DANGEROUS DECEPTION

by Kylie Brant

  "By using your superior skills of concentration, just like I do." With a sure stroke, she used the cue ball to lightly kiss the three, sending it into the corner pocket. She looked up, threw Skeeter an innocent look. "How else do you explain me being able to keep my attention off your god-like physique and on the game?"

  Guffaws broke out among the crowd around the table. Skeeter finally found the description too much to resist and cracked a smile, revealing a gold front tooth. "Shoot, if you could play as good as you talked, you'd be on the circuit."

  "And if you played as good as you looked, there'd be statues erected in your name." She bent over, studying the lay of the remaining balls. She'd managed to leave herself with no clear shot, which was going to require some sleight of hand. After a few moments of consideration, she made her choice and shifted into position.

  It was the quiet that alerted her first. The effect of a stranger walking into a neighborhood tavern was equivalent to a panther stalking through the wilds. The occupants went silent, sizing up the newcomer, assessing the danger, readying for action.

  The identity of this particular stranger was never in doubt.

  Without glancing his way, she sent the nine ball spinning toward the opposite pocket, bouncing it off the side, where it teetered precariously at the entrance and then, in slow motion, fell into place.

  The crowd around the table thinned considerably. She could only imagine that they'd drifted toward Tremaine. Tori decided she'd let him sweat a bit before she called them off. If it gave him a few bad moments, well, maybe the next time he wouldn't be so pushy about inviting himself along.

  "You musta wandered in the wrong place, mister." There was a pause, the unmistakable sound of Skeeter spitting on the floor. "I think you ought to wander back out again."

  "Since it appears strenuous for you, perhaps you should give up thinking altogether." Tori winced as James's unmistakably cultured tone caused a low rumble to sound across the room. It was time to bring an end to things before he was sent flying back out in the street, with damage to his pretty jaw and two-thousand-dollar suit.

  In an effort to distract them, she said, "Who wants to put another twenty on me clearing the rest of the table? Skeeter?"

  There was a quick scuffling on the other side of the room followed by a loud thud. With a quick stab of guilt, Tori jerked around and pushed her way through the men encircling the body on the floor. "Dammit, Skeeter, you didn't have to…" And then stared dumbly, first at the body crumpled on the dirty wooden planks, then at the one standing over it, rubbing his knuckles.

  James arched one elegant brow, stepped over Skeeter's prone body. The crowd separated for him like the parting of the Red Sea. "Tori. Didn't mean to interrupt your game."

  Somehow she managed to close her mouth. Swallow. "No problem. I was just cleaning up." His mouth quirked. "Me, too." He strolled to the table she'd vacated, surveyed it critically. She used the time to observe him. Far from the suit she'd expected, he was wearing well-worn denim that was faded to white at the most interesting stress points. With the blue polo shirt he had tucked into the waistband, he failed to resemble the Armani-clad executive she was used to seeing. But neither did he look like a regular at Juicy's with their undershirts or ripped tees. Especially with him wearing what looked like Gucci loafers.

  Her gaze traveled upward again, lingered on the very respectably muscled wall of his chest. It was difficult to shift her attention once again to clearing the remaining pool balls from the table. It would have been too much to ask, she thought, with an odd jitter in her stomach, to discover that his shoulders owed their width to his well-cut suits. Using her thumb to balance her cue stick, she sent the cue ball smacking into the one, spinning it across the table and into a pocket. Or to find that his long hours at the company had turned his body soft and all too resistible.

  She circled the table, noted that Skeeter was on his feet again, but swaying just a bit. Dispatching the five ball, she sent James a cautious look. With one hip propped against the table, arms folded across his chest, he projected a subtle aura of danger. With a jolt of shock, she realized that the power the suits merely hinted at was all too apparent in the more casual clothes. Skeeter had had the misfortune to discover that the hard way.

