by Nancy Gideon
“I was at my home. In bed. Handling an urgent personal matter. I was not alone.” His stony stare never deviated from Babineau’s. “Did you need proof, detective? I’m afraid I don’t have any Polaroids or video for documentation. Is that something you think I should consider doing, for future reference?”
Alain Babineau was a staright shooter, a good cop and a tough one without being a hard-ass. With his unspoiled good looks—blue eyes, dimples, and compact athletic build—he could have sold anything from toothpaste to boxers. He was protective of his partner in a way that made Savoie grateful and uneasy at the same time. They would never like each other, because of the woman and the badge that stood between them.
“And your time can be vouched for all night?”
“Yes. Every delectable minute of it.”
Cee Cee frowned. Max’s gaze flickered to her for an instant, registering puzzlement before returning to his interrogator.
“Any other questions, detective, or would you like to gut me right here to see if any pieces of Ms. Cummings come spilling out onto my carpet?”
“I don’t think I could get a warrant for that.” But his scowl said he wouldn’t be above me asking for a sample of his stomach contents. “Can you deny that Simon Cummings has been causing you and your organization a considerable amount of trouble lately?”
“No. He’s a tolerable nuisance. But then again, so are you, detective, and I haven’t killed and eaten you.”
They locked testosterone-fueled stares for a long moment, until a clearly irritated Cee Cee stepped between them. Her demand held a crisp neutrality.
“Did anyone in your employ, with or without your knowledge, undertake the intimidation of Ms. Cummings in order to dissuade her father from continuing his vendetta against your businesses?”
Cold green eyes slashed over to meet hers. “Are you asking if I authorized the rape and murder of an innocent young girl because her father was annoying me? Is that what you’re asking, Detective Caissie?”
When she refused to clarify the question, his mood grew glacial.
“The answer is no. This interview is over. If you have any other questions you can contact my attorney. I’m sure you know your way out.”
“I’ll say this for you, Savoie,” Babineau stated in a parting shot. “You certainly are a quick study. You’ve gotten comfortable real fast behind that desk. Just remember where fast and clever got Jimmy Legere.”
Without moving a muscle, fury vibrated the new top thug on the block. “I’ll remember. Detective Caissie, a word.”
Charlotte wasn’t fooled by his smooth manner. He was in a dangerous coil of temper, ready to strike. Still, she nodded to her reluctant partner and remained behind. She began with cautious impartiality, hoping to quickly defuse the situation. “I’m sorry for that, Max. You know it’s just part of the drill. I can’t help that you top our list of the usual, or rather the unusual, suspects.”
But that wasn’t what concerned him.
“What was that look for, Charlotte?”
Her competent cop expression puckered with confusion. “What look?”
“When Babineau asked about us being together all night, you made a peculiar face. I don’t understand. Explain it to me.”
She confronted him directly. “I woke up about quarter to two. You weren’t with me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were gone. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I went back to sleep.”
“But you’re thinking something of it now.”
“Of course not.”
She was lying; he could practically hear the wheels in her cop brain whirring. His features registered the shock of it briefly before the impenetrable glaze returned. “You think I climbed out of the bed I was sharing with you, came into town to have forced sex with someone else after you’d been supplying it so generously for the previous thirty-six hours, killed her, made a meal of her, came back, washed up, and was all warm and ready to make love to you again?”
How awful he made her sound. It was awful. She felt awful, but trying to defend herself would have only made things worse.
She couldn’t help remembering the past bodies she’d seen. She couldn’t change the fact that she knew what had torn them into pieces. Who had torn them into pieces.
He came toward her with a purposeful stride. She held her ground, her heart pounding. She’d never been truly afraid of him, of what he was and what he could do, yet subconscious caution shivered through her soul. He came as close as he could without actually touching her, until she could feel his heat, his strength, his intensity. There was no man alive that she would let do that without thrusting up barriers to protect her space.
But then, Max Savoie was no man.
He asked softly against her ear, “How could you let me put my hands on you if you believed that for even an instant?”
His fingertips rested on the backs of her arms. And she flinched.
With a low oath, he turned away.
“Leave, Charlotte. Just go.”
The toneless quality of his voice scared her. “Max?” she asked softly, plaintively.
“What a monster you must think I am. How can you stand me?”
“Max.” She reached for him but he shied away, returning to the other side of his desk. When he looked at her again, his face was without expression.
“Don’t keep your partner waiting, detective. I’m sure you have more important places you need to be.”
He knew she wouldn’t just slink away. Not with all that fierce, prideful arrogance that both fascinated and infuriated him.
Charlotte returned his gaze for a long, controlled moment, her stare flat and ungiving. Didn’t she realize she could destroy him with just a subtle shift of her expression, a betraying flicker he always prepared for that would plunge from desire to disgust? But she kept her features neutral—those bold, exotically beautiful features that could crush a man’s courage with purposeful viciousness or conceal a vulnerable world of pain behind hard onyx eyes. She abruptly broke her rigid stance and strode to the door the way she did everything, with a take-no-prisoners certainty.
