The Red Shoe Chronicles : A Fantasy Romance Anthology

by N. R. Larry

  That’s actually good. If my cover was blown, he’d probably have a gun—or two—to my head already.

  “You know anything about Davy Montana?” Salas finally asked, leaning his elbows on the table and tenting his fingers in front of him.

  Corvin clicked through his mental files. Montana. Mid-manager type in Salas’s organization. Oversaw runs between New Orleans and Baton Rouge, taking shipments—of drugs, stolen goods, prostitutes, whatever could be sold—from the river port city to the state capitol. “Only by reputation.”

  “What does that reputation say?” Salas tilted his head to one side, watching Corvin’s reactions carefully.

  Corvin maintained eye contact with the older man. “Word is that Montana manages the hottest runs across the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge by setting up black Lamborghinis with radar scrambler and shutting down all the car’s lights for night trips. Slides right past any cops on the lookout for him.”

  Salas’s expression didn’t give any hint about the truth of the statement. “Anything else?”

  Examining Salas through narrowed eyes, Corvin took a long moment to formulate his answer. “Rumor has it that he’s dropped more than one person over that bridge, right down into the swamp.”

  “What do you think about all that?”

  Corvin shrugged, still trying to get his bearings. “Radar scramblers and night runs seem pretty smart. Can’t say I’ve thought about the rest of it much at all.” What was this interrogation? If Salas wanted to discuss this stuff, shouldn’t he have covered it in the afternoon meeting?

  Dropping his hands to the table, Salas leaned forward. “Apparently, one of my rivals, irritated at having one too many of his own men fed to the Atchafalaya alligators, decided to retaliate. Davy Montana is dead. I will be moving one of my current men into Montana’s former position.” He gestured toward Luis, who nodded politely.

  Corvin stared at Salas, waiting for the punchline.

  “Apparently, I have some new openings in my organization, Mr. Lejeune.”

  Ah, shit. This wasn’t an interrogation. It was a fucking interview.

  He was still trying to assimilate this new information and figure out what to say, when he heard a familiar, female voice echoing outside the door. “I know he’s in a meeting. I need to see him now.”

  Salas gestured at the armed giant inside the room. He opened the door to admit the woman, who strode in without ever glancing at anyone but the boss.

  Corvin’s breath stuttered in his chest, his very heart seeming to pause in its beating.

  Angelina Riggs.

  I’ve been set up.

  Chapter 8

  I have no idea what any of this means.

  Scratching her nose, Jenna glanced from the open browser on the screen of her phone to the motorcycle in front of her.

  With one thumb, she scrolled to the top of the page.

  Yep. It definitely said the article was “How to Ride a Motorcycle.” But it was all about shifting the clutch and counter-steering and weight distribution.

  I need How to Start a Motorcycle. Motorcycles for Dummies.

  Motorcycles for Dumbasses who Pretend to be their Twin Sister and Get Stranded in a Strange City with Nothing but a Motorcycle as Transportation. Volume One.

  Well, at least the ride over here had taught her how to get on the thing. She swung one leg over and straddled the bike, balancing on the tips of her toes.

  Flipping screens, she double-checked the route back to Corvin La-Leave-My-Ass-Stranded’s apartment.

  Okay. That part was pretty straightforward. If she could get the bike moving, she could make it back. It wasn’t very far, really. Only a few miles.

  Hell, I could probably walk.

  But she had no idea what the neighborhoods might be like between here and there. From what she had been able to tell so far, most of New Orleans looked like a run-down strip club. If she hadn’t been with Corvin, she wouldn’t have stepped into Liselle’s on a dare. After he left, though, a quick internet search had revealed that the combination sandwich shop and bar was a New Orleans tradition.

  I wouldn’t be able to tell a crack-house from a country club around here.

  She scrolled some more, finally finding a tutorial on how to start a motorcycle. A few more pages, and she was confident that she understood the theory behind motorcycle-riding.

