“Unlike you, I do not lack experience.”

“So I’ve gathered.” Jacey’s gaze slid to his, and he didn’t trust the speculative gleam in her eyes. “Maybe you can help me, after all.”

“Anything. As I’ve proven tonight, I’m at your service.”

Jacey smiled, slow and satisfied, and he had the distinct sense that he’d stepped neatly into a trap. “That’s just where I want you. At my service, so to speak.”

Lucky choked. She couldn’t possibly have meant that the way it had sounded. “Careful. A less astute man would have assumed you meant…”

“That I want to sleep with you? That is what I meant.”

Lucky’s throat seemed to have closed completely, his lungs shut down. But the rest of his body was showing remarkable signs of interest.

Close to the Edge
Kylie Brant

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KYLIE BRANT

lives with her husband and children. Besides being a writer, this mother of five works full-time teaching learning-disabled students. Much of her free time is spent in her role as professional spectator at her kids’ sporting events.

An avid reader, Kylie enjoys stories of love, mystery and suspense—and she insists on happy endings. She claims she was inspired to write by all the wonderful authors she’s read over the years. Now most weekends and all summer she can be found at the computer, spinning her own tales of romance and happily-ever-afters.

She invites readers to check out her online read in the reading room at eHarlequin.com. Readers can write to Kylie at P.O. Box 231, Charles City, IA 50616, or e-mail her at kyliebrant@hotmail.com. Her Web site is www.kyliebrant.com.

For Justin, the entertainer of the family.

I love you, sweetie!

Acknowledgment

Special thanks to Edward Fischer, forensic psychologist, for your infinite patience with my questions about private investigation. I value your assistance and our conversations more than you can know!

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Lucky Boucher would have sworn that his day couldn’t get any lousier. But it took an abrupt nosedive at about the same time the tony blonde walked into Frenchy’s.

Not that he could totally blame the events of the day on the blonde. It wasn’t her fault that his 1980 Firebird—on which he lavished as much time and devotion as a mother did on her infant—picked that morning to stage a most costly tantrum. Nor could he fault the woman for his hairstylist’s distraction that afternoon, which had resulted in his hair being cut a full quarter-inch shorter than his specifications.

But from the moment she entered the place any thoughts he’d had of a relaxing evening were banished. He watched with a feeling of resignation as she swept the tavern’s shabby interior with a regal gaze, then made her way toward the bar. There was a collective hiss, as if all the men in the place had simultaneously sucked in their guts and squared their shoulders.

With a mournful shake of his head, he returned his attention to his pool game. He wasn’t one given to philosophizing, but there were a few absolutes in this world. Men would always act like fools when faced with a beautiful woman, even one as far out of their league as this one. And the presence of a classy female in a place like this was a powder keg waiting to detonate.

From the wisdom of experience he knew, as a rule, blondes were generally trouble.

However, he wasn’t above using the diversion she posed to his own advantage. While his opponent was still drooling in her direction, Lucky sized up his shot, then banked the cue ball off one side of the table to kiss the three, sending it into the corner pocket.

The sound had his opponent, a thick muscle-bound man known only as Stally, swiveling his head back toward the table with a scowl on his face. “What the hell you doing?”

“Whippin’ your ass in pool.” Lucky straightened to chalk his cue stick, while considering his next play. “The fact that you have to ask makes me almost sorry about takin’ your money.” He sent the man an insincere grin. “Almost.”

Stally’s brows drew closer together. “Play don’t continue ’til both players are looking at the table. That last shot of yours don’t count.”

Lucky leaned forward to line up his next shot, resting his cue lightly on his outstretched thumb to balance it. “What’s that, some obscure rule from the pool etiquette handbook? Keep your attention on the game, mon ami. Perhaps you will learn something.” The six was then sent spinning to a side pocket.

“He is generally an untrustworthy sort,” Remy Delacroix, Lucky’s supposed friend offered lazily from a nearby table. “You need to keep your eye on him at all times. Fortunately for you, I was watchin’ the table. The shot was clean.”

“I still don’t like it.”

With an inner sigh, Lucky deliberately botched his next attempt and stepped aside with a flourish. “I’ll give you one last turn then. Make it count.”

With a sneer, the man circled the table to study his options. Lucky used the time to check out the blonde’s progress. The bar stool she’d chosen was right beside Goldie Bellow’s, an all-around lowlife who made his living running girls through some of New Orleans’ less savory hotels. Today the pimp was dressed in a lime-green suit with a bright-yellow shirt. Next to the woman’s tailored white shirt and crisply pressed jeans, he looked like a gaudy plastic Mardi Gras bead set next to a pearl necklace.

While Lucky watched, the bartender put a drink before her and Bellows made a production of paying for it from a large roll of bills he’d taken from his pocket.

It hadn’t escaped him that men were falling over themselves vacating nearby tables and filling the rest of the stools to get closer to the woman. He gave it another fifteen minutes before all hell broke loose.

Stally’s muttered curse brought his gaze back to the pool table. The other man had managed to sink three balls before missing the fourth.

“Looks like you may have met your match, Boucher,” Remy suggested, raising a finger to summon the waitress for another round.

“Your confidence is overwhelmin’. Watch and learn.” Within short order, he sank his next three balls, and concentrated on dispatching the lone eight ball remaining. Raised voices from the direction of the bar had him mentally shaving five minutes off his original estimate. With unhurried motions, he lined up his last shot.

“Move over, buddy. It’s my turn.”

Stally’s demand came just as Lucky was about to send the cue ball barreling into the eight. He lifted his head. “What are you babblin’ about?”

With a threatening expression, the other man said, “You scratched. Just now. The tip of your stick touched the felt. I seen it plain as day.” He glanced around at the other customers in the vicinity, as if looking for support. But it wasn’t the swell of onlookers that had Lucky bending to his shot again. It was the sudden activity at the bar. Another man had made his move, and was trying to engage the blonde’s attention.

“Right corner pocket.” Lucky dispatched the last ball in short order, then straightened, his gaze on the woman, as he reached for the two fifties lying on the side of the table.

Stally’s hand slapped down over his. “Like I said, you scratched. We’ll play the game over.”

“Why?” Lucky barely spared the man a glance. “Do you figure to play better the second time around?” Goldie was off his stool, he noted, one hand clamped around the blonde’s arm. The other man was rising, as well, to lean menacingly across the woman. She looked like a very small, very defenseless rabbit trapped between two snarling wolves.

“You’re a funny guy.” Stally’s voice lacked real appreciation. “But I said we’ll play it over, so that’s what we’ll do. Unless you want everyone here to know that you’re a coward, as well as a cheat.”

“Um, if I may make an observation,” Remy said diffidently, “he didn’t scratch. Boucher doesn’t cheat at pool. With women, yes. Can’t be trusted around them. Wise men lock up their daughters when he’s in the vicinity.” There was a low murmur of agreement from the crowd that had gathered. “But pool…no. You got beat, my friend, fair and square.”

“Thank you so much,” Lucky told Remy with mock politeness. “Remind me to return the favor someday.” He shifted his attention from his friend’s grin to the man who still held his hand clapped over his. “It appears, mon ami, that no one agrees with you. So pay up, if you ever want to play here again.”

It was long tension-filled seconds later before the man’s grip loosened, and his hand was lifted away completely. “Wise choice.” Lucky gave him a careless smile and scooped up the money, tucking it into his jeans pocket. His attention already diverted by the scene unfolding at the bar, he said, “Better luck next time.”

“I’m not gonna forget this. What’s your name—Bullshit?” Lucky stilled, re-focused on the man at his side. “Yeah, I ain’t gonna forget you, Bullshit. This ain’t over.”

He barely heard Remy’s groan. Didn’t notice the sudden scrambling as men hastened to back away from the table. One moment the taller man was spitting on the floor between them, and the next moment Lucky was behind him, holding a cue stick across his throat, cutting off his oxygen.

“I am normally a very forgivin’ kind of guy,” Lucky said conversationally. Stally’s hands were on the stick, trying to wrest it away, so he exerted more pressure on it. “You can call me a cheat. That is only your opinion, n’est ce pas? You can even call me a coward. After all, that’s a matter of perception.” An edge of steel entered his tone. “But you do not, ever, joke about my name. My grand-mère has always been a stickler about that. It’s Boo-shin.” He gave it the French pronunciation, with the final letter almost silent. The man gave a strangled gasp as a response. “Or if you can’t manage that, Boo-shay is acceptable. Let me hear you try.” He loosened the pressure slightly.

“Boo-shay,” the man gasped, his voice hoarse.

Lucky freed him suddenly, his tone again amiable. “There, that was not so hard, was it?” Stally bent over, wheezing, and Lucky clapped him on the back. “I’m sure it was just a misunderstandin’ on your part.”

“You’re crazy,” the man sputtered, backing away even as he uttered the words.

Lucky’s gaze went again to the bar, and he winced. Goldie and the stranger were trading punches, as the blonde was attempting to sidle out from between the two of them. With a crash, Goldie sent the other man into a table and jumped on him. The woman ducked to the floor. Ambling in the direction of the battle, he said, “At times like these, it is difficult to disagree with you.”

