“Here you are. Delivered right back to your door, and well before midnight, too,” Seth drawled.

Adrienne slid her helmet off, shaking out her hair. It fell like a silken blanket over her bare, sun-kissed shoulders. She raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting your motorcycle will turn into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight?”

“You never know, princess. Depends on whether today was real or only a fairy tale.”

His insides twisted as he hung his helmet on the handlebars. He’d meant his comment lightheartedly, but the truth of his words echoed in his head. If it was real, then he hadn’t yet accomplished his objective, which was to pry information from the Widow DeBlanc using any means necessary. If it was a fairy tale, then— Seth stopped. It wasn’t a fairy tale. There would be no happily-ever-after, not if what Conrad Burke and the others thought about her was true. He didn’t want to believe that she was involved in any of the drug dealing or corruption. But whether he wanted to believe it or not didn’t matter.

He had a job to do.

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

August marks a special month at Harlequin Intrigue as we commemorate our twentieth anniversary! Over the past two decades we’ve satisfied our devoted readers’ diverse appetites with a vast smorgasbord of romantic suspense page-turners. Now, as we look forward to the future, we continue to stand by our promise to deliver thrilling mysteries penned by stellar authors.

As part of our celebration, our much-anticipated new promotion, ECLIPSE, takes flight. With one book planned per month, these stirring Gothic-inspired stories will sweep you into an entrancing landscape of danger, deceit…and desire. Leona Karr sets the stage for mind-bending mystery with debut title, A Dangerous Inheritance.

A high-risk undercover assignment turns treacherous when smoldering seduction turns to forbidden love, in Bulletproof Billionaire by Mallory Kane, the second installment of NEW ORLEANS CONFIDENTIAL. Then, peril closes in on two torn-apart lovers, in Midnight Disclosures— Rita Herron’s latest book in her spine-tingling medical research series, NIGHTHAWK ISLAND.

Patricia Rosemoor proves that the fear of the unknown can be a real aphrodisiac in On the List—the fourth installment of CLUB UNDERCOVER. Code blue! Patients are mysteriously dropping like flies in Boston General Hospital, and it’s a race against time to prevent the killer from striking again, in Intensive Care by Jessica Andersen.

To round off an unforgettable month, Jackie Manning returns to the lineup with Sudden Alliance—a woman-in-jeopardy tale fraught with nonstop action…and a lethal attraction!

Join in on the festivities by checking out all our selections this month!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Harlequin Intrigue Senior Editor

Bulletproof Billionaire
Mallory Kane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mallory Kane took early retirement from her position as assistant chief of pharmacy at a large metropolitan medical center to pursue her other loves: writing and art. She has published and won awards for science fiction and fantasy as well as romance. Mallory credits her love of books to her mother, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her grandfather and her father were both steeped in the Southern tradition of oral history, and could hold an audience spellbound with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father. She loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines. She is also fascinated by story ideas that explore the infinite capacity of the brain to adapt and develop higher skills. Mallory lives in Mississippi with her husband and their cat. She would be delighted to hear from readers. You can write to her c/o Harlequin Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

THE CONFIDENTIAL AGENT’S PLEDGE

I hereby swear to uphold the law to the best of my ability; to maintain the level of integrity of this agency by my compassion for victims, loyalty to my brothers and courage under fire.

And above all, to hold all information and identities in the strictest confidence…

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Adrienne DeBlanc— The lovely mob widow is an unwilling pawn of the Cajun Mob because of their threats to harm her mother.

Seth Lewis— This street-smart weapons expert is recruited by the Confidential Agency to seduce a wealthy mob widow for information. To his surprise, he’s captivated by the aching vulnerability he glimpses in Adrienne’s sapphire eyes.

Jerome Senegal— The notorious but elusive Cajun Mob boss ruthlessly exploits young prostitutes and distributes a deadly drug to wealthy businessmen for money. He’ll stop at nothing to retain his power—not even murder.

Sebastian Primeaux— The district attorney has a fatal flaw, a predilection for young prostitutes.

Tony “the Knife” Arsenault— Senegal’s sadistic enforcer, Tony derives particular enjoyment from threatening Adrienne and her ailing mother.

Conrad Burke— Steely determination and a knack for putting together an excellent team make him the perfect leader for New Orleans Confidential.

Philip Jones— Seth’s newly married partner, Jones is a fun-loving former private investigator who doesn’t believe for an instant that Adrienne DeBlanc is innocent.

Tanner Harrison— A hardened ex-CIA operative, he is the undisputed expert on covert operations, despite the fact that his daughter is missing.

Lily Harrison— Seventeen-year-old estranged daughter of Tanner Harrison, she ran after witnessing a double murder. If only her father would rescue her….

To Tina, for your unwavering belief in me and all your patience and help.

And to Kim, thanks—from Seth and Adrienne, and from me.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

Thank God for sisters.

Seth Lewis sent a silent prayer heavenward as he pulled up in front of the fancy wrought-iron gate of the three-story house in the Garden District of New Orleans. The hot mid-July evening and the recent rain lent a freshly painted look to everything, even the manicured lawn. Damn, he hated this part of the city and the people who lived here. He’d promised himself a long time ago that he’d never set foot in this part of town again. But this wasn’t his party. He was on assignment.

He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror of the new Mercedes Cabriolet convertible that was part of his cover. He still wasn’t used to the face that stared back at him. Clean-shaven. Expensive haircut. Designer suit. He lifted his chin and cocked a brow.

Seth Lewis, billionaire businessman. His lip curled in a wry grin. More like Seth Lewis, master of disguise.

It was only because of his three younger sisters that he had any chance of pulling off this assignment. When he’d told them he needed to impersonate a suave continental financier, no questions asked, they’d rallied around him. Just like they had seven months ago when he’d been shipped back to the States by the army with both his kneecap and his dreams shattered.

Mignon had forced him into her upscale Warehouse District salon and given him a complete makeover. It had been humiliating but necessary, he supposed. After all, he couldn’t enter the chic multimillion-dollar mansion of one of the wealthiest widows in New Orleans with shaggy hair, a ratty beard and rough, broken nails. He’d drawn the line at a full body wax and a spa treatment though. A man had to hold on to some pride.

Mignon had worked miracles, just like her ad campaign promised. He’d walked in looking like a homeless man and walked out looking as if he’d stepped out of GQ. No one would have known he was the same person.

Serena, the elder of the twins, had taken him shopping for a designer wardrobe that probably cost more than his VA disability pension for a year, using an untraceable credit card issued by Conrad Burke, the head of New Orleans Confidential. Teresa, the younger twin who planned to marry a millionaire as soon as she found one who fit her high standards, had decided what kind of car he should drive and had rented and furnished him a trendy apartment in the renovated Warehouse District. The lavish apartment would be his home for the duration of his “visit” to the States.

He’d almost choked at the amount of money the elite Confidential agency had spent on his cover story. It backed up Burke’s emphasis on the importance of Seth’s part in the investigation.

A limousine pulled up behind him and Seth recognized New Orleans District Attorney Sebastion Primeaux arriving with the mayor. He’d known he’d be in exalted company at this shindig. But the D.A. and the mayor? His target, the woman who was hosting this charity auction, sure traveled in important circles.

As Seth stepped onto the sidewalk, he assessed the other vehicles parked along First Street. Teresa had been right. Nobody drove economy iron. Every vehicle here cost at least six figures.