  Fairly confident.

  Mostly.

  Now to put it into practice. One step at a time, she followed the directions—flipping the switch, turning the key, starting the engine. And after only a few false tries, she even managed to put it in gear.

  Of course, shifting the clutch had been in that first article—the one full of gibberish.

  I’ll just putter along in first gear, all the way back to his apartment.

  Part of her hated the idea that she might somehow damage the engine. It was a gorgeous machine, and when Corvin drove it, the ride was smooth. Even the memory of the ride over here, her chest pressed against his back, her legs pressed against his as he shifted gears and slid around corners, made her shiver.

  By contrast, the ride back by herself was uncomfortable, jarring, and anxiety-riddled.

  She stalled out twice before she finally gave up on anything other than first gear. The first time was in front of a bar, where a group of college-aged men waved and shouted advice to her. The second time was in front of one of those houses she was certain was a crack-den.

  Or maybe it is a country club. Who the hell knows?

  By the time she arrived in front of Corvin’s apartment, darkness had fallen. Her hair under its helmet was soaked in sweat, her chest heaved as if she really had run the whole way back, and her grip had grown so tight that it was all she could do to unpeel her fingers from around the handlebars.

  But she hadn’t wrecked the bike. She was alive and safe.

  Or at least as safe as she could possibly be under the circumstances.

  She reviewed those circumstances as she worked her way methodically through the keys on the ring Corvin had left behind until she found the one that granted her entry into his place. She was no longer stranded at a restaurant, but she was still in a city she didn’t know, staying with a man she didn’t know. Assuming he even planned to return anytime soon. That was yet another thing she didn’t know.

  But she did know one thing. That ride had exhausted her.

  I need a shower, and then I’m going to bed. Alone.

  And I don’t care what Angelina would do.

  Still, a twinge of regret shivered through her when she reached into the overnight bag for a nightshirt and came up with the green lingerie set, instead.

  So much for my wild New Orleans nights.

  With a sigh, she tucked the scraps of silk and lace back into the bag and headed toward the bathroom.

  Maybe some other time.

  When I haven’t had to figure out how to drive a motorcycle.

  She told me she had never even been on a motorcycle before.

  Corvin stared hard at the reporter, trying to figure out what kind of game she was playing. To arrive at the warehouse as quickly as she had, Angelina almost had to have ridden his bike over.

  Unless Luis had arranged for her transportation. Was he in on this somehow? Corvin cast a quick glance at the Salas organization’s newly promoted runner, but Luis was looking back and forth between Angelina and Corvin in confusion.

  “Mr. Lejeune, I believe you already know Angelina Riggs.” Salas maintained eye contact with Corvin as he held out one hand to Angelina. She glided across the room to take it. At a gesture from the crime boss, she sat down in the chair to his right. When she looked at Corvin, her eyes were as cool as her nod.

  “Hello.” Her voice didn’t give anything away, either.

  She had found time at some point to change into a dark red dress, and to put on heavier makeup again. Everything about her was harder. Even her blonde hair seemed brassier.

  Corvin preferred the other Angelina, the one who
blushed when sex toys fell out of her suitcase. The one who wore jeans and wrapped her legs around him when she rode behind him on the motorcycle.

  Just thinking about that Angelina had him fighting off an erection. One glance at this Angelina eliminated that problem.

  Who is she? Which one is real?

  “Nice to see you again.” Corvin had to work to keep from speaking through clenched teeth. It didn’t matter which Angelina was real. The fact that there was more than one version ought to be warning enough to steer clear of her.

  There’s more than one version of Corvin, too.

  He dismissed the thought. He needed to focus here.

  “Ms. Riggs is going to be writing a story on the Vasili organization.” Salas’s sharp smile reminded Corvin of a barracuda—all teeth, no emotion.

  “The ones who … removed … Montana, I take it?” Corvin’s guess was confirmed when Salas’s grin widened.

