The Beauregards lived in a mansion in Hell, Texas, done in the antebellum style, with long Corinthian columns along the front porch. It put Gone with the Wind’s Tara to shame.
Jane was secretly thrilled the first time she’d driven up. As a teenager, she’d had a soft spot for Rhett Butler.
The property had a rich green lawn, a rarity in Texas, with dozens of ornate flower beds, probably maintained by an army of gardeners. The long, curving driveway was bordered by gigantic magnolia trees. As Jane passed by, she noted security cameras inconspicuously positioned in the branches, disguised by foliage, recording her every move.
Tonight, she found the security reassuring.
Jane pulled in front of the house and threw the car in park. Blood roaring in her ears, she dashed inside. Somehow she made her legs work—right, left, right. She felt cold—her fingertips and toes were so icy, Jane wondered if she’d ever feel warm again. After she wiped away the rain droplets with tissues from her briefcase, she headed to Beauregard’s study. It was a familiar journey, so she was able to do it on autopilot.
Right now, she should be mentally preparing for the meeting, but her mind was still in Valentine’s dark room.
Armed guards nodded to her as she passed. Since she was a regular visitor, they didn’t put her through any security paces. To the left side of the room loomed a black vault door.
Beauregard stood behind a large oak desk in an elegant black three-piece suit, with a cut-glass tumbler of clear liquid in his grasp. Jane was willing to bet it was moonshine, his family’s recipe. Byron was blond with beautiful blue eyes—which perversely, had an innate purity—even though he had a sinful reputation.
Like his poetic namesake, Byron Beauregard was mad, bad, and dangerous to know. According to rumors, the Dixie Mafia were into all kinds of illegal activities–drugs, murder for hire, and extortion. And as the outfit’s brand new Underboss, Byron was the ringleader.
As Jane walked inside, she noticed the lights were off. In the hallway, there’d been a series of Coleman lanterns, but she’d been too distracted to put it together. A candelabra sat on Byron’s desk, full of blazing white tapers. A fire burned in the fireplace. She must’ve had one hellacious night because the place seemed downright cozy.
“Can I get you a drink, darlin’?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Beauregard.” Jane thought she’d probably throw it up.
“And you’re gonna call me by my first name—don’t even try to get out of it.”
Jane couldn’t summon the wherewithal to protest. They’d gone back and forth several times on the use of his given name. Professional boundaries seemed like a ridiculous concern at the moment.
“As you like, Byron.”
Tonight, in his black suit with his heavenly eyes, Jane was almost glad to see him. He might make her uncomfortable with his romantic overtures, but Byron Beauregard was the kind of monster she’d made a career of handling. He wouldn’t make her an accessory to his crimes, wouldn’t confess his love for her.
Byron wanted to sleep with her, but it didn’t go further than sex. Interacting with him would be blessedly normal.
“As I like? Since when’ve things been as I like between us?” His brow furrowed. “Who are you and what have you done with Jane?”
Good question. She felt like a bedraggled shadow of her former self.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Allow me to give you an example. You’re never late.” He checked the Rolex on his wrist. “Tell me why you’re laggin’ behind.”
“I had a prior meeting, which ran a bit long. Don’t worry, I won’t bill you for the extra time.” Jane searched for another topic to distract him. “What happened? Did you forget to pay the light bill?”
He snickered. “The storm knocked the power out. Come to think of it, the candlelight’s a bit romantic, ain’t it?”
Jane didn’t reply.
He cocked his head to one side, eyes sliding up and down her body with a clinical sort of precision. “Enough small talk. You’re shakin’ like a leaf in a stiff breeze. What’s wrong?”
“I…nothing.” She bit the inside of her cheek.
Keeping this terrible secret was gnawing at her. Protecting a murderer felt wrong, even if her profession demanded confidentiality. Regardless of her inner turmoil, Jane had ethics to adhere to, so she’d have to wait to unburden herself until tomorrow morning.
“Bullshit. Come on, lay it on me.” The fire lit his features with a crimson glow. “I’m Hell’s resident devil, and it’d be my genuine pleasure to hear your sins, darlin’.”
For a second, she was tempted to blurt it all out. Jane knew she couldn’t shock him, but she had a professional duty.
Right now, it seemed ridiculous. How could keeping a killer’s secrets be the right thing to do? The answer was simple: it wasn’t.
“Whatever’s botherin’ you can’t be so bad.”
Care to place a bet? I’d win.
Beauregard surprised her by squeezing her hand. Even more surprising, she liked his touch. So she held on to his fingers, squeezed them back. His hand felt warm and solid.
Actually, Jane needed something—comfort. Even though she’d regret it later. If Georgia were here, Jane would hug her, or even Brady.
Unfortunately, she had only one option at the moment—six feet of bad boy mobster who’d been trying to seduce her for months.
Life has a twisted sense of humor.
“I…need you.”
He made a low rumbling noise somewhere between a groan and a rumble.
Jane took a step back.
“What an opener.” He smirked. “Need me to do what, darlin’? I’d be happy to see to all of your desires.”
Jane picked up on the blatant sexual innuendo.
“I only want a hug.”
