Bulletproof Billionaire

The tall Cajun laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “That is a polite way of putting it. C’est rabais,” he said and leaned closer. “It is…” He shrugged eloquently. “I come because it is expected. So where you from?”

Here goes. “I’m here to assist with the opening of Crescent City Transports. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Arsenault’s expression became guarded. His dark eyes glittered. “Crescent City Transports. That is the new trucking company on Tchoupitolous?”

“Right. We’re quite proud of the location.”

“So. What’s your connexion?” he asked, putting a French inflection on the word.

Seth held out his hand. “Seth Lewis. I work for Brechtman Forbes, the company that is expanding its transport business to New Orleans.”

“Never heard of ’em.”

“Based in Germany. Multinational corporation,” he tossed out. Was he overdoing the bored continental rap?

“Yeah?” Arsenault ignored Seth’s hand. “Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici? What brings you to this place tonight?”

Seth grinned, then inclined his head toward the killer who was known for his inventive use of his machete. He could almost smell the blood on Arsenault’s hands. There was a reason Arsenault was known as “The Knife.”

“Business, mon ami,” he said quietly. “I overheard someone at a coffeehouse talking about the auction, and thought this might be a good place to meet some of the bigger players in New Orleans.”

Arsenault’s eyebrows rose. “You heard about this event at a coffeehouse, eh?”

“Yep. I like to keep my eyes and ears open.”

“And so now you want to meet the big players?” Arsenault laughed again. The scar on his face gave him a demonic look.

Seth shrugged. “It is a waste of time to deal with those who have no authority to—shall we say—deal.”

Arsenault appraised him. “You are a bright boy.” He clapped him on the shoulder again. “Be sure and buy one of those pieces of junk.” He nodded toward the easel. “We like to see everybody help out.”

“And I like to help out, however I can.”

The scar-faced man grabbed a flute of champagne from a tray and saluted Seth. “I will remember that. Keep in touch.” He walked away.

Seth released the breath he’d been unconsciously holding. Shaking off his tension, using breathing techniques he’d learned in the army to keep his mind clear and his body prepared, he looked for Adrienne De-Blanc. He didn’t see her, but he saw a lot of money.

Serious money. The kind of cash that had caused his father to abandon him and his sisters and his mother when he was just a kid. The thought stoked his anger.

God, he hated money.

A soft touch on his arm got his attention.

“Mr. Lewis?”

It was Adrienne. “I noticed you talking with Tony Arsenault. Was he the business acquaintance you mentioned?”

Seth sensed her agitation and it grated on his already sensitive nerves. Didn’t she like the idea of him talking business in her home with a sadistic hit man? According to his briefing, she knew everyone in the Cajun mob. After all, her deceased husband had been Jerome Senegal’s lawyer, which made him the mob’s lawyer.

He nodded and quirked his mouth. “I don’t think he shares my enthusiasm for the works up for auction. Tell me about the artists. Are they local? Did you pick these pieces yourself?”

“You like the sketches?” she asked, her voice polite but carefully devoid of expression.

He studied her. Her back was stiff, her smile looked fake. Judging by her body language, she was hiding something, just as he was.

“They have a certain primitive charm,” he murmured, raising a brow.

She blinked, then sent him an impish glance. “Primitive charm? You mean as if they’d been done by a six-year-old?”

He smiled. She’d known exactly what he meant. She had a good sense of humor in addition to her ethereal beauty. He leaned closer. “At six, my sister Theresa could draw better than that.”

Her blue eyes widened, intent on his face. “You have a sister?”

“Three, actually.” Seth checked the urge to tell Adrienne about his sisters. He had to be careful. No one could know that he or his family lived here in New Orleans.

He changed the subject. “So Mrs. DeBlanc, how do you manage such an interesting mix of people at a party this large? Didn’t I see the mayor a moment ago?”

Adrienne DeBlanc tried to tamp down her disappointment. She should have known better than to think Seth Lewis was different from the other people here. He was either connected or he wanted to be.

From the moment she’d opened her door and seen him standing there, his broad shoulders and lean hips perfectly clad in that ultra high-fashion Gaultier suit, her breath had stuck in her lungs. She’d almost forgotten she was a virtual prisoner in this house. She’d let herself get carried away by a pair of amused hazel eyes.

Tony Arsenault had supplied Adrienne with the guest list, written in Jerome Senegal’s own hand, and had instructed her to set up the auction. Every person here was connected to the Cajun mob in one way or another. Even most of the politicians were suspect.

Seth’s name wasn’t on the list, but that didn’t mean he was different. He’d said he was new in town. But he was wealthy, and the politicians were always looking for another source of campaign funds.

Besides, Tony had not only spoken to him, he’d laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture reserved for the few people Tony liked. That erased any doubt in Adrienne’s mind. Seth Lewis was involved with Jerome and his goons, or he soon would be.

It was a shame. He was so attractive. He was much taller than she, probably almost six feet, and younger than most of the people here. Everything about his appearance screamed money and power, and there was an aura of watchfulness about him. She had the feeling that no matter what happened, he would be prepared.

But his hazel eyes shone with honesty and intelligence, and when he focused his attention on her she felt as if she were safe, really safe, for the first time in her life.

“Mrs. DeBlanc?”

She blinked. His eyes threatened to delve beyond the surface down to the heart of her. She smiled quickly—too quickly, and ran a hand down the side of her neck, where muscles were tensing. She didn’t miss the drifting of his gaze as he followed her gesture.

“I apologize. I must be tired. I’m not usually so rude to my guests. Please, have some more champagne.” She motioned to a waiter, who hurried over with a tray and exchanged Seth’s empty glass for a full one.

She thought she caught a brief flicker of contempt in the curve of his lips. The unguarded expression was like a slap to her face. But he smiled as his gaze traced the slim line of her gold-flecked, floor-length gown, then turned to the glass he held up to the light.

“Krug?” he drawled, indicating the delicate crystal flute.

“Ninety-one,” Adrienne agreed. He certainly knew his wines. She met his gaze. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. The contempt remained, along with a touch of amusement and discomfort. His attitude didn’t fit his clothes. But there was something else—something sexual that passed between them in that look. A hunger grew in her, an awareness she’d never expected to feel again.

Seth Lewis wanted her.

The thought sent ripples of sensation over her, like the ruffling of a bird’s feathers when it awakened.

Seth took a sip of wine without taking his eyes off her. He rolled it around on his tongue as he held the glass up to the light.