FORBIDDEN LOVE

by LAURA HARNER

  Forbidden Love

  by

  Laura Harner

  Copyright

  Forbidden Love is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Laura Harner

  Second Edition

  Cover by Laura Harner

  Edited by Jae Ashley

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Hot Corner Press

  ISBN 978-1-937252-02-1

  Warning: All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any many without written permission, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Digital books are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this book.

  Contact the publisher for further information: Hotcornerpress@gmail.com

  Dedication

  You can never give up on love. Not even on a forbidden love.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Table of 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 Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Titles Now Available

  Chapter One

  Detective Danielle Delacroiux gloved her hands and looked around the cheap motel with a cynical eye. It was the kind of place that charged by the hour, and charged two bucks extra for clean sheets. A double bed with lumps big enough to show through the threadbare bedspread, a scratched wooden desk with a straight-backed chair, and orange shag carpet worn to the nub. Not exactly a luxury suite at the Southern Plantation Bed and Breakfast.

  Crease Martin looked pathetic and smelled worse. He was curled on his side, outlined in chalk, knife sticking out of his back. His short dark hair was matted and years of grime blackened the skin on the back of his neck. He never smelled good, but in the moment of death, his bowels had let loose, and now the stench hung heavy in the air.

  The techs had nodded their appreciation at Dani when she sent them out of the room as soon as she arrived. She always liked a few minutes alone to get the feel of a place, to put herself in the killer’s mind. The location had been the killer’s choice. He’d brought Crease here, had either called him for a meet or sent him ahead. As cheap as the Mona Lisa Motel was, it still cost more for an hour than Crease made in a day of panhandling. She paced the small room, looking, thinking, imagining.

  Why kill him? Crease was a harmless drunk who hung out at the docks and in front of bars. The few pieces of information he’d ever given her had netted Crease a couple of bucks and ride to the county homeless shelter. They’d netted Dani next to nothing in terms of information she could use, but what the heck, the guy had no one.

  With a sigh, she called everyone back in, gave the orders. “Bag him,” she told the tech from the medical examiner’s office. “Tell the ME to rush this one. I don’t like this.”

  “But, Detective, please. The man’s a wino. Probably homeless. We got a shitload of other cases—more important things to do,” he whined.

  Dani turned and glanced at the man’s nametag. “Is that so, Deerfield?” She took a step closer, invading his personal space, completely unconcerned that he was at least six inches taller and seventy pounds heavier than she was. Her voice was soft now. “Unless you want to become the next senseless homicide statistic, I suggest you do as I say. A life is a life, and I dare say Crease here wasn’t ready to go any more than you are. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he ground out between clenched teeth, a flush of anger coloring his cheeks.

  She looked at him a moment longer then turned, dismissing him from her mind.

  “Fuckin’ cunt,” he muttered, not quite under his breath.

  She didn’t even turn around. Just packed the bagged evidence into a box and left the techs to finish their work.

  ****

  Dani liked working at the station in the evenings. It was too much like a family reunion around there during the day. Her father, Richard Delacroiux, was the police captain, her uncle Beau and aunt LeAnn were both detectives, and she had a couple of cousins floating around patrol. She’d been an officer herself for four years before she aced the test for detective and applied for the promotion.

  After she’d been passed over twice, she’d appealed to the commissioner and finally received her shield. Apparently her father thought her promotion would look like favoritism, but she was damned if she would let anyone hold her back. Not even her dad.

  She pulled out a fresh notebook and started a case file on Donald Martin, aka Crease. No known residence. No known address. No known associates. After a depressingly short time, she’d logged all the information. Now she’d have to wait for the autopsy and the fingerprint techs.

  The front desk clerk was the only witness so far, and his information was as dubious as his reputation. He denied having rented the room and having seen anyone all afternoon, including Crease. He was watching reruns of Oprah and thought Crease must have slipped by the desk unnoticed. As if you could miss the smell. The clerk had no guesses as to how the room door got unlocked and claimed no knowledge of the distinctive crimson silk handkerchief just underneath the victim’s left shoulder had come from.

  Dani closed the notebook and locked it in her desk, then sat thinking. She rolled her shoulders, then arched her neck, stretching to the left, to the right, and finally to the back. It had been a long day, but she couldn’t go home until she went to where she suspected the real root of this crime took place. The Généreux Pier.

  ****

  The Pier was a fancy name for a district filled with warehouses, flophouses, and dives. A warren of back alleys and dead ends, it was a haven for drug dealers, hookers, and vagrants. Politicians would stand on their soapboxes at election time and vow to clean up crime in Généreux, but the cops and the criminals knew that it wasn’t going to happen. Nobody really cared. The streets of Généreux were safe enough as long as you avoided the south end of the waterfront.