His mouth fell open in shock.
Huh. How about that? For once, she’d managed to leave him speechless. Usually, she was the one left floundering and bewildered by something he’d said.
“Let me get this straight, you want me to touch you?”
“Didn’t I say so?”
Jane knew it must sound strange since she went out of her way to keep him at arm’s length. The warmth and security of being held would calm her down.
“Is this a trick?”
“It’s a simple request. Yes or no?” Jane placed her hands on her hips. At this rate, she might have to ambush one of his unsuspecting bodyguards.
“Okay, now I’m worried. What the hell happened to you tonight?”
“Nothing.” She tried her best not to look guilty.
“You can tell me. Did some man break your heart? I’ll bust his kneecaps for you.” His mouth curled into a sinful smile as he brought out the Southern charm.
Somehow, the image of Beauregard thwacking Valentine with a baseball bat made her smile. She might even cheer him on.
“There you go—I got a little smile. Come on then, tell the truth and shame the devil.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“Why not? Don’t we have client-attorney privilege or somethin’?”
“The privilege is yours, not mine. What I say to you can and should be used against me.” Ugh, she had a headache and a stomachache. “Are we doing this or what?”
His brows drew together, and he set the glass down on the desk. “I surely will—been dyin’ to get my hands on you for months.” Byron smoothed his tie.
If she didn’t know better, Jane would say he was nervous, which was ridiculous. Someone like Beauregard had touched hundreds of women. Surely, a non-sexual embrace wouldn’t be a big deal.
“I only want a hug. If you try something else, so help me, I’ll—”
“Understood. No need to threaten me—I’ll give you a squeeze.”
Beauregard held out his arms, and she haltingly approached him. Contact was always a dicey prospect. There were so many variables—sweat, the amount of cologne, how firm the grip, if the person had bad br
eath. It’s why she avoided them as much as possible. A steady squeeze worked best. Applying too little or too much pressure didn’t work for her.
She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face against his chest. Beauregard’s touch was surprisingly warm and inviting. He smelled of something citrusy with a hint of pine—clean smells. His body was warm, and she soaked in the heat. To his credit, he kept his hands on her back, gently tracing her shoulder blades. It was the best she’d felt all evening, so she stood there and let the relief rush in.
Jane could hear the steady thumping of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, which was soothing. He had slick steel buttons her fingers itched to touch. Instead, she settled for touching the infinity symbol around her neck. She buried her face in his chest and shut out the world for a second. She hadn’t wanted to be held in a very long time, and she’d forgotten how good it could feel—provided she initiated the contact.
Slowly, the knot in her stomach untied. Her breathing slowed, and her body warmed up to room temperature. She didn’t feel nearly as frantic.
Maybe I should’ve hugged him sooner.
Oh, no.
This was a physiological response, nothing more. Human beings responded to touch because they were social creatures. Anyone would’ve been calming in this situation. It had nothing to do with his hard chest or big arms—or his not unpleasant smell.
For the longest time, neither of them spoke. Arms wrapped around one another, they stood in a relaxed silence.
Jane had fully expected some sort of sexual overture from him, but he’d surprised her. Beauregard didn’t speak or move, he just held her, his touch light and friendly, completely platonic.
And then he spoiled it all by speaking.
“Okay, enough cloak and dagger. I gotta know what happened.”
Why couldn’t he drop it?
“What makes you think something happened?”
He chuckled. “Because I’m holdin’ you in my arms, which should’ve taken an act of God himself.”
No, an act of a serial killer, actually. Jane was trying to cope with the situation through gallows humor, and the irony wasn’t lost on her.
“Nothing important. It’s been a very long day.”
“And?”
“And I had dinner with a client.”
“Which client?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jane muttered the words against his chest. She should end the embrace, but somehow, she couldn’t push him away yet.
“Sure it does. Was this dinner a date?”
“It wasn’t a date. Contrary to your opinion, business meetings with food don’t constitute dates.”
He whistled. “Ouch. Fair enough, but you met this client at his home, all by your lonesome? The two of you had dinner together?”
“Yes, we had some paperwork to sign. Much like my purpose in being here.” Jane left the circle of his embrace.
“What’d you have to eat?”
“How is this relevant?” Her inner lawyer snapped to attention, and it felt good. Attorney Jane wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything. She brandished the law like a weapon.
“Maybe I want to know about the competition. What’d this client cook for you at your dinner meeting, which wasn’t a date?”
Once again, she heard the crunch of fish bones and winced.
“He caught fish and grilled them with vegetables. Can we move on to my reason for being here?”
“Damn, I’m impressed. He caught and killed the dinner himself. I might have to up my game. For the record, I could fry you up a mean catfish, though I prefer to get mine from the grocery store.”
“It wasn’t impressive.”
Valentine probably got some sort of sick thrill from killing the poor thing in front of her.
And she liked her meat to come from the grocery store in plastic-wrapped sanitary Styrofoam containers. At this rate, she might never eat so much as a fish stick again without hearing that godawful sound in her head.
“Then I’ll wine and dine you in a restaurant. And it was just the two of you?”
“Yes.”