Seth closed his eyes for an instant, getting into character for the part he was about to play.

He was no longer a Special Forces Weapons Sergeant. His career had ended when his knee had been in the right position to save two young Iraqi kids from a bloody death. Nor was he the bored, pissed-off-at-the-world drifter who’d moped around the French Quarter for several months. Not since he’d accidentally happened upon a bank robbery and neatly disarmed the idiot waving a semiautomatic weapon. His fast action and his faster field-stripping of the weapon on the spot had ended up on the evening news and had caught the attention of a Southern gentleman with a whiskey-smooth drawl and the unyielding strength of steel.

Conrad Burke had contacted Seth and invited him into an abandoned warehouse that turned out to be a high-tech operations center the like of which Seth had never seen, even in the army.

There Burke had introduced Seth to the Confidential agency. At first, Seth had laughed at the idea of a secret agency operating above the law under the auspices of the Department of Public Safety. It sounded like something out of a spy movie, but he soon discovered that Burke was deadly serious. He’d given Seth a brief rundown of the history of the agency and the reason this branch had been established in New Orleans.

Seth had listened, fascinated and bewildered. The idea that Conrad Burke had chosen him to join New Orleans Confidential because he’d been in the right place at the right time and foiled a bank robbery was daunting.

For the first time since he’d come home, Seth found himself interested in something besides his own rotten luck. Listening to Burke, he began to believe he might be able to do some good. Be somebody. Make a difference.

So he’d stepped into the persona Burke had outlined for him. He told himself it would be a like a special operation and he treated it that way—studying, preparing himself mentally and physically. He forgot about Seth Lewis, street kid. He was continental, suave and filthy rich.

This assignment was nothing like a desert campaign. Even so, he felt as if he were on foreign soil. He’d grown up in the Ninth Ward, a poor, beaten-down section of the city. Now he was in the exclusive section of New Orleans that ran along St. Charles Street. His assignment—to win the confidence of the lovely widow of rumored Cajun mob mouthpiece Marc DeBlanc, then seduce her for any information she might have.

Refusing to imagine what this Garden District rich bitch who casually threw hundred-thousand-dollar parties without blinking an eye might look like, Seth squared his Gaultier-clad shoulders and prepared to beard the lioness in her den.

He hesitated with his hand on the ornate knocker, his confidence challenged by a twinge of doubt. It worried him that he was so anxious to live up to Burke’s expectations. What if he failed? All he knew was that he was tired of waking up every day wondering what the hell he was going to do with his life. Burke’s offer was a second chance. He was not going to blow it.

He affected a polite, bored expression as the door swung wide, releasing muted conversations, an undertone of New Orleans jazz, and soft lighting, along with a whoosh of air-conditioning.

When his eyes lit on the vision who’d opened the door, he had to clamp his jaw to keep his mouth from dropping open.

Framed in the doorway was an angel. He blinked. Working hard to maintain his cool, he remembered what Mignon had told him about the patrons of her exclusive spa salon. The very rich are never in a hurry. They don’t have to be. So he stood there as if he had all the time in the world and let his gaze roam over the woman.

She was golden-white all over. From her sleek, pale hair pulled back from her face into some kind of intricate knot to her simple floor-length dress, which looked white but shimmered with gold, she glowed. She looked like a fairy princess sprinkled with gold dust.

Seth took the hand she proffered and could have sworn he saw a spark as his fingers touched her silky smooth skin. He knew he felt it.

When he met her gaze, his heart thudded to somewhere south of his stomach. Her eyes were a deep sapphire blue. But it was the look in them that hit him like a blow. She looked sad and surprised and fearful all at once. He had an unfamiliar urge to gather her close and protect her from everything bad in the world.

“Hi,” she said, her mouth turning up in a smile that stole a bit of the sadness from her eyes and lit them with delightful flickers of lighter blue. “Do come in. I’m Adrienne DeBlanc. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Calling on his military control to keep his gaze bland and bored, Seth swallowed his surprise. This was the mob widow, answering her own door? She didn’t look at all as he’d imagined. She was young, beautiful, elegant. Her neck, bare of jewelry, curved enticingly above the plain neckline of her dress. Her nape invited a kiss, while the delicacy of her diamond-studded earlobes made his mouth water.

“Seth Lewis,” he said, affecting the vague continental accent he’d been rehearsing for days. “Brechtman Forbes. We just opened Crescent City Transports here.” Now came the tricky part. He gestured vaguely. “A new business acquaintance mentioned the charity auction. Hope you don’t mind me dropping by. I have a soft spot for literacy causes.”

Adrienne DeBlanc’s smile drooped almost imperceptibly and her fingers went rigid in his. “A business acquaintance. Of course.”

She sounded disappointed.

“Please come in. Now who did you say—?”

She paused as a young man in a crisply starched white coat apologetically whispered in her ear.

She inclined her head briefly. “Please pardon me. I have a small hors d’oeuvres crisis to avert. Make yourself at home.”

Seth nodded. He’d dodged the first bullet. His breath whooshed out in relief as he snagged a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.

The large front room with its hardwood floors and gauzy flowing curtains was sparsely furnished, giving it a cool open feeling. The furniture was all white, with varicolored pillows and accent pieces. She didn’t have children, he surmised, or all that gleaming upholstery would be gray and stained.

Scattered around the dark wood-accented room were a dozen slender easels that held pencil sketches. Seth worked his way through the crowd, affecting a bored nonchalance he didn’t feel. The room was filled with familiar faces. Burke had shown him photographs of the suspected members of the Cajun mob, quite a few of whom were here tonight.

Seth’s palms itched. His collar was too tight. Out in the desert, he could break down and reassemble an M-16 in seconds. Field-dressing a wound was routine. But navigating a party crawling with New Orleans big shots and members of the Cajun mob made him sweat. He was way out of his league here.

A woman rumored to be eyeing the governor’s seat in the next election looked him up and down as he passed. Others he’d seen on the news—politicians and socialites—assessed him. He put on a half smile and let his gaze slide over them as if he could not possibly care less who they were.

He read the note attached to one of the easels. Starting bid $5,000. All proceeds to go to the Garden District Literacy Foundation.

He shook his head in wonder. The drawing looked like something Serena or Teresa might have scribbled at age seven. But then he wasn’t here to judge the value of the art or the legitimacy of the charity. He was here to seduce the hostess.

He sipped his champagne, wishing it was a frosty cold beer, and let his gaze roam around the crowded room. Where had Adrienne DeBlanc gone?

“So what you think of this one, eh?” a voice said next to his ear as a strong hand clapped his shoulder.

Seth turned. The speaker was taller than Seth, powerfully built with a thin puckered scar running down the right side of his deeply tanned face. Seth recognized him immediately.

It was Tony Arsenault, a tall drink of swamp water rumored to be Jerome Senegal’s most trusted lieutenant. Only a few days before, Alexander McMullin, one of Burke’s agents, had confirmed from a dying drug dealer that Senegal was the leader of the mob.

Seth took a swallow of champagne and shrugged off Arsenault’s hand. “No accounting for taste, I suppose.” Damn. He sounded like a freakin’ pansy!

The tall Cajun laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “That is a polite way of putting it. C’est rabais,” he said and leaned closer. “It is…” He shrugged eloquently. “I come because it is expected. So where you from?”

