by Maria Luis
I forced a smile. “Sorry I didn’t get here a little earlier, as promised. I wasn’t expecting the campus to be so busy today.”
“Oh, you’re just fine, dear. It’s Pershing’s one-hundred-year-old anniversary this week, so there is celebration aplenty.” Beneath her breath, she muttered something that sounded very much like, “and so much booze.”
My fake smile flirted with a real one. “So long as Mr. Hampton still has room for me today, I think we can include something about the anniversary along with my article.”
Green eyes blinked up at me. “He would love that. Good press is the best kind of press.”
I was pretty sure that the saying went “any kind of press was good press,” but I wasn’t about to correct her.
“Why don’t you follow me?” She pushed back her chair and came around the corner of the desk, gesturing for me to step ahead of her. Clamping my purse close to my side, I held my chin up and kept my shoulders pressed back.
Act like you belong here.
“Coming here today, I can’t believe I chose to go to Loyola University instead.” The lie nearly made me grin, and because Samantha Lovelace had always been a more naïve version of myself, I blithely added, “It’s just so beautiful here. Oh my God, the campus is like something out of a fairy tale.”
“Isn’t it?” Betty patted me on the shoulder like I was a good dog. “Don’t worry, dear, we won’t hold it against you that you went to that school over Pershing.”
That school.
Wouldn’t she die a little inside if she knew I’d never even graduated high school?
One day I would, though. I’d get my GED and then my college degree. And maybe, when all this had blown over, I’d apply to vet school, just to see.
I was one step closer to freedom, but first Joshua Hampton had to get me there.
Betty knocked, twice, and then at a booming masculine voice calling out “enter!” she edged the door open and popped her head in. “You all ready for your two o’ clock? Ms. Lovelace is here.”
“What the hell kind of name is Lovelace?”
A fake one. Definitely a fake one.
Not to mention I’d come up with it when I was thirteen—no one should judge a girl that age.
“Is that a yes, Josh?” Betty asked.
“Send her in.”
Facing me again, good old Betty gave me an encouraging grin that could have read anywhere between go get ‘em tiger and bless your heart.
One quick nod of appreciation later and I was in the office, the door shut behind me, as I looked to the man of the hour behind his desk.
His eyes narrowed. “You.”
Time to make the magic happen.
Perky smile on my face, I took the available seat across from him, purse in my lap. “How amazing to see you again, Mr. Hampton. It’s been what . . . three, maybe four days since you held me at gunpoint?”
He blanched, gaze skirting behind me to stare at the door. “What are you doing here, Ms. Lovelace?”
“What? No small talk?”
“My secretary said you were here for an article about the mayoral race.”
My lips quirked. “I am. Unfortunately, the information will go no further than me, but I can’t imagine how you’d have a problem with that.” I leaned in to whisper, “I mean, no offense, but considering recent behavior, you’d have a lawsuit on your hands if word got out about your ventures in kidnapping.”
“My . . .” His brows went high, and his hand, which had been balled into a fist, smoothed out over the desk. “I’m not going to repeat myself again—what do you want?”
I gave a small shrug. “I want what you want—Foley dead. Although I’m going to harbor a guess that our reasons for why we’re praying for a miracle that our lovely mayor drops dead are for two different reasons.” Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a manila folder and propped it open on the desk. “You tell me what you know, and I’ll do the same. I think you’ll find that we’re both reaching for the same outcome.”
An outcome that didn’t include Lincoln Asher dead.
My heart twisted at just the thought of it alone, and I suppressed the emotion for the sake of staying on my toes. I couldn’t allow myself to dwell too deeply on him—not right now. Not when this was a life or death situation, literally.
At Hampton’s stubborn silence, I sifted through the leaflets of paper I’d brought along. The copious notes I’d taken over the years were finally paying off. Although if Hampton failed to cooperate with the plan I had in mind, it wouldn’t matter what I said today.