“Did he do anything special? Light some candles?” He gestured to the candelabra as if to illustrate his point.
“We ate by firelight.”
“Hmm. I’d count it as mood lighting.”
Time to play the part of the professional. This was getting out of hand.
“I can’t discuss my other cases with you. Paperwork?” Jane pushed the glasses up her nose.
“No, ma’am, we’re gonna talk about this.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“I’m fine.”
“You ain’t fine. Even a fool like Rebel could tell.”
Jane summoned every last vestige of her patience. Her nerves were shot, and she’d about hit her frustration limit.
“Let’s try it again. Which client?”
She remained silent.
He sighed. “Christ Almighty, you’re a tenacious woman. I can see you’re scared.”
“I…,” she broke off.
Part of her wanted to confess everything. Handling this problem by legal means wasn’t an option, and the big bad mobster could take care of it in no time. Unleashing him on Valentine would be strangely fitting, but wrong on every level.
Jane swallowed the lump in her throat.
“If you don’t want to handle the paperwork, I’m going to leave. I’ve got a big drive in front of me, but I’m billing you for running me out here for no good reason.”
“Hold on now.” He checked the clock on the wall. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. You can’t drive home at this late hour, not in a storm. Stay here.”
Stay the night at Beauregard Manor? AKA Dixie Mafia central? After she’d been propositioned by a serial killer? With a hitman who’d been trying to seduce her for months?
No, absolutely not.
“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t.”
“I insist.”
Jane lifted her chin, ready to tell him she’d do as she pleased.
“I ain’t lettin’ you leave my sight until I get the whole story. Though I got a feelin’ once I get the details out of you, I’m still gonna keep you here.”
“Why?”
“You’re in danger, Jane. I can tell.” He said it simply, without any of his usual shenanigans—which was sobering. “This ain’t a come-on—I’m concerned about you. You can stay in one of the guest rooms.” Byron lifted a brow. “Besides, I can tell you don’t want to be alone.”
Now that he mentioned it, the thought of being on a lonely highway in the middle of the night made her queasy.
Maybe the extra sleep would do her some good. Tomorrow morning, she’d wake up refreshed and ready for work.
Things will look better in the light of morning, right?
Somehow, Jane doubted it.
“Okay, I’ll stay. Thank you for the hospitality.” Jane gritted the words out.
“Knew you’d see things my way.” Byron stood a little straighter.
And now he was giving her a headache. “I’m not in the mood for any trouble.”
“Then I’ll be on my best behavior.” He grabbed the candelabra. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”
“You’re coming upstairs with me?”
Jane hadn’t counted on an escort. She figured he’d tell her where the guest rooms were and she’d pick one.
“This place is old, and it’s dark. As a good host, I can’t let you stumble around in the shadows.”
“I have a flashlight app on my phone.” And she didn’t want to be anywhere near a bedroom while in his vicinity.
“I don’t want you to get lost, darlin’.”
Did he have an answer for everything? It was pointless to argue.
“Fine, we’ll do it your way.”
“I hope this is a sign of things to come.”
I wouldn’t bet on it.
And then he led her upstairs down a long, stately hallway.
Being in Beau
regard Manor reminded her of who and what he was. The walls were lined with family portraits. He came from an infamous Texas family. They’d bootlegged their way to fame and fortune during the prohibition years. Filthy lucre had gotten them into state politics. It wouldn’t be long before a Beauregard got himself into the statehouse. They might even go after the presidency one day.
They stopped in front of a door near the end of the hall.
“Enjoy your stay.” Byron twisted the knob with a flourish. “I’m right beside you, if you need anything.”
“I won’t.” Jane hit the flashlight button and walked inside.
He winked. “But you might want another hug.”
She could already tell touching him had been a mistake. Jane sighed; it was a ragged, rough sound.
His face sobered. “You can relax tonight.”
“Can I?”
“Have I ever given you a reason to fear me?”
“No.” He might be exasperating, but she’d never been afraid of him.
He expelled a breath. “Good.”
“And what if it isn’t you I’m afraid of?”
“I’ve got armed guards surroundin’ the place. My security system should be back on once the power’s fixed.” He touched his jacket, briefly outlining the shape of his gun against the fabric. “And I’m standin’ between you and any trouble comin’ your way tonight. Whoever the bastard is, he ain’t comin’ nowhere near you while I’m here.”
His promise made her feel better.
That’s how chaotic her life was right now—somehow, the thought of sleeping next door to a hitman made her feel better.
“Goodnight, Byron.” She grasped the door handle.
“Night, Jane.” But he didn’t leave.
“Why are you still standing there?”
“Aren’t you forgettin’ somethin’?” A wicked light entered his eyes. How on earth did he manage to look roguish ninety percent of the time?
“Like what?”
“My goodnight kiss.”
Jane slammed the door shut in his face.
Chapter Six
“No, don’t!”
Gasping, Byron sat up in bed, automatically reaching for the Glock on the nightstand. The steel was familiar in his grip, the texture soothed him. The alarm clock read 5:23 in the morning.
Blood in the Water (Dixie Mafia Series Book 2) Page 5