Here goes. “I’m here to assist with the opening of Crescent City Transports. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Arsenault’s expression became guarded. His dark eyes glittered. “Crescent City Transports. That is the new trucking company on Tchoupitolous?”

“Right. We’re quite proud of the location.”

“So. What’s your connexion?” he asked, putting a French inflection on the word.

Seth held out his hand. “Seth Lewis. I work for Brechtman Forbes, the company that is expanding its transport business to New Orleans.”

“Never heard of ’em.”

“Based in Germany. Multinational corporation,” he tossed out. Was he overdoing the bored continental rap?

“Yeah?” Arsenault ignored Seth’s hand. “Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici? What brings you to this place tonight?”

Seth grinned, then inclined his head toward the killer who was known for his inventive use of his machete. He could almost smell the blood on Arsenault’s hands. There was a reason Arsenault was known as “The Knife.”

“Business, mon ami,” he said quietly. “I overheard someone at a coffeehouse talking about the auction, and thought this might be a good place to meet some of the bigger players in New Orleans.”

Arsenault’s eyebrows rose. “You heard about this event at a coffeehouse, eh?”

“Yep. I like to keep my eyes and ears open.”

“And so now you want to meet the big players?” Arsenault laughed again. The scar on his face gave him a demonic look.

Seth shrugged. “It is a waste of time to deal with those who have no authority to—shall we say—deal.”

Arsenault appraised him. “You are a bright boy.” He clapped him on the shoulder again. “Be sure and buy one of those pieces of junk.” He nodded toward the easel. “We like to see everybody help out.”

“And I like to help out, however I can.”

The scar-faced man grabbed a flute of champagne from a tray and saluted Seth. “I will remember that. Keep in touch.” He walked away.

Seth released the breath he’d been unconsciously holding. Shaking off his tension, using breathing techniques he’d learned in the army to keep his mind clear and his body prepared, he looked for Adrienne De-Blanc. He didn’t see her, but he saw a lot of money.

Serious money. The kind of cash that had caused his father to abandon him and his sisters and his mother when he was just a kid. The thought stoked his anger.

God, he hated money.

A soft touch on his arm got his attention.

“Mr. Lewis?”

It was Adrienne. “I noticed you talking with Tony Arsenault. Was he the business acquaintance you mentioned?”

Seth sensed her agitation and it grated on his already sensitive nerves. Didn’t she like the idea of him talking business in her home with a sadistic hit man? According to his briefing, she knew everyone in the Cajun mob. After all, her deceased husband had been Jerome Senegal’s lawyer, which made him the mob’s lawyer.

He nodded and quirked his mouth. “I don’t think he shares my enthusiasm for the works up for auction. Tell me about the artists. Are they local? Did you pick these pieces yourself?”

“You like the sketches?” she asked, her voice polite but carefully devoid of expression.

He studied her. Her back was stiff, her smile looked fake. Judging by her body language, she was hiding something, just as he was.

“They have a certain primitive charm,” he murmured, raising a brow.

She blinked, then sent him an impish glance. “Primitive charm? You mean as if they’d been done by a six-year-old?”

He smiled. She’d known exactly what he meant. She had a good sense of humor in addition to her ethereal beauty. He leaned closer. “At six, my sister Theresa could draw better than that.”

Her blue eyes widened, intent on his face. “You have a sister?”

“Three, actually.” Seth checked the urge to tell Adrienne about his sisters. He had to be careful. No one could know that he or his family lived here in New Orleans.

He changed the subject. “So Mrs. DeBlanc, how do you manage such an interesting mix of people at a party this large? Didn’t I see the mayor a moment ago?”

Adrienne DeBlanc tried to tamp down her disappointment. She should have known better than to think Seth Lewis was different from the other people here. He was either connected or he wanted to be.

From the moment she’d opened her door and seen him standing there, his broad shoulders and lean hips perfectly clad in that ultra high-fashion Gaultier suit, her breath had stuck in her lungs. She’d almost forgotten she was a virtual prisoner in this house. She’d let herself get carried away by a pair of amused hazel eyes.

Tony Arsenault had supplied Adrienne with the guest list, written in Jerome Senegal’s own hand, and had instructed her to set up the auction. Every person here was connected to the Cajun mob in one way or another. Even most of the politicians were suspect.

Seth’s name wasn’t on the list, but that didn’t mean he was different. He’d said he was new in town. But he was wealthy, and the politicians were always looking for another source of campaign funds.

Besides, Tony had not only spoken to him, he’d laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture reserved for the few people Tony liked. That erased any doubt in Adrienne’s mind. Seth Lewis was involved with Jerome and his goons, or he soon would be.

It was a shame. He was so attractive. He was much taller than she, probably almost six feet, and younger than most of the people here. Everything about his appearance screamed money and power, and there was an aura of watchfulness about him. She had the feeling that no matter what happened, he would be prepared.

But his hazel eyes shone with honesty and intelligence, and when he focused his attention on her she felt as if she were safe, really safe, for the first time in her life.

“Mrs. DeBlanc?”

She blinked. His eyes threatened to delve beyond the surface down to the heart of her. She smiled quickly—too quickly, and ran a hand down the side of her neck, where muscles were tensing. She didn’t miss the drifting of his gaze as he followed her gesture.

“I apologize. I must be tired. I’m not usually so rude to my guests. Please, have some more champagne.” She motioned to a waiter, who hurried over with a tray and exchanged Seth’s empty glass for a full one.

She thought she caught a brief flicker of contempt in the curve of his lips. The unguarded expression was like a slap to her face. But he smiled as his gaze traced the slim line of her gold-flecked, floor-length gown, then turned to the glass he held up to the light.

“Krug?” he drawled, indicating the delicate crystal flute.

“Ninety-one,” Adrienne agreed. He certainly knew his wines. She met his gaze. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. The contempt remained, along with a touch of amusement and discomfort. His attitude didn’t fit his clothes. But there was something else—something sexual that passed between them in that look. A hunger grew in her, an awareness she’d never expected to feel again.

Seth Lewis wanted her.

The thought sent ripples of sensation over her, like the ruffling of a bird’s feathers when it awakened.

Seth took a sip of wine without taking his eyes off her. He rolled it around on his tongue as he held the glass up to the light.

“This is nice. A lovely representation of the class,” he drawled, his gaze flickering to her face, her mouth. “Not so young as to be undeveloped, but not too old to have fun with.”

Adrienne had the uncomfortable sensation he wasn’t talking about the champagne. Her face flushed. Suddenly, his carefully controlled body exuded sexuality. Was he trying to titillate her with double entendres?

His gaze drifted over her body like fingers of fire licking at her heated skin, as if she were his for the taking. He held up his glass. Watching him, Adrienne knew just how the bubbles floating lazily to the surface would feel fizzing against their entwined tongues.

“I like mine golden, sophisticated, with a subtle fragrance that’s difficult to describe.” He passed the flute briefly under his nose. “Mmm, seductive.”

As his wide, firm mouth curved upward, a deep thrill pooled in her loins, causing a reflexive tightening of her thighs.

Immediately, apprehension constricted her throat. The fact that she was responding with such abandon to this stranger frightened her. She quelled the urge to glance around, to see if Tony was watching her reaction. Was this some kind of test of her loyalty to the mob?

“The flavor,” he paused for an agonizing few seconds as his gaze dropped to her mouth and then farther, to her satin-draped breasts, which ached at his blatant stare.

