by Nancy Gideon
Colin put it together. “She left you to terrorize Kip’s family.”
“Are they all right?” Mia gasped.
“They’re fine and, now, so are you.” His hard stare met his brother’s to solidify that promise.
Cale embraced them both with a fierce, “Stay safe.” He waited, smiling in encouragement until they’d gone before turning to Silas to growl, “What did you see?”
“Not enough to identify her.”
“But?” he prompted, not satisfied with the vague reply.
Both he and Nica were drained by the energy they’d expended, but Silas drew a deep breath to answer. “Enough to worry. She’s powerful and dangerous. The most mentally skilled I’ve ever come across. And she’s not afraid of us. Who knows what she’s seen and heard while pretending to be Mia, or to whom she gave that information? Unless you can enlighten us.” His pointed look skewered Cale. “What did you boys discuss while our enemy was under your noses?”
“Nothing of any value to them,” Cale assured as his thoughts scrambled frantically through the past few days. What plans had they inadvertently revealed?
“So,” Max interrupted, “who’s she working with? Best guess?”
“My guess is our worst-case scenario,” MacCreedy sighed. “Your aunt. Who else has access to that kind of science, to swap out minds for that length of time?”
Genevieve Savorie had gotten inside their security, had eavesdropped on their fears and plans. And now, she knew their weakness.
– – –
A ping from her phone drew Cee Cee into the quiet of Jimmy’s study as the last of their guests departed. Puzzled by the Caller Unknown, she answered.
“Detective Caissie.”
“Stop looking for me.” DeShawn Coulette.
Her attention immediately sharpened. “We can protect you.”
Amazingly he didn’t laugh before saying, “Like you did that fella at the restaurant? And Val?”
Hamstrung because she had no answer, Cee Cee kept her tone strong, urging, “We need to meet. I’ll keep you safe.”
“No. I won’t put my family and friends in danger. Keep clear of them and me.”
“You’ll all be in danger until I put away those responsible.”
“You had one of them and couldn’t hold him,” came his frustrated cry.
“You mean Warren Brady? What did you see, DeShawn? What do you know? I can’t put him and his people away for good without witnesses.”
“Witnesses you can’t keep alive.” When she didn’t respond, he added, voice constricted, “You already ruined my future. I won’t let you do the same to folks I love.”
“DeShawn, wait.” Her fierce response fell upon a disconnect.
Back to square one.
“Trouble, Detective?”
Cee Cee took a second to compose her features before turning toward the lanky figure dramatically framed in backlight from the hall. Her pulse tripped and picked up a hurried beat, part anticipation, part protective even as she adopted her game face. “Nothing unexpected.”
“Brady. He’s gonna get away with it.” An emotionless statement of fact.
“Not yet. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“What can I do?”
A cynical smirk. “The old Max would have asked, ‘Who can I kill?’”
“Is it the old Max you need, Charlotte?”
He betrayed nothing, smoky green eyes cool, voice dangerously smooth as if offering . . . what exactly? She didn’t dare speculate, fearing the temptation to call on that darkness would be too great in her frustration.
“It’s my Max I need, now and always.”
“Where do you need me?” The twitch of a provocative smile.
She tapped a forefinger against pursed lips. “Right here, for starters.”
She sometimes forgot how fast he could move, crossing the separating space before she could gasp, covering teasing lips in a hard press to banish space, time, and troubles. His tongue invaded the heat of her mouth the way his power crushed her doubts. Completely, deliciously. Unwilling to just surrender, she challenged. A tug sealed his hips to hers. A lusty moan encouraged answering growl.
Struggling with her own will and the urgent wants of her body, Cee Cee pushed away to pant, “Shut the door before anyone wanders by.”
A dark brow lifted. “Right here, right now?”
Her smile teased wickedly. “Right in Jimmy’s favorite chair.”