“How did you meet Nat?” I asked casually, hand coming down to rest on the final sheet of paper in the bunch.
Hampton stared at me. “What does that have to do with anything?”
I met his gaze unflinchingly. “Haven’t you ever wondered how she’s so wrapped up in the politics of this city? She married Ambideaux, worked on her back for my stepfather, and now”—I offered a little smile—“she’s fucking you. The richest man in the city, the mayor, and an esteemed university president like yourself. Why?”
“Maybe she’s got good taste.”
Doubtful. All three of them were creeps of the first order.
Shaking my head ruefully, I murmured, “Or maybe she’s got an ulterior motive.”
He barked out a laugh at that. “Of course she’s got an ulterior motive. She’s a hustler, Ms. Lovelace, and that’s what hustlers do. They’ll social climb until they’re either dead, in jail, or living under a fake name in Mexico. I have absolutely no delusions that she wants me for anything but my money and my status.”
Jeez, he was a cocky bastard.
Not that I’d expected anything else.
Drumming my fingers on the desk, I drew out the silence until his cheeks began to redden with impatience. Then, “And why do you want her?”
His stance stiffened, mouth going flat as he stared at me. “She has a great rack and an even better pussy. Does that answer your question?”
“Not even close, but the sarcasm is appreciated.”
His molars ground together and he shoved away from the desk, chair nearly toppling over until he caught the back. “This appointment is getting old. I have no interest in playing games. Either say what you came to say or get out of my office.”
The sweat that kicked off its marathon under my armpits spread to my chest, between my breasts. It’d be so easy to succumb to the fear and the nerves, but neither fear nor nerves would get me out of this mess.
“I don’t believe you’re a bad man,” I murmured, dragging my folder close and flipping to the front of the stack. “Sometimes good people do bad things.” Like me right now. “Sometimes”—I flicked my gaze up to check out Hampton’s expression—“you find yourself in a tough position. Right or wrong, good or bad. You can only do what you think is right.”
His eyes narrowed into slits. “How lovely to know that you don’t believe me to be an asshole.”
Pretentious asshole, more like it.
Shrugging off his bad attitude, I returned my attention to the folder before me and to the notes that I’d faked just this morning. Sometimes good people do bad things. My new motto—for better or for worse.
“Nat’s come to visit me for years in Jackson Square, Mr. Hampton. I’ve read her cards enough to think I know her reasonably well.”
“No one knows Nat well. Not you, not me, not her damn ex-husband. No one.”
My plan was risky, and there was a good chance Big Hampton would laugh in my face. But if there was anything I’d learned from watching the world behind the curtain of reading cards, it was that there was nothing more destructive—nothing more implosive—than pitting two self-centered people against each other and watching the sparks fly.
Flexing my fingers to subtly shake out the nerves, I pulled out the three tarot cards I’d layered at the back of the folder. “Tell me, have you ever had your tarot cards read?”
Mouth curling in disgust, Hampton snapped, “Do I lo
ok like someone who believes in that shit?”
Judgmental jerk. I wouldn’t even deign him a response for that one—although it did make me feel better for what I was about to do. One by one, I laid out the three cards before me on the oak desk, pushing my chair back with the hope that curiosity would bite Joshua Hampton in the ass and propel him to see the cards I’d pulled.
“The thing is,” I drawled, dropping the pitch of my voice to match the throaty tenor I always used in the square, “tarot is a lot like Murphy’s Law, Mr. Hampton. If you believe something will go wrong, it no doubt will. But within tarot, I like to think of it like . . . if your mind is constantly obsessing over one thought or idea, it’ll naturally manifest in the cards you pull.”
From my jacket I pulled my velvet pouch where I stored my cards. Emptying them out, I set the deck on the desk, to the left of the three splayed cards. With my palm, I rolled the deck out, so that they formed a shallow arc.
Stepping back, I met Hampton’s gaze. “Humor me, sir. Why don’t you pick a card?”