“The flavor should be full, rich. A mouthful to be savored, to delight the tongue.”

Adrienne gasped softly as she anticipated the touch of his tongue over their distended tips, the slow, gentle suction as he pulled them into his mouth. Heat flushed her cheeks and spread through her. She shivered.

She should slap him. He was describing how she would taste when he kissed her, when he made love to her. Yet strangely, she wanted to smile. He was intriguing, charming and brash, and he was coming on to her.

She tried to swallow but her throat was dry. She should stop this conversation. Shouldn’t she?

He looked her in the eye and Adrienne noticed that his eyes were an interesting mix of green and gold and brown. At this moment, the green glinted like dark jade. She had to hear what he planned to say next.

“Of course, no truly excellent experience is complete without a satisfying finish. Don’t you agree?” He drained his glass, then grinned at her.

She bit her lip, but she couldn’t stop herself from smiling back at him. “Mr. Lewis, you are a rogue,” she said, hardly believing she was actually flirting with him.

“And you, madame—”

His eyes flickered and his attention was gone. His gaze bypassed her and settled across the room. She turned her head and saw Jerome Senegal headed into her dead husband’s study with Sebastion Primeaux entering behind him. So that was why Senegal had wanted her to host this charity event—so he could talk to the D.A. without drawing attention. A shudder of revulsion quivered through her.

The playful mood Seth had evoked was gone. How long was her nightmarish existence going to last? She’d thought that after her husband’s death, she could escape from these crooks and their underhanded schemes. Instead, because of her mother’s illness, she was more deeply entrenched than ever.

When she looked back at Seth, his jaw was tense and his expression hard. But as soon as he realized her eyes were on him, his face relaxed into a charming smile. He met her curious gaze. “Let’s have some more of this fine champagne and you tell me how you came to be so involved with—charity work.”

DISTRICT ATTORNEY Sebastion Primeaux loosened his tie as he stepped into Marc DeBlanc’s study behind Jerome Senegal. “I told you, Jerome, I do not appreciate you dragging me into these dramatic little meetings. Especially now. Do you have any idea how close I came to being caught in that raid on the McDonough Club the other night?” He smoothed his hair back, then took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his hands and face. It was too close to election time. After the raid, he’d vowed to keep his hands clean for the next few months.

Then, he’d received the invitation to this charity event from Adrienne DeBlanc and almost panicked. An invitation from Mrs. DeBlanc was an invitation from Senegal. What did the mob boss want from him?

Senegal sat down behind DeBlanc’s desk and leaned back, resting his interlaced fingers on his barrel chest. His leathery face was bland, but Primeaux knew the man, once known as “The Bat” for his weapon of choice back in the days before he’d attained his current position, was fully capable of beating a man to death without so much as a grimace. Senegal’s black eyes pinned Primeaux like a butterfly to a display board.

Primeaux swallowed hard, trying to stay calm. He patted his inside jacket pocket for reassurance. The cardboard coffee sleeve was there. One of his favorite girls had given it to him in return for the promise of a Get Out Of Jail Free card.

Primeaux reminded himself that he was the district attorney, one of the most powerful men in the city.

The thought was too quickly followed by the next logical one. He was in the same room as one of the few men in New Orleans more powerful than him.

He wondered if Senegal knew how much he hated him.

“Sit down, Bas. Take a load off. You worry too much. You gonna have a heart attack.”

Primeaux paced, loosening his tie a bit more. “Is there any whiskey in here?” He licked his dry lips.

Senegal pulled a carafe and two glasses out of a desk drawer. “Sure thing, Bas. Marc always kept some sippin’ whiskey for his friends.”

“What do you want, Jerome?” Primeaux took the glass and downed the whiskey in one swallow. It burned going down. It felt good in his stomach.

Senegal sipped his. “I just need a little insurance.”

“Insurance?” The whiskey in Primeaux’s stomach began to churn.

“Yeah. Maybe I should say I have insurance. What I need is assurance.” He laughed. “Insurance, assurance.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he tossed a small stack of photographs onto the mahogany desktop.

“What are—” Primeaux’s throat closed up when he realized what he was looking at. “Why you—” he croaked. He picked up one of the pictures. Terror streaked through him at the sight of his own pale naked body splayed on an opulent bed. A teenaged girl knelt beside him.

He picked up another picture, and another. They were all damning. He recognized the room and the girl. The pictures had been taken at the bordello a few nights before the raid.

He sank into a leather chair. “How did you get these?”

Senegal sipped his whiskey calmly, no emotion in his sharp black eyes. “Those are video stills. And there’s plenty more. You’re a pig, Bas.”

Primeaux set the photos down on the desk and gripped the chair’s armrest. Senegal had actually chosen some of the milder shots.

“What do you want?” he rasped.

“I can see you understand the gravity of these photos,” Senegal said. “Obviously, if these, or others, were to be released to the press…” His voice trailed off.

Primeaux knew what would happen. Not only would his career as district attorney be over, he’d be indicted for statutory rape and a half-dozen other charges. “You can’t do this to me.”

Senegal sipped his whiskey. “Oh, I guarantee I can,” he drawled, as if he were discussing the price of peas. “These aren’t the only copies either. Anything happens, and they go to the media.”

Primeaux’s chest tightened and his left arm started to tingle. “Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

“I need your help with Customs. Since the bordello raid I’ve had to decentralize some of my activities.”

Primeaux realized Senegal was talking about his drug dealings. “Yeah?” he said, resisting the urge to pat his breast pocket. He poured more whiskey into his glass with trembling hands, then gulped it.

“There will be some special coffee bags coming in. I trust there won’t be any trouble passing them through?”

“Special, how?”

“You don’t worry your head about that. Can I count on you?” Senegal picked up the pictures and shuffled them, then laid them out on the leather surface of the desk like a game of solitaire.

Primeaux wondered how far he could push the Cajun mob kingpin. “I’m running a little short on campaign funds.”

Senegal sent him a glance rife with distaste. The first emotion Primeaux had seen. Then he sighed. “Bas, you never change, do you? You take care of me and I’ll take care of you.” He rose and held out his hand. “Ain’t that the way it’s always been?”

Primeaux looked at the man’s hand for a second, considering what would happen if he tried to take down Jerome Senegal. The idea was daunting. He finally gripped the mob boss’s fingers, knowing he was shaking hands with the devil. “What about the pictures?” he asked.

Senegal scooped up the photographs and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “As long as my supply of coffee is not interrupted, the pictures stay here with me. Safe and sound.” He stepped around the desk and walked toward the door. “Coming?”

Primeaux leaned heavily against the desk. “I think I’ll have one more shot of whiskey first.”

The other man shrugged before disappearing through the door.

Sebastion Primeaux sank down into a leather armchair and fumbled in his pocket for his little bottle of nitroglycerin.

“Maudit,” he muttered. His angina attacks were getting worse, happening more often. Now this. He ought to just give up the D.A.’s job and retire. Go back home to the bayous of south central Louisiana. He snorted. Easier said than done.

He craved the attentions of the young putains, he loved the money and he liked the idea of bucking the very system he had sworn to uphold.

After downing the last gulp of whiskey, he locked the study door, then surveyed the room.

DeBlanc’s office. DeBlanc had been a good attorney. If these walls could talk, Primeaux could probably bring down the mob single-handedly. Then he’d be a hero.

