His apartment was nothing special—roomy and airy, but decorating wasn’t his forte. He still felt strange having four rooms to himself. Growing up, he’d had to share his bedroom with two brothers and a single bathroom with the entire family—five kids, his parents and his widowed grandmama. His brothers and sisters were doing well, one sister now a teacher and the other a nurse, one brother in the Air Force and the other making good wages on an oil rig that was once again up and running in the gulf. They all sent money home, and his parents could afford to expand their house, even add a second bathroom. But now that all the kids were grown and gone, they saw no need.
Once he reached his apartment, Mac wandered through the spacious rooms thinking that for all the square footage it really wasn’t much of a home. The place needed some art on the walls, some knickknacks on the tables, touches of warmth. It needed a bigger-screen TV—if Mac was ever around to watch it—and maybe a pool table.
It needed a woman.
He was walloped by a mental image of Julie in this apartment, turning it into a home. The hell with a wide-screen TV and a pool table. If she lived here, he’d rather watch her than any show, and he’d rather play with her than play pool.
Cursing under his breath, he entered the kitchen, yanked open the cabinet where he kept his stash of booze and filled a glass with bourbon. He carried his drink to the small study, turned on his computer and sipped the smoky whiskey while the machine warmed up. Finally it had completed its virus checks and scans and he could open his e-mail.
He found Frank’s message, clicked on the attachment and settled back in his chair.
We’ve been busy. Today’s notes:
1. According to his parole officer, Perry is still in New York.
2. Remy Marchand’s accident four years ago was really an accident. Lousy weather conditions that night, and the other driver was drunk. Some digging into the records indicates that Marchand wired the missing money to a bank in the Cayman Islands. No other name attached to the transaction.
3. Julie’s picture appeared last summer in the Times-Picayune. The newspaper ran a story on the antebellum antiques the hotel has on display and how well they came through the hurricane. Julie’s name appears, along with a bunch of Marchands, and she’s definitely recognizable in the picture. A person could identify her and locate her in New Orleans.
4. Sandy’s wearing me out, but I’m having fun.
Mac suffered a totally unjustified pang of jealousy. He didn’t want to be making a baby, but he wanted a woman to wear him out. Not just any woman—Julie.
Ignoring the fourth item on Frank’s list, he reread the first three. Perry was in New York, so while he might have orchestrated Julie’s e-mails, he wasn’t sending them. Mac almost wished Perry was flying around the country, heading to New Orleans, just so Mac could meet the SOB and pulverize his face with a few well-placed punches. He tried to picture a teenage Julie, thin and insecure, yet strong enough to confront the man who’d made her a successful model, to report him, to testify against him. The woman had balls. Well, no, she didn’t, but…thinking about how brave she was only made him desire her more.
Number two on the list was interesting but not immediately relevant to Julie’s safety. When people wired money to the Caymans, they did so to hide the transaction. Maybe Remy was laundering hotel profits, or trying to shelter them from tax liabilities. Maybe he’d taken a high-risk loan from a shady operator who didn’t want Uncle Sam to know about his operations. Mac would love to know who was on the receiving end of that money transfer, but obviously Frank hadn’t figured that out yet.
Number three was the biggie, though. The bad news. Mac took a slug of bourbon and reread what Frank had written. Then he opened another window on his computer and called up the Times-Picayune’s archives. He typed in his password and did a search for Julie’s name.
Damn it to hell. Anyone who’d seen a Symphony Perfumes ad would recognize Julie in that picture, even though she was nearly a decade older. If her cyberstalker had found this photo, he’d found Julie.
Mac sat back in his chair, took another long sip of bourbon and felt its heat spread down his throat and seep through his chest. Fortunately, the liquor clarified his thoughts instead of blurring them, and he sorted through them now. The pieces of this puzzle weren’t fitting together.
Julie’s sister had hired Mac because Julie’s old boss was being released from prison. He’d been the one Marcie was worried about. But he was sitting pretty back in New York.