Jaw clenching, he looked from me to the desk and then back again. “Nat does this?” he asked, and there was no denying the hesitation coating his tone.
My lips turned up in a smile. “Weekly. She’s quite the fanatic about coming to see me.”
Indecision danced across his features.
The seconds dragged on. I refused to let my smile dip, refused to holler like a maniac when he caved and approached the desk like he had chains locked around his ankles.
“I can pick any card?” he asked, sounding doubtful.
“Whatever card speaks to you.”
Please let this work.
I was desperate to fiddle with something, just to work out the excess nerves, but I forced my hands to my sides.
His hand hesitated over the middle of the arc, hovering. He glanced at me over his shoulder, scrutinizing me with narrowed eyes, and it took everything in my power to keep my expression passive . . . even though, on the inside, I was dying for him to make a pick.
Over the years, it wasn’t only people’s stories I’d recorded, but the cards they typically picked from the spread—and which number they were in a lineup. Confident people tended to pick from the front end of the deck, as though assuming that even in their readings, they were always ahead. Those who were more sensitive chose from the middle, like they were shoving through the murky in-between and looking for some kind of guidance.
Joshua Hampton was a confident man.
A man who didn’t believe in the art of tarot or anything that he couldn’t touch tangibly.
It was obvious that he wanted power and money. Even more obvious that the only thing he despised more than someone messing with his kid was a person who threatened his power or his money.
His fingertips flirted with the very first card in the spread, and then, turning his body to face me, he selected the second card.
Pulled it from its spot.
Turned it over and squinted at the words at the bottom of the card.
He cleared his throat. “Four of Disks.”
Also known as Power, the card I’d placed in that exact spot for him to select, knowing that it would stroke his ego and make him more malleable. Thank you, Lincoln, for showing me the way to not read tarot properly. After all, if he hadn’t decided to teach himself to read tarot, by picking my cards in advance, I would never have even given thought to doing the same to Hampton now.
Only, unlike Lincoln, I had no plans to tell the university president that I’d had a hand in anything at all.
“How interesting,” I purred, stepping close to make a show of craning my neck to see the card he held in his hand. “And how appropriate.”
“Yeah?”
I tapped my temple then pointed my finger at him. “I was under the impression you wanted to be mayor.”
He frowned, staring down at me. “I do.”
Without giving him the chance to protest, I plucked the card from his grasp. “Then there’s no better card to pull. Being mayor is like being the most powerful man in N’Orleans. Seems like you’ve been thinking real hard about this, Mr. Hampton.”
“I think of nothing else.”
“No?” I gestured to the spread again. “Why don’t you pick another card? See if Murphy’s Law is working in your favor again—the tarot version of the law, I mean.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed down the length of his neck, but unlike with his first selection, he wasted no time in reaching for the cards again. Palm open, he waved his hand from the front to the back, hesitated, and then his fingers were pushing at the third to last card, removing it from its pack.
I stifled a sigh of relief.
I’d put three possible cards for him at the back, but my first choice was the one he’d gone for.
Must be my lucky day.
He flipped it over and immediately held it up for me to view. “Six of Disks.”
Success—literally. I gave him a bright smile. “Looks like your path to mayor will be greeted with success. How fortunate.”
“Yeah?” He pulled back his arm to stare down at the card. “Just like that?”
I shrugged. “Nothing is guaranteed, and free will can change anything.”
With another glance down at Success, he set it down, and promptly let curiosity bite him in the ass—just like I’d hoped it would.
Knuckles pressed into the desk, Hampton leaned his body toward the three cards I’d first laid out. “Are these for you?” he asked.
Not even close.
Twisting around, I leaned up against the desk and folded my arms over my chest. “Those?” I shook my head. “Unfortunately, those were the last cards I picked for Nat.”
Hampton jerked in my direction. “Why are you showing them to me?”
Because I’m hoping you’re dumb enough to fall right into the trap.
