Bulletproof Billionaire

by Mallory Kane

  Seth shot Jones a quelling look, but the young former private investigator was undaunted.

  "I hear you've got a date with her today. Way to move right in."

  "Jones. Lewis." Burke's voice commanded attention as the door behind Seth opened. Burke nodded at the tall, imposing man who entered.

  It was Tanner Harrison, an ex-CIA operative in his early forties. Seth had met him during his interview. Today, Harrison seemed distracted and tired, as if he hadn't slept.

  "All of you have met Tanner Harrison."

  Seth shook Harrison's hand and met his strange, silvery gray eyes.

  He gave Seth a quick assessment. "I didn't get a chance to tell you. Nice work with that bank robber."

  Seth shrugged. "He ran into me. I had to do something."

  The corner of Harrison's mouth lifted. "I understand you were with Special Forces. Last time we met, you had a lot more hair. You cleaned up pretty well. Wouldn't have recognized you."

  "My sisters have been after me for months to get a haircut and ditch the beard."

  Harrison nodded as Burke turned back to the monitors.

  "We caught a break," Burke said. "One of the prostitutes picked up in the raid the other night has pleaded. She seems to have a lot of good information." Burke indicated the monitors.

  Each monitor showed a similar establishment. Seth looked closer. "Those are Cajun Perk coffeehouses."

  Burke nodded. "The prostitute, whose name is Dar-lene Green, told the police that Cajun Perks are the distribution points for Category Five."

  Jones stepped closer. "Category Five. Supposed to be the greatest thing since Ecstasy and the little blue pill," Jones said. "Doesn't even give you a headache."

  McMullin grunted. "No headache. Just a stroke or a heart attack."

  "Cajun Perk?" Seth said. "That explains something Tony Arsenault said last night at Mrs. DeBlane's house. He was checking out the crowd. I mentioned hearing about the charity auction at a coffeehouse, and he got real interested real fast."

  "How so?" Burke turned around.

  "He seemed suspicious of me at first, but then I said something about wanting to meet the major players in town and introduced myself. He'll remember me."

  "Good. Be careful with these guys though, Lewis. Arsenault isn't known as 'The Knife' because he can chop onions."

  Jones laughed.

  Burke turned back to the monitors. "Now, here's what Darlene told us about how it works. The girls get their supply by requesting a specific blend of coffee. Apparently the drug is hidden inside special cardboard sleeves that are only given to the customers who know about the special blend."

  As Burke talked, two girls dressed in revealing tops . and low-rise miniskirts walked into view of the monitor trained on the Warehouse District Cajun Perk. Even with all their thick, overdone makeup, it was obvious they weren't more than sixteen or seventeen years old.

  Harrison cursed under his breath. "That's the disgusting part of all this. They're using teenagers. These girls aren't even old enough to vote, yet they're being turned out onto the streets." His voice was rough with emotion.

  "Right. That's part of what we're going to stop." Burke's jaw twitched. "Jones will be working surveillance. Lewis, keep in touch with him. Let him know everything you get from DeBlanc's widow, soon as you get it. If you can use her to get close to Senegal, we may be able to find the missing piece linking the Cajun mob with Ricardo Gonzalez and his Scorpions."

  "I thought the South American rebels had disappeared."

  "For the moment," McMullin said.

  Then he continued. "Odds are that there's a connection between the mob and the rebels. If Senegal is supplying the drug to the prostitutes, he's got to be getting it from somewhere. That's our primary goal—to find out where it's coming from and stop it."

  Conrad Burke glanced at his watch. "Okay. That's it. Keep your cell phones with you and report anything unusual."

  Alexander McMullin nodded, then headed toward the rear of the building where the trucks were serviced. Seth and Philip Jones exited through Seth's office. As they parted in the parking lot, Jones grinned at Seth.

  "You decide you can't handle the widow alone, give me a call, you hear?"

  "Yeah right. Like your bride would let you do that. Don't worry," Seth tossed back. "I can handle her." He kissed his fingertips in a continental gesture and put on his accent. "She is like a fine wine, and I intend to sample that wine today."

  Jones laughed and saluted Seth, then got into his car and drove away.