  It was a relief to have something other than the man on the other side of the table to focus on. She sent the thirteen ball to the far pocket and then dispensed with the eleven. Straightening, she chalked her stick, giving the task more attention than was warranted. Why couldn't Tremaine have been like the majority of guys his age, and let himself go a little? she thought aggrievedly. With the demands of his job, it would be expected. Even her ex, jock that he'd been in college, had continued his exercise routine only halfheartedly once they'd gone back to his home in Texas.

  "Eight in the left side pocket," she announced, to no one in particular. Those who had left the table earlier, in hopes of a good rousing brawl, were shying away from it now that the stranger had taken up residence there.

  "You've got an easier shot to the right corner," James noted, observing the table critically.

  "The best way isn't always the easiest," she replied lightly. Leaning over, she took her time lining up her shot, then banked the eight ball off one side to go spinning into the pocket she'd called. The game finished, she straightened, set her cue against the table, and, because she detested cowards, looked squarely at him.

  A smile was playing about his mouth as he looked at the cleared table, then at her. "Showing off?"

  She threw a meaningful glance at Skeeter, who was at the bar, sulking over a beer. "Weren't you?"

  "There are times when diplomacy is overrated." Rounding the table, he took her elbow in his hand and led her to one of the booths that lined the walls. Once she'd seated herself, he slid in opposite her. Scanning the rooms, he raised a brow. "Menu?"

  "On the wall."

  Following the direction of her finger, he noted the choices scrawled with colored chalk on the rough plaster next to the bar. "Interesting display. How do they change it?"

  "Changes wait until it's time to paint," she said blandly. In truth, she didn't recall any time in her memory when there had been a change or a paint job. Much of Juicy's dubious charm was owed to its constancy.

  He scanned the short listing on the wall. "What's good?"

  "Well, if you exchange edible for good, I can recommend the cajun crawdad platter." She gave him a bland look. Jeans or not, she couldn't see him cracking crawdads and sucking out their brains. Which was really the only way any self-respecting Louisianan would eat them.

  "How's the gumbo?"

  "Spicy enough to curl strips off your intestines."

  He caught the eye of Stoner, the unambitious waiter, and gave him a short nod.

  "You'll have to go up to the bar and order," she started, then trailed off as Stoner ambled toward them in what was, for him, a hurry.

  "Two bowls of gumbo and the crawdad platter. What do you have on draft?"

  Fumbling with the pad he was attempting to withdraw from his back pocket, Stoner reeled off the names of the beers. James ordered one, then cocked an eyebrow at Tori.

  "I'll have another Michelob Lite."

  Stoner bobbed his head, laboriously writing the order down on the pad. Since Tori had never seen him actually take an order before, it was a sight worth watching.

  "Okay." He looked up, seemed to search for some waiterlike lines. "Ummm. I'll get you some silverware. Maybe napkins?" He sent James a hopeful look.

  "Excellent." From the slight incline of James's head, Stoner seemed to realize he was dismissed, and moved away.

  "That was worth paying tickets for." Tori's bemused gaze switched from the departing man to the one across from her. "Did you perfect that talent on snooty maitre d's in the French Quarter?"

  "Snooty maitre d's rarely question the need for table linens, but they do respond to a certain attitude, yes." James folded his arms on the table and leaned toward her. "Why don't yo
u tell me what you've been up to today? Besides fleecing unwary pool players?"

  "Well, that was certainly the most lucrative part of my day so far." She gave him a brief account of her conversation with Halloway, ending with, "He's still convinced the accident was due to driver's error. But I went back to my contact, who provided me with the photos in the file I put together for you. I made him a very happy man and bought every picture he had of the accident scene."

  Those sinfully blue eyes of his narrowed. "I take it he had quite a few of them?" At her nod, his mouth went flat. "When did he take them?"

