by Meryl Sawyer
“It’s stopped raining,” Sanchez announced, breaking the silence. “Maybe we should wait until morning to discuss your business.”
Jake came to his senses. “It can’t wait.” He jumped up, realizing he’d neglected to check the fax machine.
Alyssa flipped an anchovy to Benson and he caught it midair. “I’m going to see my aunt, then I’m going home. I need some sleep.”
It was all he could do not to beg her to stay, but he knew how worried she was about her aunt. The reporters probably weren’t around now that the nurse had been apprehended. She didn’t need him, and he had a real mess on his hands.
“Take my raincoat,” he told her as he walked her to the door. The fresh scent of soap rose from her skin when he helped her into the trench coat. Even though she was tall, he was much bigger, it fit her like a choir robe.
He opened the door and handed her the umbrella he’d left on the landing. He would have kissed her goodbye, but if he did, he knew he wouldn’t be able to let her go.
“Remember what I said, Alyssa. Watch yourself. The nurse was murdered and someone has tried to frame you. Be careful. Your enemies are closer than you think.”
“Don’t worry. I will,” she assured him.
He watched her go down the stairs, his raincoat brushing each stair like a bride’s train. He had an uneasy feeling. He couldn’t tell if it came from the trouble at TriTech or concerns about Alyssa’s safety.
It had to be TriTech, he rationalized. Whoever was after Alyssa wanted her embarrassed and humiliated. They wanted to drive her out of New Orleans. Something in his chest constricted.
Max.
His father had lobbied hard to get rid of Alyssa. He also appeared to be the one behind the phony report. It was sneaky and underhanded, which didn’t seem to be Max’s style. But who knew?
Back inside, he explained the situation at TriTech to Sanchez, including his suspicion Max had strong-armed Troy into altering the report. The fax had come in and the thick document was piled in the tray. Jake ran it through the copy machine, so they’d each have a report to read.
It took almost an hour to wade through it, since it was so technical. When Jake had finished it, he understood why Clay Duvall had been nervous. His company was next to worthless.
The money Clay had came from what TriTech had paid and his family’s real estate holdings—not Duvall Imports. He wasn’t a successful businessman the way he had people believe. Far, far from it.
“Your father pressed hard to acquire this company, didn’t he? Why?”
“I have no idea except he thinks the Duvalls—and the LeCroixs—hold the keys to his political success. I wanted to check out Duvall Imports more thoroughly, and so did Troy.” Jake again experienced a twinge of regret when he thought of how he’d trusted Troy.
“It’s a clever scheme. Import a container of goods and get an invoice to show the purchase at an inflated price, sell them here for the real price, then it looks to the IRS like you’ve sold for a loss. Why hasn’t the IRS picked up on it?”
Jake flipped through the pages to make certain he’d understood it correctly. He reread the paragraph, searching for the agency involved. “Here it is. The Port Authority is responsible for checking invoices and verifying market price, not the IRS.”
“What page are you on?”
“Twenty-seven. Halfway down. It tracks one container of ballpoint pens from Hong Kong. They’re invoiced at over one hundred dollars. Mont Blanc prices, right?”
Sanchez nodded. “Except they later marketed them like Bics. They sold them for seventy-nine cents each.”
“They got away with it because the port officials are too swamped to accurately assess every container that comes into New Orleans.”
Sanchez barked a laugh. “Maybe. I’d buy it in Seattle or L.A., but in New Orleans? Hell, you know the docks down here are controlled by Venezio and his boys. With mob contacts and the right amount of money—presto your goods come through no questions asked.”
“Right.” Jake scanned the final page, the forensic auditor’s conclusions. “Duvall Imports was actually losing money, selling at a loss most of the time. That way they never owed taxes.”
“TriTech shelled out a lot of money for a worthless company.”
In a strange way, Jake felt proud of himself. His instincts had told him this was a bad acquisition, and he’d been right.
“They must have cooked the books you checked before making this acquisition,” added Sanchez.