Yet someone was after Julie. Mac knew it. The e-mails were too personal to be random harassment. And the fact that the sender was moving around the country—from New York City westward, closing in on New Orleans—persuaded him that Julie was at risk. Perry might not be the one coming for her, but someone was. Could Perry be directing the situation from the comfort of his parole-imposed New York address?
Julie had said he was a Svengali. Mac wished he’d taken more literature courses, but he recalled that the character Svengali had hypnotized a young protégé and then controlled her career. Could Perry be controlling whoever was flying around the country, sending Julie e-mails via airport WiFi?
Dallas was too damn close to New Orleans.
He sucked in a deep breath. Get through the party, he ordered himself, and then you’ll find this creep and squash him like a June bug. Whoever the guy was, Mac would find him. No question, no doubt. Anyone who threatened Julie Sullivan was going to wind up in Mac’s crosshairs, and Mac would be smiling when he pulled the trigger.
“YOU LOOK FABULOUS!” Creighton gushed.
Julie wasn’t so sure about that. She didn’t feel fabulous. She’d gotten to work early that morning, aware of how much had to be done in the final hours before the party, and now she was wiped out rather than ready to cut loose. On top of her usual tasks, she’d helped Anne array the flowers around the event rooms. She’d overseen the maintenance staff’s preparation of the courtyard; the party mob was bound to overflow through the French doors when the dance floor became too crowded or the band too loud. The pool had to be locked down to avoid having drunken revelers accidentally tumble into the water, and more floating candles had to be arranged on the tables scattered about the courtyard. In the middle of the afternoon, the band’s manager threw a hissy-fit about the event room’s acoustics, as if he’d expected an old hotel to resonate like Carnegie Hall. And in the kitchen Robert had freaked out over the delivery of what he considered inferior quality portobello mushrooms.
And then there was Mac.
His existence alone would have been more than enough distraction to Julie. Last night she’d conferred at length with her tropical fish, who’d offered no advice on the subject. What could they have told her, anyway? The man isn’t going to pursue anything with you. Get over it.
It would be easier for a Tetra to say that than for her to get over Mac. As if there was anything to get over. He’d kissed her once. Big deal.
Very big deal. More than just a kiss had burned between them. Lying restless in her bed through the night, she’d been haunted not only by the memory of his mouth on hers but by his low, sexy drawl, his sly smile, his piercing gaze and that distinctive scent.
So she hadn’t slept well last night, and she’d been in perpetual motion all day. The last thing she wanted to do was spend the evening mingling with the party guests and making sure everything from the champagne to the conversation flowed smoothly, while simultaneously avoiding Mac because he’d said he would be there, and if she saw him she’d plunge back into all those troubling memories of what a bad idea kissing him had been.
But Charlotte wanted her at the party, and she couldn’t say no to Charlotte. So now she stood in Creighton’s colorful living room, clad in a black sheath with a daring neckline and a skirt that fell in uneven petals just past her knees. She’d found the dress last October on a half-price rack at a boutique not far from the hotel—apparently size-six-tall dresses didn’t sell well, and she was often able to find b
argains. The price was so reasonable she’d snatched the dress up, figuring that sooner or later she’d find a reason to wear it.
Unfortunately, the shaggy hemline didn’t work with low-heeled shoes, so she’d stuffed her tired feet into her black dress sandals with three-inch heels. The added height caused her to tower over Creighton, but if he had any ego problems, they didn’t relate to his height. He eyed her up and down, giving her subtle makeup an approving nod and then beaming at her hair, which she’d pinned up haphazardly, preferring to have it off her neck while she was trapped in warm, crowded rooms.
“Absolutely spectacular,” he murmured.
“You’re the one who looks spectacular,” Julie responded. Clad in a cream-colored jacket, a red silk vest, pinstriped black trousers and a black bolo tie fastened with a large garnet stone, he appeared brash and dramatic and very, very Creighton. “Stanley is going to fall madly in love with you.”