Several patrons had surrounded the men, shouting encouragement and jeers. Money changed hands as bets on the outcome were made. The woman was easing toward the exit, but her escape was thwarted by a ponytailed biker who stood and grabbed her arm as she passed by. Lucky walked faster. Before he could reach the pair, she moved swiftly, ramming her knee into the man’s groin, doubling him over. Then she sailed out the door.

Three other men began to follow her. Lucky beat them to the exit. “Goldie’s offerin’ a hundred to anyone who helps him out.” Two of them stopped, turning to look speculatively at the couple on the floor. The third kept moving.

“She’s not for the likes of you, friend.” Lucky stiffarmed the man, preventing him from passing by. There was a loud crash as Goldie was tossed over the bar and into the bottles lined up in back of it. “It would be much healthier for you to watch the show in here.”

“Hell with you, Boucher. You just want her for yourself.”

It was easy enough to dodge the punch the man aimed at his stomach. But as the crowd shifted, pressing in closer to the battle near the bar, Lucky was thrown off balance. He didn’t quite manage to duck the left jab the man threw. It snapped his head back, and for a moment he saw stars. The man pushed by him, then tripped over Lucky’s outstretched leg. A well-aimed push had him flat on his face, and in the next moment Lucky’s knee was in his back. Taking the man’s head between his hands, Lucky rapped it smartly against the floor, felt the guy go limp. Giving it another rap for good measure, he rose, wiggled his jaw gingerly.

“Looks like you’re goin’ to have a bruise, my friend.”

Lucky sent a disparaging glance at Remy, who looked as though he was enjoying himself hugely. “As always, your assistance is greatly appreciated.”

“I had your back,” Remy assured him, tipping the bottle of beer to his lips. With a meaningful glance toward the door, he noted, “You know, that blonde isn’t your type either.”

Lucky pushed out of the bar, his friend’s words echoing in his ears. High-class former debutantes were about as far from his usual female companions as it was possible to be. He liked to believe, however, that it was by choice. His.

When he hit the sidewalk he became aware that a slight mist was falling. Perfect. Hunching his shoulders, he jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and headed down the street. Given the events of the evening, he didn’t need any further proof of his earlier conviction. Blondes were trouble. Always.

Keeping an eye on the clock on her office wall, Jacinda Eloise Wheeler unbuttoned her plain white shirt with one hand and undid her jeans with the other. Shimmying out of the denim, she stripped off her socks and leaned against the corner of her desk to draw first one, then the other thigh-high nylon over her legs. With any luck she could slip into the Sisters of the South Auxillary gathering before dinner was served. That timing, she hoped, would save her from her mother’s inevitable disapproval.

There was a tiny noise behind her. Whirling, she saw her office door swing open, a dark shape of a man filling it. A strangled scream escaped her throat, even as she reached behind her, searching her desktop for a weapon. Her fingers closed around a heavy paperweight just as the figure stepped into the room.

Then her eyelids slid closed in relief. “Damn you, Boucher, you scared me to death.”

Lucky’s face was lit with unmistakable male appreciation. “If you had shown just a little bit of those riches back at the bar, cher, your evenin’ might have been a bit more productive.”

For a moment she stared at him blankly, before following his gaze to her chest. She dropped the paperweight and yanked her shirt closed, felt her cheeks firing. “A gentleman,” she pointed out from between clenched teeth, “wouldn’t have looked.”

“What have I ever done to give you the impression that I’m a gentleman?”

He managed, she thought, to sound affronted. And he was right. Of all the descriptives she could come up with, gentleman would never make the list. He looked more like one of Lucifer’s henchmen, handpicked to roam the earth wreaking havoc on the female population. The light rain had dampened his black hair, which was always kept just a shade too long. Right now it nearly touched his collar in the back, though he’d claimed he was leaving early to get a haircut that afternoon. Given his aversion to shaving, his jaw was most often shadowed. They’d long ago reached a compromise so that he used a razor at least every other day, making him due again tomorrow. His eyes, as dark as his hair, usually held a wicked gleam that, if rumors could be believed, had led hundreds of unwary female hearts to their ruination.

The lazy bayou cadence of his languid drawl put most people at ease, but the more wary would never mistake him for harmless. Not with that slight hint of menace layered beneath the lazy affability. Given his penchant for jeans and T-shirts emblazoned with suggestive sayings, he looked like exactly what he was—a man who had grown up in the swamps and had lived by his wits in the back alleys of New Orleans. The fresh bruise blooming below one eye only added to his aura of danger.

He ambled into the room and propped his hips against a chair to survey her. “What were you doin’ in Frenchy’s tonight?”

“I am not going to stand here half naked and have a conversation with you!”

His mouth twitched. “A shame, since you make such a picture half naked.” When she reached for the paperweight again, he made a production of raising his hands and turned his back with exaggerated care. “What could you possibly be plannin’ after startin’ a riot in Frenchy’s? Wrestlin’ a few alligators? Leapin’ tall buildings with a single bound?”

“I’m meeting my mother for dinner.” And, she realized, with another quick glance at the clock, she was almost certain to be late. Giving up the battle, she slipped the shirt off and let it fall to the floor. “Hand me that dress, will you?”

He reached for the sedate black dress hanging over the back of the chair and held it up to study it. “A present from a nun?”

She snatched it from him, yanked down the zipper, and stepped into it. “From my mother.”

“That explains it. But it doesn’t answer my question.”

Struggling to zip up, she said, “I got a tip this afternoon about that missing girl, Cheryl Kenning. Remember her?”

“Twenty-year-old, reported missin’ by her grandparents. The NOPD found her hookin’, didn’t they?”

“That’s the one.” She jammed her feet into her high-heeled pumps. “I discovered that she was working for Goldie, and with a little digging I was able to come up with a list of his hangouts.”

Without asking permission, he spun around to frown at her. “And you thought you’d just ask him to point you in her general direction?”

“Give me some credit. I heard he carried his business ledger with him.” She rounded the desk to pull open the center drawer. Withdrawing a small black notebook, she waggled it, feeling smug. “This fell on the floor after I arranged to have him distracted. I managed to swipe it on my way out.”

“You arranged? The guy that provoked him was workin’ with you?”

One of the nice things about Lucky, she thought, as she dropped the notebook back in the drawer, was that he caught on so quickly. She never had to waste time explaining things.

Admiration sounded in his voice. “Very nice. Devious, yet simple.”

“Thank you. I learned from the master.” She went to her bag, withdrew a small purse that would match the dress, and began transferring a few things from the one she’d carried earlier. “Apparently each girl he has working for him frequents the same few locations. I’ll spend some time staking them out, and then when I can be certain of the location Cheryl frequents, I’ll let her grandparents know.”

“So they can do what? Kidnap her?”

Snapping her purse closed, she searched the bag for the flat jewelry box that held her grandmother’s pearls. Pushing aside a tiny sliver of uncertainty, she responded, “That will be up to them. My job was just to find her. Help me with these, will you?”

Lucky moved in back of her and took the two ends of the necklace and fastened the clasp. But when he was done, he didn’t step away. He turned her around, his hands remaining on her arms, his face serious. “She had a chance to leave that life the last time the police picked her up, and her grandparents were alerted. Maybe she doesn’t want to leave, have you ever thought of that? You may not approve of her choice, but she still has the right to make it.”

It wasn’t the first time they’d disagreed over a case. It wouldn’t be the last. Their backgrounds couldn’t be more different, and the difference was inevitably reflected in their attitudes. But knowing that, understanding it, didn’t make it any less annoying this time. “My approval doesn’t have anything to do with it. He might have gotten her hooked on drugs. Or she might be too afraid of him to leave. She’ll get her choice, and it won’t be tempered by fear or addiction.”

Not every case handled by Wheeler and Associates was imbued with moral implications. Most, as a matter of fact, bordered on the mundane. But there were cases, plural, and the knowledge filled Jacey with a quiet sense of satisfaction. She’d started the private investigation business as soon as she could get her hands on her trust-fund monies, over the vehement objections of her mother. She’d acquired the training, found the building and done the advertising. And then, for the better part of a year, she’d twiddled her thumbs.

It seemed that few in her circle of acquaintances had need for a PI, however upscale and discreet. And most who had stopped in had lost interest quickly when it became apparent that hers was a one-woman operation. That had abruptly changed when Lucky Boucher had walked through her door three years ago.

Rather than bringing her a case, he’d been looking for work. The idea had been laughable, since she couldn’t even keep herself busy. And he…he had been completely inappropriate, even if she had been considering employees. He was too rough, too unpolished and his background bordered on the unsavory. He’d also been impossible to get rid of.

He’d snatched the lone case file off her desk and read it over her furious objection. Then he’d left, after vowing to find the bail jumper she’d been hired to trace within twenty-four hours.

It had taken him six.

After two weeks and two more solved cases, his constant badgering had worn her down. Besides, as he’d pointed out then, he worked cheap. She’d hired him reluctantly, fully expecting him to tire of the job and move on within weeks. He’d surprised them both by staying. Even more shocking, they had somehow, along the way, become friends.