  “Rather than escalating the situation, we are going to deal with it in more creative ways.” Salas squeezed Angelina’s hand, then set it down gently on the arm of her chair and patted it. As uncomfortable as he was with this Angelina, the gesture still made Corvin’s skin crawl.

  He didn’t let any of that show on his face, though.

  “You needed to speak to me, my dear?” Salas was asking Angelina.

  “One of my sources just called. He hears that Vasili had my apartment searched this afternoon.” She managed to say it without even glancing toward Corvin.

  Salas nodded, then turned to Corvin. “I understand you have already arranged for a place for Ms. Riggs to stay.”

  At that comment, Angelina twitched. Apparently, she hadn’t expected Salas to be able to track them to Corvin’s apartment, either.

  Why not? Does she know who I really am?

  She had hinted as much at one point, but none of his interactions with her today had suggested that she thought he was a cop. Then again, nothing had hinted at her knowing he was connected with the biggest crime organization in the city, either.

  She might be a better actor than he was.

  Better keep it noncommittal. “I found a temporary place for her.”

  Salas flashed that barracuda smile again. “Excellent. I’ll trust you to keep her safe, then.”

  What had he stepped in, here? Keeping Angelina safe by having her stay in his actual apartment was one thing. Being ordered to do so by the target of his investigation was something else entirely.

  This is all kinds of fucked up.

  He was going to have to make contact with the department to figure out what to do.

  For now, better stick to the Lejeune cover’s business. “Sure.” He tried to make the word as offhand as possible.

  Time to change the subject back to what really matters—to Lejeune, at least.

  And Lejeune was a pretty direct kind of guy. “So, about that opening in the organization. I’m interested. What else do you need from me?”

  Salas laughed. “I think you’ll be an excellent addition. Spend some time riding with Luis this week—he’ll introduce you to the people you need to know, and you two can show Jorge the ropes. We’ll see how you do, and talk again after Mardi Gras.”

  That was definitely a dismissal. Corvin nodded, then stood up and held out his hand to shake Salas’s. “I’m looking forward to it, sir.”

  “As am I.”

  Was it just his imagination, or did Salas’s final words sound more sinister than they seemed on the surface?

  As he moved toward the door, he glanced back over his shoulder to find Angelina watching him, a calculating gleam in her eyes.

  Way too many cover stories here.

  Corvin needed to sort out the truth.

  He knew one thing for sure—the thought of his Angelina working with Salas made his breath catch in terror.

  He wasn’t at all sure, however, how he felt about the Angelina who had walked into Salas’s office.

  Jenna had spent the last hour pacing through Corvin Lejeune’s apartment, not at all sure how she felt about the man who had abandoned her to figure out how to ride a motorcycle home.

  She was, however, certain that the thugs he left with had terrified her.

  Finally, bored with her own anxiety, she opened the box with the red high-heels in them and slipped the shoes on.

  At the sound of a key in the lock—from an extra set of keys, apparently—she discovered that at least half her fear had been for Corvin himself.

  “Thank God you’re back,” Jenna said as she met him in the entryway, throwing herself into his arms without thinking about it first.

  Automatically, Corvin’s arm wrapped around her waist, catching her up against him like a steel band holding her in place.

  At the sudden realization that she didn’t want him to let go, a hot blush flashed across her face.

  Corvin didn’t seem to notice, though, intent as he was on staring into her eyes. “Are you insane?”

  Startled by the question, Jenna tried to take a step away, but his hold on her only tightened. “What?” she asked.

  “Are you okay?”

  She blinked. “I’m fine. I had a little trouble getting the motorcycle back here, but it’s okay and I’m okay, and now I know you’re okay.” Jenna realized she was babbling, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

  “How did you get back here before me?” he demanded.

  “Before you?” Jenna’s brow knitted in confusion.

  “From the warehouse. How did you get to and from the warehouse before me?” His arm tightened further, and she realized that his grip on her wasn’t from relief, but some darker emotion.