Without hesitation, Max went to secure the lock, turning to find Cee Cee balanced on the edge of the worn armchair, knees parted in irresistible invitation. He’d gone to his before that chair on many occasions but never for a reason that promised the gratification of this one. By the time he hit hardwood, she’d kicked out of her sensible shoes and shucked up her hem, leaving him the delightful duty of peeling down silky hose. Rough palms growled against nylon, sending them floating free. Hot skin stroked beneath strong, sleek thighs as he positioned them atop his shoulders. He dove between them, burying himself in her heat and dampness, absorbing the intoxicating scent of her excitement as he worked her with lips, tongue, and teeth. His mate. His love. His future.
Hurried gasps became gusty cries. By the time they crested, he’d shoved down his dress slacks to provide her a more intimate perch with those toned legs clasped tight about him. Hungry kisses punctuated quickly-accelerated breaths as she rode him the way she’d once done his motorcycle, gripping tight, fearlessly goading him to greater speed. From reckless start to dramatic, breath-stealing finish.
Long, languid minutes passed until Max whispered, “Shall we take this to the couch?”
She shook her head, damp tendrils of hair brushing his lips. “To bed.”
He nodded. “You’ve got an early morning. You need your sleep.”
“I do.” Her teeth nipped along his jaw. A whisper caressed his ear. “But not yet.”
– – –
Philo Tibideaux rarely visited Cheveux du Chien, not since he’d punched out his best friend, intent upon severing all ties forever. Though a call from Rico Terriot was the reason for his presence, tonight he wanted to see if that link was irreparably broken.
He and his baby brother had saved Jacques LaRoche when he’d been dumped in New Orleans without a name, a memory or a friend. They’d taken him in, given him shelter and purpose, helped him rebuild his life into a good one. Until a female from the North arrived to reclaim the past they’d shared.
At the time, Philo reacted as if betrayed, as if Jacques had assumed his Northern bodyguard persona to have Susanna Duchamps and the child they shared, turning his back on their friendship. In truth, the pain of being replaced at his side, first by Savoie’s promises, then by the lovely outsider, had forced that regrettable fracture. Whether encouraged by the passage of time or finding his own soulmate, Philo needed to make amends. If possible.
Jacques helmed the bar, towel draped over his shoulder as he delivered on-taps to fellas on his former crew. That crew at first had boycotted CdC out of loyalty to Philo as their new foreman but had slowly drifted back to fill tables that catered to their kind, having more sense and less stubborn pride than he did.
As Philo stared down at the gleaming bar top, searching for a non-humiliating way to apologize, a frothy glass appeared under his nose.
“On the house,” LaRoche announced, drawing his gaze. All hesitation fell away.
“I’m getting married, and I need you there at my side.”
LaRoche’s response cut right to the heart. “I never left it.” His big hand squeezed Philo’s tatted forearm before he traveled to the other end of the bar to answer the wave of an empty glass.
Philo was still grinning down into his beer when the co-leader of his Patrol plopped down on the stool beside him.
Rico Terriot was another of life’s big surprises, a blessing he’d stumbled over by accident. Who’da thought the brash redhead possessed the gift of inspiring loyalty in those who found little to believe in. His
warrior clan’s reputation as fighters had led Philo to agree, though reluctantly, to take him on as a temporary trainer of his undisciplined Patrol. In less than a month, Terriot had forged a unit as sturdy and strong as his iron will. Loyalty wasn’t something an outsider could demand on the docks. Rico earned it through sacrifice and shared loss while uncovering enemies thought to be friends in their midst. He’d paid the price and bore the scars as proudly as he carried the Patrol’s flaming wolf’s head tattoo on his forearm.
That arm bumped Philo’s, spilling froth from the glass he’d been lifting for a first sip.
“Hey, it’s bad luck to drink alone.”
“Then save me from misfortune.” Philo waved down the beefy owner. A cold one quickly appeared as Rico got comfortable on the next barstool.
“’Sup?”
“Making wedding plans.”
Eyes rounded in feigned surprise. “Anyone I know?”
Philo gave him a sharp elbow. “Don’t be a dumb ass.”