But walls didn’t talk and Primeaux needed some insurance of his own. So, using his handkerchief, he took the protective cardboard sleeve, printed with the words Cajun Perk, out of his pocket. It was thicker than a normal sleeve.

He glanced around, trying to decide on the perfect place. He hadn’t thought far enough ahead to consider when or in what circumstances the sleeve should be found, or exactly how he could use the discovery to his advantage. He had good instincts though, and those instincts had been nagging at him for days to plant incriminating evidence somewhere.

Adrienne DeBlanc’s house was the closest Primeaux would ever get to Senegal. He had more sense than to go to Senegal’s house, and Senegal had more sense than to invite him.

But he needed a place where she wouldn’t be likely to come across it.

A reflection from the bookcase behind DeBlanc’s desk caught his eye. Retrieving the silver box, he realized it was a sterling silver photo album. Marc and Adrienne’s wedding album, to be precise.

Primeaux smiled as he ran his finger along the book’s surface and picked up a fine sheen of dust. It wasn’t likely that the Widow DeBlanc would open the album, not if even half the things Marc had told him were true.

He quickly inserted the cardboard sleeve with its damning evidence between two photos, then closed the album and carefully set it back on the shelf. His fingers shook as he repocketed his handkerchief.

With the nitroglycerin kicking in and the pain in his chest and arm fading, he straightened his coat and unlocked the study door. A half smile curved his lips. It was amazing how much better he felt, now that he had an ace in the hole.

BY THE TIME the crowd had thinned out, Seth had drunk a lot of champagne, and he was beginning to feel it. So far, the high point of the evening had been the meeting between Senegal and Primeaux. Most of the others, the mayor included, appeared to actually be here in support of literacy. Surprising.

The champagne had given Seth a headache, so he slipped into the Widow DeBlanc’s massive gourmet kitchen and asked one of the caterers for some coffee. He sat there for a while, talking with the hired help, drinking java and munching on huge peeled shrimp. If he timed it right, he could wander out of the kitchen just as the last guest left. That would give him some time alone with the lovely young widow.

Adrienne. He smiled. All golden light, with delicate hands and a perfect, shapely body. Not to mention the graceful neck that made his mouth water as he imagined the soft warmth of it beneath his lips.

She was a study in contradiction. Obviously spoiled, used to servants, used to compliments, used to money. But there was a vulnerability about her that called up a protective urge in him. He didn’t like feeling that way, especially not for a rich socialite from the Garden District.

He remembered as if it were yesterday the last time he’d helped his father on a job. Seth had been twelve, and puberty and hormones were kicking in.

Robert Lewis had made a fairly good living as a gardener in the Garden District. He’d taken care of lawns for successful businessmen and rich socialites like Adrienne DeBlanc. On that last day, Seth had walked in on his father kissing the skinny-hipped wealthy homeowner, his hands hiking her designer skirt up above her thighs. His dad had looked guilty and chagrined, but the woman’s look had been hard as flint.

The mere thought of that day sent fury coursing through Seth’s veins. That moment, frozen in time, had defined his relationships with women throughout his life. He enjoyed them, but he didn’t trust them.

He’d expected Adrienne DeBlanc to be like that woman. But she’d surprised him. There was nothing hard about her. She might be spoiled, but she wasn’t cold. Not by a long shot. He’d seen the fire and longing in her eyes as he’d described the champagne.

Popping one last shrimp into his mouth, he strained to hear what was going on in the living room. The conversation had waned. The front door opened and closed a few times. Except for the undertone of quiet music, there were no other sounds. He pushed through the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room just in time to see Senegal grab Adrienne’s arm and whisper something in her ear. Her face drained of color and her back went stiff as a board. She pulled against Senegal’s grip, but he held on tight.

He was hurting her.

Every muscle in Seth’s body screamed for immediate and deadly action. He clenched his fists. He had the expertise to kill Senegal in seconds with his bare hands if he so desired. What he wasn’t sure he had was restraint.

Chapter Two

Seth controlled himself with an effort, drawing on the stony control of his military training. He wanted to flip Senegal and smash his face against the wall, but rushing to Adrienne DeBlanc’s aid would blow not only Confidential’s case, but also his own cover. There was too much at stake.

So he forced himself to remain still, clamping his jaw so tightly that pain reverberated through his head.

Adrienne nodded jerkily at whatever Senegal had said, and he let her go. The mob boss left without even noticing Seth, and then it was only Seth and Adrienne, and about a dozen servants.

Seth watched her curiously. When the front door closed behind Senegal, Adrienne’s back curved in relief. She rubbed her wrist and let out a weary sigh.

Approaching her quietly, Seth worked to keep his voice soft as he spoke. “Rough evening?” he asked.

She jerked, then quickly recovered. Up came the stiff back and the pleasant expression. She stopped massaging her wrist, but Seth could see the red marks left by Senegal’s cruel grip. The bastard.

Controlling his anger with an effort, he touched her wrist gently. “Any man who lays his hand on a lady doesn’t deserve to be called a man.”

He watched closely for her reaction. It wasn’t impossible that the interaction was a lovers’ quarrel. Sadness clouded her eyes for an instant, then she blinked and looked down. “I didn’t see you as the guests were leaving. I assumed you’d already gone.”

So she’d looked for him. The thought gave him a deep satisfaction that had nothing to do with Confidential’s case. He let his fingertips slide softly over the satiny skin of her inner wrist. “I couldn’t leave until I had a chance to speak to you. I have an important question.”

She glanced up at him, her expression guarded.

He held her gaze. “Is there a Mr. DeBlanc?”

Her eyes widened, the only sign that he’d surprised her. “You could have asked anyone that question.”

“I wanted to ask you.”

She shook her head. “My husband died over a year ago. I’m a widow.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Seth murmured, stepping closer. She smelled like gardenias. The scent was fitting. She had all the attributes of those delicate pale flowers, beautiful but fragile, the petals bruising from the slightest touch.

“However, I can’t help hoping that means you’re free for lunch tomorrow.”

She stared at him for a couple of beats. “Lunch?”

“What’s the matter, princess? Is your social calendar full?”

She swallowed. “My social calendar,” she repeated, a mocking tone in her voice.

Seth touched her cheek, sliding his fingertips down over her jaw and along the side of her neck, finally proving to himself that the skin he’d craved to touch ever since she’d opened her door to him was as soft and velvety as it looked.

In a way, the betrayed child inside him had looked forward to this part of his assignment, the satisfaction of performing a calculated seduction of the wealthy widow. A bit of revenge on the type of woman who had seduced his father.

But he was having trouble equating Adrienne De-Blanc with that woman.

Still, the softness of her lips, the drifting down of her long-lashed eyelids, told him she hungered for the touch of a man. And given Senegal’s treatment of her, Seth figured if he showed her a bit of gentle respect, she would be putty in his hands.

Every protective instinct in him had risen at Senegal’s treatment of her, but he couldn’t deny the question that remained.

Was she a willing participant in the mob? Was she an excellent actress who underneath her delicate mask was cut from the same hard calculating mold as the woman who had lured his father into her web of seduction? He pushed aside the doubts as he wrapped his fingers around her nape and bent his head to kiss her.

When his lips touched hers, she gasped and pushed at him. “No.”

Startled, he withdrew.