“Been there, done that,” Creighton said with a wave of his hand. “We’re just friends, I swear.” He circled Julie slowly, shaking his head in amazement. “That hem is fantastic. What it does to your legs should be declared illegal. Fortunately—” he’d completed his orbit and was once again facing her “—I’m immune. My only concern is that it’s all a little black.”
“Black is fashionable,” Julie told him.
“For funerals, maybe. And in New York. I know that’s what everyone wears there. Wait here.” He held up a finger, then dashed off to his bedroom. When he returned, he was carrying a pink feather boa.
“Should I ask where you got that?” Julie inquired, wary yet amused.
“No, you shouldn’t.” He draped the feather rope around her neck and stepped back. “Perfectamente.”
Ordinarily, Julie was not the pink-feather-boa type. But the flash of color and the sheer silliness of the accessory boosted her spirits.
Creighton clapped his hands, clearly exuberant about his success. “Now, are you sure you don’t want to go to the party with Stanley and me?”
“You’ve got a two-seater sports car,” Julie reminded him. “Where would I sit—in the nonexistent trunk?” She smiled and shook her head. “I’d rather have my own wheels, in case I decide to leave early.”
“Oh, you mustn’t leave early,” Creighton clucked. “Promise me you’ll stay at least until everyone has had a chance to ogle you.”
“Everyone will ogle me the instant I walk in. They’ll all think I’m a forward for the Hornets, dressed in drag.”
“They’ll all think you’re the prettiest thing they’ve ever laid eyes on. I know about drag, honey, and you’d never pass.” He glanced at his watch and adjusted his blazer. “I’ve got to go pick up Stanley. I’ll see you at the hotel.”
Julie preceded him out of his apartment, then continued across the hall into her own. She strode to her bedroom to check the effect of the pink boa in the mirror above her dresser and decided it worked surprisingly well, its texture mimicking the feathery shape of her hair. She freshened her lipstick, tucked the tube into her purse, then returned to the living room to shake some food flakes into the aquarium. “Behave yourselves, guys,” she said to the silent, fluttering fish. “I don’t care what Creighton says—I won’t be out too late tonight.” Busily consuming the flakes, they ignored her.
She’d learned how to walk gracefully in stiletto heels during her modeling career, and although she rarely wore such high heels now, her feet and ankles remembered how to balance her weight so she wouldn’t teeter. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, she was confident and energized and actually looking forward to the party. Everything would go smoothly. Robert’s portobello hors d’oeuvres would be delectable. The guests would have a blast. Mac would see her and decide that kissing her hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all. And she’d drink just enough wine to agree with him.
This would be a splendid night, she thought, stepping out into the balmy evening and heading for her car.
THIS WOULD BE A GHASTLY NIGHT, Mac thought as he surveyed the crowds swarming through the hotel’s lobby. Tyrell had assured him that the night security guys had everything under control, but Mac didn’t believe it. Not because he doubted the abilities of his staff, but because he knew that in a mob scene like this one, nothing was ever completely under control.
He’d spent an exhausting day checking, double-checking and triple-checking every detail. Luc Carter had shrugged when Mac had demanded an updated reservation list. “I don’t see why you need that,” he’d balked. “These folks are paying to come. That’s all that matters.”
“It’s not all that matters,” Mac had argued, annoyed that anyone—let alone a charming slacker like Luc—should question his security decisions. “I need those lists.”
“Well, they’re here somewhere.” Luc had rummaged through the papers on his desk and in his drawer. “Maybe I took them home with me last night…” Mac had been within seconds of throttling Luc when he’d finally produced the list.
Reviewing the names with Julie would have been easier than vetting them on his own, but he hadn’t risked it. Seeing her would have tempted him too much, and as long as he was in her sister’s employ, he had to act ethically. Integrity sucked, but Mac was unfortunately endowed with his share of it.
Unable to identify a few of the names, he’d asked Carlos to help him. “These are dates,” Carlos had deduced. “They’re all women. See this one, Maggie No-Last-Name? She’s coming as the date of that head case in 307. You know who I mean? The guy with the ponytail who’s always complaining.”
“Alvin Grote,” Mac muttered.