  Back inside the secret offices of New Orleans Confidential, Conrad Burke sat down and nodded at his friend to take a chair.

  "No luck?"

  Harrison dropped into the chair and wearily scrubbed his hands over his face. His gray eyes were dull as gun-metal, his granite-jawed face haggard. "Nothing. I showed some pictures of Lily to the prostitute who pleaded, but she can't—or won't—confirm whether she'd seen her."

  "But the undercover cop Seymour confirmed it was your daughter?"

  Harrison nodded. "I talked to Gillian Seymour myself. She's positive. That means Lily was at the club. She was—" Harrison stopped and rubbed his eyes.

  Conrad studied the former CIA agent. He'd been a legend in the company, dependable, ruthless and devoted to his job. Maybe too devoted at times, but right now he looked like any worried father. His seventeen-year-old daughter was missing, and Detective Gillian Seymour, an undercover cop planted in the bordello, had identified Lily as one of the young prostitutes involved with the use of Category Five. Thinking about his own precious children, Conrad understood Harrison's desperation. If one of his children were missing or into drugs, he'd be frantic.

  Conrad was torn. He needed Harrison's experience and his ruthless determination, but he couldn't take the chance that Harrison's worry over his daughter's safety might compromise Confidential's investigation.

  "Look Tan, if you need to spend your time looking for Lily, I'll understand."

  The gunmetal eyes flashed with silver glints. "No way, Conrad. My child is out there. Alone, possibly hurt, and these scumbags are responsible. I have too big a stake in the outcome of this investigation. You don't have to worry about me. I'm going to bring these bastards down, and find my daughter in the process."

  Adrienne looked past Seth in horror, her gaze riveted on the enormous shiny motorcycle parked in front of her home. She'd expected the red convertible he'd driven last night. "What is that?"

  Seth grinned, his hazel eyes twinkling and his hair picking up golden highlights from the sun. "It's a genuine American-made motorcycle. A Harley-Davidson."

  "I know what it is. I mean, what are you doing with it? Where's your convertible?"

  "I bought this beauty this morning. Impulse purchase. It's an antique, a collector's item." He patted the helmet he had tucked under his arm. "It came with two helmets, too."

  Speechless, Adrienne stared at the man who had fascinated her last night with his odd accent and designer clothes, and frightened her by coming on too strong, too fast.

  Today he looked even more dangerous. Dressed in snug black jeans, a black T-shirt that hinted at excellent abs, and motorcycle boots that probably cost as much as a bottom-of-the-line compact car, he resembled the ultimate bad boy from a cult TV series.

  Biting her lip nervously, Adrienne tore her gaze away from the tight, revealing front of his jeans.

  Earlier this morning, as Adrienne was dressing to go to St. Cecilia's Nursing Home to visit her mother and spend some time helping with recreational activities for some of the residents, Tony had called and grilled her about Seth Lewis. Trying to be noncommittal, Adrienne had given Tony an abridged version of her opinion. Seth was probably nouveau riche, not shy about wearing or driving his money.

  Last night, the red Mercedes sports convertible had gone perfectly with his sharp designer suit. This morning, as much as she hated to admit it, the motorcycle fit his wild appearance.

  When Tony had pressed her, askin
g why Seth had stayed after everyone else had gone, Adrienne had told him about their date.

  Tony warned her to be careful today. "You know how to keep your mouth shut," he'd said. "I'm not so sure I trust that guy. So listen, don't talk."

  Returning to the present, she realized Seth's gaze was roaming over her body. He took his time, starting at her pink-painted toes peeking out of her multicolored espadrilles, up her bare calves to the pale-pink capri pants and on to the sleeveless top that barely covered her midriff.

  She felt her body respond. The thrill that coiled through her and settled in her deepest core was shocking. She couldn't stop the tightening of her breasts. Her nipples ached and her knees grew weak. Had she ever felt like this in the presence of a man before? She didn't think so.

  Like last night, she had the heady, reckless urge to flirt with him. "I supposed you think I'm overdressed."

  He smiled. "I do, but it's more a matter of quantity than style."

  Her face flamed with heat as his meaning sunk in.