Her perfectly manicured hand flew to her mouth, and for an instant sheer panic shone in her eyes.

Adrienne took a long breath, trying to calm her racing heart. Seth studied her and she could almost hear his thoughts. They echoed through her, too. What was the big deal? They’d flirted, and he’d tried to kiss her. There was no reason to panic.

But he didn’t know that it had been years since a man had kissed her. A few had tried, but after Marc, Adrienne had thought she’d never again be tempted by a man’s kiss. She’d panicked not because Seth had tried to kiss her, but because she’d wanted him to. The idea that she was vulnerable to a man’s attentions frightened her.

“You should be going, Mr. Lewis.” She pulled herself to her full five feet three inches and lifted her chin, pasting on her best serene, perfect-hostess smile.

He cocked a brow. “I’m free for dinner if you’re busy for lunch. Or lunch the next day, or dinner, or—”

She smiled reluctantly and shook her head at his tenacity. Why not? From what he’d said he would only be in New Orleans a few weeks at the most. She longed to be in the company of a young handsome man, even if just for lunch. The last time a man had looked at her with such open admiration in his eyes had been her senior year at Loyola University. He was the brother of one of her sorority sisters, and she’d come very close to falling in love with him. But her dreams of happily ever after had been harshly cut short when her father had announced that she would marry Marc DeBlanc.

Now, older and wiser, she knew she’d been naive. She’d watched her sorority sisters planning their own weddings and had fallen in love with the idea of love.

Still, the way her pulse sped up at Seth’s charming flirtation reminded her of those carefree days, and she actually found herself thinking about what she should wear. “Lunch tomorrow will be nice, Mr. Lewis,” she said, edging away from him.

“Good. Say noon?”

She blushed. “Make it one. I have a commitment in the morning. We could meet—”

“I’ll pick you up. Wear something a little more casual than that.”

Adrienne was still smiling as she closed the door. She leaned her forehead against it for a second. Had she really agreed to have lunch with Seth Lewis, a man she didn’t even know?

“Adrienne? Is everything all right?”

Adrienne turned and nodded at the owner of the pleasant New Orleans accent. Jolie Sheffield was one of Adrienne’s few trusted friends. The daughter of the sous chef at The Caldwell, her father’s flagship hotel, Jolie had been Adrienne’s childhood companion, playing with her in the kitchens and hiding in the laundry chutes of the hotel when they were children.

Now, thanks to Adrienne, Jolie owned her own catering business.

“The food was perfect, as usual,” Adrienne said, giving Jolie a hug. “Thank you.”

Jolie smiled and sketched a mock bow. “Pleased to be of service, ma’am.”

“Stop it,” Adrienne laughed. “Is there a cup of coffee left in the kitchen?”

“Probably, but I can’t stay. I have a brunch in the morning, and I haven’t even started on the brioche.” Jolie hugged Adrienne again, and slipped an envelope into her hands.

Adrienne’s fingers curved around the bulky package. “Jolie, this is too much! I told you, there’s no rush in paying back the loan.”

“Oh, please.” Jolie’s straight black hair slid over her forehead and she tossed it back with a shake of her head. “Let’s not go through this every time. It’s only fair I pay you back a percentage of Cater Caper’s profits—especially since you’re not charging me interest. I’m more successful than I ever dreamed I’d be, and I have you to thank for it. You were the one who told me there was nothing I couldn’t do.” Jolie’s dark eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Good words for you to remember, too. There’s nothing you can’t do.”

Adrienne swallowed against the tightness in her throat. Nothing she couldn’t do. Did Jolie suspect why Adrienne needed cash?

Jolie’s dark eyes sparkled as she gave Adrienne a quick kiss on the cheek. “Now I’ve got to go,” she said, and looked Adrienne in the eye. “Be careful.”

“I will, I promise. I always am.”

“Call me.”

Alone in her multimillion-dollar mansion, Adrienne clutched the thick envelope to her breast. On paper, Adrienne was one of the wealthiest women in New Orleans. But in truth, the only money that was really hers was the cash that she secreted away, mostly on her own, but occasionally with the help of friends like Jolie.

Tonight she was twenty-five hundred dollars closer to freedom.

SETH DROVE TOWARD his apartment, enjoying the feel of the powerful Mercedes engine through the steering wheel. He drew in a huge breath. He just might have done it. In the privacy of his car, he slipped a finger beneath the starched collar of his shirt. He couldn’t wait to get home to his fancy Warehouse District apartment, where he could change into a worn, comfortable pair of jeans and relax.

Pulling out his Confidential-issue phone as he maneuvered toward Magazine Street, he speed-dialed Conrad Burke’s cell.

“Burke? Yeah. Interesting evening. Apparently Jerome Senegal set up this highly promoted and advertised charity auction for the sole purpose of having a private meeting with District Attorney Sebastion Primeaux. The D.A. spent a half hour closeted in the dead husband’s study with Senegal.”

Seth heard babies crying in the background. He’d caught the head of New Orleans Confidential at home with his six-month-old twins.

“The D.A. Interesting. We’ve suspected Primeaux, but nobody has ever put the two together in private before. Good work. How did it go with Adrienne DeBlanc?”

“Smashingly,” Seth said wryly. “I’m not clear on her relationship to Senegal and the others, but we have a date tomorrow.” His body reacted in anticipation of seeing the beautiful widow again. “Don’t worry. If she knows anything, I’ll get it.”

JEROME SENEGAL WAITED impatiently in his limousine while Remy “Swamp Rat” Brun and Jacques Vermillon made contact with Gonzalez and his guards. Senegal chuckled at the memory of the frightened look on Bas Primeaux’s face. Then his mouth twisted.

“Hah. Primeaux ought to be scared, the pervert,” he said as the flicker of a match lit the darkness, filling the car with the smell of sulfur. He puffed at his cigar as Tony Arsenault held the match.

“No problem with Customs?”

Senegal settled back in the glove-leather seat. “No problem. If Gonzalez has everything ready on his end, we can move forward. Whoever engineered the raid on the McDonough Club will be back where he started.”

“Here they come,” Arsenault said. “Want me to pat Gonzalez down?”

“No, he’s fine. Even if he has a weapon he will not use it. He may be ruthless and cruel, but he’s not stupid. He kills me—number one, he’s dead, right?”

Arsenault laughed.

“And number two, his supply of guns is cut off.”

The limousine door opened and a lean dark man with a pockmarked, ravaged face and a well-groomed goatee slid in, bringing with him the smell of the wharf.

“Señor Senegal. It is a pleasure, as always.” Ricardo Gonzalez smiled, revealing gleaming white teeth. They reminded Senegal of an alligator.

“You’ve worked out a method to provide me with additional inventory, I hope.” Senegal rolled his cigar between his fingers.

“Si. I was gratified to learn that you were expanding. We have much coffee in Nilia, and we are only too happy to share. For an appropriate price, of course.”

Senegal waved away both the cigar smoke and the South American rebel leader’s words. “Cut the bull and get to the point. I’ve made arrangements to get the bags past Customs, but what if there’s a screwup?”

Gonzalez splayed his long dark fingers on his knees. “Not to worry. The way we have manufactured the coffee bags, it would take a genius to suspect that the dark brown fiber is actually the bark that contains the raw material for your drug.”

“Woven into the bags. Clever. Will my people know what to do?”