At least, she thought that was what they were. She trusted him, in a way she did no other, although at times it was difficult to tell just who was the boss and who was the employee. She seemed to spend most of her time reminding him.

He dropped his hands, freeing her. But instead of moving away, she frowned, reached up to touch the fresh bruise on his face. “Did your pool partner catch up with you after I left?”

He’d never been one to miss a chance to milk an opportunity. Making a show of wincing, he said, “No, this bouele was delivered by one of your would-be admirers. There were several who thought of followin’ you out of the bar. I convinced them otherwise.”

Rather than looking grateful, she appeared mildly amused. “So you were protecting me? Lucky, that’s so sweet.”

Discomfited, he shrugged. There was something about the woman that could make him feel like a tongue-tied twelve-year-old. He didn’t much care for the sensation. “Well, if one had hurt you, I’d have had to do all the work around here. Since I already carry more than my load, I was just thinkin’ of myself.”

She made a sound that almost qualified as a sniff, one she often used to denote derision and disagreement without having to do something as ill-bred as argue. It never failed to set his teeth on edge.

“I think I demonstrated my ability to take care of myself in there. Was that biker walking again by the time you left?”

He hadn’t been, but Lucky didn’t want to swell her head by telling her so. “Next time give him a good kick once he’s down. You want to disable him completely, not just piss him off.”

“Thank you so much.” From the sweet smile she was gracing him with, he was given the impression that she was considering carrying out his advice on him. “But I don’t have time for your lavish compliments.” She glanced at the clock and made a face, reaching for a ridiculously small purse. “I should have called for a cab, but it’s too late. And my mother is going to be impossible.”

“That goes without sayin’.” Impossible was a much more favorable description than any he would have come up with. He and Charlotte Marie Pembrooke Wheeler regarded each other with thinly veiled contempt.

“All right.” She gave a deep breath, smoothed her hair. “How do I look?”

With a critical eye, he surveyed her. “Prim as a librarian. A very dull librarian.”

“Why would I even ask you?” she muttered, opening her purse and taking out her lipstick. Crossing to a mirror on the opposite wall, she applied it carefully. “You’ve made your preferences regarding women’s attire all too clear.”

He slouched against the wall to watch her. “Low-cut top, short skirt, panties optional. Choices that never go out of fashion.”

“Any question about your fashion sense is answered by reading the shirts you insist on wearing.”

Offended, he looked down at his favorite black T-shirt, which proclaimed I love everybody. You’re next. “You’re just bein’ mean because you have to spend the evenin’ with your mother.”

She blotted her lipstick and dropped the tissue in the wastebasket. “I have to go. Lock up for me, will you? And don’t forget to set the alarm. And check the windows. And make sure the door closes tightly behind you. It kind of sticks, you know, and I’m afraid…”

He gave her a friendly nudge out the office door. “I know how to lock up. Go. Have as good a time as possible with the Witches of the South.”

He thought, he was almost certain, he heard a smile in her voice. “Sisters of the South. Thanks. And you get one of your girlfriends to look at that bruise. I’m sure, given your skills, you can appear pathetic enough to be plied with TLC all night.”

The thought was cheering. “If not, I’m losin’ my touch.” And there was no reason, none at all, to believe that was true. He stood watching while she dashed through the rain to the car she’d parked right in front of the business. It wasn’t until the taillights winked and she pulled away, that he turned back to the office, already flipping through a mental file. Who should he call? Desiree? Leanne? Monique? Reaching for the phone, he punched in a number. With a pitying look at the now-empty street, Lucky was certain of one thing. Whatever he ended up doing this evening, it would beat what Jacey had waiting for her, hands down.

Chapter 2

“I’ve made your apologies to the hostess.”

The first words Charlotte Wheeler spoke were delivered in her customary genteel voice, carefully modulated. But years of experience had Jacey reading the disapproval layered beneath. Your late arrival is insufferably rude. There is no reason, short of death, that could possibly excuse your tardiness.

And because no excuse would mollify her mother, least of all the truth, Jacey didn’t offer any. “Thank you. Have you found your table setting yet?”

Charlotte’s lips tightened just a fraction. “We’re seated together. I waited for you before dining. I didn’t want to disturb the others at our table by both of us holding up their meals.”

Years of practice had her skirting the verbal land mine. “Let’s sit then, shall we? You’re looking lovely tonight. I always like that color on you.”

That, at least, could be said honestly. Charlotte’s dress was the same bottle-green color as her eyes. She was sixty, and, thanks to a skilled and discreet plastic surgeon, looked fifteen years younger. Her brown hair was worn short, as Charlotte subscribed to the outdated belief that a woman of a certain age should never wear long hair. It wasn’t the only antiquated notion she clung to, nor the only one they disagreed upon.

Jacey followed her mother across the crowded room, stopping several times to return greetings and exchange pleasantries. The contrast between the staid dinner and the smoky bar she’d left less than an hour ago couldn’t be more stark. If her mother had her way, Jacey’s entire adult life would be filled with more of the same; an endless parade of boring functions, peopled by equally dull members of what passed for New Orleans’ high society.

A shudder worked down her spine at the thought. They were shown to their table by a white-jacketed waiter who seated them, then summoned another to bring their plates. Every time Jacey wearied of the constant battles with her mother over her choice of careers, she had only to think of events like this to feel her resolve stiffen. That strength was necessary. Battles with Charlotte Marie Pembrooke Wheeler could leave lasting wounds.

The upside of her tardiness was that she was still eating when the guest speaker was introduced, which gave her something to focus on besides what promised to be an excruciatingly long-winded speech. With an ease born of long practice, Jacey assumed a politely interested expression and tuned the woman out.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care about the plight of the walruses, which was the current issue of the moment for the Sisters of the South Auxillary. Jacey would be happy to write a check, which was the pitch the speaker was working up to. But it seemed like the venues selected for the fund-raisers—fancy dinners or formal balls—were a bit ironic. Why not spend the money instead on the cause itself, and eliminate one layer of cost?

Her mind drifted to her business. She needed more help. Not that there had been any truth to Lucky’s breezy assertion that he carried more than his share of the weight, but there was no denying that a third investigator would lighten the load for them both. It was a nice problem to have, especially since there had been a time a few years ago when she’d almost despaired of getting to this point. But her business had been self-supporting for two years now. She no longer had to dip into her trust fund to pay her bills. Joan, her secretary, had her hands full managing the office, but Jacey didn’t think they were yet at the place where they could keep another full-timer busy. She decided to advertise next week for part-time help, and have the new employee handle some of the research.

Twenty minutes later there was a burst of applause and Jacey joined in, already calculating how much longer she’d have to stay. She’d be required to mingle, of course. Her mother would insist on that. But with any luck she could fulfill her obligations and be home in an hour.

The thought of her comfortable home in the French Quarter beckoned. Once she got there she’d chase away the chill from the evening rain by wrapping up on her couch in a quilt, with a hot drink and maybe an ice pack for her knee. It still throbbed, just a bit from the blow she’d landed on the biker. She could only hope that he was nursing a far more serious injury.

She parted from her mother, making the rounds as quickly as she could manage. Jacey had just stopped to speak to Suzanne Shrever, a former classmate of hers, when she felt eyes on her. She turned around, scanning the crowd, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“Honestly, Jacinda,” Suzanne was saying, “I’m so envious of you with your exciting career. Is it very dangerous?”

That question was difficult to answer, Jacey thought, knowing that Suzanne’s idea of danger was hiring a new caterer.

“I’m careful,” she said, “and most of my work is routine. Missing persons, serving summonses, theft detection.” She was careful to remain vague. Although most of her cases were just that unexceptional, all she needed was for her mother to get wind of details such as her experience earlier today. She’d learned long ago that skirmishes with Charlotte were safer when she didn’t provide her with ammunition.

“Well,” Suzanne tossed her artfully styled curls, “I just think you’re the bravest thing. Bitsy didn’t think you’d show up here tonight, but I said that very thing, I said, well of course she will, Jacinda is just so brave.” She nodded vigorously.

The sensation was back, as if eyes were boring into her. “Well, that’s nice,” Jacey said inanely, scanning the crowd over the other woman’s shoulder. She found the source of the feeling standing across the room at the balcony doors. The man was instantly recognizable, with his mane of silver hair and neat mustache. J. Walter Garvey, a local shipping magnate, gave her a nod when their gazes met and then, with a slight inclination of his head toward the doors, he went outside.

Suzanne’s voice bubbled around her, but it might as well have been the drone of bees. Jacey looked around, trying and failing to see anyone else that the man might have been gesturing to. Curiosity, the bane of her existence, surged. More than half convinced she was going to make a fool of herself, she excused herself from her friend and made her way toward the half-open balcony door.

She found the older man leaning against the railing, smoking a thin cigar. The rain had stopped, but the early-fall air was still heavy with moisture. Jacey stepped outside and then hesitated, once again questioning her action. The Garvey family was reputed to be among the wealthiest in the city, due in no small part to the solitary man on the balcony. And although she knew him to speak to, having met him at various functions much like this one, she could think of no reason for him to seek her out.