“Right. These other ladies, I’m guessing it’s the same thing. Businessmen come down to the Big Easy and meet some of our fine women. It happens all the time. Ladies of the night, most of them. They don’t pose any threat.”
As he circulated through the crowded lobby that evening, Mac decided Carlos was right. None of the guests looked dangerous. Some were dressed formally, the women in gowns and the men in tuxedos, and some wore flamboyant costumes, but Mac detected no mysterious lumps or bulges in their apparel or their purses. He would have liked to set up a security checkpoint and run a wand up and down each arrival, but Charlotte would never have stood for that. She’d have told him the hotel was having a party, and its guests were not to be treated like prospective criminals.
Mac wasn’t dressed as formally as the most elegant guests, partly because he didn’t own a tux and partly because he wanted to stay loose and comfortable. He’d donned a slate-gray suit, a black shirt and a black silk tie. If he looked a little like a shadow, so much the better.
Music drifted down the hall from the event rooms. He detoured through the restaurant and the kitchen, taking the long route around the courtyard. “Everything okay here?” he asked one of the assistant chefs.
“Crazy but fine,” the kid responded without looking up from a cutting board, on which he was chopping something green and mint scented. “If you need a cup of coffee, you’ll have to get it yourself.”
“No coffee. I just wanted to make sure everything was copasetic.” Mac patted the walkie-talkie hooked on his belt. “You need anything, just buzz me.”
He continued on through the bar, which was doing a bustling business despite the fact that a portable bar had been set up in one of the event rooms. Mac caught Leo’s eye. The bartender tipped an imaginary hat at Mac, then busied himself fixing what looked from across the room like one of those sissified flavored martinis that were so popular these days.
From the bar, Mac entered the courtyard. The night was dry and mild, the sky speckled with stars, the wrought-iron fence surrounding the pool locked. Through the open French doors lining the hall to the event rooms he heard the happy chatter of hundreds of voices all yakking at once, as well as the rhythmic lilt of the band playing a vaguely familiar tune with a Dixieland flavor.
Mac wished he could relax and enjoy himself. This party contained all the right ingredients: lots of people, good music,
booze, food and a classy old hotel in the heart of the French Quarter. But he remained edgy, hypervigilant.
He crossed the courtyard, entered the hallway and took another detour to make sure the gallery was locked up for the night. He hated having so many strangers wandering around the building with that damn Andrew Wyeth painting on display. God help them all if anything happened to that painting.
But the gallery was secure, the alarms set and the door locked and bolted.
Satisfied that the Wyeth was as safe as possible, he followed the flow of revelers toward the event rooms. Chatter and clouds of perfume surrounded him. He wondered if any of the guests was wearing a scent by Symphony Perfumes. He had no idea what the stuff actually smelled like.
The first event room was almost unrecognizable. He slipped inside the doorway and gaped at the gently draped fabrics, the strings of silver and gold Mardi Gras beads looped over light fixtures and dangling in glittering parabolas from the ceiling. Banks of flowers adorned windowsills and tables, and stubby white candles floated in the water-filled glass bowls on every horizontal surface. The tiny flames bobbed on the water and were reflected in the shiny beads above them. The effect was mesmerizing.
But Mac lost all awareness of the decorations the instant he spotted Julie. And the instant he did, he realized that she, not any concerns about safety, was the cause of his tension. She stood taller than the cluster of people with whom she was deep in conversation, and Mac acknowledged one of the many things he found most attractive about her: despite her height, she stood straight. Some tall women hunched over, shrank themselves, tried to downplay their statuesque dimensions. Not Julie. She had the posture of a drill sergeant. Not that any drill sergeant in the history of the United States Armed Forces could possibly look as ravishing as she did.
He hovered just inside the doorway, appraising her from a distance. Her hair was piled onto her head in a style that looked haphazard but probably wasn’t. Wavy strands drizzled down to frame her face and tickle her long, slender neck. The sight of her exposed nape caused something to pull tight in Mac’s groin. He wanted to nibble on that pale, vulnerable skin.
In the Dark Page 16