“Si. It is the same procedure as always. They only have to separate the darkest fibers from the lighter material.”

Senegal raised an eyebrow to Arsenault, who nodded.

“Got it,” he muttered.

“Now, Señor Senegal, what about my equipment?”

Senegal jerked his head at Arsenault. “Tell Jacques to show the gentlemen the guns.” He looked back at Gonzalez. “They’re ready to be loaded.”

“All five hundred, plus ammunition?” Gonzalez’s eyes glinted with undisguised greed.

“Two-hundred-fifty. You’ll get the rest once the first shipment of coffee arrives safely.”

Gonzalez laughed. “Fair enough. It is a pleasure doing business with you, señor.”

He held out his hand but Senegal raised his cigar to his mouth and took a deliberate puff.

Gonzalez laughed again. “If the circumstances were different, Señor Senegal, I would take great pleasure in flaying every inch of skin from your body.”

Senegal blew a smoke circle into the air. “If circumstances were different, I’d let my second-in-command loose on you with his machete. He’s quite talented, you know.” Senegal rolled down the automatic window and tossed his cigar out onto the damp pavement. “Have a pleasant trip back to Nilia, Señor Gonzalez.”

Arsenault opened the car door and Gonzalez got out. Senegal tapped on the privacy window of the limo as a signal to the driver to pull away.

Arsenault grinned. “That should show the bastards who tried to shut us down, eh?”

Senegal tented his fingers thoughtfully. “Is the new location ready?”

Arsenault grunted. “Oui. We’re using the house on Jackson Street, right off Annunciation. Looks fine from the outside. The lab is on the first floor. We have heavy curtains on the windows.”

“Security?”

“Iron gates—locked. Oleanders hide the entire front from the street and our friend Deandra Jameson has listed the house as an exclusive, at a price no one will even consider. The real estate sign will explain the comings and goings of people, and supplies will be delivered and the refined drug removed by a renovations company truck.”

“Good. And the last matter? Adrienne DeBlanc’s investment portfolio?”

“No problem. If anything goes wrong, she’ll take the fall, I guarantee it.”

LILY HARRISON HUDDLED in a dark alleyway on the edge of the Warehouse District. The summer heat lingered in the asphalt and burned her feet through her thin-soled, high-heeled sandals. Every noise, from a laughing couple passing on their way to their car, to a rustle in the garbage bags that lined the alley, grated on her raw nerves.

She was scared and tired and hungry. She had no idea how long she’d been hiding, but she knew she couldn’t last much longer. She’d spent the last of her folding money on a burger and fries a couple of hours ago.

Her mouth was dry. Her throat hurt. She was so thirsty. The guy who owned the seedy hotel across the street was getting tired of her using his bathroom.

She twisted her hair up off her hot neck and tried not to cry.

She could call Mum.

No. She couldn’t. Not with three quarters and a dime, not all the way to England. And Mum’s disgusting boyfriend had warned her weeks ago when she’d threatened to run away not to come crawling back. As if she would, after he’d put his filthy hands on her. He’d refuse to reverse the charges on her call anyway.

Lily’s eyes burned. She couldn’t call her dad, either. She didn’t know where he was.

That was nothing new. Special Agent Tanner Harrison was probably off on some top secret CIA assignment, just as he’d been on her sixteenth birthday, and when she’d graduated, and when she’d arrived in New Orleans. He was never around when she needed him. His job had always come first.

Carefully inspecting a section of wall, she leaned against it, tears filling her eyes.

She was in such big trouble.

She never should have listened to that tart, never should have followed her into that fancy club. What a stupid twit she’d been to believe the girl was actually offering her a free meal.

Once Lily had walked into the opulent establishment, she’d been denied the freedom to leave. Someone was always watching her. Horrified, she’d quickly discovered the gentleman’s club was a front for a drug and prostitution ring. Most of the girls were her age or a little older. If it hadn’t been for Pam—an older hooker who’d tried to help the underage prostitutes escape—taking her under her wing, there’s not telling what would have happened to Lily.

The tears spilled over and dribbled down her cheeks. Pam wasn’t the only one who’d tried to protect her. Undercover government liaison Gillian Seymour had promised to get Lily to her father, but Gillian was nowhere to be found when pimp Maurice Gaspard drew a gun on Lily when she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. So she’d run.

In the alley behind the McDonough Club when she’d fled, she had come upon a grisly sight.

She’d watched in horrified disbelief as a man had shot Jack, the bartender, and Madame Dupre in cold blood. The images of their shocked faces and the splatter of blood would never leave her. But even that hadn’t been the worst of it.

The shooter had removed his mask and stared right at her. Lily shivered as she recalled his creepy scarred face and the deadly look in his eyes. Those few seconds had seemed like a slow-motion video. Then he’d swung his gun around and aimed it right at her.

Without thinking, Lily had turned and sprinted away, her high heels clacking on the streets, not caring where she ended up, just running to get away from that awful man and his deadly gun.

She knew he was looking for her. And when he found her, he would kill her.

Footsteps sounded on the sidewalk beyond the darkness of the alley. Lily shrank back into the shadows as a couple walked by arm in arm.

She’d been so sure she could take care of herself. So sure she could find a job and make her own way alone. Well, she didn’t feel grown up and independent now. She wanted her mum, or her daddy.

Clutching the last four coins she possessed in one grimy fist, Lily crouched down in the alley, so tired she didn’t even check around her for rats.

SETH WOUND HIS way through the main offices of Crescent City Transports and unlocked his office door, stepping inside and locking it behind him. On the opposite wall, behind his desk, was another locked door with a security camera mounted over it. The camera was similar to the ones located throughout the offices of Crescent City Transports, but this one was much more high-tech. Seth looked directly into the lens, staring intently until he heard a faint click that indicated that the specialized security system had scanned his retina and found him authorized to enter the secret headquarters of New Orleans Confidential.

He pushed on the door and stepped into a silver metal corridor. At the other end, another door swung open, revealing the main briefing room.

Conrad Burke stood in front of a bank of plasma-screen monitors. Alexander McMullin, the undercover operative who had engineered the raid on the bordello, stood next to him. Phillip Jones, Seth’s contact and partner for the operation, lounged with his hip propped on the edge of a table.

Without turning around, Burke spoke. “Lewis, I want you to see this.” His Southern drawl was at odds with confident stance and commanding presence. There was no doubt that he was the leader of this elite, secret organization.

Seth nodded at the other two men.

“How’s it hanging, Mr. Billionaire?” Jones said, grinning. “Was the lovely widow everything you expected?”

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

“I hear you’ve got a date with her today. Way to move right in.”

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

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

“All of you have met Tanner Harrison.”

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

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

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

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

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

Harrison nodded as Burke turned back to the monitors.

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

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

Burke nodded. “The prostitute, whose name is Darlene Green, told the police that Cajun Perks are the distribution points for Category Five.”

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

McMullin grunted. “No headache. Just a stroke or a heart attack.”

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

“How so?” Burke turned around.

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

“Good. Be careful with these guys though, Lewis. Arsenault isn’t known as ‘The Knife’ because he can chop onions.”

Jones laughed.

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

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

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

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

“I thought the South American rebels had disappeared.”

“For the moment,” McMullin said.

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

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

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

“You decide you can’t handle the widow alone, give me a call, you hear?”

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

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

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

“No luck?”

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

“But the undercover cop Seymour confirmed it was your daughter?”