“Close the door behind you and come here.” The man’s voice sounded a trifle testy. “There’s no telling how long I can dodge that throng inside. There’s always a few who’ll use an event like this one to try to hit me up about a new business venture.”

Jacey strolled over to his side, immediately wishing for a coat. She hadn’t thought to bring a wrap when she’d tossed some things into the car to change into after work. “Mr. Garvey.” She joined him at the railing, felt her skin dewed by the thick moisture in the air. “How have you been?”

“Not worth a damn.”

She smiled a little. She’d always appreciated his tendency to speak his mind. Her smile faded when, in the next instant he added, “I’m dying.”

Her face jerked to his, saw the truth of his words written there. “I’m sorry.” The words were simple, heartfelt.

He waved them away. “Cancer. Nothing to be done about it, and I’d appreciate you keeping this to yourself. Haven’t even told my family. I never could stand people blathering over me.”

No, pity wouldn’t be something this man would suffer easily. Even knowing as little as she did about him, Jacey recognized that. Rather than giving him any, she matched his matter-of-fact tone with one of her own. “What can I do?”

“I’m looking for someone to conduct research for me. I’ve considered several local investigative agencies, but think you might be better suited than most to fill this assignment.”

A quiet hum of pleasure filled her at his words, followed by a leap of interest. This was what she needed, this constant challenge of matching her wits to solve puzzles, work out problems. She liked to think she was good at it, too. “I’m glad to hear that.”

In the next moment he slipped out of his suit jacket and draped it around her shoulders. The old-fashioned courtliness of the gesture was at odds with his reputation for ruthlessness, both in business and with his family. “I’ve built Garvey Enterprises into a heavily diversified global operation. Started at a time when the business was more like bare-knuckled fighting than endless bickering in corporate boardrooms.” From his tone, it was easy to tell he much preferred the former. “I can’t take it with me when I die, and I don’t mind telling you, that fact irritates the hell out of me.”

She smiled, surveying him in the dim spill of light afforded through the closed balcony doors. “Who will step into your shoes when you’re gone?”

He gave a short nod of approval, drew on his cigar again. “You’ve cut to the heart of the matter. I’d heard you were quick. The fact is, Miss Wheeler, I don’t know the answer to that question. That’s where you come in.”

Brows skimming upward, she asked, “You want me to tell you who to leave your business to?”

“Few men are fortunate in both business and family. Or maybe I just failed with mine.” He gave a shrug that seemed more impatient than regretful. “My children were overindulged when they were young, and they haven’t improved with age. Rupert, my son, is a skirt-chasing spendthrift, and my daughter, Lianna, is a pea-brained socialite with the morals of an alley cat. Their offspring don’t look any more promising, but they’re all I’ve got to work with. I need you to find out more about them, their strengths, if they have any, as well as any weaknesses. If there’s one in the lot who’s worthy, there will still be a Garvey at the helm of the business, at least for another generation. If I decide, based on the information you find for me, that they’re all as useless as their parents…” He inhaled, then blew a perfect smoke ring. “Well, then the business will be completely incorporated, with each of the family members getting a small share, and no real power in the way it’s run.”

She studied the man, fascinated by the scene he’d detailed for her. “It must be difficult to contemplate your company in the hands of strangers.”

“Not as difficult as thinking of it in the hands of an incompetent, family or not.”

Jacey could appreciate the sentiment. Wheeler and Associates had been her brainchild. She’d been the one with the dream, the ambition, and the guts to see her vision come to life. She’d close the doors before she’d see it run improperly. “So you want me to look into the backgrounds of your grandchildren, then let you know what I find out.”

“That, and I want your personal observations on each.” Catching her look of surprise, he tapped his cigar on the railing to remove the ash, and then continued. “Any firm could get me the information I need, but you…you travel in the same circles. With your social connections, there isn’t a party or snooty affair you couldn’t get an invitation to, and that, my dear, is why I chose you. I’ve always thought if you really want to see what makes a person tick, observe them in a social arena like the one inside.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated the gathering on the other side of the doors. “Over time, everyone shows their true colors, and whether you love that type of thing or hate it as much as I do, these events can be a mine of information.”

The words cast a decided pall over her earlier enthusiasm. Glancing through the double doors, she gave an inner sigh. He was right, and she would have arrived at the same conclusion eventually. A good PI used every avenue at her disposal. It was surely a flaw in her genetic makeup that she would have preferred more nights like the one she’d spent in Frenchy’s than time spent at functions just like this one.

“What do you say, Miss Wheeler? Do you want the case?”

Without a hint of hesitation she answered, “Absolutely.”

“Good.” His tone suggested that he’d expected no other answer. He took her hand, pumped it hard twice before releasing it. “I’ll send over a file in the morning that will give you the basic data on each of my grandchildren, as well as my contact information. I’ll want regular updates.”

She nodded. “I’ll fill you in weekly. Would you like to come in to sign the contract, or should I have it delivered to you?”

“Deliver it to Garvey headquarters. The less we’re seen together the better chance we have of keeping our association under wraps.”

Now that he’d enlisted her cooperation, he appeared eager to be alone again. Jacey let the suit jacket slide off her shoulders and handed it to him. “I’ll talk to you soon,” she promised, and turned to walk toward the doors. Before entering the ballroom again, she took one last look at the man who’d just hired her.

Garvey was leaning heavily against the railing, the cigar in one hand, his jacket in the other. There was an aura of loneliness about his figure, one he would have been the first to deny. She felt a flicker of sympathy. Despite his family, the man was destined to die the same way he’d hacked out a niche in the corporate world. Alone.

Once inside, she looked for her mother to say her goodbyes and make her escape. But once she found her, Charlotte dashed Jacey’s hopes of salvaging a portion of the evening with a quiet hour or two at home before bed.

“Did you hire a limo or drive yourself?”

“I drove,” she said automatically, then immediately wished the words back. That would probably be enough to set her mother off on a disapproving lecture about maintaining appearances.

But this time Charlotte surprised her. “Wonderful, then you can give me a ride home. After John dropped me here, I gave him the rest of the night off.”

Jacey blinked in surprise. Her mother wasn’t exactly known for her largesse with employees. “I could call for a taxi if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’m right on your way.”

She was at least twenty minutes in the other direction, but Jacey pressed her lips together and did a mental count to ten. She could hardly refuse without seeming churlish, and making it appear that she didn’t want to spend any more time than possible in her mother’s presence.

Just because that fact happened to be true, didn’t make it any less discourteous.

Silently kissing away the fantasy she’d had of spending a couple of hours unwinding, she accompanied her mother in search of their hostess. Her temples began to throb. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that the headache would only worsen before the evening was over.

The gates to the huge estate swung open slowly, and Jacey nosed her car up the long circular drive. Darkness had fallen over the meticulous lawn and ornamental shrubbery. She had always thought the home looked best in the dark. With the windows lit from within, the mansion took on a deceptively warm and inviting air. In the daylight, its uncompromising lines and precise landscaping made it seem much more rigid, impersonal.

Much like its lone occupant.

“Just leave your car in front. I’ll have cook serve us tea in the drawing room.” As Jacey pulled to a stop, Charlotte’s hand went to the door handle.

“I really can’t come in, Mother. It’s been a long day and I have an early start tomorrow. But I’ll call you tomorrow night, I promise.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” With her usual tactics, Charlotte steamrollered over Jacey’s excuses. “We have to discuss this situation you’re in, and I refuse to do that over the phone.”

Situation? Jacey rubbed her temples as her mother got out of the car. The hammering within was taking on a life of its own. Had Charlotte overheard Garvey? Or had she somehow caught wind of what had occurred at Frenchy’s? She rejected both notions, even as she turned off the ignition and got out of the car. It would be just like her mother to be talking about her “little hobby,” as she liked to call Wheeler and Associates. She had a feeling that the upcoming conversation was one they’d had many times before, and there was no new ground to be covered.

Nevertheless, she followed her mother up the ornamental brick walk, and into the house. With her sore knee and headache, she was feeling just bitchy enough to be more blunt than usual when she told her mother to butt out. Again.

Charlotte was already replacing the receiver to the house phone in its cradle when Jacey stepped into the graceful drawing room. Like its owner, it was carefully accessorized to reflect elegance and good taste. With its paintings and objects of art it always reminded Jacey of a museum. Beautiful, but curiously lifeless.

“Well, this latest situation you’re embroiled in is embarrassing, to say the least. However, I have thought of a way for you to salvage a bit of dignity from the mess.” Charlotte heaved a sigh, and set her purse on the walnut credenza.

“Why don’t you let me decide what’s right for me, Mother? I’ve been an adult for some time now.”

She might as well not have spoken. Charlotte was continuing. “It’s not totally your fault, of course. I must say, I never expected Peter to behave so badly. But he is a man, after all, and you can be assured that people will be more forgiving of his boorishness than they would be of a woman’s.” She sat on the Louis XXIV armchair, and waved Jacey to the nearby matching settee.

She remained standing, attempting to make sense of her mother’s words. “Peter? My Peter? Why? What has he done?”