“Can’t help it. Born that way.” Rico lifted his glass. “Congrats!”
They clinked and drank deep.
“Good woman. We both got better than we deserve.”
Heart twisting at that truth, Philo nodded then got serious. “Find out anything?”
Rico sighed his frustration. “Dammit, I don’t want to suspect any of them. They’re all good men.”
“I hear ya. But good men can be led astray.” As he’d been.
“I’d bet my life on every one of the squad leaders. Hell, I have.”
Tib nodded. “Same. But there’s a lot of new faces, some I can’t put a name to. Wish I could be sure it was them we need to worry about and not our friends.” Thinking of Poe and Donnie, may they rest in Hell, the bitter taste filling his mouth had him pushing his beer aside. “Sad day when you can’t count on a friend to have your back insteada stabbing you in it.”
Rico took a breath. “Been thinkin’.”
“Oh, God help us!”
A grin then back to business. “What say I call in some of my people to slip into the ranks and poke around. If there’s a conspiracy brewing, maybe they can sniff it out.”
“These folks you trust?”
“Colin does. Helped train ’em. They’re scattered, so it’ll take some time to round ′em up,” his expression firmed, “and to make sure where their loyalty stands, with us or with our father.”
Philo emptied his glass and wiped the trace of foam from his thin red mustache the way he wished he could make this whole unpleasantness disappear. “Do it. Bring ′em in. They report to you only. I don’t need to know who they are.”
Rico gave him a surprisingly thoughtful stare. “I’m not worried about you.”
“But them that know me might catch on. It only takes one tell to give the whole hand away, and this ain’t a play we can afford to lose.”
Rico knocked his fist atop one hard forearm. “Gotcha.” He got to his feet. “And congrats again on grabbing up a good one. Someday, you’ll have to clue me in on how that happens with a nun.” A sly grin.
“F-off, Terriot.”
Rico turned to leave, almost running over the waitress who’d replaced his mate behind LaRoche’s bar. “Whoa!” When she stumbled back, he caught her upper arms to steady her. “Sorry,” he teased with a smile. “Wasn’t looking where I shoulda been.”
Fran eased from his grip, never spilling a drop from the two pitchers she carried. “You boys never are,” she sassed right back, appreciative stare giving him the up and down. “Or I woulda nabbed one of you first.” She winked before calling to her boss, “Sorry, I’m late. Can’t have you stealing all my tips. I’ll get those boys up top.”
The bar owner laughed. “They aren’t half as quick asking me for refills as they are you.”
“Maybe you should try a lower neckline on that tee shirt.” After another heavy-lidded glance at Rico, she turned to Philo. “Top you off first, good looking?”
He grinned. “Probably not a good idea seeing as how I’m getting married. But a refill would be nice.” When she complied and sashayed out onto the floor, Philo let out a breath, chuckling to himself as he spun on the stool to catch Rico frowning. “What?”
Wide shoulders shrugged. “Nothin’.” He bumped a fist against Philo’s shoulder. “Say hey to your lady.”
“And to yours.” His voice lowered. “Bring me something, anything, soon.”
“Do my best.”
As Rico headed for the backdoor, Jacques stepped up across from Philo. “So . . . your intended? Charlotte’s friend . . . the nun?” Brows lifted in comic emphasis.
“No. Mary Kate Malone, the cheerleader who taught Tito to read music.”
“Start talking, Mr. Soon-to-be Married.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“How safe is my family?”
Max met his best friend’s stare in the rearview. “I pity anyone who thinks to mess with your missus.”
Laugh lines creased the corners of intelligent blue eyes. “Didn’t mean her. She and my mama are ′bout the toughest customers I know. Was thinking further up river.” His sister and cousin worked in Rueben Guedry’s Memphis high-rise.
Max frowned. “Rueben’ll see to them same way you’re seeing to his.”
“I’m thinkin’ they’re a closer target to them in the North.”
He was right to worry. But Max glossed it over. “Guedrys have been dealing with their kind for a long, profitable time.”