“Obviously. Wyatt LeCroix’s accounting firm must be in on this. He handles their books, and Clay nearly had a coronary when I mentioned bringing the accounting in-house.”
“Okay, so how can I help?”
“I want to find out exactly who’s behind this. Any ideas?”
“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? Your father pushed this acquisition through before anyone could take too close a look at Duvall Imports. I think your hunch is correct. Max got to Troy. That’s why he compiled a phony report.”
“I don’t want to guess. I need to know.”
CHAPTER 22
Clay looked across the coffee table at Phoebe. He would have bet his life she would run home to her parents. He’d let her stew for a while, but Ravelle’s bombshell on the evening news made him curious.
“Did Alyssa really threaten you?” he asked, already having decided it couldn’t possibly be true. He wanted to hear what his wife had to say. Obviously, Alyssa hadn’t taken his advice. She’d gone to visit Phoebe.
“Aren’t you going to ask how I’ve been or anything?”
Clay stared at Phoebe and attempted to conceal his disgust. She was beautiful and captivating, but she could turn off the charm as quickly as shutting off the lights. Most people never saw her dark side. He’d lived with her, so he knew. Boy, did he ever.
“I can see how you’ve been. Beautiful as always.” He waited for her smile. Years ago, he’d learned to dole out compliments. He refused to fawn over her the way other men did. When he complimented her, Phoebe beamed. Today, his remark didn’t earn him a flicker of a smile.
“Did Alyssa say she was going to kill you?”
“Of course not, but you know my mother and Ravelle.”
“They blow everything out of proportion.”
“Absolutely.” There was a grating edge to her voice that he’d never heard before.
“Alyssa just found out you two are sisters.”
“Half-sisters.”
“She talked to me about it last night at Check Point Charlie’s. She was very upset because she hadn’t realized …” He deliberately let the words hang in the air.
“It’s too late now, don’t you think?” Scorn etched each syllable.
Clay gazed at her, suddenly exhausted. How many times over the years had they fought about this? Too many to count. Every time he’d gone out of town on business, Phoebe had checked up on him. She’d been positive he was slipping off to see Alyssa.
“When it comes to Alyssa, you’re totally irrational,” he told her. “Totally. You always have been.”
“You would be, too, if your father ignored you, and your mother continually threw your stupid half-sister in your face. I’m sick of her. I want to get as far away from Alyssa as possible.”
Clay let it go. For some time now, he’d believed Phoebe needed psychiatric help. He’d mentioned it to her mother, but Hattie went ballistic, saying no LeCroix had ever been “unbalanced.”
Not only was Phoebe paranoid about Alyssa, but she had serious issues with sex. What would happen to her when she was older and her looks faded? Without a constant string of men to boost her ego, Phoebe would become … become what? He didn’t want to be around to find out.
“I hear you’ve filed for divorce,” Clay said casually, having worked his way around to the subject he’d come to discuss.
“That’s right.” Phoebe’s tone was matter-of-fact. “I’m leaving you.”
“Unless …” He waited for the other shoe to
drop. She would demand something like paying off Alyssa to get out of town.
“Unless nothing. I want a divorce.”
A flash of anger invigorated him. The limp, tired feeling vanished, replaced by something he couldn’t quite name. Clay pretended to go along with this. After all, it was what he wanted. He just didn’t intend to give her half of the money and real estate he owned. “I suggest we hold off for a while. Jake Williams is giving us a hard time right now.”
“I don’t care. I want out—now. I gave you the money in my trust fund. I want it back plus interest and a fair settlement.”
Her vehement insistence knocked the wind out of him for a moment, then fury replaced disbelief. His outrage must have shown on his face. She beamed her megawatt smile at him, evidently thoroughly proud of herself.
If he could stall Phoebe long enough for Jake to discover Duvall Imports was worthless and to hide his other assets and put the real estate in his parents’ name, he could divorce her without it costing him so much. Then he’d be a free man, able to go after the woman he really loved.