And then, like I was putting on a stage performance on Broadway, my tone hardened as I murmured, “Honestly, after what you did to Lincoln and me, I had no desire to help you whatsoever. For all I care, you could rot in hell. The hotter the flames, the more satisfied I’ll be.”
His nostrils flared. “And yet here you are.”
“And yet here I am.” Reaching over, I tugged the three cards close to me. “You see, Mr. Hampton, I’m the type of person who’ll stop a group of idiot boys from assaulting a young woman.” If he caught my reference, his expression didn’t even twitch in acknowledgment. I pressed on. “For all I’ve been through, I just want to help people. Nat’s been coming to me for years now, and I’ve read cards for her at every stage of her life.”
I lifted my gaze, climbed the tight fit of the man’s suit, and fixed my attention on his face. “I would love to let this go. The idea of helping you of all people turns my stomach, but here I am, once again playing the saint because I just can’t help myself.”
Voice tight, he bit out, “And your point is?”
“Here are the cards that I last pulled for Nat. Read them to me.”
Hand balling into a fist, he dropped it to the desk and leaned forward to look at the first card. “Eight of Swords.”
I swallowed a smile. “That’d be Interference.”
He visibly stiffened.
“Read the next, sir.”
Free hand coming up to run the course along his jawline, he looked to the next card. “Death.”
Wincing for dramatic effect, I placed my hand to my chest. “How unfortunate.”
This time, I didn’t even need to prod him into telling me the next and final card. He stared down at it, his cheeks turning red from what could only be rage or embarrassment.
“It’s The Emperor,” he breathed out, turning to me. “What does this even mean? Is this about Whiskey Bay?”
Sometimes good people do bad things.
I took the card from him, drew in a deep breath, and then lied. “It’s about you, Mr. Hampton. She came to me wanting to talk about a love interest, and then . . .” I shrugged. “Well, I
saw the way you acted toward her the other night, and as much as I’d love to see you go down in flames—”
“Yes,” he ground out, cutting me off, “you mentioned that.”
“—it seemed only fair that I tell you what she told me. She was very pleased when she left, which is a little alarming, obviously, considering the nature of the cards. I mean, for her to feel so strongly against you, clearly you must have something that she wants. Right?”
His nails scraped along the desk as his shoulders hunched. “She keeps mentioning how happy it makes her when I give her money to spend how she pleases.”
No surprise there.
“Hmm.” I bit down on my thumb, pretending to give the situation a lot of thought. “And she has mentioned marriage to me before in our sessions. So, that’s troubling. Unless, you know, you aren’t particularly concerned about her wanting to marry you for your money and then, well . . .” I tapped Death, just to make him squirm.
And squirm he did.
Back going ramrod straight, Hampton twisted from the desk, hands on his hips. “If that’s all you’ve got for me, Ms. Lovelace, I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Oh, I don’t want to hold you.”
I slipped the cards back into their velvet pouch, tucked my folder into my jacket again, and moved toward the door. Only when my hand was on the doorknob did I pause and glance back to say, “Free will is such a powerful thing, Mr. Hampton. Just remember that nothing is ever set in stone.”
He didn’t offer a response, but I wasn’t looking for one.
I’d planted the seed of distrust. For an already suspicious man like Joshua Hampton, I had a gut feeling that the seed was all he needed to attack anyone who threatened his kingdom.
But kingdoms rose and kingdoms fell, and one by one, I wouldn’t stop until they all came tumbling down.
18
Avery
“You need a date, and I don’t care what Captain America says, I was your one and only first,” Katie hollered from the doorway. “Which means that I deserve the chance to sweep you off your feet.”
The eggs on the stove sizzled and popped as I flipped them over in the pan. “By that sort of logic,” I repeated to Katie as she entered the kitchen, still in her work uniform of a skimpy tank top and even skimpier short-shorts, “you should be cooking us lunch today instead of the other way around.”