Charlotte looked coolly amused for a moment. “Well, he’s hardly yours anymore, now is he?”

The conversation was taking on the complication of a maze. “No, that is, we’re on a break, but…” Jacey shook the unusual muzziness from her brain and demanded, “Why don’t you just tell me what you’re talking about? What is this about Peter Brummond?”

As an answer Charlotte rose, went to the French provincial desk in the corner of the room and returned with a cream-colored envelope, which she handed to her daughter. With impatience mounting, Jacey opened the flap to withdraw a heavily embossed invitation and scanned it quickly. Then she stopped, stared harder at the note in her hand, and sat down heavily on the settee.

You are cordially invited to an engagement party for Peter Alexander Brummond and Celeste Emilie Longwaite, to be held…

“Good heavens, you really didn’t know? Don’t tell me he compounded his gauche behavior by not even inviting you?”

She tried to swallow, found her throat too dry. She had a mental flash of a very similar envelope lying, still unopened on her hallway table, with a pile of other correspondence she hadn’t gotten around to yet.

“No. I mean, yes, I received one, but I’ve been so busy…” Her voice trailed off as she continued to gaze at the invitation, as if she could make sense of it through sheer force of will. Peter was getting married. To someone else.

“You really have to open your mail promptly, Jacinda.” Exasperation sounded in her mother’s voice. “I’m surprised someone at the Auxilliary tonight didn’t mention this to you, and just think how difficult that would have been.”

Difficult. A wild laugh welled up in Jacey’s throat. She only barely managed to restrain it. Yes, she supposed it would have been difficult to hear from an acquaintance that the man she’d parted from three months ago in a mutual agreement to—“take a break for a bit and see where we’re at”—had, in that time, met someone else and proposed marriage to her. A proposal he hadn’t tendered to Jacey during their eighteen months together.

Not that she’d wanted him to. But still.

“I think Suzanne might have been referring to it tonight, but I wasn’t really paying attention,” she murmured, the invitation clutched tightly in her fingers. She raised her gaze to meet her mother’s, nearly flinched. There was a sort of impatient pity in the woman’s eyes that was somehow harder to face than the usual biting disapproval.

“Suzanne Shrever is an addlepated gossip. But I’m sure she’s not saying anything that isn’t being repeated ad nauseum in our circle.” An expression of distaste crossed her face. There was little Charlotte Wheeler abhorred more than being the target of gossip. “Damage control is of paramount importance at this point.”

“Damage control.” A blessed sort of numbness had settled over Jacey. “This isn’t a military operation, Mother.” She had a brief mental flash of Charlotte in uniform, stars on her shoulders, helmet and jack boots. She wasn’t so certain the woman hadn’t missed her calling.

“Reputations are fragile things, Jacinda. I’ve let it be known, quietly of course, that you’ve been seeing someone from out of town. We’ll have to act quickly so that you can line up an escort in time for the party. Had you answered any of my phone messages for the last week, we could have already gotten started on this.”

The words seemed to come from a distance. Anger burned through Jacey’s numbness. How dare Peter do this to her! The emotion was welcome, and she seized on it gratefully. It was easier to focus on than to acknowledge the rest of the tangled feelings crashing through her. Humiliation. Shock. Hurt.

A glance at her mother’s face had her shoving all that aside for the moment. She needed every wit about her in order to deal with Charlotte. “That won’t be necessary. I’m not going.”

“Of course you’ll go.” The certainty in her tone had Jacey’s jaw tightening. “Your failure to appear will only set people to talking even more. I’ll have Dorothy Genesson tell her bridge group that you’ll be bringing the new man in your life. She’ll hint about the seriousness of your relationship, and then we’ll let the word get around. You won’t have to stay long, but to save face you do have to attend, and appear madly happy with your current companion.”

Dorothy Genesson was as close to a best friend as Charlotte had. Both of them had been widowed for nearly ten years, and neither were eager to change that status. “Very Machiavellian, Mother. But there is no new man in my life.” Not that she had missed the lack overmuch in the last few months. “And I tend to think that beating the bushes for a man to playact with at the engagement party is even more pathetic than showing up alone, or not at all.”

“You always put the most negative spin on things. One does what the situation calls for.”

Just for a moment, Jacey thought of the biker she’d dropped earlier that evening. Somehow she didn’t think Charlotte would appreciate the association. “That’s always been my philosophy.”

“Excellent.” Her mother crossed to her and handed her a paper with a list of names printed neatly on it. Each was followed by an address and phone number. She must have taken it from the desk when she’d retrieved the invitation. “Dorothy and I put our heads together and came up with this list of five men. Each lives out of town, is single and would be a suitable escort. I assumed you’d like to do the contact and final selection yourself.”

The sheer gall of the action left Jacey speechless for a moment. Incredulity shredded that reaction, though, and quickly. “You’ve got to be joking. You expect me to call up some total strangers and beg for a date to my ex-boyfriend’s engagement party? This sounds like the plot for a very bad chick-flick.”

“Don’t be irreverent.” Charlotte sat down again. “You needn’t pursue a relationship with the man you decide upon, although any of the five would be quite appropriate, if you should decide to do so.”

“I’ll bet.” Cynicism flickered. She imagined that her mother had examined the bloodlines and portfolios of each and every candidate before placing his name on the list. “If I remember correctly, you approved of Peter, too, until quite recently.”

Voice sharpening, Charlotte said, “I won’t tolerate your impudence, Jacinda. Peter Brummond would have made an excellent match, and you have only yourself to blame for this fiasco.”

Settling back against the uncomfortable settee, Jacey readied for battle. This, then, was the crux of the conversation. Not the faux sympathy, nor the matter-of-fact plotting. If truth be known, she had far more experience dealing with her mother’s censure than with her understanding. “How exactly is that, Mother? Should I have had him shackled after we broke up so that he couldn’t meet anyone else?” She pretended to consider the idea. “Possible, perhaps, but leg irons are so difficult to come by.”

“If you had played your cards right, you could have finessed a proposal from him and this invitation would have your name on it, instead of that of some little social climber from Baton Rouge. You certainly had the time.”

“Finessed a proposal.” To give her hands something to do, she smoothed her dress over her legs. “That sounds very romantic.”

“You know what I mean. Romance is vastly overrated in these situations, at any rate. What matters most are similar backgrounds, breeding and position.”

She’d heard her mother’s views on marriage often enough to repeat them verbatim. They saddened and terrified her by turn. “If Peter and I had been interested in marriage, don’t you think it would have come up over the course of eighteen months?”

“If he wasn’t interested, you can blame that hobby of yours. What man wants to be married to a woman who insists on dealing with the criminal element all day long, and most weekends, as well?”

She opened her mouth, intending to straighten her mother out about her job again, then closed it. It was useless, and it really wasn’t the issue here.

Charlotte went on. “I just don’t understand you anymore, Jacinda. You never used to be so difficult. You were always such a pliable girl.”

Weak, Jacey silently interpreted. Scared of her mother’s displeasure, which could be earned so easily. Anxious to do whatever it took to please her, until she found that by doing so she was very rarely pleasing herself. It was shaming to admit, even to herself, just how much courage it had taken to stand up to Charlotte about her choice of careers. A lifetime of choosing the path of least resistance, she’d found, hadn’t prepared her for the task.

However, constant practice was making it easier.

The jackhammering in her temples made it difficult to concentrate. She rose. There was nothing left to say, at any point. “I have to leave, Mother. I…appreciate the worry you’ve gone through. But don’t concern yourself. I’ll take care of it.”

She began to cross to the door. Charlotte stood as well, just as the cook, Luella, entered with a tray of tea. “Don’t go yet. We need to develop a plan of action.”

“No, we don’t need to do anything. This is my problem, and I’ll take care of it in my own way.” Taking advantage of her mother’s unwillingness to discuss anything personal in front of the servants, Jacey continued with her escape. “I’ll call you in a couple of days, all right?”

There was no mistaking the disapproval in Charlotte’s silence, but Jacey was far past a time when it could change her mind. Slipping out the heavy front door, she hurried down the steps and to the car, a familiar sense of relief nearly swamping her.

Those who turn and run away live to fight another day. Her father’s oft-repeated saying sounded in her mind. It had always been accompanied with a conspiratorial wink. He hadn’t been one to confront his wife on many matters, opting instead for peaceful co-existence.

The rain had grown heavier. The streetlights shot the wet pavement with tiny splinters of light. She drove slowly, her headlights barely denting the inky darkness. Her earlier relief began to dissipate as the full weight of the situation struck her.

She supposed, by her mother’s definition, she and Peter had been perfectly matched. With his tall blond good looks, they’d made, Charlotte had often said, a handsome couple. Certainly he’d come from a family whose background and fortune had been deemed appropriate by her mother, as well. Jacey had known him since she was a child, and she’d wondered, the last several months of their relationship, if that long acquaintance was to blame for the lack of any real…passion between them. They’d seemed more like a couple married twenty years than two people supposedly in love.

She didn’t even remember now which of them had first proposed the idea of stepping back from the relationship for a while. It had been Peter, she was almost certain of it, but she’d seized on the idea with an eagerness that had been just as telling. And there was no use being less than honest, nothing she’d experienced during their time apart had made her regret the decision.

