Bulletproof Billionaire

“This is nice. A lovely representation of the class,” he drawled, his gaze flickering to her face, her mouth. “Not so young as to be undeveloped, but not too old to have fun with.”

Adrienne had the uncomfortable sensation he wasn’t talking about the champagne. Her face flushed. Suddenly, his carefully controlled body exuded sexuality. Was he trying to titillate her with double entendres?

His gaze drifted over her body like fingers of fire licking at her heated skin, as if she were his for the taking. He held up his glass. Watching him, Adrienne knew just how the bubbles floating lazily to the surface would feel fizzing against their entwined tongues.

“I like mine golden, sophisticated, with a subtle fragrance that’s difficult to describe.” He passed the flute briefly under his nose. “Mmm, seductive.”

As his wide, firm mouth curved upward, a deep thrill pooled in her loins, causing a reflexive tightening of her thighs.

Immediately, apprehension constricted her throat. The fact that she was responding with such abandon to this stranger frightened her. She quelled the urge to glance around, to see if Tony was watching her reaction. Was this some kind of test of her loyalty to the mob?

“The flavor,” he paused for an agonizing few seconds as his gaze dropped to her mouth and then farther, to her satin-draped breasts, which ached at his blatant stare.

“The flavor should be full, rich. A mouthful to be savored, to delight the tongue.”

Adrienne gasped softly as she anticipated the touch of his tongue over their distended tips, the slow, gentle suction as he pulled them into his mouth. Heat flushed her cheeks and spread through her. She shivered.

She should slap him. He was describing how she would taste when he kissed her, when he made love to her. Yet strangely, she wanted to smile. He was intriguing, charming and brash, and he was coming on to her.

She tried to swallow but her throat was dry. She should stop this conversation. Shouldn’t she?

He looked her in the eye and Adrienne noticed that his eyes were an interesting mix of green and gold and brown. At this moment, the green glinted like dark jade. She had to hear what he planned to say next.

“Of course, no truly excellent experience is complete without a satisfying finish. Don’t you agree?” He drained his glass, then grinned at her.

She bit her lip, but she couldn’t stop herself from smiling back at him. “Mr. Lewis, you are a rogue,” she said, hardly believing she was actually flirting with him.

“And you, madame—”

His eyes flickered and his attention was gone. His gaze bypassed her and settled across the room. She turned her head and saw Jerome Senegal headed into her dead husband’s study with Sebastion Primeaux entering behind him. So that was why Senegal had wanted her to host this charity event—so he could talk to the D.A. without drawing attention. A shudder of revulsion quivered through her.

The playful mood Seth had evoked was gone. How long was her nightmarish existence going to last? She’d thought that after her husband’s death, she could escape from these crooks and their underhanded schemes. Instead, because of her mother’s illness, she was more deeply entrenched than ever.

When she looked back at Seth, his jaw was tense and his expression hard. But as soon as he realized her eyes were on him, his face relaxed into a charming smile. He met her curious gaze. “Let’s have some more of this fine champagne and you tell me how you came to be so involved with—charity work.”

DISTRICT ATTORNEY Sebastion Primeaux loosened his tie as he stepped into Marc DeBlanc’s study behind Jerome Senegal. “I told you, Jerome, I do not appreciate you dragging me into these dramatic little meetings. Especially now. Do you have any idea how close I came to being caught in that raid on the McDonough Club the other night?” He smoothed his hair back, then took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his hands and face. It was too close to election time. After the raid, he’d vowed to keep his hands clean for the next few months.

Then, he’d received the invitation to this charity event from Adrienne DeBlanc and almost panicked. An invitation from Mrs. DeBlanc was an invitation from Senegal. What did the mob boss want from him?

Senegal sat down behind DeBlanc’s desk and leaned back, resting his interlaced fingers on his barrel chest. His leathery face was bland, but Primeaux knew the man, once known as “The Bat” for his weapon of choice back in the days before he’d attained his current position, was fully capable of beating a man to death without so much as a grimace. Senegal’s black eyes pinned Primeaux like a butterfly to a display board.

Primeaux swallowed hard, trying to stay calm. He patted his inside jacket pocket for reassurance. The cardboard coffee sleeve was there. One of his favorite girls had given it to him in return for the promise of a Get Out Of Jail Free card.

Primeaux reminded himself that he was the district attorney, one of the most powerful men in the city.

The thought was too quickly followed by the next logical one. He was in the same room as one of the few men in New Orleans more powerful than him.

He wondered if Senegal knew how much he hated him.

“Sit down, Bas. Take a load off. You worry too much. You gonna have a heart attack.”

Primeaux paced, loosening his tie a bit more. “Is there any whiskey in here?” He licked his dry lips.

Senegal pulled a carafe and two glasses out of a desk drawer. “Sure thing, Bas. Marc always kept some sippin’ whiskey for his friends.”

“What do you want, Jerome?” Primeaux took the glass and downed the whiskey in one swallow. It burned going down. It felt good in his stomach.

Senegal sipped his. “I just need a little insurance.”

“Insurance?” The whiskey in Primeaux’s stomach began to churn.

“Yeah. Maybe I should say I have insurance. What I need is assurance.” He laughed. “Insurance, assurance.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he tossed a small stack of photographs onto the mahogany desktop.

“What are—” Primeaux’s throat closed up when he realized what he was looking at. “Why you—” he croaked. He picked up one of the pictures. Terror streaked through him at the sight of his own pale naked body splayed on an opulent bed. A teenaged girl knelt beside him.

He picked up another picture, and another. They were all damning. He recognized the room and the girl. The pictures had been taken at the bordello a few nights before the raid.

He sank into a leather chair. “How did you get these?”

Senegal sipped his whiskey calmly, no emotion in his sharp black eyes. “Those are video stills. And there’s plenty more. You’re a pig, Bas.”

Primeaux set the photos down on the desk and gripped the chair’s armrest. Senegal had actually chosen some of the milder shots.

“What do you want?” he rasped.

“I can see you understand the gravity of these photos,” Senegal said. “Obviously, if these, or others, were to be released to the press…” His voice trailed off.

Primeaux knew what would happen. Not only would his career as district attorney be over, he’d be indicted for statutory rape and a half-dozen other charges. “You can’t do this to me.”

Senegal sipped his whiskey. “Oh, I guarantee I can,” he drawled, as if he were discussing the price of peas. “These aren’t the only copies either. Anything happens, and they go to the media.”

Primeaux’s chest tightened and his left arm started to tingle. “Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

“I need your help with Customs. Since the bordello raid I’ve had to decentralize some of my activities.”

Primeaux realized Senegal was talking about his drug dealings. “Yeah?” he said, resisting the urge to pat his breast pocket. He poured more whiskey into his glass with trembling hands, then gulped it.

“There will be some special coffee bags coming in. I trust there won’t be any trouble passing them through?”

“Special, how?”

“You don’t worry your head about that. Can I count on you?” Senegal picked up the pictures and shuffled them, then laid them out on the leather surface of the desk like a game of solitaire.

Primeaux wondered how far he could push the Cajun mob kingpin. “I’m running a little short on campaign funds.”

Senegal sent him a glance rife with distaste. The first emotion Primeaux had seen. Then he sighed. “Bas, you never change, do you? You take care of me and I’ll take care of you.” He rose and held out his hand. “Ain’t that the way it’s always been?”

Primeaux looked at the man’s hand for a second, considering what would happen if he tried to take down Jerome Senegal. The idea was daunting. He finally gripped the mob boss’s fingers, knowing he was shaking hands with the devil. “What about the pictures?” he asked.