“He’s a thief!” a slurred voice yelled. “God knows what he’s taken. He’s a thief, I tell you. A thief! Looking through the coats. Stop, thief!”
The boy dashed toward the pool, and the fence that skirted it on the side farthest from the house, then saw Wilson and Celina. Wilson was on his feet. The boy dithered, deciding which way to go.
Another figure, this one much bigger, emerged from the pool house. Dressed in jeans, but with his chest bare and shining slightly in the subdued garden lights, he launched himself. It would be some time before the intruder learned what hit him—and then only because someone would tell him.
Not even a cry escaped the boy. The newcomer tackled him at knee level from behind, sending him whipping down on the pool surround. Celina heard the crack of a skull hitting tile and winced.
Opi, the man who ran the Lamar household, walked rapidly from the terrace with Sally trotting behind him. Guests began to crowd forth from the house.
“Who is that?” Wilson asked Sally when she reached him. “The man who stopped him. He came from the pool house.”
“Umm.” Sally’s uncertain tone made Celina look curiously at her. “Well, I do believe that’s the person you hired to put in those beautiful aquariums of yours.”
Having made certain their interloper wasn’t going anywhere, first because he was semi-unconscious, and second because the bare-chested, dark-haired adonis had him pinned to the ground, Opi approached his employer. “Police on their way, Mr. Lamar.”
Wilson didn’t answer Opi but went to stand over the two men beside the pool. “Fellow who put in the aquariums, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Ben Angel.”
Wilson snorted. “It’s a good thing you’re big. No one would be stupid enough to make anything out of that name, Angel. What were you doing in the pool house?”
“I’m a perfectionist, me,” Ben Angel said, and now Celina could see that he was young, probably not more than in his early twenties. “With the important party going on, I wanted to be close in case anythin’ go wrong with my aquariums.”
Wilson said, “I like that,” and dropped to his haunches. He felt the prostrate boy’s neck for his pulse, but drew back when the kid moaned and started to move. “He’s going to have the mama and daddy of all headaches. Keep him where he is, Angel, there’s a good man.”
“Let the staff take care of it, Wilson, do,” Sally said. “Come and be nice to our guests. You come too, Celina. Really, you’ve had more than enough to deal with for one day.”
“I can handle things here if you need to go, Mr. Lamar,” Ben Angel said.
“Not at all.” Wilson eyed him speculatively. “I like a youngster who can act and think. You set on sticking with the aquarium business?”
“Oh, Wilson,” Sally said, catching his sleeve and tugging. “What a question.”
“I’m not plannin’ to stay married to it, if that your meanin’,” Ben replied.
“Come and talk to me in the mornin’,” Wilson said. “Ten sharp. Opi, make sure he gets in to see me.”
“Yes, sir,” Opi said.
Celina couldn’t take her eyes from Sally’s face. The woman looked sick, and she looked sick while she stared from her husband to Ben Angel and back again.
Sirens sounded and rapidly grew closer. Flashing lights spun through the darkness outside the estate. Assuming his smooth, in-charge demeanor, Wilson was on his feet and standing over the culprit by the time the police—with several reporters in pursuit—made their way through the gibbering throng on the terrace.
Celina was amazed to see the gossip columnist Charmain Bienville in the lead, shouting orders at an accompanying cameraman as her high heels quickly covered the space to the drama area. Her close-cropped white-blond hair glinted. She was a tall woman but probably wore size four Armani suits. “Hello, Wilson,” she said briskly, touching his arm lightly. “Fundraiser turns into a drunken brawl, hmm? Anything you’d like to say about that? Fred, you know what to do.”
“Fred” promptly dropped to make sure that his shots would include Wilson as well as the kid with blood running from his nose. The camera also captured Ben Angel and the bevy of inebriated guests who had finally gained enough courage to totter close.
A policeman ordered everyone to back off, but they were slow to react.
