Julia took him in her stride, waiting until he had left the bank to use the disinfectant to clean her hands and her counter. Then she welcomed the next customer, and they were off on another day at the bank.
But this wasn’t a normal day.
Today Nessa moved on with her life.
“Ionessa!” The high-pitched shriek from Stephanie’s office made even the customers flinch.
Nessa passed Stephanie’s secretary, who muttered, “Take the promotion, but don’t get your fingers close to her mouth. Those big teeth can snap right through bone.”
As Nessa entered, Stephanie made a show of shuffling papers. She was thirty-one, the valedictorian of her class in Tulane, of medium height and weight, well groomed and, as Daniel said, beige. Her hair was a dirty blond, she never wore bright colors, and even her eyes were an indeterminate hazel. She attended business breakfasts at Toastmasters and bored everyone silly. She dated, but only on Saturday night and only if the guy took her somewhere she could be seen. She kept her desk clean of photos and used her e-mail for official bank communications. She was dedicated to her career, the perfect middle manager.
“I got a phone call last week from the big man himself.” Stephanie lifted her gaze and glared. “Yes, Ionessa, it’s true. Mr. MacNaught himself called me. He’s taking a personal interest in catching the Beaded Bandits.”
“The CEO of Premier Central is concerned with Beaded Bandits?” Had Stephanie cracked under the pressure of running the bank? For the past three years, Mr. MacNaught had made the “I’m the richest, nanner, nanner,” list in Fortune magazine. “Don’t they steal a thousand dollars or less? Why would he care about such an insignificant amount?”
And why were they discussing this now?
“He has a reputation for despising thieves, and it would seem that that’s true.” Stephanie crumpled the paper she held, then, seeing Nessa’s gaze on her clawed fingers, made an effort to straighten them and the paper. “He’s sending an insurance investigator to track down the thieves and arrest them.”
“Okay.” Nessa was still floundering. Why was Stephanie telling her this stuff? “What does he think an insurance investigator is going to be able to do?”
“He’s not impressed with the NOPD’s work on this case, and thinks this guy who’s coming in will light a fire under their collective lazy asses.”
“Hm.” Nessa knew most of the police department personally. They visited at the Dahl House. She took care of their banking needs. She doubted that some stiff-necked Yankee was going to help by stomping into the police department and demanding they investigate his way.
“He ordered that I prepare him an office here in the bank—“
Shock sent a jolt down Nessa’s spine. She snapped to attention.
“—and get him someone who knew the city and the officials well to ease this guy’s way. I offered myself—I grew up here, I went to school here, I know everybody—but no. He already had someone in mind.”
The newly cleaned office. The orders to get ready to move. The aunts were right. None of this was about Nessa and her promotion. This was about Mr. MacNaught’s insurance investigator. Nessa’s lips were stiff as she said, “Mr. MacNaught wants me.”
“Of course he wants you. Somehow word of your charm and your connections got all the way up to Philadelphia, and Mr. MacNaught demands that you assist his man.” The rancor and jealousy that marred Stephanie’s personality burned like acid in her tone. “I don’t understand why you’re always the one who gets the commendations, why you’re always the one the customers write glowing letters about. I’m the manager. If it weren’t for me—”
Nessa lifted her eyebrows.
Stephanie snapped her lips shut. Not even she had the nerve to claim the bank ran smoothly because of her.
“What am I supposed to do for this insurance investigator?” Nessa spoke carefully, keeping her tone even, allowing none of her frustration to seep through. Stephanie would enjoy it far too much.
“Get him coffee. Take notes. The usual things a secretary does for her boss.” Stephanie smirked. “You’ve been demoted to a secretary.”
“I believe they’re called administrative assistants now.” Then, because Stephanie had so clearly wanted to show off for MacNaught’s man, Nessa added, “I hope to do a good enough job to call myself to Mr. MacNaught’s attention.”