“But times are changing, and them up there in Chicago are too smart not to know allegiances have, too.”
And Giles was too smart to be easily placated. He’d been a top-notch college student from humble bayou roots when a bad decision brought him under Jimmy’s thumb. After the Mobster’s murder, he’d supported Max’s advancement rather than the weaselly little bastard who’d killed his employer, rising with the encouragement of his new boss and new bride from thug to second-in-command while finally finishing that law degree. He was more than employee and driver. He was a friend and irreplaceable confidante.
“Your people are my people,” Max quickly reassured. “If you think they’d be safer under our roof, invite all of them here.”
Giles’ laugh rolled out quick and full-bodied. “Like my mama would step foot through Jimmy Legere’s front door. She barely lets me cross hers. Us being former criminals and all.”
Max shared his amused chuckle then promised, “I’ll send some fellas to keep watch over ′em. She won’t know they’re there.”
A long pause followed by a quiet, “’Preciate it.”
“Don’t be an ass, Giles.”
Giles turned in to the lot of Legere Enterprises, Inc. to the all-too-familiar and unwelcomed sight of NOLA police units, this time angled next to an ambulance with its doors open. Max was out of the car before it completed its stop.
When braced by an officer determined to bar his entrance to the building, an authoritative voice intruded.
“He’s with me.”
Finding Byron Atcliff on the scene upped the worry factor. “What’s happened? Is my assistant all right?”
Atcliff’s hand pressed center mass on his business suit. “They’re just bringing her out.”
Panic knife-edged his question. “Is she alive?”
A calming tap of his hand. “And furious that someone made a mess of your workday.”
Both stepped aside as the gurney wheeled toward them. A shaky hand ripped off the oxygen mask the second his loyal assistant saw him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Savoie. They were waiting for me when I keyed in.”
“Are you all right?”
“They pushed me around when I wouldn’t give them any passwords or information. Just bumps and a few bruises. And mad as hell, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”
Max grinned, shoulders relaxing. “Don’t give these nice fellas any trouble, Marissa. I’ll be there to visit as soon as I take stock of things here.”
“Don’t worry. I’l
l get everything put back together.” She squint-eyed Atcliff, warning, “Don’t let them make my work any harder.”
Max squeezed her hand. “They wouldn’t dare.” In a lowered voice, he asked, “Did you recognize them?”
“The cowards wore masks.”
“Behave.” After that gentle admonishment, he nodded to the attendants. Watching them load his loyal friend into the ambulance got his pilot light flaming as he turned to Atcliff. “What happened here?”
“Silent alarm. My men responded as soon as they could. Found your assistant on the floor of your office. She took a pretty hard knock to the head. Tough lady.”
“I’d like to go in.”
“I’ll go with you for a walk-through. You know the drill. Don’t touch anything until it’s photographed and printed. I’ll want you to make note of anything missing.”
The neatly arranged trays at Marissa’s command center had been hurriedly tossed, papers and files scattered across the desktop and strewn on the floor along with her extensive family photos. Max’s teeth ground at the violation of her sacred space. He continued to his office with Atcliff in tow, bracing for what he might find.
At first glance, it had the disorganized chaos of an amateur ransacking, goons out to make a mess to make a point. He took a moment to calm his temper. What had they been after? Drawers, their locks broken, had been wrenched from his desk, contents dumped and carelessly trampled seemingly without rhyme or logical reason. Max looked beyond the obvious they wanted him to see–random vandalism–to find a clue to motivation. Most of what he kept in the riverfront office was related to Legere Enterprises International’s shipping interests, all strictly legitimate and of no importance to the eagle eyes of Byron Atcliff. Absolutely nothing touching upon clan business came through the etched, now breached doors.
It took him a while to visually sort through the insignificant to the precious few areas where professional and deeply personal crossed paths. The vandals had targeted that narrow intersection. They’d taken the time to pull his collection of tribal wolf masks off the wall, crushing each of them with deliberation. Someone knew what they meant to him as far as heritage.