  "Let's go."

  "I can't ride that thing." Adrienne eyed the narrow leather seat and the powerful engine with apprehension.

  For an instant Seth's features hardened, but he quickly covered with a grin. "Sure you can, princess. There's nothing like the freedom of a bike. All that power vibrating between your thighs, the speed, the feeling that nothing can hold you back."

  An unfamiliar yearning fluttered through her at his suggestive words. She had never ridden a motorcycle in her life. But she'd watched movies and seen kids on the streets and wondered. The idea of sitting with her body pressed against Seth Lewis's back and her arms around his muscled abdomen while the wind whipped around them was seductive. Very seductive.

  It wouldn't be as much fun as it seemed—she knew that. Nothing ever was. But she wanted to try it.

  She ran a hand down the side of her neck where a muscle twitched. "Okay. What do I do?"

  Before she knew it she was wearing a helmet and sitting behind Seth, closer to him than she'd been to a man in a long, long time.

  As he revved the Harley and maneuvered through the streets to the Interstate, Adrienne held on with all her might, the rumble of the engines echoing through her, Seth's deep steady breaths reassuring her and his strong body shielding her from the wind.

  She felt a new sensation. Her mind tentatively explored it just like her eyes explored the long, sinewy muscles of Seth's arms as they controlled the powerful beast beneath her.

  The sensation was vaguely familiar, like a long-forgotten memory. She felt alive. She'd been numb for so long that her mind and her body felt like limbs that had been asleep. Prickly, aching, but alive. When had she last felt alive? Not in years. Certainly not since she'd realized how her father had betrayed her by forcing her to marry Marc DeBlanc.

  Adrian Caldwell hadn't held a gun to his daughter's head, but he might as well have. Adrienne had always done her father's bidding, just as her mother had. So when he'd told her that Marc DeBlanc would make a fine husband, she hadn't questioned him.

  After only a few months of marriage, Adrienne had fully realized what her father had done to her. She hadn't married a young, successful lawyer; she'd married the infamous and legendary Cajun mob. DeBlanc was mob boss Jerome Senegal's lawyer.

  The first time DeBlanc slapped her was the last time he had touched her. Adrienne had agreed to play the perfect wife and hostess in public, but she'd moved out of his bedroom. Thankfully, he hadn't seemed to mind. Eventually, she'd found out why.

  Lost in bad memories, Adrienne was surprised when the motorcycle's roar died. She looked around. They were beside Lake Pontchartrain, in the shell-covered parking lot of what appeared to be an old Cajun house on sticks.

  Seth pulled off his helmet and chuckled.

  She felt the ripple of his abdomen and her insides thrilled.

  "You're going to have to let go, princess," he said over his shoulder.

  She looked down. She was still holding on to him with all her might. "Sorry."

  He climbed off the Harley and held out his hand to her. She let him help her off. Then she took off her helmet and looked up to find him staring at her.

  "My hair is a mess, I know." She reached up to smooth it back into its bun, but he stopped her.

  "You look gorgeous."

  "Thank you, I think." She gave him a wry smile and pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "What is this place?"

  "It's called T-Jean's. They have the best crawfish on the Pontchartrain, or so I've heard."

  They walked across the crunchy parking lot and over the rickety bridge to the house. The place's only concession to commercialism was a big metal crawfish with dozens of Mardis Gras beads hung around its neck and dangling from its claws.

  With a finger, Seth hooked a bracelet made of purple and green and gold beads. "Here. Hold out your hand."

  When she did he slid the bauble onto her wrist, right beside her Lady Rolex. She laughed and fingered the beads. "Thank you, kind sir."

  "It's not a diamond tennis bracelet, but it goes with the decor."

  "It's beautiful," Adrienne said, an odd sadness swelling in the back of her throat. The worthless string of beads was probably the only gift she'd ever received that hadn't been picked out by a secretary or a hired buyer. For that reason alone, it was worth more to her than Seth would ever know. She would treasure it beyond diamonds or pearls.

  The raucous sound of a Zydeco band swelled as Seth pushed open the creaking door.