Traffic was light. Those who didn’t have to venture out into the rain were probably snugged warmly inside their homes. The idea of doing the same lacked the appeal it had presented an hour ago.

Truth be told, when she’d recognized Peter’s return address on the mail that had been delivered, she’d dreaded opening it. It had been easier to put it off until she had a free evening to devote to handling her personal correspondence. Hardly the reaction of someone pining for her lost love.

Grimacing, she turned on to St. Ann Street. She never would have described herself as contrary, Charlotte’s opinions aside. So why this welter of emotion now, brewing and bubbling inside her? Apparently, she was a bit more temperamental than she’d realized.

She brought her car to a stop in front of her Creole-style house, for once not pausing to take pleasure in the double verandas, the enclosed courtyard. Resting her forehead against the steering wheel, she let the events of the last hour swamp her.

She’d been dumped, in as public a way possible. And as much as it pained her to admit it, her mother had been right about one thing.

She was going to have to start planning just how she was going to deal with it.

Chapter 3

“I come bearin’po’boys.” Lucky pushed Jacey’s office door open the rest of the way and held up the bag of food, waggling it enticingly.

She didn’t look up from the papers she had strewn across her desk. “I’m not hungry.”

He came into the office anyway, pushing the door closed with his shoulder. “It’s almost closin’ time and Joan told me you didn’t have lunch. You have to eat. Men like curves on their women, not all bones and angles.”

She did glance up then, and the look she gave him would have sent most scurrying out the door. But Lucky considered himself a courageous enough sort. Besides, he happened to know her weaknesses.

“It may surprise you to discover that what men like is not a maxim that dictates my every action.”

He made a show of opening the sack, inhaling deeply. “It may surprise you to discover that these sandwiches are made with Leidenheimer’s bread.” He saw, and enjoyed, the way her expression changed. “But I forgot. You don’t like Ferdis anyway, right?”

“No.”

He noted her gaze never left him as he stopped at the curved-leg library table she used when conferring with clients. “Too bad about that. Me, I’m extra hungry today. But I’m not sure I can eat both of these. Maybe I will save the ham with roast beef gravy to eat later.”

“Beast.”

She could, he noted with sheer male appreciation, move quite quickly when she wanted to. She was out of her seat and had snatched the sandwich from him before he could even finish teasing her with it.

“I guess I could eat something after all.”

“And to wash it down…” He reached into the bag and withdrew two beers. He couldn’t really imagine Jacey drinking a beer. She was more the wine and champagne type. He was counting on her turning it down, leaving more for him. He happened to know she kept some fancy flavored water in the small ice box tucked beneath the counter.

She snuck a look at the closed door. “I don’t want alcohol on the premises, Lucky.”

“Relax.” He slouched low in one chair, hooked the one across from him with his foot to drag it closer. “Joan was on her way out as I came in. Something about a church dinner.” He stretched out, propping his legs on the opposite chair and crossing them at the ankles. The secretary was a straitlaced teetotaler. Her views on the evils of liquor were well known in the office.

“In that case…” Jacey reached out and swiped the second beer from him.

He attempted to hide his dismay. “You don’t even like beer. Do you?”

“Probably not, but this will teach you to bring something I do like the next time, won’t it?”

Giving in gracefully, he leaned over to twist the top off her bottle, then dealt with his own. “Last night was pretty bad, huh?”

“It was okay.” She bit into her sandwich, eyelids sliding shut in real bliss.

Her guarded tone didn’t fool him. He had reason to know that any amount of time spent in the company of Charlotte Wheeler could leave lasting ill effects. “You’ve been holed up in here since dawn this morning, and from the looks of you, you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

He knew her well enough to recognize the signs. She was wearing what he always thought of as one of her frighteningly capable power suits. The trim-fitting red jacket and skirt might have been sexy if she’d gotten rid of the no-nonsense buttoned-up blouse beneath. She had her hair scraped up into a knot, and wire-rim glasses perched on her nose, which meant she hadn’t put her contacts in. He’d always thought it weird that someone with her money hadn’t gone for that new eye surgery everyone talked about, until he’d discovered that she was deathly afraid of needles.

“What did Charlotte do this time?” He bit into the sandwich, never taking his eyes off the woman across from him. Interaction between mother and daughter often left Jacey driven and focused for days, as if renewed dedication to her job could alleviate her mother’s disapproval.

“Nothing. I’ve just been busy today, that’s all. I’ve decided to hire some part-time help so I wrote up a job description and ad for the paper. And the fund-raiser last night wasn’t a total loss. I picked up a case and I’ve been preparing a contract. The file arrived this afternoon.”

Interest flared. “Tell me about it.” He listened intently as she relayed the conversation she’d had with J. Walter Garvey. He’d heard of the man, of course. It would be difficult to live in New Orleans and be ignorant of Garvey Enterprises, although he couldn’t say with certainty just exactly what the man’s business entailed.

By the time she’d finished, he’d polished off his sandwich, while she’d barely touched her own. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he reached out to snag his beer with two fingers. “So he’s going to decide who to leave his company to based on the dirt you dig up on his grandchildren?”

He had to wait until she’d finished chewing and swallowing her bite of sandwich before she responded. “By my initial calculations his business is estimated in the billions. So I guess you can’t blame him for wanting to be sure his successor has the ability to take his place at the helm.”

Lucky tipped the bottle to his lips and drank. “Why do I have the feelin’ that Garvey wouldn’t consider anyone worthy to take over for him?”

She gave a delicate shrug and continued eating. He took a moment to enjoy the sight. There was really no elegant way to eat a po’boy, but she came closer than most to making the task look refined. He liked her best in moments like these, when she forgot the manners that had no doubt been hammered into her from birth, and just enjoyed herself.

There had been a time, when he’d first met her, when he’d been convinced that she was just another deb with a pretty shell, possessing more money than sense. A time when he’d been certain that her insistence on dabbling in private investigative work was going to get her seriously hurt.

But there had been something about her from the first, a competence he hadn’t expected, and a hint of vulnerability that shredded him on the rare occasions it peeked through. The first had earned his eventual respect, the second a pesky thread of protectiveness. He’d been far more surprised than she when he’d decided to stay on three years ago. The time he’d spent employed at Wheeler and Associates was the longest he’d ever stuck at anything. Because the realization always filled him with a mild sense of panic, he preferred not thinking about it at all.

Draining his beer, he set it down and eyed hers, which hadn’t been touched yet. “How many grandchildren are there?”

“Four. Rupert has three children, two sons and a daughter, all by different women. So I guess they’re all really half-siblings. Lianna has one son. The four range in age from twenty-five to thirty-six.”

“Do you know them?”

“I’ve run into all of Rupert’s children on occasion at various functions. I don’t recognize the name of Lianna’s son, Jeffrey Wharton. While she was married she lived in Boston, and apparently the boy bounced back and forth between her and her ex-husband for most of his life. According to the file, he’s been living in New Orleans for the last six months.”

She slapped his hand just as his fingers would have closed around her bottle. He adopted what he hoped was a wounded expression. “C’mon cher, you know you’re not goin’ to drink that. Don’t be mean.”

“Yes, I am.” To prove it, she lifted the bottle to her lips and took a long pull. Immediately her eyes squeezed shut, and she choked a little. “That’s…” She hauled in a deep breath, smoothed her expression. “That’s excellent.”

He laughed out loud, delighted with her. “It’s an acquired taste, and one I wouldn’t have thought to your likin’. By all means, finish it.”

“I intend to.” She’d do just that to prove a point, and damned if he wasn’t going to enjoy watching her. Taking a more cautious sip the next time, she managed to swallow without grimacing. “Thank you for the sandwich. I guess I have been a bit single-minded today.”

Lucky stood, began gathering up the wrappers and shoving them back in the bag. “You mean uptight? Oui, just a bit.” He, on the other hand, had come to work feeling loose and relaxed. A long night of steamy sex had that effect on a man. He would have suggested that she engage in the same, but given her choice in male companions, he doubted her experience would produce similar results. She tended to choose men who were little more than empty suits, all surface polish with no real substance beneath. Although she’d broken away from her high-society upbringing in her choice of careers, she didn’t seem able to shake it when it came to the men in her life.

He stood, wadded the bag in his hand and banked it into the wastebasket. Noticing the way she was working her shoulder, he moved to stand behind her. “Here, let me.” When she would have batted his hands away, he dug his fingers into the tight muscles, eliciting a groan.

“How do you do that?”

“We all have our talents. Yours is turnin’ oversized bikers into eunuchs, and mine is loosenin’ up tight muscles.” He used his thumb to rub along her nape. “You’re all knots.”

“I tossed and turned most of the night.” She let her head loll, allowing him better access. “I woke up stiff.”

Her lack of sleep could no doubt be laid squarely at her mother’s doorstep, but bringing up the woman’s name would just have her tensing again. “You need to learn how to relax.”

“So you always say.” She rolled her shoulders. He thought the muscles there were already becoming more pliable. “M-mm, with your talent, you could become a professional at this.”

