d worn on their first disastrous date. An omen? And he had on those polished shoes she abhorred. She snuck a glance and her pulse shuddered like the little car’s transmission.
He was staring straight ahead, jaw set, eyes narrowed slightly against the cut of the breeze. Finally he glanced at her, annoyance betraying itself in his tone.
“Are you abducting me, detective?”
“There was a time when it would have excited you to no end to think so.”
He didn’t smile. “I have places to be. People will be looking for me.”
“Yes. You are so very important these days, aren’t you? Since you always seem to be so busy, I thought I’d remove you from distraction so we can have that conversation.”
“I don’t believe we have anything to say to each other, detective.”
“I believe you are wrong, Savoie.”
She hadn’t known it was possible to ache for someone the way she ached for Max. Not the coolly elegant heir to Jimmy Legere’s legacy, who wore shiny shoes and took meetings in private rooms. But the aggravating, overly attentive, and ever smoldering Max with his leather coat and red sneakers, who could suck up her common sense with his kisses and conquer her night terrors.
She never slept now. The dreams were back, crouched in the shadows waiting for her eyes to close. Horrible, dark visions from which she awoke screaming.
They spun out of the city, away from the crowds and the noise and the witnesses, and out onto quiet, shaded lanes. She abruptly pulled off down a narrow two track and stopped the car, then threw her sunglasses onto the dash to glare at him in worry-fueled fury.
“What are you doing, Max?”
“About what, detective?”
“What game are you playing with your shiny shoes and snotty attitude? Why are you trotting behind that little weasel Petitjohn? Jimmy Legere at least had class.”
“Don’t talk to me about Jimmy.”
“Why? Afraid you won’t like what you hear? That he was a bully and a thief and a murderer and a liar? That he used you and would have thrown you away like an old pair of shoes because you stood up and said no to something you knew wasn’t right?”
He grabbed her forearms, the movement so quick, so violent, she cried out as he jerked her up to him. “Don’t tell me what Jimmy Legere was. Don’t you dare. Not unless you want to talk about how you used me. How you got me all hot and bothered just to provoke Jimmy, to become a wedge between us and make him mistrust me. He was going to put a bullet in my head, detective. He was going to kill me because I couldn’t convince him that I hadn’t betrayed him to you. Does that excite you? You have stripped me naked, literally and figuratively, for your own amusement. You’ve ripped the heart from my world, the safety from my soul. Why? Because I was foolish enough to want to protect you? Because I stopped, when I could have just kept walking?”
She yanked away from him, falling against the door. Breath tore from him in harsh rips of sound over a low, rumbling growl. His eyes gleamed a fierce hot gold, then swam blood red.
Suddenly she feared she’d made a huge, possibly fatal miscalculation.
She grabbed for her gun but he caught her forearm with a hand that wasn’t a hand any longer. When she pulled back, his elongated nails sliced through her flesh nearly to the bone. Pain and terror grabbed her by the throat, and she fought for her life.
Pu
nching, slapping, struggling, she finally got the door open, falling out onto the loose gravel on hands and knees. She caught a blur of motion as he went up and over the car.
She propelled herself forward, running hard until he grabbed the back of her shirt. The fabric ripped at the shoulders. She planted her feet and came around swinging with a roar of pent-up rage and fear, but he caught her wrists. Trying to pull free, she sent them both tumbling to the ground. He fell across her, his weight driving the breath from her lungs and the courage from her heart. Her shriek was caught by his sudden hard kiss.
The taste of her, the scent of her, the furious beat of her heart against him had his adrenalin spiking in a wild, intoxicating rush. Excitement was pumped by the chase, by the challenge of her strength, and the need to have her, to claim her, to love her in the dirt, on the side of the road controlled him.
She was wearing a short leather skirt. His hand shook as he stroked the firm curve of her thigh. Her underwear was a little scrap of nothing, no barrier as it came away with a quick tug. It was damp. He tore open his trousers, kneeing between her long legs. Her balled hands were braced against his shoulders, the gesture denying. Her face turned away from the hot, heavy scorch of his breath.
“Tell me you want me,” he demanded, his voice raw with the effort of holding back, even for the second it took for her to look up at him through eyes filled with angry distress and desire. For her hands to unfist, then clutch with need.
For her to whisper, as if in agony, “I want you.”
He drove inside her, over and over, lost to the hard fist of lust that finally softened into something else after he’d emptied into her. Then, when he was wonderfully weak and tenderness pooled, he turned to her to share those gentler emotions. But there were tears on her face, and fire in her eyes.
“Get off me.” When he was slow to respond, the sharp snap of her voice deepened into a more panicked rumble. “Get off!”