  Adrienne stopped, disoriented, waiting for her eyes to adapt to the dark. The place was lit only with lanterns that bravely shone through the smoky interior. The band's noise filled the room, but nobody seemed to be listening to them. People dressed in everything from ragbag throwaways to cocktail dresses sat around, talking loudly over the music, drinking and eating. The smell of spice and fish pervaded the air.

  Seth put his arm around her waist and urged her forward. Bending, he whispered against her ear. "We'll go out on the deck, where it's quieter."

  Adrienne leaned a little closer to him. Everything he did, from a casual touch on her wrist to a breath of air against her ear, to a laugh that rippled the muscles of his belly, streaked through her the same way, stirring desires she had forgotten she could feel. Other people touched her hand, whispered to her, but Seth's touch was different. He made her feel safe and cherished.

  She was afraid to examine her feelings too closely. A dose of reality would come soon enough, she knew. Nobody was ever what he seemed.

  Folks glanced up as they passed, but paid little attention to them. Out on the deck, with the door closed, the music was muffled.

  "Allô, cher, what you be having?" a frizzy-haired waitress asked.

  Adrienne looked around for a menu, but Seth spoke right up.

  "Crawfish and beer."

  "I don't drink beer," Adrienne said, but Seth just laughed.

  "You do today," he said, leaning back in his chair and looking out over the dark, calm waters of the lake.

  Adrienne looked, too. The shack was tucked into a corner of the lake lined with mangrove trees. A warm bree/e lifted her hair and carried the smell of rain, although the sky was clear and blue. She heard some sort of animal grunt, then the flapping of wings caught her attention as a flock of white birds took to the sky.

  She reached up automatically to rub her neck and realized it wasn't aching. She arched it and shrugged her shoulders. She'd lost at least some of the tension that had become a part of her. She glanced at Seth's strong profile. How had a motorcycle ride done what thousands of dollars in massage therapy had failed to do? She smiled and shook her head.

  "Tuppence for your thoughts, princess."

  She laughed shyly. "I was just noticing that the knot in my neck is gone. I should hire you to be my masseur."

  His hazel eyes glinted amber in the sunlight. "I think we could come to terms."

  Chapter Three

  Adrienne's mouth grew dry. Her careless remark
about Seth massaging her neck had backfired on her. After Seth's response, she couldn't stop thinking about his hands and how they would feel massaging other parts of her body. They were big and graceful, with long blunt fingers that looked so incredibly strong but could touch so gently.

  Desperate to wipe away the erotic image of him caressing every inch of her body, she searched for something to say. "How do you know this place?"

  His mouth curved into a slow grin. She wasn't fooling him a bit. He knew exactly what she was thinking. It surprised her how little that bothered her right at this moment. She had already dared more in the last twenty-four hours than she ever had in her life. She liked this carefree feeling. She could get used to it.

  "1 like to sample the local cuisine wherever I go. You know, conch in the Caribbean, eel in the Loire Valley, beef in Kansas City. Someone told me T-Jean's had the best crawfish in the world. I wanted to find out for myself."

  "You're an interesting man, Seth Lewis."

  Seth looked at Adrienne. She'd given up trying to smooth her hair and he was glad. It had fallen out of its constraining knot and now framed her face with sun-struck gold, making her look more like an angel than ever.

  "Not so interesting, actually," he said, distracted by her loveliness. Her body had been anything but angelic during the torturous motorcycle ride, with her breasts pressed against his back and her hands and arms squeezing his middle. He'd had a devil of a time controlling his reaction to her closeness. If she was an angel, she was a damned sexy one.

  As innocent as she appeared, she was as aware of him as he was of her. He'd known it last night and he knew it today. He knew that whenever he wanted to, he could—he stopped his wayward thoughts. Plenty of time for that later. Right now, he needed to get her to talk about herself.

  "Now you. You are interesting. May I ask how long ago your husband died?"

  Her eyes darkened. "A year and a half."

  "I'm sorry. Was it unexpected?"

  She pressed her lips together tightly as the waitress came slamming through the door and dumped a huge pile of steaming crawfish right onto the table. The air filled with the sharp scent of the peculiar mixture of spices that made boiled crawfish one of the wonders of the South.