  Understanding the meaning hidden in the question, she hastened to reassure him. "It was hours afterward. The car was still there, though." She gave mental thanks that Kiki Corday hadn't been near enough to have gotten to the scene before the bodies had been taken away. He would have had no compunction about snapping whatever photos he thought he could make a buck from.

  Stoner brought their drafts to them, setting them down with more care than usual on the table. Waiting until he'd left, she continued. "The owner of this fine establishment has a setup in the back. He specializes in accident scene reconstruction. I sent over the photos I bought today and a copy of the accident report. He's comparing them and will give us his impressions."

  James looked skeptical. He's the owner and engineer?"

  "Don't let the ambiance fool you. Juicy has dabbled in this field for a long time. He finally went back to college a few years ago and got his engineering degree. All his money gets put into the latest equipment and gadgetry, and as you see, little of it goes to overhead. I could have gotten someone with a lot more glitz and polish, but Juicy's cheap and he's the best around."

  James looked toward the back of the bar. "How long has he been at it?"

  Because she recognized the impatience in his tone, she reached over, touched his arm lightly. "A while. But genius can't be hurried."

  Touching him was a mistake. She realized it immediately. His heat transferred to her fingertips in a warm flood of sensation, before pulsing through her veins with quick jolts of awareness. The warmth was both an invitation to linger and a warning against the same. She didn't respond to men like this. Ever.

  She jerked her hand away with a suddenness that sent her beer teetering. She steadied the glass, then brought it to her lips, sipped. It was more than a bit disconcerting to have her femininity return unheralded, especially summoned as it was by this man. The Tremaine family fortune made the Corbetts look like pikers. And two excruciating years living in that particular vipers' nest had taught her more than she ever wanted to know about high society. Give her the hidden perils of New Orleans's seamy side anyday. At least there she had a fighting chance of figuring out where the knife was coming from.

  "You're jumpy tonight."

  Although his observation was made mildly enough, it was issued in the same voice he'd used with her over the phone. Low and silky, like the stroke of a heated caress.

  Giving him a bland stare, she set down her beer. "Not really. There was really no reason for you to come tonight. I'm just going to be sitting and waiting. It could be hours before he's ready to talk to me."

  His eyes glinted. "I've decided, this time around, that I'm going to take a more active role in the investigation. I want these questions laid to rest once and for all."

  Inner alarms shrilled at the hidden promise in his words. No P.I. wanted a client looking over her shoulder every minute, but her reluctance to work that closely with him came from a far different source. "Leave the investigation to me. You've got other things that demand your attention."

  Straightening, he lifted his glass to his lips. "Such as?"

  "Well, there's the little matter that someone is threatening to kill you. Why don't we talk about the measures you've taken to ensure against it?"

  Judging from the expression on his face, she'd managed to annoy him. "I told you…"

  "I know, I know, you don't think a real killer would warn you before striking." With a wave of her hand, she dismissed that argument. "You've admitted to having enemies, past attempts on your life and a compelling reason for competitors to want you out of the way. You'd have to be stupid not to take precautions." She paused, one deliberate beat. "You're not stupid."

  "You can't know how delighted I am by your conclusion."

  He had, she decided, a rather irritating habit of responding without truly answering. He said nothing more, and Stoner arrived at that time with a steaming tray of crawdads, which he set between them. Then he presented two plates with something of a flourish, napkins and silverware.

  She waited until he'd moved away, having obviously forgotten about the gumbo, before she fixed James with a steely stare. "Tell me you've taken measures to protect yourself."

  He heaped a plate with crawdads, set it in front of her. "I'm not without resources or common sense." "Tell me."

  Seeming to recognize the steel in her tone, he halted in the process of piling his own plate. His eyes met hers. For the moment, she forgot to worry about what he might see in them. "I take precautions. I've always had to. Bomb sweeps, Kevlar vests, bodyguards… As the level of threat rises, so do my defenses. Does that answer your question?"