  That was where Crease had spent most of his days and nights, in a little ramshackle community of homeless people, beggars, and bums. He panhandled near the Cheatin’ Heart, a bar that straddled the line between neighborhoods. Half the customers were cops, and most of them tossed a few coins Crease’s way when they saw him and then told him to get lost. He was harmless. So why had someone wanted him dead?

  Tonight, Dani parked at the Cheatin’ Heart and walked south. Located halfway between Houston and New Orleans, Généreux was nestled along the bayou and bordered by swampy marshland to the south. The city was big enough to have its own police force, but not so big that you could get lost. At least not for very long.

  The late sp
ring evening was a few degrees cooler than sultry, but that wouldn’t stop the mosquitoes from trying to carry a person away. The damp, still air left her feeling sticky and rumpled. A definite fashion disadvantage as she saw two men dressed in fancy suits walking her way. They’d emerged from an alley that ran between an abandoned stretch of warehouses. An odd place for a business meeting.

  “Well, well. Look what I found,” she said. She glanced quickly between the two men, looking for any sign of guilty knowledge.

  “Danielle,” said Constantine Demetrios, the silver-headed owner of the multimillion-dollar Demetrios Shipping Lines. “You’re certainly out here late.”

  “I could say the same for you, Costa. Who’s your friend?” she asked, eying the tall, good-looking stranger.

  “Just a business associate. Nothing to concern you. Now, if you’ll excuse us.” Constantine placed a hand on the younger man’s sleeve, as if to guide him away from her prying eyes.

  “What’s the matter, Costa? Don’t want to tell me why you’re down here at the Pier after dark? The offices need cleaning? You’ve got nowhere else to do business?” she asked as he moved away.

  “What an extraordinarily rude young woman,” the stranger said, his accent pure West Texas. He raised a single brow and looked down at her, before brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. Subtle, much?

  Dani grinned, ready to take the arrogant prick down a couple of notches. He was more than a foot taller than she was, making him close to six and a half feet tall. His hair was a little long and unruly on the top, and he clearly favored the two-day beard look. He was classically handsome, in that too-good-looking-to-be-true sort of way, and it immediately put her guard up. Or maybe it was the fact that the tie that graced his two-thousand-dollar suit looked remarkably similar to the handkerchief found at the scene of the crime.

  She followed as they tried to move away. “I don’t believe I caught your name?”

  Constantine gave a much-put-upon sigh. “Dani, this is private business. Now go away.”

  Dani knew Constantine was trying to dismiss her, but she was not so easily discouraged. He would probably be horrified to know she thought of him as nothing more than another one of her cranky old relatives. After all, he was her uncle Beau’s father as a result of an affair with her mémé Lina. It was something she tried hard not to think about.

  “I’m making it my business, Costa, and seeing as how this is public property, I don’t see any problem with that.” She pulled out her shield and held it up for the stranger to see. “Let’s try this again. I’m Detective Danielle Delacroiux, Généreux Police Department. What’s your name?”

  “Really—”

  “Can it, Costa, I’m asking your friend.”

  Mr. Tall, Dark, and Yummy watched the exchange with a smirk on his lips, and Dani thought she’d like to kiss it right off that tasty-looking mouth. Where the hell had that thought come from?

  “Detective, is it?” He added, in an aside to Constantine. “They certainly grow ’em much prettier ’round here than they do back in Texas.”

  Dani felt the scowl between her brows. “Your name and identification, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, but I do mind, sugar,” he said smoothly. “I don’t believe that even in an uncivilized place such as this, a man can be asked for identification without a reason.”

  “It’s Detective, and funny you should mention that,” she said. “I’ve got plenty of reason. I’m investigating a crime. Now, would you like to answer my questions here or at the station?”

  Reaching into his suit jacket for his billfold, he said, “What crime would that be, Detective Danielle Delacroiux? Loitering?” He handed her his identification, and his mouth formed a tight little smile he directed at Constantine.

  Dani looked at the driver’s license for a long moment, working at hiding her smile of anticipation. Slowly, she raised her eyes, her gaze tracing along the line of his crimson silk tie, lingering over the empty breast pocket, and moving up until she met brown eyes the color of Kentucky bourbon. She was the cat, and though he didn’t know it yet, he’d just become her favorite mouse.

  “Murder, Mr. Hawk Charbonnet. The crime is murder.”

  Chapter Two

  Hawk poured himself a whisky, tossed it back, and poured another. In his father’s house for less than twenty-four hours and already involved in a murder investigation. Fucking hell!