Charmain’s sharp eyes singled out Celina. “Oh, my dear girl,” she said, throwing her arms around Celina, who had no relationship whatsoever with the woman. “What a terrible day you have had. Listen, I’ve been trying to reach you. Ι want to do my best to help as much as I can. These will be difficult times. You’ll have to deal with all the unpleasant rumors—”
“Good to see you here, Charmain,” Wilson said. “How about some champagne?”
“Thanks,” she said, and turned back to Celina. “People can be so nasty, dear. Are you staying on in Royal Street?”
Mesmerized, Celina nodded.
“Good. I shall come over and we’ll have a girl-to-girl chat and I’ll help you plan your counter offense.”
“Counter offense?” Celina frowned. “To what?”
“The people who will want to undermine Dreams because of all the talk about Errol, of course. Aren’t you...oh, you don’t plan to keep things going. I should have thought of that. After all, you were just the Dreams Girl, not the foundation itself. Errol Petrie was the foundation, and he was well loved. It would be a pity if everything he did came to mean nothing because of what they’ll say about him. But we should still talk.”
More camera flashes popped, and reporters yelled questions. Celina noted that the police didn’t seem at all annoyed at their presence, which lent credence to suggestions that the first item on the police dispatchers’ list was to inform the media of anything interesting going down.
The boy sat up and hung his head forward while a policeman read him his rights.
Charmain slipped an arm beneath one of Celina’s and said in a confidential tone, “Is it true that Jack Charbonnet helped fund Errol Petrie?”
“They were very close friends.” Celina knew she was out of her depth with this, and the less she said the better.
“But Errol had money problems because of some, well, isn’t it true that his wife left him because of certain differences of opinion about the kind of entertainment he preferred?”
Celina pressed her lips together and squelched her temper. “Errol Petrie’s son died of an autoimmune disorder. That cost ...” She was playing into this woman’s hands. Smiling wasn’t easy, but she managed. “I’m sorry. You’re trying to help me with my job and I’m just too upset to know what to do or say at the moment. I must ask you to forgive me. Perhaps we can talk later.” Much later. Like never.
“It’s nice you’ve got Jack Charbonnet’s shoulder to cry on now.” Charmain raised dark eyebrows, and her oddly light eyes shone conspiratorially. “And what a shoulder, my dear. That’s a coup no other woman has pulled off since his wife killed herself. Drove into a swamp. Drowned in there. Horrible story.”
Suicide? Celina couldn’t stop herself from registering distress, which she instantly realized would let Charmain know she’d delivered some news.
“Here’s your champagne. Charmain darlin’,” Wilson said, insinuating himself between Celina and the columnist. “We’ve had quite the fund-raiser here this evening. Anyone you may have been wanting to interview is undoubtedly here. Why not let me introduce you to a few people.”
Charmain looked at him, and her eyes became old and knowing. “How’s the campaign, Wilson?” Before he could respond, she said, “I’d better see what we have going on by your pool. Amazing how it’s not safe to go to a party at the home of someone like Wilson Lamar.”
“I hope you don’t intend to print that,” Wilson said with one of his most boyish smiles. “When I’m in the Senate I’m going to make crime in this country one of my priorities. And I’m not going to be one of those senators who goes to Washington and forgets the platform he ran on.”
“We’re taking this young man in,” one of the policemen said. “Evidently he was interrupted before he actually got what he came for. We’ve searched him and he’s clean. We’d appreciate it if you’d do the necessary.”
“The necessary?” Sally said. “What do you mean, the necessary?”
“Nothing to get upset about, ma’am,” the policeman said. “We need to have Mr. Lamar file charges.”
“Of course, Officer,” Wilson said.
Celina felt tired, so very tired. She’d done her part and come to the party because her parents had begged her to. And she realized she hadn’t seen either of them among the group outside. Bitsy and Neville knew when to make themselves scarce.
“I’ll be calling you,” Charmain told her, and pressed a dry kiss on her cheek. “Take care of yourself, dear. You don’t look well.”
Wilson took Celina by the shoulders and studied her. “No, you don’t, young lady. Not that you should after everything you’ve been through. But you will give serious thought to what I mentioned to you, won’t you?”
“What was that?” Charmain asked so offhandedly, it was hardly a question at all.