Alyssa wasn’t going to give him the chance he deserved until he was divorced. He should have realized this. Unlike Phoebe, who played around with married men, Alyssa had too much class. She wasn’t in love with Jake Williams, but he was available. Soon Clay would be available, too.
These thoughts running through his mind, he caught Phoebe’s sly expression. Now, he got it. She wanted him to grovel.
“You’re sure, Phoebe?” He forced himself to try for a touch of homespun humility, something he never did. “Our family has a lot of history, and you love me. Admit it. Don’t do anything for spite.”
She surged to her feet in a movement that he had to admit was full of feline grace. She crossed the Aubusson carpet in lithe strides. “Get out. If you want to talk to me about anything else, call my attorney. From now on, all communication will be through Mitchell Petersen.”
“Phoebe, wait—”
She paused in the doorway. Her blue eyes generated a lethal heat. “If you mention this divorce to my parents, before we agree to the settlement terms, it will cost you double. I swear.”
An hour later, Clay walked toward the entrance to The Lion’s Den, a mid-city club where he’d never have gone except he was meeting Maree and Dante. It was owned by Irma Thomas the Soul Queen of New Orleans, but it was not a place that Clay would have patronized before now.
Lately, his life had taken a new direction. Everything had been going along well enough, considering his disastrous marriage, until he’d engineered the deal that brought Alyssa home. Then his life had become hell. A rational man wouldn’t blame Alyssa, but Clay wasn’t sure how rational he was right now.
Two nights in a row; two very different women. They’d told him to get out of their lives. Nothing like this had happened to him and wasn’t supposed to happen to him, or so he’d thought.
Now, he had the distinct feeling, he’d lost control. These women were out to get him. Phoebe was going to make him pay for the years he hadn’t loved her. Alyssa was going to make him pay for the years they’d spent apart.
Shit! What was he going to do?
It was dark inside the club except for the spotlight beaming down on the small stage where a woman was belting out a song he knew but couldn’t name. Maree and Dante were waiting for him at a small table. He dropped into the chair, ordering the waiter to bring him a double Johnny Walker. Of course, a joint like this didn’t have Gold Label, so he had to settle for ordinary Johnny Walker.
Maree scooted her chair closer to his, and Clay attempted a smile at Dante, who was on his other side. The Bahamian psychic gave him the willies. Dante lived to watch other people have sex, but that wasn’t what bothered Clay. There was something a little off about Dante.
The song ended, the waiter brought his drink, and Maree asked, “How did your meeting with Phoebe go?”
Clay mustered his most assured smile. “Same old; same old. She wants me home where I belong.”
Dante regarded him with a skeptical glint in his brown eyes, and Clay wondered if he’d heard the lie in his voice. “Mon, oh, mon. This is—how you say it—way cool? She love you, no?”
No. He’d left the LeCroix home realizing Phoebe had changed. How or when, he didn’t know, but she no longer thought he hung the moon. And he hated her for it. He gulped his whiskey.
He’d even begun to worry about Jake and Duvall Imports. What if it wasn’t devalued to its proper level and he had to make a huge payoff to Phoebe? It wasn’t fair. She’d tricked him into marriage, and now she wanted out—with everything.
“You know Phoebe,” he said lightly—as if these two would ever be among his wife’s circle of friends—“she’s still upset Alyssa is here.”
“Sisters, mon. One is the evil twin.”
“They’re half-sisters, not twins. They had the same father and they were born four months apart.”
“Really?” Maree said with a smile.
He was sorry he’d opened his mouth. How Dante knew about them, Clay didn’t know, but Maree had no idea. It took him the next few minutes to tell her the story.
“How did you know about Alyssa and Phoebe?” he asked Dante.
The Bahamian flashed him a cunning smile—all teeth. “I be psychic, mon.”
Psychic? Of course not, but he had to admit Dante was clever and ruthless. For a moment he was tempted to confess to him the real situation with Phoebe and ask his advice. Clay decided he could handle this himself.