Nessa’s shot must have struck home, for Stephanie crumpled the paper again, and this time she didn’t bother to straighten it out. Her pale eyes narrowed. She must have seen a crack in Nessa’s disciplined coolness, for she exclaimed, “Poor Ionessa! Did you think that office was for you?”
Stephanie had the knack of hitting where it hurt, but in a battle of wits, Nessa carried the greater ammunition. “I assume you’ll be taking my place in customer service?”
Stephanie hated helping the clients with loans and investments, and the clients reciprocated. “Yes, of course I will be,” she snapped. “There’s no one else qualified.”
And whose fault is that? Nessa wanted to ask. Stephanie wouldn’t promote anyone else for fear that person would overshadow her.
The phone rang. Stephanie picked it up, spoke briefly, then hung up and told Nessa, “He’s on his way.”
Nessa came to her feet. “Does he have a name?”
“Jeremiah Mac.” Stephanie leaned back in her chair. “I imagine he’s an old fart, don’t you? After all, he’s an insurance investigator, and that’s nothing more than a glorified accountant.”
“I’ve never dated an insurance investigator or an accountant, so I wouldn’t know. Are they all old farts?” Nessa waited for the delicate moment when the insult sank in, then as Stephanie’s lips lifted in a snarl, she walked out of the office.
She dusted her fingertips together. She adjusted the lapels on her jacket. She smiled evilly.
Stephabeast, indeed.
Stephanie picked up the vase behind her desk, weighed it in her hand, then reluctantly put it down again. No matter how much she wanted to throw it against the wall, she would not. It was the bank’s. Now, if it were Ionessa’s…
She didn’t understand why everybody liked Nessa so much. Everybody talked about her—how nice she was and how good to her aunts and how efficient she was….
Yeah, well, she was none too smart, or she would have realized how Stephanie had used her. Seven years ago, they’d both started at the bank as assistant managers. Nessa had realized they were in competition for the top spot—after all, she was no dummy—but she was a soft touch. One of the tellers had given her a sob story about a sick kid, Nessa had let her leave without counting her drawer, and five hundred dollars had walked out with her.
The mistake of a lifetime. Stephanie had secured the position of bank manager, and right away she got an e-mail from Mr. MacNaught himself. Keep an eye on Ionessa Dahl.
That was all it took. Stephanie had done just that. She’d kept an eye on Ionessa when she improved the efficiency of the tellers, and Stephanie took credit for the idea. She’d kept an eye on Ionessa when she secured accounts from some of the most influential people in New Orleans, and Stephanie took credit for the jump in savings. She’d kept an eye on Ionessa when she provided the most home loans of any officer in Premier Central history, and Stephanie took credit for every one.
Mr. MacNaught had a reputation as a real son of a bitch who stomped on people without even noticing the crunch of their bones beneath his boots.
But he did give rewards for efficiency, for self-motivation, for ingenuity. According to a Business News Monthly, Premier Central Banks was one of the top one hundred companies to work for, as long as one stayed clean and smart.
Mr. MacNaught had been duly impressed by Stephanie’s performance, and he’d given her huge bonuses.
Stephanie had been careful to dole out the occasional faint praise for Ionessa—not enough to get her promoted, but enough to keep her on. Because the last thing Stephanie Decker wanted was to have to run this bank herself.
And until this damned investigator was finished, that was exactly what she was going to have to do.
Picking up the vase, she slammed it against the wall. It shattered into a million pieces, and she took a long breath.
The cleaning people were so careless.
Five
Before she stepped back into the lobby, Nessa allowed the air-conditioning to cool her hot cheeks.
While Nessa had won the battle, Stephabeast had won the war. She always did, because no matter how sternly Nessa lectured herself about shrugging off Stephanie’s insults and slurs, Nessa reacted. Nessa handled bad boyfriends, eccentric aunts, nosy boarders, never allowing them to disrupt her sleep or serenity. But there was something about Stephanie’s smug malice that made Nessa want to chop her down to size—and today her disappointment had overcome her good sense. Now she had a bitter taste in her mouth and the clear knowledge that Stephanie would thoroughly enjoy taking her revenge.