After the door closed behind her, he let his breath out in a shaky spasm. He quickly took another one, deep and strong to get on top of all the turmoil writhing around inside him. He’d deal with that later. For now, he had to take care of business.
He pressed the intercom on his desk. “Francis, come in here, please.”
Francis Petitjohn was Jimmy Legere’s cousin and had supposed himself the heir apparent to the fortune he’d helped make. Finding out that Jimmy had passed his vast holdings to the dangerous enigma he’d taken in as an orphaned child created a difficult tension between the two of them. Difficult and nearly deadly.
“Whatchu need, Max?”
“The truth would be nice.”
Max sank back into the big leather chair that had been Petitjohn’s up until a month ago. The chair he’d sat in to calmly watch Max twist on the floor in the grip of the poison T-John had used to try to kill him. When Max decided to take the disputed job and the chair instead of T-John’s life, Petitjohn had no objections. But he didn’t have to like the situation.
“Truth about what?”
“Simon Cummings. Someone killed his daughter last night in a way that was rather telling. Like a gruesome finger pointing in my direction. Whatchu know about it?”
Petitjohn shrugged, looking properly clueless. But then he wasn’t exactly the soul of sincerity. Max knew exactly what he was: lying, sneaking, devious, and for the moment, a necessary evil acting as liaison between him and the cautious factions of their criminal world.
The fact that he resembled Jimmy might have had something to do with Max’s reluctance to simply dispose of him. He had Legere’s wiry build and sharp, cunning features. His voice held that same casual drawl of indifferent contempt for anything that wasn’t making him money. He could be charming when he chose to be, or he could be merciless. Both side
s made Max most wary.
“I don’t know anything about it, Max. First I’ve heard.”
Max tented his hands, resting his chin on his fingertips. His gaze was still, unnervingly unnatural. “Really? And that’s the truth?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you been leaning on Cummings?”
“Of course. He’s a pain in the ass, like a boil that bothers you every time you try to sit down.”
If he’d answered any differently, Max would have known he was lying. As it was, he couldn’t be certain.
“Ask around. Find out who did this thing and why. Let them know I don’t like it. It’s not how I want to do business. Have Marissa send two sizable checks in the daughter’s name—one to whatever department she was in at the university, and one to St. Bart’s for their women’s shelter. Have her reach out very lightly to the family with our condolences.”
“That’s not how Jimmy would have handled it. Jimmy would have used their grief to apply a little more pressure. He would have considered it a good business opportunity.”
Max regarded him narrowly. “I’m not Jimmy. And I will not condone anyone ever harming a woman or child in my name or in my employ. Not ever. Don’t make me have to repeat that to you again. I shouldn’t have had to say it in the first place and you know why.”
T-John said nothing.
Max sighed heavily and sagged back into the leather cushions. “I don’t need this right now, Francis. I’m trying to establish a sense of trust here on the docks, and it’s like trying to reach under a virgin’s skirt while convincing her your intentions are honorable.”
Petitjohn smiled slightly, and Max realized he was talking too much and to the wrong person. If he needed a confidant, the man on the other side of the desk was not the one to choose. Unfortunately, the person to whom he wanted to unburden himself was equally unacceptable. And that chewed on him like wharf rats.
“I’ve got some people to see. I should be back in a couple of hours. Don’t talk to the police; don’t make any statements to anyone. Deny everything. Make us sound like the aggrieved party. You’re good at that.”
As Max moved toward the door, Petitjohn drawled, “Whatever you want, Max. Happy to take care of it for you.” Echoing words Max had said in all sincerity to Jimmy Legere, twisting them with a touch of a sneer.
Max turned slowly to regard him. His voice was low, almost pleasant.
“Just because I let you go on breathing, don’t think that implies any sentimentality or stupidity. I know exactly what you are—and the second you cease to serve a purpose on my behalf, I will rip out your heart and swallow it whole while it’s still beating.”
“I never doubted that for a minute, Max.”
Max paused, gauging Petitjohn’s response. The other man’s pulse was racing. He was sweating, breathing in shallow fear-laced snatches. Terror was something Jimmy had taught Max to ply ruthlessly, and as long as T-John was afraid, he’d have a degree of control. For emphasis, he let his stare turn hot and gold while a bloody red swamped the whites of his eyes. With a blink, that look was back to normal.
“Good. Then we understand each other.”
Something else occurred to him.
“And if anything happens to Charlotte Caissie, say, if a car runs over her, a safe falls from a second-story window on her, if she contracts some fatal disease, or gets shot in the course of a robbery, I will hold you—and only you—personally responsible. And Francis,” he added almost conversationally, “you’ll beg me to eat your heart raw just so you can die. Got it?”
“Got it, Max.”
He left the office, shutting the door softly behind him, and then lingered to hear Francis Petitjohn mutter on the other side.
“And you’ll get it, too, you smug son of a bitch. So don’t get too comfortable in that chair.”
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty