by Nancy Gideon
“So imagine what he is now. He’s a stone-cold psycho, Cee Cee. Stay away from him.”
“I know what I’m doing, Alain,” she managed steadily.
“I hope so.”
She swallowed, everything inside her beginning to shake. “I’ve got to go back for something. I’ll meet you at the car.”
Without waiting for his reply, she jogged back up the walk and slipped into the cool of the building. Her face flushed hot as she staggered into the ladies’ room and dropped to her knees inside the first stall, her head spinning, her stomach emptying in huge, wracking spasms. Then she washed her face in cold water, not looking at her reflection.
And as she left the bathroom, she stuffed the leather coat into the trash.
Nine
JIMMY LEGERE WAS worried.
He’d been trying to read his Wall Street Journal for the past half hour, but his attention kept straying across the room to where Max Savoie was stretched out on his leather sofa, napping bonelessly. The edge, the constant underlying alertness was missing this morning, and Jimmy was very afraid he knew why.
Max and Detective Caissie were having sex.
Max wouldn’t come out and tell him and Jimmy couldn’t ask. When Max came sauntering in at quarter to seven this morning wearing rumpled clothes from the day before and a rather silly little smile, he answered Jimmy’s question of had he been out all night with a calm, “Yes, I have.” And when Jimmy asked if there was something Max should tell him, Max regarded him with an unblinking stare and told him no, nothing. And Jimmy had to let it go, or let him go. And he didn’t like it.
Caissie’s father had been a provoking irritant. He wouldn’t be bribed, he couldn’t be scared, he couldn’t be broken. His daughter was made in that same mold: tough, merciless, and motivated. And Max, for all his ferocious loyalty and shrewd intelligence, was sometimes as naive as a child when it came to emotions.
Jimmy wanted to dismiss it as hormones but he knew better. He’d always taken his own ease with the professionals on Bourbon Street, preferring a cold cash transfer to any other type of entanglement. From the time Max was old enough to express an awkward curiosity, he’d offered to pay for whichever woman caught Max’s fancy. None did. He’d shied away at first, upset and horrified by the idea, probably because of his mother’s past. By the time he was out of his teens, he was clearly indifferent to temptations of the flesh. Jimmy just figured he wasn’t interested in human females. Until Charlotte Caissie started twitching her short skirt in his direction.
Jimmy didn’t know what it was about her. Until Max picked up her scent, he paid scant attention to what went on around him. Like a well-trained attack dog, he waited silently and still with infinite patience for that command that would set free that coil of lethal power. He didn’t speak to the household staff unless they asked him a question, and mostly they made a point of steering clear of him. He had no comments, no opinions to express when they were taking care of business. But Jimmy never mistook saying nothing for having nothing going on behind those unblinking eyes. Max had an unbelievably sharp mind, with a tremendous ability to learn by imitation and through devouring the massive library of books in the back wing. At eleven one night he’d pick up a Larousse dictionary, and by breakfast the next day he was speaking French. Fluently. When he asked the occasional question, it was clipped, concise, and amazingly provoking.
Max Savoie was no dumb beast. He just had no experience or interest in interacting with people. It was probably part of the fear impressed upon him by his mother. That wariness that had him crouching beside Jimmy’s chair beneath his hand as a child, then standing in the shadows behind it as an adult. Content in his place—until Charlotte Caissie.
The second he saw her, he was a dog sensing a female in heat, gait stiff and nostrils quivering. He first sought her out just to gaze at her, then finally for conversation in a way he’d never done with any other. He smiled. And laughed. Both were so out of character, Jimmy was bemused. And alarmed. His tough, stoic killing machine was infatuated with a policewoman. And now he was pumping her to the point of exhaustion. How long before she was pumping him just as vigorously for information?
Jimmy had protected him too much, had kept him sheltered from life’s cruelties, figuring he’d seen enough of them at such a tender age. He was smart but he was innocent of the sour taste of betrayal. Charlotte Caissie was using him, but Max would never believe it if he just told him that straight up. He’d have to learn the hard way, and life’s lessons never came without some pain.
So it was hurt him now or kill him later. What choice did he have?
Dangerous times were coming. Something deadly was shifting on the current of the Mississippi. The business with Vantour, for starters. And the other business he meant to take care of today. He had to know Max was still his to command.
“Max.”
He’d been sound asleep and Jimmy didn’t speak above a whisper, but Max was on his feet in an instant. Jimmy felt a stir of pride, looking at him. Polished, elegantly groomed and clothed, all but those wretched sneakers he insisted on wearing. Like a finely crafted weapon, Max was sleek and deadly in the right hands. His hands.
“Have Pete bring the car around.”
“Whatever you want, Jimmy.” Quick, unquestioning, obedient.
What could Detective Caissie turn him into if she found out the truth and told him?
“Max?”
He turned, brows lifted in question. “What is it, Jimmy?”
“Nothing. Nothing, boy. Get the car.”
As Max strode down the hall, heading toward the garage side of the big house, he passed an open door. A sudden, and recognizable odor brought him up short. Cologne. Cheap, fruity, and unpleasant. He backpedaled a few steps and looked inside, seeing two men playing cards. He knew who they were by sight but not name. And he knew what they were.
They looked up when he entered, their bright, beady eyes suddenly wide with alarm, reminding him of Charlotte’s little rodents.
“Mr. Savoie,” one of them mumbled. “Do something for you?”
“Who gave the order?” he asked, low and firm.
“T-John for Mr. Legere.”
They were weasly little creatures, with no sense of honor or loyalty.
Max leaned down, placing his hands on the tabletop, fingers splayed wide. A deep rumble came up from the back of his throat and both men trembled at the growl.
“You will not go near Detective Caissie. Is that understood?”
His hands curled, tearing vicious grooves through cloth and wood. Both heads jiggled like bobble-headed dolls.
“And if I ever get wind of you following me again, I will scoop out your eyes and spread them on my toast for breakfast. Is that understood?”
The light caught his gaze, reflecting back something that was far from human. The sweat of fear and another pungent stink filled the room as the men said weakly, “Yes, Mr. Savoie.”
They were both crossing themselves when he turned his back and walked out of the room.
But the uneasiness stayed with him.
As Max rode in the back of the big town car beside Jimmy Legere, his thoughts churned anxiously. Why was Jimmy having him watched? Because of Vantour? Jimmy said he believed him when he swore he didn’t kill the rival boss. Why, then, hadn’t he asked to see the body Max had found dumped and bagged, minus thumbs, in a dockside trash bin? Why hadn’t he insisted on proof of the cause of death, a savage wound to the throat, unless he feared what he might see? Unless he was afraid the evidence would come full circle back to Max?
He’d been very specific: Find the body, take him out in the swamps, and scatter him. A bad feeling had stayed with Max as he did as told. Vantour would never be found. But Max would never be cleared of suspicion, either. Intentionally? Was Jimmy using that hint of the unknown to put fear in his opponents? So Max could be sacrificed as a scapegoat later?
Someone had killed Vantour and had done so to cast doubt upon his loyalty. So
meone had fired a bullet made of silver, hoping to kill him on the steps of St. Bart’s. Who was whispering in Jimmy’s ear—and why was he listening?
Max stared straight ahead like a radar picking up everything around them, while his heartbeat quickened.
Would Jimmy have reason to want him dead? Why was he sensing fear where there had never been anything but love?
Then he saw their destination. St. Bartholomew’s.
The driver got Jimmy situated in his wheelchair while Max stood behind him, aware of everything and everyone around them. He pushed the chair up the side ramp and down the middle aisle, not asking any of the questions that worked behind his stoic face. Not yet. But soon.
“Mr. Legere. This is a surprise. I thought you attended a parish church in the Garden District.”
“Good morning, Sister. Am I not welcome then?”
Mary Kate smiled benevolently. “All are welcome here.”
“I think you know Max.”
Her gaze lifted, betraying nothing. “Mr. Savoie. I’m afraid you just missed Father Furness, Mr. Legere.”
“Actually, I’m here to talk to you, Sister Catherine. Might we speak somewhere privately?”
“Of course.” She gestured to a quiet corner. “We won’t be overheard there.”
“Max, you wait here.”
He frowned slightly, but stepped aside to let Mary Kate push the chair away. And then he wasn’t thinking about Jimmy and what he might want to discuss with the nun. His senses were tingling all over.
He breathed in slowly and let recognition shiver through him. Without looking around, he could feel Charlotte skimming the perimeter of the main sanctuary, keeping to the heavy shadows beneath the upper balcony. She didn’t approach him or speak to him, and he wondered why. Then he had to know why.
She was so intent upon being stealthy that when he touched her shoulder, he had to jump back to avoid her defensive swing. Her eyes flashed, black and bold. Afraid.
“A little overly caffeinated this morning, detective?”
“Holy geez, you about scared my hair back to its natural color.”
He blinked. “You dye your hair?”
“What do you want, Max?” She sounded cross and breathless. And something else. He wasn’t sure what, but it wasn’t good.
“It would be in rather bad taste to say what I want, considering where we are. I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon.” He stepped in close, his hip bumping hers, their shoulders brushing as his hand slipped up the back of her shirt to stroke warm skin.
She flinched away. “I’m not here for you. I’m meeting Mary Kate for lunch.”
He leaned in again and his tongue rimmed her ear wetly. She jerked back so fast, he almost ended up hooked on her earring like a bass.
“Stop it, Max.”
“You wouldn’t be so tired and grumpy now if you’d said that to me at about two this morning.”
She started walking briskly along the rows of pews with him circling around her, nearly tangling them in each other’s strides. When she halted in exasperation, his hands were on her, touching her hair, her cheek, her elbow, her breast, her waist, until she gripped his wrists to hold him at bay.
“What do you want, Max?”
She’d hoped her irritation would discourage him, but she should have realized just the sight of him would rev up her emotions into desire. That the slightest brush of his fingertips would have her will crumbling. She couldn’t afford to be weak, not now. But he had no intention of letting her slip away.
“What do I want? A kiss good morning. I would have asked earlier but you would have poked my tonsils out with your toothbrush. Just one. Real quick. Please. Then I’ll go away.”
“One. Quick.”
She should have been warned by the way his eyelids lowered, by the way he moved in so slowly. His mouth settled over hers, sliding to reacquaint itself with her every contour, inside and out. He fenced lightly with her tongue until she was leaning into him, then pursued her more aggressively when she tried to pull away.
“Max, just one,” she gasped.
He was sucking her lower lip, his breath quick and light. “Same one. Almost finished.” And he slanted hard, twisting her head back until she made a soft sound of surrender. Then one, two, three fast snatches. “Curtain calls,” he murmured, then plunged his tongue deep. Finally, breathing huskily, he whispered, “Standing ovation.”
She released his hands so she could cup his face in her palms. “What am I going to do with you, Max?”
“A couple of suggestions have come up.” He rubbed against her with an explicit preview of coming attractions.
She pushed him back, the sternness returning to her tone. “Stop.”
“I wasn’t going to throw you down on the kneeling rail. Tell me when and where.”
“No.”
“No?” She started walking and he followed. “What do you mean? No, you don’t want to tell me? Or no, you don’t want me?”
She pulled up so sharply, he bumped into her. And his hands were immediately under her shirt. She squirmed away. “Max, stop. Give me some time to think. Some time to breathe. Please.”
His hands dropped to his sides and he took a step back. “All right. I’ll behave.” Then his voice lowered. “Charlotte, what’s wrong? Have I done something wrong? Tell me.”
“Nothing’s . . . wrong.” Her thoughts were fragmented. What could she tell him? She wasn’t ready to confront him after what Babineau had told her. She couldn’t just make up some complaint, some reason for her distance. If it wasn’t the truth, he’d know. It didn’t have to be the truth, only a truth. She scrambled to pick one, any one. After all, there were enough things about him that upset her to the point of ripping out her own fingernails.