The line had dwindled down to Mrs. Fasset, a girlhood friend of her aunts, and George Broussard, the middle-aged, overworked bartender at Mike’s Brew Pub two blocks down. The morning rush was over. Thank God. Right now, Nessa couldn’t have managed a crisis—because all eyes were on her. Everyone in the bank—the customers, the tellers, and Eric the guard—waited to hear her good news.
Thankfully, she had experience with ironic smiles.
And at that moment, the door of the bank opened. A man stepped just inside, a big man, blocking the intense New Orleans sunshine.
Nessa glanced up, then did a double-take. Wow.
She would have sworn she only mouthed the word, but Julia gave it voice. “Wow.”
He was tall. Very tall. His broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, and his hands were massive. One gripped a bulging leather briefcase. He wore a dark suit, a white shirt, and a red tie that should have fixed the eye, but didn’t. It was his face that riveted her…His handsome, battered face. He reminded Nessa of Russell Crowe in Gladiator, broken and rising like a phoenix from the ashes of his life.
He exemplified tragedy.
He exuded power.
He looked at the small group of stunned tellers, his gaze moving from face to face, memorizing each feature, his face impassive…. Until he reached Nessa. There his gaze lingered, a slow interest kindling in his green eyes.
Nessa took a small, involuntary step back.
Then, with the fluid grace of an athlete, long strides and swinging arms, he continued on his way into the newly arranged office and shut the door behind him.
“I just came,” Julia whispered.
“Sh!” Donna whispered, and nudged her. “You horny old broad!”
“Oh, like you didn’t,” Julia said.
“Yeah, but I don’t talk about it.”
“Whew!” Mrs. Fasset’s open mouth snapped shut, and she sagged against the countertop.
Carol, who was waiting on her, nodded. “That was spectacular. Miss Dahl, who do you suppose he is? The guy who’s going to give you your raise…so to speak?”
Laughter swept the small group.
“I don’t get it. What are you women talking about?” Mr. Broussard asked. “He looked like the kind of guy it takes five of us to toss out of the bar, and we’re lucky if he doesn’t come roaring back for more.”
“Yeah, that guy’s not good-looking,” Eric agreed.
“He sure isn’t,” Julia said with enthusiasm. “He’s more than good-looking.”
Donna let out a long sigh of pleasure. “He’s a god.”
“Well, he scared the hell out of me.” Lisa stood with her hand pressed against her flat chest. “I wanted to tell Eric to take out his gun and shoot him.”
Nessa smiled, a raw twist to her lips. “He’s the insurance investigator who’s going to solve the mystery of the Beaded Bandits.”
“But what’s he doing in your office?” Lisa asked.
“That’s not my office. That’s his office.” Nessa could almost taste the bitterness. “All I’m doing is assisting him in gathering the evidence.”
Donna took an audible breath. Nessa shook her head at the shocked, pitying expressions directed at her. “Don’t. I told you I don’t hope anymore. And neither should you.” She smiled at them, mocking them gently. “Because Stephabeast will be directing operations at the bank until further notice.”
“Son of a bitch.” Carol strung the swear words together like beads on a rosary.
Mrs. Fasset slapped Carol’s wrist. “That is enough, young lady!”
Yes, Nessa thought as she made her way to Mr. Mac’s office. That was the way to distract them from her sudden plunge in prospects. Point out their own.
Knowing she’d left them wallowing in their misery and human enough to enjoy it, she walked to her office.
Oh, pardon me. Mr. Mac’s office.
She paused in the open doorway. “Mr. Mac? I’m Nessa Dahl. I’m to assist you with your investigation.”
Mr. Mac looked up from the files he had scattered across his desk, scrutinized her, looking for fault where she knew there was none. “Come in,” he said. “Shut the door behind you.”
She did as she was told, cynically aware that she’d dressed the part of an executive to play the part of a sycophant.
“Sit down.” He indicated the chair before the desk.
Her resentment at his command was savage and surprising. She had been disappointed too many times to take this setback with her usual equanimity.