“Have you thought about our plan?” Maree asked.
“Make us big-time rich.” Again Dante showed him his teeth, but Clay wasn’t sure the man was actually smiling.
Clay was set to stall them for a while longer. Then it hit him. It was a risky proposition, but it could net him the money he needed immediately. He didn’t know what game Phoebe was playing—he still couldn’t believe she wanted a divorce—but he hadn’t lured Alyssa back here to sit around and watch her with Jake.
“We need to work out a few details,” Clay told them. “Maybe we should go to Maree’s. It’s a little noisy here to discuss it.”
“No hurry, mon. Relax. Listen to de music. Then we go home and have some real fun.”
Clay was getting a little bored with putting on a show for Dante, but he went along with it. He needed them, he realized with a start. He slugged back the rest of his whiskey.
The singer began to croon a song about lost love. Clay closed his eyes for a second and assured himself everything would turn out all right. He was a winner and always had been. This was a hurtle—nothing more.
They sat there, making small talk and listening to the music. Irma Thomas, the Soul Queen of New Orleans came on stage with a blare of music and raucous applause. Although she owned the club, Irma also performed on special nights, Dante informed him.
She began to sing and Clay had to admit she was good, but what did he know? He was no expert, but since he was on his third double whiskey, everything seemed great. He caught Dante eyeing him strangely, and Clay wondered if he was acting drunk or something. He resisted the urge to order another drink.
Clay wished they weren’t so scrunched around the small table. He didn’t like being so close to Dante. Sometimes he thought the man could read his mind, which was ridiculous.
Dante reached over and touched Clay’s forearm. His big, dark fingers had neatly clipped, buffed nails, Clay noticed. Those fingers wrapped around Clay’s wrist and in a quick, snake-like movement, Dante had Clay’s hand under the table. Before Clay could react or utter a protest, Dante placed Clay’s hand over a world-class erection.
Clay could have kicked himself for not catching on sooner. He’d assumed Dante had been watching Maree with Clay. Now he understood. Dante had been watching him.
He tried to jerk away, but Dante’s powerful hand held his in place. The scorching heat of Dante’s erection shot through Clay’s palm. He struggled to free his hand, checking on Maree out of the corner of his ey
e. She was watching the show, oblivious to what was going on under the table.
It’s the Johnny Walker, Clay told himself, but he couldn’t resist curling his fingers around Dante’s erection. The man was hung like a horse. Clay suddenly had the urge to see him in action. Tonight, he’d insist Dante take his turn with Maree.
Alyssa left the hospital, satisfied Aunt Thee was much better. She’d made arrangements for a private nurse to come home with her tomorrow. The nurse would stay at the house for as long as Aunt Thee needed her.
Remembering Jake’s warning, Alyssa looked around the parking lot. It had stopped raining, but puddles dotted the pavement. Humidity haloed the streetlights and hung in the thick, hot air, making it harder to breathe. No one was around except an elderly couple who were walking toward the hospital’s entrance.
She drove home, thinking about Jake. He was an insular man, an enigma. He allowed her just so close, then he shut her out. They needed to talk, she thought, then laughed out loud.
“Who are you kidding? Talk? We can’t keep our hands off each other.”
She parked in the garage near Aunt Thee’s town house. The route to the garage had taken her by the front gate. Of course, the reporters were gone. She was yesterday’s news.
She parked, grabbed Jake’s raincoat, and locked the car. Thinking about Jake again, she hurried into the passageway leading from the garage to the town house. She was several steps into the walkway before she realized the only light was coming from the garage behind her where the automatic light triggered by the garage door opener was still on.
The last time she’d parked here, one of the two passageway lights had been out. Now they both were, which struck her as strange. This was a six-car garage shared by several town houses. Why hadn’t someone fixed the lights?
She slowed down, remembering Jake’s words of caution. It wasn’t very far to the end. If she sprinted, she could make it in no time, but something told her to turn around. It would take longer, but she could go out through the garage door.