“Fa’true?” He pretended to consider it. “Maybe I’ll just do that. I could stop slavin’ away for you on that paltry salary you pay me and open my own business.” He pretended not to hear the sound she made in response. “Yeah, I’m thinkin’ of buying a van with equipment inside it. I could make housecalls first thing in the mornin’ to provide wake-up massages for the stressed out-women of the city. I could call it…Loosen up with Lucky.”

She tilted her head back to look at him. “Why not? I know of some dog groomers who work that way. They go to the customers’ homes and provide the service in the back of their vans. You might even want to offer some of the same services they do—I’m sure some of the ‘clients’ you’d acquire could benefit from a good flea dip.”

Lucky’s chuckle joined her laughter, even as he lowered his face to hers to growl in mock menace, “You’re a cruel woman, cher, to trample a man’s dreams that way.”

“Dreams? Don’t you mean fantasies?”

“Oui, and now I have a far different fantasy in mind, one that involves…” He broke off as he heard a sound in the outer office. In the next moment the door to Jacey’s office was pushed open, and a man filled the doorway.

Time stilled for an instant as the three of them froze. In the next second Jacey straightened abruptly, in a move designed to dislodge Lucky’s hands. He was just contrary enough to keep them in place. “Brummond.” His fingers resumed their kneading motion. “Haven’t seen you around for a while.” His grin was as careless as his words. “Can’t say I’ve missed you.”

Peter Brummond stepped into the office, his gaze first taking in the placement of Lucky’s hands, then the bottle in Jacey’s hand.

“Jacinda.” The word was stiff. “I apologize if I’m interrupting.”

“We just finished a working dinner.” Jacey tried to rise, but Lucky’s placement behind her chair prevented it. She turned and shot him a telling glance. “It’s after five, Lucky. Lock up on your way out, will you?”

As a dismissal it was fairly obvious. There was no reason for it to burn the way it did. “Are you sure?” As far as he could tell, dropping Brummond a few months ago had been one of Jacey’s smartest moves. “We really weren’t finished here.”

Her smile was tight, but her eyes held a plea, one he couldn’t help but respond to. “I’m sure.”

He didn’t have to feign his reluctance. He didn’t know what Brummond’s presence here after all this time meant, but he was pretty damn certain it couldn’t be good. Slowly, he let his hands drop from her shoulders and rounded the table. The other man stepped aside, allowing him room to pass, then shut the door behind him.

“What was that all about?”

If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought there was a note of jealousy in Peter’s voice, but that was ridiculous. Peter was getting married. He’d made his choice. Both of them had.

“Please sit down.” The graciousness in her voice would have made her mother proud. “I must admit I’m a bit surprised to see you, though.”

The man had the grace to flush. He lowered himself to a chair opposite Jacey’s. “Believe me, I know I’ve handled this badly. I wanted to talk to you a dozen times, but I just…I didn’t know what to say. Or how to say it.”

“I understand congratulations are in order. Have the two of you set a date yet?” She had the distant realization that she’d never seen Peter Brummond so discomfited. It would have been satisfying if she weren’t so intensely uncomfortable herself.

“We’re…it will be a small ceremony. Private. That’s why Mother insisted on the engagement affair. You know how she likes a party.”

What Audrey Brummond loved most, Jacey recalled, was having the spotlight on her and her family. She couldn’t imagine that a private wedding ceremony had been Peter’s mother’s idea, hence the engagement party.

Peter fidgeted in his seat. His blond good looks were just as polished as she remembered, saved from conventional handsomeness by a chin that was a shade too weak. “This thing with Celeste…well, it took me by surprise, too. That is, it all happened so quickly…”

“You and I were no longer seeing each other,” Jacey put in smoothly. “You had a right to date other women.”

His expression eased a fraction. “That’s true. I still felt though, that as a courtesy I should have informed you, but there never seemed an opportune moment.”

“The announcement did take me aback,” Jacey conceded in masterful understatement. Never had Miss Denoue’s deportment classes come in so handy. She was hardly tempted at all to brain the man with the paperweight on the desk behind her. “But we’ve known each other a long time. I’m happy for you, Peter. I’ll be there at the engagement party with the rest of your friends wishing you and your fiancée all the best.”

For some reason his face grew pained. “About that…Mother told me that she’d sent you an invitation. And of course I want you there, you have to believe that. But it’s bound to be a trifle awkward, don’t you think?”

Little bubbles of anger fired through her veins as comprehension washed over her. Jacey’s fingers tightened on the bottle in her hand. The insufferable jerk hadn’t come to apologize at all. Oh, he’d done an excellent job with the downcast eyes and contrite expression, but the man had always been a master of getting what he wanted.

And it was obvious that what he wanted was for her to stay far away from his engagement party.

Because the temptation to use the bottle on him was growing too strong, she set it aside. The polite thing to do, of course, was to agree. In their world, appearances were everything. Her absence from the event would certainly ease things for him and his fiancée.

The fact that it would almost certainly worsen things for her wasn’t a matter either of them were supposed to discuss.

“Awkward? Do you really think so?” She hoped the smile she sent him revealed none of the smoldering anger she was experiencing. “I tend to think we’d do a better job of quieting the gossips if people see us together. Then they’ll realize we remain friends and the rumors will die down.”

One of his hands went to his jacket pocket, a sure sign of his nerves. She could hear the faint jingle of keys. “Of course, that’s logical. And that’s exactly what I’ve told Celeste. But she’s a bit on the shy side, and she’s afraid the whole matter will become uncomfortable. She’s not as adept with these situations as you and I are.”

“Oh, dear.” She hoped her tone sounded appropriately sympathetic. It was difficult to summon real empathy for a man she could quite cheerfully push in front of an oncoming bus. “I wouldn’t distress your fiancée for the world, but I really think it’s best if I made an appearance. You know how pesky the rumor mill can be. And while your marriage will end the talk about you, I think my absence from the party will fan the flames of gossip about me. And I’m really not willing to undergo it, Peter. I’d hope you’d want to spare me that.”

There was a sort of remote pleasure in watching the man squirm. Quite literally. “Of course not. That wasn’t my intention at all.”

“Good.” She smiled at him, rose. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could maintain this charade. “So I’ll see you…when was the date again?”

“This Saturday.” He was slower to get to his feet. Having failed at what he’d come here for, he was clearly not anxious to leave. But he was too much of a gentleman to press his point. A shallow, weak-willed, stuffy mama’s boy, but a gentleman, nonetheless. “You’re certainly welcome to come. I hope I didn’t give the impression that you weren’t.”

The man couldn’t even manage to imbue the words with a scrap of sincerity. That made it almost easy for Jacey to nod and say, “Wonderful. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Five minutes later when Lucky stuck his head in the door, his eyes widened comically when he saw her drain the bottle of now-warm beer and slam it on the table. Catching his gaze, she lied, “Delightful. Too bad you didn’t bring a few more. Did you lock the front door?”

“About ten minutes too late, but yeah.” He came into the room, his face quizzical.

“Good.” She pushed away from the table and went to her desk. “I’m going to stay a while longer, but there’s no reason for you to hang around. You’re always whining about me working you too hard. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She looked down sightlessly at the file folders arranged in neat piles on her desk. What she needed right now was to get lost in her work. There were still numerous details about the Garvey case to work out. It would probably work best if she and Lucky divided up the four potential heirs and then consulted daily on their findings. Although perhaps it would be smarter to…

With two arms braced on her desk, Lucky leaned toward her. She hadn’t even heard his approach. The man moved like a cat. “What happened?”

Striving to recapture the insouciance she’d managed with Brummond, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “You mean with Peter? Nothing at all. Why do you ask?”

But unlike the other man, the cool tone didn’t seem to fool Lucky. His dark gaze intent, he said softly, “Don’t lie to me, Jacey. You don’t want to tell me, then say that. But no lies. I think we owe each other better, n’est ce pas?”

Feeling a bit ashamed, she gave up the pretense of interest in the files and met his gaze. “Peter is getting married. Soon. As a matter of fact, there’s going to be an engagement party for him and his fiancée this weekend.”

His face was watchful. “He came here to tell you that?”

The knots were back in her shoulders. She leaned back in her chair, suddenly weary. “I would have found out for myself if I had opened the invitation that came to my house. As it turns out, I learned from my mother last night.” She made a face. “She’s not happy that I let him slip through my fingers.”

“So…what was he doin’ here?”

She gave a humorless smile. “Well, that depends on your interpretation, I imagine. Since I’m not in a particularly charitable mood, I’d say he was dispatched by his fiancée to make sure my appearance didn’t mar her special night.”

Pushing away from the desk, he rounded the corner and propped his hips against the side. Arms folded, he inquired, “And you told him…what?”

“That I wasn’t willing to give the gossips more fuel. Damn.” Lucky’s eyes widened a fraction as the unfamiliar curse passed her lips. “I’d rather face a ten-inch needle than put myself through facing all those people at his party.” Every one of them would be watching, judging her every expression and word. Just the thought had dread snaking through her belly.

“So don’t go.”