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

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

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

“Look Tan, if you need to spend your time looking for Lily, I’ll understand.”

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

ADRIENNE LOOKED PAST Seth in horror, her gaze riveted on the enormous shiny motorcycle parked in front of her home. She’d expected the red convertible he’d driven last night. “What is that?”

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

“I know what it is. I mean, what are you doing with it? Where’s your convertible?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled. “I do, but it’s more a matter of quantity than style.”

Her face flamed with heat as his meaning sunk in.

“Let’s go.”

“I can’t ride that thing.” Adrienne eyed the narrow leather seat and the powerful engine with apprehension.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seth pulled off his helmet and chuckled.

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

“You’re going to have to let go, princess,” he said over his shoulder.

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

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

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

“You look gorgeous.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not a diamond tennis bracelet, but it goes with the decor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Crawfish and beer.”

“I don’t drink beer,” Adrienne said, but Seth just laughed.

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

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

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

“Tuppence for your thoughts, princess.”

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

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

Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

“You’re an interesting man, Seth Lewis.”

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

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

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

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

Her eyes darkened. “A year and a half.”

“I’m sorry. Was it unexpected?”

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

Tumbled in with the crawfish were tiny golden new potatoes and half ears of corn. The waitress set down a pitcher of beer, and a basket of French bread. “Y’all holler if you need anything, cher.”

Seth’s mouth was watering, but Adrienne eyed the table full of crawfish as if they were about to rise up and attack her.

He smiled inwardly. She really was a princess. “So how do you peel these?” he asked, holding one up close to her nose, tamping down on his hungry urge to just dig into the fragrant pile of mudbugs. He couldn’t blow his cover, though. A wealthy continental type who’d never been to New Orleans before wouldn’t have the first idea how to peel crawfish and eat them.

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve never peeled a crawfish? You must not have lived in New Orleans very long.”

“But I have. I grew up here. My father owned a chain of hotels. Our flagship hotel was on Canal Street. We actually lived there when I was a child.”

“You lived in a hotel? What hotel?”

“The Caldwell.”

Seth pretended to be surprised. He had been apprised before he took the assignment that her father was Adrian Caldwell, the internationally renowned hotelier. Although he knew she’d been rich all her life, he felt his contempt returning hearing her confirm how she’d lived the stereotypical life of a pampered socialite. He chided himself. He’d known from the beginning she couldn’t possibly be the angel she seemed to be. In fact, he’d counted on it. He concentrated on his real reason for being here.

Feigning fascination with the hot boiled crawfish, he took one and pulled off its tail, deliberately fumbling a bit. “They’re similar to the tiger prawns I’ve had in Sydney, but smaller,” he improvised.

Adrienne finally picked one up with her pink-tipped fingers. “I’ve watched the servants. Apparently you split them like this, then dig out the meat, then—” she stopped.

Seth knew what came next. He hid a smile. “Then what?”

Her cheeks flamed. “Then you’re supposed to, um, suck the head and pinch the tips.”

“Show me,” he rasped, unable to take his eyes off her, controlling his growing desire with a ferocious will. He knew exactly how to eat crawfish. He’d even teased girls with the words Adrienne had just spoken, using them as a double entendre. But until this moment, he’d never completely understood just how sexy eating crawfish could be.

His body reacted like a teenager’s as she put the head of the crawfish to her luscious lips. He shifted in his chair, his jeans suddenly way too tight, his heart pounding, his gaze riveted on her mouth.

She pinched the tail and pulled the last bit of meat from the shell with her teeth. A tiny drop of juice ran down her chin.

Seth reached over and stopped the droplet with his thumb, then slid it up to her parted lips. Her tongue touched his thumb and he groaned. Lust raged through him.

No, it wasn’t going to be hard to seduce her. It was going to be hard to avoid being seduced by her. Very hard, he thought wryly as sensitized flesh rubbed against rough denim.

Seth set his jaw against the urge to lean over and kiss her. Job, man. Remember the job. His assignment was to seduce her for information. And he would complete his assignment as planned. In Special Forces, there was no room for distractions.

Adrienne hadn’t meant to touch Seth’s thumb with her tongue. She was shocked, both by her action and by her reaction. Her insides quivered, her thighs tightened. She felt heat spread through her like a fire fed by pure oxygen.

She glanced at Seth, who looked away and took a long drink of beer. He’d felt it, too. She was sure. She’d heard his barely suppressed groan.

What was happening to her? She’d never been all that interested in sex. But every move Seth made, every word he spoke, acted on her like an aphrodisiac.

“Did you say your husband’s death was unexpected?”

Her heart took a nosedive, landing in her stomach. She grabbed another crawfish and picked at its shell with her fingernails, just for something to do.

She’d half expected Seth to try to kiss her, as he had last night. She’d been waiting for it, wondering what she would do if he tried. So his abrupt switch back to the topic of her husband had shocked her. His question was a blow. As if he’d forced himself back to business.

“Yes, it was unexpected, in a way.”

Seth watched her.

She met his gaze, feeling the numbness threaten to creep back inside her. “He died of a heart attack. He was in bed with a prostitute at the time.”

Seth’s eyes went wide.

She’d surprised him. A tiny sense of satisfaction swept through her. She popped a morsel of crawfish into her mouth and took a sip of beer. “Anything else you want to know?”

“I’m sorry, Adrienne. You must have been crushed.”

She almost choked on the beer, coughing and laughing at the same time. “Could we talk about something besides my boring life?”

What would he do if she told him the truth? The whole truth? This wealthy young executive who’d been so confident she’d go out with him would probably be shocked if he knew what her life was really like. But she couldn’t tell him. For all she knew, he was just like Jerome. Just like Tony. She couldn’t trust him.

She remembered Tony’s warning to not talk, just listen. Ever since Marc had died, Adrienne had been watched over by Tony Arsenault.

Tony had been Marc’s best friend, but she knew the reason he had taken her under his wing. It was not out of affection or friendship. The Cajun mob liked her social position. They liked her influence. And they liked her money.

She’d tried to get away from them, but she’d quickly found out there was no getting away. Only a few months after Marc’s death, her mother had suffered a debilitating stroke. St. Cecilia’s was the safest place Adrienne knew. But it wasn’t safe enough.

Tony never failed to ask about her mother. And every time he did, a knife blade of terror cut through Adrienne’s heart. The message was clear. Your mother’s continued survival depends upon your cooperation.

“What are you thinking about, princess? You’ve mutilated that poor crawfish.”

Seth’s deep voice penetrated her thoughts and pulled her back to the present. She looked at his plate, which was had mysteriously become piled high with crawfish carcasses.

The sight made her forget her troubles for the moment. A chuckle escaped her throat as she shook juice off her fingers and reached for the roll of paper towels sitting on the table. It was an odd feeling—a welcome feeling. “You certainly didn’t waste any time learning how to peel crawfish.”

“Hunger is a good teacher. Besides, I read that guy’s T-shirt.” He inclined his head to their right.

A bald man with a big spare tire around his middle drained a beer as he peered out over the lake. The back of his red T-shirt had a diagram of how to extract the meat from a crawfish with the words Suck Dem Heads, Pinch Dem Tips plastered across his shoulder blades.

“You read a T-shirt?” Seth’s simple solution struck her as funny. Covering her mouth, she laughed. He reached over and pulled her hand away.

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