by Mallory Kane
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 instrutted 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 sip-pin' 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 drag 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.
Sebastian 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 Adri-enne 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 r
elationships 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.
Chapter Two
Seth controlled himself with an effort, drawing on the stony control of his military training. He wanted to flip Senegal and smash his face against the wall, but rushing to Adrienne DeBlanc's aid would blow not only Confidential's case, but also his own cover. There was too much at stake.
So he forced himself to remain still, clamping his jaw so tightly that pain reverberated through his head.
Adrienne nodded jerkily at whatever Senegal had said, and he let her go. The mob boss left without even noticing Seth, and then it was only Seth and Adrienne, and about a dozen servants.
Seth watched her curiously. When the front door closed behind Senegal, Adrienne's back curved in relief. She rubbed her wrist and let out a weary sigh.
Approaching her quietly, Seth worked to keep his voice soft as he spoke. "Rough evening?" he asked.
She jerked, then quickly recovered. Up came the stiff back and the pleasant expression. She stopped massaging her wrist, but Seth could see the red marks left by Senegal's cruel grip. The bastard.