  “Ah, Junior,” his father said, using a part of Hawk’s much-despised given name, Julian Jr. “How did your meeting with Constantine go?”

  Hawk turned and looked at his father. With a sinking feeling, he realized he had the answer to the long-debated question of nature versus nurture. This apple had indeed not fallen far from the tree. At least not far from his father’s tree. His mother, on the other hand, more closely resembled the tree itself. Thick. Susan lacked in many areas, not the least of which was any sense of how to raise a child. She had probably saved his life by putting him in a boarding school at an early age.

  The lessons he’d learned at the exclusive private school were not what she’d had in mind, though. Even without his father’s influence, Hawk had gotten caught up with a rough and rowdy crowd. He learned all the practical skills he needed to become a world-class criminal. He’d started small, sneaking away from the dormitories at night so the older boys could teach him to pick pockets. They’d never realized until it was far too late that he always kept back a bit more than his fair share of the bounty. That was how he bankrolled his other ventures.

  It hadn’t been long before young Hawk was running dice and card games and keeping an even larger part of the take. Expanding his business, he was always ready to lend a little cash to help tide a classmate over until his allowance arrived. For a hefty fee plus interest, of course. Profits from his gambling and loan sharking were poured into other endeavors, and by the time Hawk was ready to leave the boarding school, he could have bought the damn place.

  Somewhere in the middle of his secondary schooling, he’d become aware of who and what his father was, just as his father had become aware of him. Neither was in any hurry to interrupt Hawk’s education, so the relationship remained on the back burner.

  Hawk continued to supply diversions to his friends and was a very wealthy young man by the time he’d completed law school. As a new attorney, he thought it advisable to diversify his investments. No longer finding satisfaction in loans and entertainment, as he’d liked to think of his early businesses, Hawk began purchasing struggling companies and hotels. He sold off the assets and gutted the organization before moving to the next. He would do whatever was necessary to flip a company in twelve to fifteen months without drawing undue interest. He’d managed to operate for years without raising more than an awareness from any authorities.

  Then, by chance, he’d purchased Techkneaux, a tech start-up on the edge of bankruptcy and breakthrough. He’d been amused at the obscure reference through creative spelling to his despised Cajun roots. Out of not much more than idle curiosity, he had examined their operating practices and found a few ways to restructure and tighten control over quality. He hired the right manager, and before long, the company was operating at a tremendous profit and he had a staff of loyal employees grateful to have kept their jobs.

  What had started as a quick way to raise cash—acting as a pirate, swooping in and looting a troubled company—turned into a passion for rescuing and reinvigorating failing businesses. It was a pleasant surprise to discover he was good at it. His net worth had tripled over the past three years. In fact, other than the occasional criminal case for a former associate, his only legal work now was handling the European contracts for his father’s company.

  For the past six months, Hawk had been working hard to get on the right side of the law. He wanted to be completely legitimate by the end of the year. It was one way he could honor his late brother, Peter. The two of them had spoken at length about creating a more respectable version of Charbonnet Enterprises.
Just before Peter died last year, he’d urged Hawk to make the Charbonnet name stand for more than their father’s twisted sense of right and wrong. Hawk realized he didn’t want to be known as his father’s pawn; he wanted to be known as an admirable man who could bring good to a company or a community.

  Which was why it was more than a little annoying to brush up against a murder investigation as soon as he’d been summoned to his father’s side.

  “Junior, did you hear me? I asked about your business with Constantine.” Julian interrupted Hawk’s reminisces.

  “I’m sorry, Father, I was distracted. Tell me again exactly why you wanted me to meet with Constantine at the Pier tonight? Our negotiations were perfectly suitable for a boardroom. What’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what was your purpose for sending me down there to meet with Constantine tonight? Was it some sort of test?”

  “Bah! Don’t be foolish. It was a point of honor for us to get Constantine to agree to meet on our terms, even if there was no actual purpose for the location. It gives us the position of power as the deal reaches its conclusion. I take it the terms were satisfactory?” Julian said, his European accent laced with a trace of the South.

  “I don’t know. We never actually got around to discussing business. We were interrupted.”

  “Interrupted? Junior, I’m disappointed,” his father said. “If you plan to take over as my sole attorney and closest assistant, I must have complete faith in your ability to carry out my orders. Do I make myself clear?”

  Hawk looked over the top of his crystal tumbler as he sipped his whisky. This seemed as good a time as any to tell his father that he wouldn’t be continuing on with Charbonnet Enterprises. For a time he’d been tempted by the idea of stepping into his father’s business as more than just the company attorney—Hawk’s European interests weren’t dissimilar. At least not until recently. With his new direction, Hawk was more confident than ever he wanted nothing more to do with his father’s dealings.