by Rebecca York
She’d wanted to scream at him, but she hadn’t bothered raging about his lack of regard for anyone but himself. The criticism would just roll off his back like rain off a yellow slicker.
Instead, she’d taken her sense of style and the money that her mother had left her and bought a small shop in the French Quarter, a shop that had done well until a downturn in the city’s business cycle had put her in jeopardy.
She stepped into the back room and found Claire talking on her cell phone. When she saw Stephanie, she clicked off at once.
“Sorry. I was just checking in with Mom.”
“Sure,” Stephanie answered, distracted. She knew that Claire’s mother was living in a nursing home and that her daughter spoke to her frequently.
Taking a pair of scissors, she began to carefully open the dress box. The top came off, revealing layers of tissue paper. Beneath them was an ivory-colored sleeveless gown decorated with seed pearls and delicate lace. She’d seen it at a wedding outlet in New York and had used her professional capacity to order it at the wholesale price.
“Beautiful,” Claire breathed as she touched the delicate silk fabric.
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you try it on? I can help you with the buttons up the back.”
“Not now.”
Stephanie slipped the dress onto a hanger, then turned away to put it on the rack in back of her, where it dangled like a headless hanging victim.
She winced, wishing she hadn’t thought of that image.
Of course, that wasn’t the only thing she wished. What if she’d never met John Reynard? What if her shop hadn’t taken that downturn? What if she met a man who could connect with her in ways that she could only imagine?
She made a disgusted sound. As if that was going to happen.
“What?” Claire asked.
“Nothing. I’m not really feeling well. Do you mind if I get out of here for a few hours?”
Claire gave her a sympathetic look. “Oh, no. You’ve got that reception with John this evening.”
Stephanie felt a wave of anxiety sweep over her. She’d put the reception out of her mind, but now she knew what had been making her feel unsettled—even before the dress had arrived. “Lord, I forgot all about that.”
“You’d better go home and rest. You don’t want to disappoint him.”
“Right.” Once again, she wished that she’d never met John Reynard. Wished that he hadn’t listened to her dad’s sob story, then stepped in to pay her debts—and Dad’s. But she’d taken his money because her father had begged her to let John Reynard handle their problems. And at the time, it had seemed the only way out. She’d been willing to let her shop go under. She could always find a job with someone else, but that wouldn’t work out so well for Dad. He’d lose the house—his last tie to the luxurious past that the family had enjoyed. And she’d known deep down that would kill him.
If she were the cause of that, her guilt would be too great for her to bear. Which was the irony of this situation. She’d never really felt close to her parents, yet she was compelled to make sure her father ended his days in the manner to which he was accustomed. Probably because she’d never felt like a dutiful daughter—and Dad had made sure she understood that.
Claire’s voice broke into her troubled thoughts.
“Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks.” She thought for a moment. “If Mrs. Arlington calls to ask about her ball gown, tell her it hasn’t come in yet.”
“Of course. Don’t trouble yourself about it,” Claire repeated.
Stephanie nodded, wishing she could really relax and stop worrying about her future.
Chapter Two
After three days in New Orleans, Craig was getting a feel for the city and the power base that ran it. The Big Easy was so different from any other American urban area that it might as well have been in a foreign country. The atmosphere was hot and sultry. The houses were painted bright colors. The landscape was almost tropical, and the people exuded a laid-back attitude that belied the hard times that Hurricane Katrina had caused.
He’d avoided his contact with the police department because he was in the city under an assumed name—Craig Brady. Unlike Craig Branson, Brady had inherited considerable wealth and lived off his investments. The persona was one he’d established several years ago when he’d been hired to take down a finance guy who was using a Ponzi scheme to line his own pockets. Craig had posed as an investor ripe for the picking and nailed the guy.
The Brady persona made a good cover for investigating John Reynard. But so far Craig had stayed away from the man. He wanted to establish himself as being in the city for profit and fun. To that end he’d gone prowling around, sampling the food, the jazz and the strip clubs along Bourbon Street.
He’d also found a high-stakes poker game at a private gentleman’s club, where he could pick up some money and also some information. The minimum bet was fifty dollars, but that had been of little risk to Craig. He might not be good at intimate relationships, but he was excellent at reading people, and he used that skill to win a couple of sizable pots.
Then he’d allowed himself to lose half of it back, which put the men around the table in a friendlier mood than when he’d been raking in the chips.
“So where do you meet high-class women?” he’d asked as he and his new friends helped themselves to the club’s bourbon.
“The United Hospital Fund is holding a charity event at Oak Lane Plantation, out along the river.”
“Sounds interesting,” he answered
“Tickets are a thousand clams a pop.”
“Well, it’s for a good cause,” Craig allowed. “And you’re saying that some of the ladies are single?”
“The young gals looking for husbands come out in droves.”
He’d found out where to buy a ticket and purchased one, pretty sure from his research that John Reynard would be there.