“I don’t have a choice.” Hearing the words, she corrected them. “I mean, I have choices, but I don’t like either of them. When it comes down to it, I refuse to allow myself to be the target of speculation. I’ll go, hold my head up and put on the show of my life. And I’ll detest every minute of it.” She met his gaze. “I guess that means I have more of my mother in me than I thought.”

“It means you have pride. There’s nothin’ wrong with that.”

As awful as the beer had tasted, Jacey wished she had another. There was a sort of pleasant haze drifting over her, blunting the edges of her emotions. She’d never been much of a drinker. “What would you do if it were you?”

“I’d do exactly what you plan to. People will talk regardless. At least this way you can direct what they’re going to say.”

She considered that, before nodding. “Exactly. I’m not going to take my mother’s advice, though. She gave me a carefully prepared list of eligible bachelors from which to choose an escort. I had the impression they also met her requirements for a son-in-law.”

His face went impassive. “For once, Charlotte and I agree on something. If people think you’re involved with someone else you remove the drama from the scene. You don’t need her list, though. I’ll take you myself.”

A wave of warmth flooded her at the mere thought. Showing up with Lucky in tow wouldn’t stem talk about her, it would only stoke it. But there’d be no pitying looks directed her way with him by her side. Just because she was immune to his brand of charm herself, didn’t mean she was unaware of his effect on most other females. He’d be fortunate to escape the party without landing several propositions from the women, and more than a few hostile exchanges from the men.

A smile played across her lips. It would be almost worth suffering her mother’s wrath just to watch the impact he’d make accompanying her. With a reluctant shake of her head, though, she dismissed the idea. “You’d hate that sort of thing.”

“So you will owe me, c’est tout.” The wicked glint in his eye gave lie to his nonchalant shrug. “What’s a favor among friends?”

“I’d hate to guess what you’d demand in return. No, I’ll think of something.” Something, she hoped, that would leave her with a measure of dignity intact. And if it also included a way to maim Peter, she’d consider that a bonus. The situation was uncomfortable, but hardly rose to the level of catastrophic, no matter what her mother feared.

All she had to do between now and Saturday was to come up with a way to convince her friends and acquaintances that she was unaffected by the whole turn of events.

Piece of cake.

Chapter 4

Lucky walked down Bourbon Street, taking in the familiar sights. T-Bone was on his regular corner, clad in silver clothes with silver paint covering his face, neck and hands. The pose he struck was so still he could have passed for a discarded store mannequin. He was one of many street performers who dotted the corners, depending on the largesse of tourists for their living. By the looks of the small crowd gathering, T-Bone was having a good night.

Jamming his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Lucky strolled up and stared at the unmoving man. T-Bone did an excellent job of ignoring his presence.

“How does he stand so still?” one woman wondered aloud. “He hardly seems to be breathing.”

“Oh, that’s easy, ma’am.” Lucky smiled wickedly. “See, T-Bone here is deaf and dumb. Mostly just dumb.” He thought, he was almost certain, he saw the man’s eyes flicker. Warming up to his story, he donned a thick good-ol’-boy accent and told the crowd, “How I know that is, we’re cousins, him and me. You can’t see the family resemblance ’cuz of the silver paint and all. Not that we look all that much alike because, well,” he looked around at the rapt people, and lowered his voice conspiratorially, “T-Bone here is the ugly one in the family. Our granny used to have to tie a pork chop around his neck just to get the dogs to play with him.” There was a snicker, and T-Bone’s lips compressed a fraction. “Plus he’s lazy as a tarred hog, so standin’ around on street corners is about all that boy is up for.”

“Damn you, Boucher, keep on trash-talking me and I’ll stomp a mudhole in you.” T-Bone dropped his pose and stepped down from the upside-down bucket he was perched on. The tourists, giving him a wide berth now, hurried away. The man looked after them mournfully. “Now why’d you want and go and do that? Some people appreciate art.”

“So maybe they’re headin’ for a museum. Hey, have you seen Remy today?”

T-Bone gave him a crafty look. “What’s the information worth to you?”

“I’ll let you keep those bills in that box there.” The cigar box in front of T-Bone’s bucket was filled with a few bills and coins. He knew the bulk of the money would already have been placed for safe-keeping in an inner pocket sewed inside T-Bone’s shirt.

The other man made a sound of derision, but he was careful to shove the box behind him with one foot. “Yeah, I saw Remy earlier. Maybe an hour ago. He was in some hurry, too. I think he was working.”

Lucky nodded. At ten o’clock at night, he’d expected no less. “Which direction was he headed?”

With his eye on a couple of pairs of tourists headed in their direction, T-Bone abruptly lost interest in the conversation. Climbing back up on the pail to assume his position, he jerked a thumb in the opposite direction and said, “That way. Now beat it before this next group gets here. And don’t be telling people no more that we’re related, either. Out of all the lies you told there, that was the worst.”

“From what I hear of my pauvre defante maman, we just might be.” Lucky chuckled at the man’s muttered epithet and headed down the street and around the corner in the direction he had indicated.

The streets were still full of people. Tourism would be brisk for another couple of months, then slow until Mardi Gras. Unlike some of the city’s residents, Lucky didn’t mind sharing his city with the visitors. He understood their fascination with the place. There was a slight air of decadence to the city that never failed to intrigue. Beneath a thin veneer of polish there was an aura of decay that could never be completely disguised. The city fathers preferred to believe it didn’t exist. But as one who’d spent more than his share of time living on these streets, he could attest that it did. In spite of it, or perhaps because of it, he’d been drawn to the city from the first time he’d come here from bayou country when he was nineteen. He’d never wanted to live anyplace else, although there had been plenty of times when just living had been a constant struggle.

Lucky looked up in response to some calls overhead, and took a second to grin appreciatively at the sight of scantily clad women enticing passersby in to the strip club where they worked. Their faces were painted as garishly as the flickering neon sign out front. They couldn’t tempt him, however. He needed to find his friend, and the sooner the better.

He stopped at a corner where an elderly black man was playing a mournful jazz tune on the sax. He waited until he was finished, and set the instrument down. “Lucky. Where y’at?”

“Hey, Grayson. I’m lookin’ for Remy. Did he come by?”

“Saw him a while ago. Looked to be in a hurry, too.” The old man’s wrinkled face took on a thoughtful air. “Maybe forty-five minutes ago. Headed that way.”

Lucky’s gaze followed the old man’s gnarled finger. Dropping some money into his box, he continued on his way. “Next time bring me foldin’ money, not rollin’ money, Boucher,” the man called after him. He hunched a shoulder in response.

The farther he strayed from the tourist destinations, the narrower the streets became. Many of the streetlights had been broken out long ago. What appeared as a slightly seedy reminder of a bygone era in the French Quarter deteriorated into indisputable roughness in this neighborhood. There was a time when Lucky had belonged on these same streets, had known them as well as he knew his own reflection in the mirror. Even after three years, they still felt like home.

He stepped into the street to avoid tripping over the body sprawled across the sidewalk in front of a tavern. In doing so, he almost missed Remy altogether. A barely audible sound caught his attention. He turned and scanned the area. Spying the alley ten yards away, he backtracked and crossed close enough to it to peer in.

Two men were on the ground rolling in the dirt, trading blows. Although the interior of the alley was too dark to identify either of them, Lucky did recognize his friend’s style. He sent a quick glance up and down the street to assure himself there was no law enforcement in the area, and then stepped into the alley. Leaning a shoulder against a bordering building, he waited.

The other man with Remy was no slouch when it came to street fighting, Lucky noted. His friend seemed to have his hands full. He winced a little when the stranger sent a fist into Remy’s face, nodded in approval when his friend countered with a double eye-gouge. Niceties of battle were rarely used in back alleys. Lucky should know. He’d spent enough time in them.

His casual air was shattered a moment later when the stranger rolled away to pick up a large brick. One moment he was raising it threateningly above Remy’s head, and the next he froze.

“Not a good idea, mon ami.” Lucky pressed the tip of his knife closer against the man’s throat. “I suggest you set it down. Slowly.” When it appeared the stranger needed a bit more convincing, he exerted enough pressure to have blood welling from beneath the blade. With exaggerated care, the man set the brick to the ground.

Looking at his friend, Lucky inquired, “How much does he owe?”

Remy wiped a smear of blood away from his mouth, and grunted. “Two hundred. But you should just leave me to finish him with that brick.”

“Two hundred?” The man started toward Remy until the pressure of the knife stopped him. “That whore wasn’t worth the hundred I got quoted, much less two.”

“It’s an extra hundred for my trouble, Cap.” The familiar address was its own kind of slur, uttered as it was while Remy was expertly removing the man’s wallet, extracting the money he sought. “It’s not healthy in these parts to welch on a debt owed. These are people it doesn’t pay to antagonize.”

“You’re gettin’ off easy,” Lucky affirmed. He stepped away, keeping the knife ready in case the man decided to be stupid or brave.

The stranger cast a sullen glance at the two of them before taking the opportunity to back away. When he’d exited the alley, Lucky wiped the knife blade on his pants leg and bent to replace it in the sheath strapped above his right ankle. “How long you been doing collections?”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.