Bulletproof Billionaire

Senegal scooped up the photographs and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “As long as my supply of coffee is not interrupted, the pictures stay here with me. Safe and sound.” He stepped around the desk and walked toward the door. “Coming?”

Primeaux leaned heavily against the desk. “I think I’ll have one more shot of whiskey first.”

The other man shrugged before disappearing through the door.

Sebastion Primeaux sank down into a leather armchair and fumbled in his pocket for his little bottle of nitroglycerin.

“Maudit,” he muttered. His angina attacks were getting worse, happening more often. Now this. He ought to just give up the D.A.’s job and retire. Go back home to the bayous of south central Louisiana. He snorted. Easier said than done.

He craved the attentions of the young putains, he loved the money and he liked the idea of bucking the very system he had sworn to uphold.

After downing the last gulp of whiskey, he locked the study door, then surveyed the room.

DeBlanc’s office. DeBlanc had been a good attorney. If these walls could talk, Primeaux could probably bring down the mob single-handedly. Then he’d be a hero.

But walls didn’t talk and Primeaux needed some insurance of his own. So, using his handkerchief, he took the protective cardboard sleeve, printed with the words Cajun Perk, out of his pocket. It was thicker than a normal sleeve.

He glanced around, trying to decide on the perfect place. He hadn’t thought far enough ahead to consider when or in what circumstances the sleeve should be found, or exactly how he could use the discovery to his advantage. He had good instincts though, and those instincts had been nagging at him for days to plant incriminating evidence somewhere.

Adrienne DeBlanc’s house was the closest Primeaux would ever get to Senegal. He had more sense than to go to Senegal’s house, and Senegal had more sense than to invite him.

But he needed a place where she wouldn’t be likely to come across it.

A reflection from the bookcase behind DeBlanc’s desk caught his eye. Retrieving the silver box, he realized it was a sterling silver photo album. Marc and Adrienne’s wedding album, to be precise.

Primeaux smiled as he ran his finger along the book’s surface and picked up a fine sheen of dust. It wasn’t likely that the Widow DeBlanc would open the album, not if even half the things Marc had told him were true.

He quickly inserted the cardboard sleeve with its damning evidence between two photos, then closed the album and carefully set it back on the shelf. His fingers shook as he repocketed his handkerchief.

With the nitroglycerin kicking in and the pain in his chest and arm fading, he straightened his coat and unlocked the study door. A half smile curved his lips. It was amazing how much better he felt, now that he had an ace in the hole.

BY THE TIME the crowd had thinned out, Seth had drunk a lot of champagne, and he was beginning to feel it. So far, the high point of the evening had been the meeting between Senegal and Primeaux. Most of the others, the mayor included, appeared to actually be here in support of literacy. Surprising.

The champagne had given Seth a headache, so he slipped into the Widow DeBlanc’s massive gourmet kitchen and asked one of the caterers for some coffee. He sat there for a while, talking with the hired help, drinking java and munching on huge peeled shrimp. If he timed it right, he could wander out of the kitchen just as the last guest left. That would give him some time alone with the lovely young widow.

Adrienne. He smiled. All golden light, with delicate hands and a perfect, shapely body. Not to mention the graceful neck that made his mouth water as he imagined the soft warmth of it beneath his lips.

She was a study in contradiction. Obviously spoiled, used to servants, used to compliments, used to money. But there was a vulnerability about her that called up a protective urge in him. He didn’t like feeling that way, especially not for a rich socialite from the Garden District.

He remembered as if it were yesterday the last time he’d helped his father on a job. Seth had been twelve, and puberty and hormones were kicking in.

Robert Lewis had made a fairly good living as a gardener in the Garden District. He’d taken care of lawns for successful businessmen and rich socialites like Adrienne DeBlanc. On that last day, Seth had walked in on his father kissing the skinny-hipped wealthy homeowner, his hands hiking her designer skirt up above her thighs. His dad had looked guilty and chagrined, but the woman’s look had been hard as flint.

The mere thought of that day sent fury coursing through Seth’s veins. That moment, frozen in time, had defined his relationships with women throughout his life. He enjoyed them, but he didn’t trust them.

He’d expected Adrienne DeBlanc to be like that woman. But she’d surprised him. There was nothing hard about her. She might be spoiled, but she wasn’t cold. Not by a long shot. He’d seen the fire and longing in her eyes as he’d described the champagne.

Popping one last shrimp into his mouth, he strained to hear what was going on in the living room. The conversation had waned. The front door opened and closed a few times. Except for the undertone of quiet music, there were no other sounds. He pushed through the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room just in time to see Senegal grab Adrienne’s arm and whisper something in her ear. Her face drained of color and her back went stiff as a board. She pulled against Senegal’s grip, but he held on tight.

He was hurting her.

Every muscle in Seth’s body screamed for immediate and deadly action. He clenched his fists. He had the expertise to kill Senegal in seconds with his bare hands if he so desired. What he wasn’t sure he had was restraint.

Chapter Two

Seth controlled himself with an effort, drawing on the stony control of his military training. He wanted to flip Senegal and smash his face against the wall, but rushing to Adrienne DeBlanc’s aid would blow not only Confidential’s case, but also his own cover. There was too much at stake.

So he forced himself to remain still, clamping his jaw so tightly that pain reverberated through his head.

Adrienne nodded jerkily at whatever Senegal had said, and he let her go. The mob boss left without even noticing Seth, and then it was only Seth and Adrienne, and about a dozen servants.

Seth watched her curiously. When the front door closed behind Senegal, Adrienne’s back curved in relief. She rubbed her wrist and let out a weary sigh.

Approaching her quietly, Seth worked to keep his voice soft as he spoke. “Rough evening?” he asked.

She jerked, then quickly recovered. Up came the stiff back and the pleasant expression. She stopped massaging her wrist, but Seth could see the red marks left by Senegal’s cruel grip. The bastard.

Controlling his anger with an effort, he touched her wrist gently. “Any man who lays his hand on a lady doesn’t deserve to be called a man.”

He watched closely for her reaction. It wasn’t impossible that the interaction was a lovers’ quarrel. Sadness clouded her eyes for an instant, then she blinked and looked down. “I didn’t see you as the guests were leaving. I assumed you’d already gone.”

So she’d looked for him. The thought gave him a deep satisfaction that had nothing to do with Confidential’s case. He let his fingertips slide softly over the satiny skin of her inner wrist. “I couldn’t leave until I had a chance to speak to you. I have an important question.”

She glanced up at him, her expression guarded.

He held her gaze. “Is there a Mr. DeBlanc?”

Her eyes widened, the only sign that he’d surprised her. “You could have asked anyone that question.”

“I wanted to ask you.”

She shook her head. “My husband died over a year ago. I’m a widow.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Seth murmured, stepping closer. She smelled like gardenias. The scent was fitting. She had all the attributes of those delicate pale flowers, beautiful but fragile, the petals bruising from the slightest touch.

“However, I can’t help hoping that means you’re free for lunch tomorrow.”

She stared at him for a couple of beats. “Lunch?”

“What’s the matter, princess? Is your social calendar full?”

She swallowed. “My social calendar,” she repeated, a mocking tone in her voice.

Seth touched her cheek, sliding his fingertips down over her jaw and along the side of her neck, finally proving to himself that the skin he’d craved to touch ever since she’d opened her door to him was as soft and velvety as it looked.

In a way, the betrayed child inside him had looked forward to this part of his assignment, the satisfaction of performing a calculated seduction of the wealthy widow. A bit of revenge on the type of woman who had seduced his father.

But he was having trouble equating Adrienne De-Blanc with that woman.