After buying the ticket, he’d gone to one of the rental shops in town and gotten a tuxedo. Not his usual attire, he thought as he stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his bow tie. But he guessed he’d do.
His hand shook for a moment, and he pressed his palm against his thigh, annoyed at his unusual reaction. It came from being so close to Sam’s killer, he told himself, but he wasn’t entirely sure he believed it.
He couldn’t contain the mixture of anticipation and nerves racing through him. He’d been waiting a long time to confront the man who had been responsible for his brother’s death, and now the meeting was almost here.
Well, confrontation wasn’t exactly the right word. He was going to have a look at John Reynard and start planning his attack on the man. After all these years, there was no rush. Reynard wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was his beautiful fiancée. As Craig thought of Stephanie Swift, anticipation tightened his gut.
Stephanie Swift was not the main event, but she could be a means to an end, he told himself.
Craig walked to the parking lot and picked up his rental car, then headed out of town to Oak Lane Plantation.
The mansion house was ablaze with lights when he arrived, and he found a space among the Cadillacs, BMWs and Mercedes that dominated the parking area.
Inside he accepted a flute of champagne from a waiter hovering near the door because he didn’t want to look out of place among the men and women enjoying themselves at this upscale gathering.
The mansion, which was often rented out for private functions, was lavishly furnished with period tables and chests interspersed with more modern chairs and sofas and Oriental rugs on the polished pine floorboards.
He wandered from the front hall to the other rooms on the main floor, watching the guests talking, drinking and eating. As promised, some of the ladies were young, and man
y gave him speculative looks, although he didn’t stop to talk to any of them.
But he had his story ready if needed.
He was from out of town and considering settling in the city, and he thought this gathering would be an excellent introduction to the local social life. He’d act as if he was looking for new investments—and open to suggestions from the New Orleans financial elite.
He made his way slowly through the crowd and finally spotted John Reynard on the veranda. He was talking with a group of men and women who all seemed to know one another. And Stephanie Swift was at his side.
Craig had been taken with her picture. He hadn’t been prepared for the reality of the woman. His breath caught as he looked at her from the doorway leading outside. She was stunning in an emerald-green gown that perfectly set off her blond beauty.
She must have known he was staring at her because she looked up, and he would have sworn she had the same reaction to him that he was having to her. Her breath hitched, and she went absolutely still.
Apparently Reynard sensed something. Bending close to her, he spoke in a low voice. From twenty feet away, Craig couldn’t catch the words, but he understood the proprietary way the man spoke. This woman was his property.
She must have said something reassuring, because Reynard went back to his previous conversation. But the moment had been telling. From Stephanie’s reaction, Craig knew that she understood her place in her fiancé’s world.
He lingered in the doorway and took a small sip of his champagne, thinking that he’d like to approach the couple, but he wasn’t going to press his luck. After a long moment, he turned away and went in search of the buffet table. He’d paid a lot of money to enjoy this reception, and he might as well get a decent meal out of it.
* * *
STEPHANIE WATCHED the broad shoulders of the man who had been staring at John—and her. She’d noticed him right away, noticed how his tuxedo accentuated his rugged good looks. She knew she had never seen him before. Who was he, and what was he doing here? For a moment he’d looked interested in John, then he’d switched his attention to her, and she’d felt as if there was an invisible wire connecting the two of them, drawing them to each other.
She hoped John hadn’t caught the intensity of her interest in the man because she knew he was jealous of any interactions she had with other guys. John had staked his claim on her, and she fully understood that playing any role but the one she’d been assigned was dangerous. Before she’d agreed to the marriage, her suitor had done his best to charm her, and she’d tried to convince herself that marriage to him wouldn’t be so bad. But once he’d known she was his, there had been subtle changes. He didn’t outright say that he owned her, but she got that message.
“Excuse me for a moment,” she murmured.
“Where are you going?” her companion asked.
“To powder my nose.”
He nodded, and she moved back through the mansion toward the grand staircase. The ladies’ room was on the second floor, and she was glad to escape from John and the society types who populated the party.
As she walked through the main floor, she scanned the crowd and was relieved and disappointed not to see the mysterious stranger. He couldn’t have just come in for a few minutes and left. Not at the price he’d paid for the ticket to this event.
Then she felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle and she turned quickly. There he was, in the corner, his gaze fixed on her again.
In that instant, the other people in the room seemed to vanish. Or maybe it was more accurate to say that they had turned into shadows, because the man in the corner was the only distinct thing she could see. She fought for breath, fought for sanity if she was honest about it.
What are you doing to me? she asked, the question never leaving her lips because she spoke only in her mind. Still, she had the weird feeling that he could hear her, although he gave her no answer.
She thought of crossing the room and...touching him. That idea leaped into her mind, and she wondered where it had come from. Touch a stranger? Why?
Yet the compulsion was so strong that she started toward him. Then she stopped after two steps and clenched her fists.
He was standing with the same rigidity, and she knew that at any moment he would come striding toward her. He would reach out and put his hand on her arm, and then what?
Everything would change.