  The warehouse? I didn’t go to any warehouse. Does he mean the restaurant?

  Her eyes widened in sudden comprehension.

  She hadn’t been to any warehouse. But she wasn’t the only Riggs twin running around New Orleans right now.

  Wherever those terrifying-looking men took Corvin, Angelina was there.

  What the hell had her sister gotten herself into now?

  And how was Corvin Lejeune involved?

  Her heart was racing as she tried to put together the pieces, but she didn’t have enough information to form any kind of coherent picture.

  She needed to know more. She was going to have to tell Corvin the truth.

  She stared into Corvin’s eyes, and her lips parted slightly as she drew in a breath to confess her deception. Before she could blurt out the words, though, Corvin dragged his gaze from her eyes to her mouth, and the heat in his eyes sparked an answering fire deep inside her.

  Her mouth dried, and her voice disappeared.

  With a muttered curse, Corvin reached up behind her with his other hand and tangled his fingers in her hair. Then he bent to claim her mouth with his own, searing away every thought until there was nothing left in Jenna but a desperate need to match the passion of his kiss.

  Chapter 9

  From the moment his lips touched hers, Corvin knew that kissing Angelina was a mistake.

  Perhaps the biggest mistake he had ever made. By all rights, he should be demanding to know what she had been doing at the warehouse on Tchoupitoulas. He should be asking her what kind of idiot she was—or better yet, how stupid her editor was, to be willing to send her to cover someone like Gregor Salas.

  Instead, he was so damn glad to see her there, safe in his apartment, that he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to her.

  He should be dragging her out of this apartment—the one in his own name, with the potential to get both of them killed—and taking her into protective custody.

  But as her heated mouth tilted back to open under the onslaught of his kiss, he found that he couldn’t do any of that. He didn’t want to forget his goals because of one sneaky reporter—but every time he came into contact with her, that was what happened.

  This time was worst of all. Before, he had lost sight of his objectives. This time, he lost himself.

  With a tiny sigh, Angelina melted
against him, her soft curves molding to the hard length of his body. Every inch of her pressed against him, and Corvin groaned into her mouth, all of his frustration with her coming out in the intensity of his kiss. He fisted his hand in her hair and pulled her even closer, as if he could draw her into himself and protect her there.

  His tongue tangled with hers, dancing through their mouths and brushing against the roof of her mouth.

  Angelina wrapped both arms around Corvin’s neck, as if she wanted to get as close to him as he wanted to get to her.

  Without any clear thought, he lifted her and leaned her gently against the wall beside the door frame leading to the hallway, pressing into her as he deepened the kiss even further.

  I should slow this down.

  That would be the careful thing to do. The prudent action. The behavior most likely to keep them both alive while dealing with the local crime lords.

  Corvin didn’t want to slow down.

  When Angelina crossed her legs behind his lower back and arched her pelvis against him, all thought of slowing down fled his overheated mind.

  Matching the pressure of her hips, he pressed her even more firmly against the wall. In one swift motion, he unwound her arms from around his neck and pushed them up over their heads, until the pressure of his body against hers was all that held her above the ground.

  If they had been naked, he would have taken her there. Every nerve ending screamed at him to fuck her now.

  Even if he didn’t know what kind of game she was playing.

  Even if he didn’t know what she really wanted from him.

  In this moment, at least, he knew exactly what he wanted from her.

  And he didn’t care what he had to do to get it.

  He wasn’t only losing sight of his objective.

  He was pretty certain he was losing all objectivity, too.

  Thought began to return to Jenna about the time Corvin pushed her against the wall in the hallway.

  This position wasn’t exactly my original objective.

  However, wild nights in New Orleans had been in her plans, and here she was, only her first night there, and already she had eaten oysters, driven a motorcycle, and gotten pinned to the wall by an unbelievably sexy man with inappropriate companions.