“Why, I want Celina to join my staff again, of course,” Wilson said heartily. “She used to work part-time for the campaign. Now she’s going to have lots of free time. She’s not just beautiful, she’s brilliant, and I don’t like to see that kind of talent going to waste.”
Celina bowed her head and took a small step closer to Wilson, just close enough to murmur, “That was a mistake.” Then she nodded in all directions and moved away from him. “I think I’m going to take the advice of my well-wishers and toddle off to get some rest, so I’ll bid you all good night.”
A chorus of good-byes followed her as she walked toward the house and made for the nearest telephone to call the cab back. A faint buzzing began in her head. Once before she’d felt the sensation, and she’d almost passed out. That had been when she’d had an encounter with Wilson, too, and it had terrified her.
She used the passage of the police through the house to make her getaway without having to speak to her parents again, and ran the length of the driveway until she could slip through the gates and wait outside.
Within moments the police cars pulled away, their lights flashing again.
Tired didn’t come close to describing how she felt. Her limbs were heavy and her head ached so badly, she wanted to close her eyes.
“Are you out of your mind, Celina?”
She jumped, and clutched the neck of her dress.
Jack Charbonnet, his hands in his pockets, leaned menacingly over her. “You really have a thing for courting danger, don’t you? What the hell are you doing out here on your own? Trying to see if you can pick up a murderer? Or maybe just a rapist?”
“Don’t!”
His face moved, grew less distinct. She threw out her arms and was vaguely aware of hands gripping them as she began to fall.
She should ask him what he was doing there.
A cold place cleared at the center of her mind, and she saw another face—Wilson Lamar grinning at her.
She shook her head, willing the image away. Tears sprang in her eyes. She couldn’t stop them.
“Celina?” Jack Charbonnet. “Hold on, kiddo, hold on. It’s okay.”
You never trusted men who told you things would be okay.
Wilson sweated and stood very close to her. “I need you, Celina. Trust me, it’ll be okay. “ They were in the small sitting room on the second floor at her parents’ home. “I swear if you won’t talk to me, I’m going to kill myself. I’ve got a gun in the car and I’m going to drive out to the Atchafalaya Swamp and put the thing in my mouth. By the time they find me, there won’t be anything left.”
“Celina, can you hear me?” Jack asked. “I’m taking you home. I’m going to drive you home.”
She hit him. Hit him again. And she cried.
Wilson had closed and locked the sitting room door and begged her to hold him, to let him tell her what was destroying him.
And she’d been afraid of him, but sorry for him too. Before she’d found out he was stealing, she’d believed in him and in what he said he wanted to do for Louisiana.
“It’s okay, honey.” Jack’s voice again. “Hit me if you want to. I can take it. You’re angry. Come on, hold on to me.”
“Hold me, Celina, please hold me. I’m going to do great things for Louisiana, baby. You wouldn’t want to get in the way of that by telling people things that don’t matter. I needed that money. To help me get where I want to—where I need to go for everyone’s sake.”
How long ago had it been? Five months now? A little more? She couldn’t make herself remember clearly anymore. She’d been afraid of him, and she’d asked him to go home and get some sleep, told him they’d talk things out when he was calmer.
Wilson Lamar had put his hands around her neck and smiled, and said that he would just have to make sure she saw things his way. He’d have to create some insurance for himself, and if she chose to keep on threatening him, her parents would be the ones to suffer. He’d just have to let their hypocritical little world know that their daughter was a tramp who had tried to trick him into leaving his wife. Celina had come on to him. That’s what he’d tell the world. She’d flaunted herself and he’d been weak. He’d throw himself on public mercy and get it. She’d never be believed. After all, there were precedents, and she was a beautiful, sexy woman. The former Miss Louisiana, a woman accustomed to using her body to get what she wanted.
Then Wilson Lamar took out his insurance.
He had raped her that night.
Chapter 8
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Sonny.” Win Giavanelli waved his underboss, Sonny Clete, into the private room at La Murena, a small, expensive restaurant specializing in Italian fish dishes. The room was reserved for Win at all times. Win owned the restaurant.