She didn’t know what that meant, and she didn’t want to find out. No, that was a lie. She couldn’t afford the luxury of finding out.
The temptation was so overwhelming that she had to force herself to turn away and hurry up the stairs. With a sigh of relief, she closed the ladies’ room door behind her, putting a barrier between herself and the man who had drawn her like no other.
Marge LaFort glanced up from where she sat at one of the dressing-table stools. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she lied.
“You look like...”
“Like what?” she demanded as the other woman’s voice trailed off.
Marge shrugged. “I’m not sure. Is that handsome fiancé of yours giving you a hard time?”
“No. Of course not,” Stephanie denied. In fact, she had forgotten all about John Reynard when she’d been caught in the stranger’s web. Or was he caught in hers? She didn’t know which.
She walked through the dressing area and into the bathroom, where she used the facilities, not because she needed to but because it would seem strange to simply come here and take refuge.
To her relief, when she emerged, Marge was gone. Or was that good? What if Marge went straight down to talk to John?
Stephanie dragged in a breath and let it out, wishing that she didn’t imagine every person in the mansion as a spy for John Reynard, yet she knew that he did have a network of informants—or at least people who were anxious to stay on the good side of such a powerful man by feeding him information about people and events he might think important.
For example, she knew there were some new customers who had come to her shop to check out John Reynard’s fiancée. And some of them were probably reporting back to him, much as she hated to think it. But she supposed she’d have to live with that, and maybe he’d trust her more when they were married.
She stayed at the dressing table for several more minutes, fussing with her hair, wondering whom she was hiding from—the dark-haired man or her intended. When she finally emerged and came downstairs, she didn’t see the stranger. That was a relief. Now she only had to deal with John.
* * *
MEN WERE WATCHING HIM, Craig realized as he filled a plate with boudin balls, Cajun rice and crawfish étouffée. Tough-looking types who didn’t exactly fit in with the other guests at this fancy event. Since they were dividing their attention between Reynard and Craig, he had to assume that they were the other man’s bodyguards. Apparently Craig had caught Reynard’s attention. Or perhaps Reynard had noticed the silent exchange when Craig and Stephanie had made eye contact. At any event, he decided it would be best to leave.
After taking a few bites, he put down his plate on one of the trays set around the room for dirty dishes and made his way out of the house and into the parking area, half-expecting somebody to try to jump him. But apparently his leaving had the desired effect. He drove away and back to his upscale New Orleans B and B without incident.
But what was his next move?
He’d focused his research on John Reynard. Now he was going to find out everything he could about Stephanie Swift. He told himself he was doing his job. He told himself that digging into the woman’s life would be the key to taking down Reynard, but he wasn’t sure he was being honest about his motives. If he admitted he was obsessed with her, that would be more like the truth.
The feeling was a novelty for Craig. He’d enjoyed the company of wom
en. He’d learned the art of pleasing them in bed. But none of them had drawn his interest the way Stephanie Swift had.
He had looked up details about her on the web, but that was too impersonal an approach. Switching his tactics, he decided to get a firsthand picture of her life.
The morning after the charity reception, he waited in his car outside her apartment on Decatur Street and discreetly followed her Honda sedan to a sprawling mansion in the Garden District. It was her father’s house, he knew, and he drove around the corner and waited until she emerged about a half hour after she’d entered, a frown on her pretty features. Apparently her meeting with Dad hadn’t gone so well.
Her next stop was her shop on Royal. When she went in, he walked past and took up a discreet position around the corner.
He thought of himself as good at surveillance, but he wondered if she knew he was following her. Not because a normal person would have caught on, but because there was something between them that he couldn’t explain. He’d been prepared to dislike her. Instead, he’d been drawn to her when they’d seen each other at that charity reception, and she’d been as aware of him as he was of her.
That knowledge set up an unaccustomed buzzing inside him. He hadn’t felt this way since...
Well, since he and Sam had played hide-and-seek. Only back then it had been a different kind of game. Most kids hid and hoped that the other person couldn’t figure out where they had gone. With him and Sam, there was an extra element. One of them would hide, then try to break the connection between them—try to be as quiet as possible in his mind so that his brother would have no idea where he was.
Sam had been better at it than Craig, who hadn’t been able to turn off his thoughts, and Sam had always found him. But why was he thinking of that now?
* * *
TWO DAYS AFTER the charity reception, Stephanie was still feeling unsettled as she went through the rack of clothing on the left side of the shop, buttoning blouses, straightening straps and generally making the merchandise look tidy. She struggled to stay calm, but her heart was pounding. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to happen, and every so often, she glanced toward the window, wondering if she was going to see the dark-haired man with the broad shoulders who had stared at her in the plantation house. Well, it hadn’t been just him. She’d stared back because there had been something about him that had compelled her interest. It wasn’t simply the way his formal attire had set off his dark good looks. She’d felt a pull toward him that she couldn’t explain, even to herself. A pull that excited her and made her nerves jump at the same time.