“What? Tell me.”
She blushed, reddening to the roots of her hair. “It’s just that in all the times we . . . in all the times you made me . . . the many, many wonderful times . . .”
He smiled, rather pleased, urging her to continue with a lift of his brows.
“In all those times, you never once . . . finished. Why?”
The smug smile vanished. “I thought ladies liked a fella with stamina.” His tone was flippant, his gaze evasive.
“Stamina’s one thing. But you’ve got to be backed up like my kitchen sink. Why? If you were worried about protection, all you had to do was say something.”
“I’ve had all my shots, detective.” He edged back a bit farther, looking uncomfortable, even angry, and everywhere but in her eyes. “It’s not that. It’s just that I choose to save that one thing to share with someone who cares for me.”
He’d walked halfway to the front of the church before her surprise snapped and she hurried after him. She gripped his elbow, spinning him to face her, unsure of why she was so upset, so . . . insulted.
“I care about you.”
He shook his head and laughed softly. “But you don’t love me, Charlotte. Why are you making this a big thing? Why would it matter to you? You got what you wanted from me.”
She couldn’t think of how to answer that. Yes, she had. She had absolutely no complaints. Which was why she was trying to come up with an acceptable reason to throw him down between the pews and have him all over again, in spite of the fact she was so raw she could hardly walk. In spite of the fact that he had eaten the hearts of Legere’s enemies, and she was probably going to be forced to eventually take him down in a way neither of them would enjoy.
His fingers stabbed back through his hair distractedly. “I do have some self-control, some choices. I’m not an animal, detective. I don’t have to give everything that means something to me away, and have nothing left for myself.” He stared up at the ceiling, his breaths shaking. Then, realizing he was overreacting, he took in a slow, deep breath.
“Max, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Maybe I need to start drinking coffee.” He shrugged off the concern in her voice and was instantly himself again. He no
dded toward the far side of the church as a convenient distraction. “I wonder what they’re talking about.”
Cee Cee glanced over. “Probably not sex.” His laugh jumped out of his tightly boxed emotions, and the tension relaxed between them. It felt good to rest her head against his shoulder for just a moment. Just long enough for the stabilizing sense of warmth and safety to return. She didn’t want to fight with Max. She didn’t want to see those awful images her partner planted in her mind.
Everything for nothing. He could be describing her life, as well.
She pressed her hand to his cheek, her heart taking a little leap when he nudged into her palm. “You can trust me, Max. If you’re in trouble, you can come to me.”
His chuckle vibrated beneath her. “Come into my parlor. I’ll be waiting with kisses and handcuffs. Thank you, Charlotte. I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t. She watched his gaze shift cautiously over to Jimmy Legere, and worried about what he wasn’t telling her.
“SISTER CATHERINE, YOU have become a noticeable pain in my backside.”
Mary Kate smiled at the old man, maintaining her air of serenity with some difficulty. “I assure you, that’s never been my intention.”
“Oh, I doubt that very much. I think you go out of your way to annoy me and you delight in my aggravation. Shame on you, Sister, hiding such ill will behind God’s mantle of forgiveness.”
“Let Him forgive you, Legere. I never will.”
He laughed at the sudden flash of fury in her eyes. “Ah, Ms. Malone. How nice to finally meet the real you.”
“Sister Catherine is the real me. I’m just not terribly good with “turn the other cheek” where you’re concerned. Last time I did that, my jaw was almost broken.”
“The world is a cruel place, Sister. You should stay where you belong.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Legere? In church?”
“Did that sound like a threat? Let me clarify myself. I know you use the resources of this church to meddle in my affairs. You counsel those who’ve foolishly gone in over their heads with the various vices I make available. I shrug it off as a business loss. You interfere with my professional girls, making them think they’re being exploited, that they have the right to walk on that high road you expound upon. Perhaps they do. But you have done one thing that I will not forgive or overlook. Do you know what that is?”