What was she going to tell her aunts? And the boarders—oh, God, she’d told all the boarders she expected a promotion. So many people to bear witness to her failure…
“Miss Dahl.” Mr. Mac said her name so sharply she jumped.
“Yes, sir.” She would brood later. For now, she focused on him.
His eyes were so richly green, his hair so dark, his face so unabashedly masculine, he should have been handsome. But he looked more like a street thug than an insurance investigator. The guy was probably thirty-six years old, and probably six-foot-three or -four. He wore his dark hair in a short military cut. At some point in his past, his face had been used as a battering ram. An expensive suit had been altered to fit him perfectly, yet nothing could conceal the heavily muscled shoulders and arms. When he turned his head, she could see a scar almost hidden along his jawline, as if some skilled surgeon had done repairs. He wore his hair combed to one side with a drape of bangs over his forehead, but white scars mottled the skin along his hairline. It looked as if someone had knocked him down and kicked him—and as big as he was, she didn’t want to run into the guy who’d done it.
No wonder the older tellers swooned and young Lisa shivered. When he watched Nessa as he did now, with eyes as green and cold as glacial ice, she wondered what work he’d done before taking the mundane job of insurance investigator. Put a machine gun in his hands, and this guy looked like the Valentine’s Day massacre come to life.
When he spoke, his voice was deep and rough, as if he had a cold—or that beating had done damage to his throat. “I have heard that tact is the ability to tell a person to go to hell and make him look forward to the trip.”
Whatever she’d expected, that wasn’t it. She blinked at him, then said cautiously, “So I’ve heard.”
“And I’ve been told in no uncertain terms I don’t have that ability.”
She hated to agree after an acquaintance of thirty seconds, but as abrupt as he was, she guessed he was right.
“That’s why you’ve been tapped to help me with this investigation. You’re known for your ability to handle difficult people.”
“I’m to handle you?” Bitchy, Nessa. It’s not his fault you can’t fight your way up the food chain.
He lifted his eyebrows as if her response surprised him. “I’m not difficult. It’s other people who are.”
She almost laughed. Not difficult? Perhaps not. Demanding. Intelligent. Intense. She suspected he was all of those things and more. If she remembered that, she could handle him.
<
br /> But just once, she wished someone would take the trouble to handle her.
“You are familiar with the crimes, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Pretty much everyone who lives here is familiar with the Beaded Bandits.”
“I thought so, but you looked so perturbed, I thought perhaps I’d confused you.”
“Not at all. I was…” What could she say? “I wondering how an investigator from somewhere North—”
“Philadelphia.”
“Of course. From Philadelphia, discovered I was known for my ability to handle people.”
“That’s why they call me an investigator.” He delivered the line deadpan, as if he didn’t know he was funny—or as if he had no sense of humor.
Oh, dear. “Where would you like to start?”
“I need to see the banks here in the city where the crimes occurred. I’ve watched the videos, but nothing is the same as walking up the steps, standing inside, and surveying the situation. I assume I’ll see the Mardi Gras celebration?”
“You won’t be able to get away from it.” In fact, you’re alone in the city. Come to the party at the Dahl House tonight. The words hovered on her tongue. Every hospitable instinct urged her to speak. But an innate caution stopped her. The party was famous, fun, overwhelming, with friends dropping in and leaving all evening long. But to Nessa it seemed as if Jeremiah Mac would move through the crowd like a black hole and suck all the life from the party.
With his hands full of files, he went to the cabinet and opened the top drawer.
Well. Stephabeast might consider Nessa his secretary, but apparently he did not. Nessa tested him. “Would you like me to get you some coffee?”
“When we go out, we’ll stop at Starbucks.”
She had been tense; sitting here watching a man work relaxed her to no end. “This is New Orleans. We’ll stop at Deaux.” Oh! And she liked directing him, too.
“As you say.” He placed the manila folders in their proper position. “Are you familiar with the other branches?”
“Certainly. There’s the occasional emergency that requires me to visit them to help out.”
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