  It did. It also shook her more than she thought possible. Once again she was reminded that his outwardly cultured world was filled with as many undercurrents of danger as one would expect to find in the toughest dark alley. She watched him as he snapped the head off the crawdad and brought it to his mouth, and her lips curved reluctantly. A man who knew the proper way to dispense with the disgusting-looking, succulent creatures had something in his favor. She reached for her own plate and went to work, discovering an appetite that had earlier seemed questionable.

  "Actually, my firm recently has begun expanding into physical security," he surprised her by saying. Dropping some empty shells, legs still attached, to the plate, he scooped up another. "My brother-in-law has a certain level of expertise in that area, and it seemed a natural step for us to take. He'll head up that division when it's fully operational, specializing in antiterrorism tactics and personal safety."

  Attacking the shellfish on the plate before her, she said, "Then you'll have a ready staff available to protect you. Sounds like a good plan."

  "Plans are all we can make." Dropping an empty shell to the growing mound of them, he wiped his fingers on a napkin. "All the precautions in the world aren't going to be enough to stop someone intent on harm." When her gaze flew to his, he held it steadily. "I don't take unnecessary risks, but in my business I've gotten used to establishing realistic expectations. If someone wants me dead badly enough, sooner or later he's going to succeed. Unless I get to him first."

  * * *

  Chapter 5

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  The expression on Tori's face made James pause in the middle of attacking another crawdad. There was a flash of shock there, followed by what, if he hadn't known better, looked like concern. Both were equally intriguing. But before he could comment, she was shrugging, reaching for another crawdad.

  "Yeah, you're right. Hey, I have an idea. Why don't you just have a big bull's-eye painted on the back of all those fancy suits of yours? Make it a mite easier all around."

  Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he reached for his beer, tipped it to his lips. He drank, then lowered it to say, "I don't intend to make it easy for anyone."

  "No, I got that." The caustic tone of her voice was matched by the glint in her eye. "You're just fatalistic, right? What's going to happen is going to happen." She snapped off the shell of the crawdad in her hand with just a little more force than necessary. "Seems a little odd for someone in the security business to be saying there's really no way for people to be completely secure. Just a tip—don't pass that line on to your marketing department. I doubt it'll do much for your sales."

  It was on the tip of his tongue to agree with her. It was precisely because he was in the security business that he realized the limitations of the very pr
oducts and services he sold. No matter how advanced the technology, there were always ways around them for the very, very talented. That was a reality of his field, which necessitated ever newer products, ever more sophisticated technology.

  But he swallowed the words, recognizing that her remarks sprang from a far more personal level. He picked up his napkin, deliberately wiped his fingers, then reached out, caught her hand.

  He waited for her gaze to meet his before leaning forward to say, "I like to believe that I'm not without skills in the area of personal safety." Her countenance remained stony. It shouldn't have warmed something inside him, something that had been untouched for far too long. His thumb caressed her knuckles, and her hand jerked a little in his. "I don't have a death wish—there's too much to live for." He paused deliberately before adding, "I've got season courtside tickets to the Hornets."

  It took a moment, but her lips curved reluctantly, even as she slipped her hand away from his. Because her response pleased him, he allowed her to make her escape, and sat back satisfied.

  "Courtside, huh?"

  He resumed eating. "Mmm-hmm."

  "Figures." The almost angry concern in her voice had changed to unmistakable envy. And then, grudgingly, she admitted, "So, I guess that would be enough to keep you careful. Those seats are tough to come by, even for people with more money than Midas."

  He winked at her. "You just have to know the right people."

  Tori reached for another crawdad, eyed him speculatively. "How many of those seats did you say you had?"

  Enjoying himself hugely, he cracked the shell, dug out the seafood. "Two. Prime position, right across from the team."

  "What do you do with them when you can't make it to a game?"

  Crushing the tinge of hope in her tone, he wiped his hands and reached for his beer. "Then my brothers use them. Or sometimes my sister. Occasionally someone from work."