Sonny Clete sweated, not a good omen. “Come and sit with me,” Win said, spreading his hands. He’d just finished eating—he always ate around one in the morning. Helped him think more clearly.
Still hovering just inside the door, Sonny looked as if his expensive silk suit would soon be sodden under the arms. So far he hadn’t said a word. Of average height, with thinning red hair and a plump face, Sonny had been little more than an ambitious, scrambling boy when he’d been inducted into the family. Now in his forties, he’d thickened around the belly and his beringed hands were soft.
Maybe Sonny had grown too soft, too complacent.
“Hey, what is this?” Win pulled the napkin from his neck and tossed it aside. He stood and reached his arms out to Sonny. “Is this the way family greet each other?”
Sonny walked into the embrace and patted Win’s back. The piece Sonny wore in a shoulder holster pressed Win’s chest.
“Good to see you, Win,” Sonny said. “Thanks for lettin’ me come on such short notice.”
The formality was not lost on Win. “I always got time for you, you know that.” He motioned Sonny into one of the heavy mahogany armchairs lined with plush red velvet pillows that circled the table. Glancing around, Sonny sat at Win’s right elbow.
Win was left-handed. No one sat at his left—it was understood.
“I don’t like to interrupt your dinner,” Sonny said. “I’ve been worried. Otherwise anythin’ I needed to discuss with you could have waited.”
“My table is your table,” Win told him. Those words gave a signal of which Sonny had no knowledge. A trigger man behind one of the intricately carved wall panels now had the sights of his submachine gun trained on Win’s guest.
“I see you are deeply troubled, Sonny,” Win said. “This pains me greatly. Pour yourself some wine.”
Sonny poured the Chianti automatically. The offer was an order, and there was no choice but to follow instructions. “You hungry, Sonny?”
“No, Win, I’m not hungry.”
“You comfortable in that chair, Sonny?”
�
��Great, thanks. You’re a considerate host.”
Win poured himself more wine but didn’t drink. “Am I like a father to you, Sonny?”
“More than a father, Win.”
“Isn’t a good father a man his son can turn to when he’s troubled, and turn to with confidence?”
“That is true.”
Win settled his considerable bulk more comfortably and said, “Then tell the father what is in your heart, son.”
“Jack Charbonnet.”
Win drank then, to give himself a moment to recover. He set down the glass and said, “Jack Charbonnet? What about him?”
“His parents had their unfortunate accident shortly after I had the good fortune to become a member of the family.”
Win pushed out his lips and blotted them with his napkin. He frowned and made a show of casting his mind back, then nodded. “That would have been about right. You have an exceptional memory, Sonny. But that’s history. Why does it worry you now?” And why, he wondered, had he ever hoped the issue was permanently buried along with the Charbonnets?
Sonny hunched his shoulders, propped his elbows, and laced his fingers together. “Jack Charbonnet was a ten-year-old kid at the time. I think perhaps there was some decision to look after that kid because he was an orphan and deservin’ of pity. We all got a soft spot for an orphan kid, Win, and you’re the most merciful man I know.”
“Merciful?” Win said, meeting Sonny’s eyes sharply. “Or soft? Would you be suggesting I’m soft, Sonny? I should be most hurt if I thought that was the case.”
Sonny snickered and shook his head. “You, soft? Not you, Win. You’re one hard son of a bitch.” He snickered some more, but when Win didn’t crack a smile, Sonny slowly sobered and added, “With all due respect, of course.”
The memories of that day began to come back—all of them too brightly colored, too sharp. “If that’s an apology, Ι accept. Now, back to what’s on your mind.”
“Charbonnet senior and his tart were taken out early in your administration, Win.”
“Mrs. Charbonnet wasn’t no tart. Remember that. Always give deserved respect to the dead. And it was my understandin’ that she wasn’t supposed to be part of the deal. Yeah, it was in my administration, but I never knew it was going down until it happened. Know what, Sonny, I don’t think it was anythin’ to do with the family—this one or any other one. We tried to find out, but came up empty every way we turned.”
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