Hall, Jessica (3 page)

His mouth hitched. "Several times."

Although it was only eight a.m., and most of the shops remained
closed, a few hard-core early birds had already hit the street. As he turned on
to Bienville Street, J. D. spotted a couple wearing feathered masks, drinking
coffee from Styrofoam cups as they peered through the lacy wrought iron grille
guarding an antique store's display windows. Even if the biggest party on the
planet weren't in progress, no one would have given the masked tourists a
second look. Mardi Gras was a year-round business in the Vieux Carre.

Terri took out a cigarette, but opened the window halfway before
she lit it. One of the tourist shops was already playing zydeco, and the zippy
little riffs echoed on the nearly empty street. "Your folks throwing the
usual soiree next weekend?"

The annual Noir et Blanc Gala, held at his parents' Garden
District mansion on the weekend after Mardi Gras started, was as legendary as
his father's restaurant. Though tourists flocked daily to the Krewe of Louis to
order from the all-French menus, the family party was restricted to five
hundred of the most prominent members of New Orleans's first families. Dress
was strictly regulated to two colors—black and white—and many of his mother's
friends flew to Paris each year to find new styles to wear and wow the society
reporters.

"Yeah. Evan and his wife are flying in from Montana on
Friday." He eyed his partner. "My mother did send you an invitation,
didn't she?"

"Why, no. My goodness." Terri pressed a hand to her
cheek. "It must have gotten lost in the mail."

He knew what Elizabet would do if he asked her
about
it—flutter her hands and blame one of the maids. "I'm inviting you. Come
on by so you can meet Evan's wife, Wendy. You'll like her."

"No, thanks." She ran a hand over her short brown hair,
then tugged at her charcoal gray jacket. "My wardrobe simply isn't up to
one of your mama's parties."

"Doesn't matter."

"Au contraire, my friend. When you're the only woman wearing
permanent press in a room full of white designer silk gowns, it absolutely does
matter." The smell of burning wood wafted into the car, and Terri squinted
through the windshield at the black smoke still rising in a voluminous column
into the sky. "There it is."

After negotiating his way through the police barricades, J. D.
parked out of the way, a block behind the pumper truck. Hashing red, blue, and
white lights lit the hazy air like dance club strobes. Heat rolled out through
the smoke in transparent waves, driving back anyone who strayed too close.
Firefighters held hoses on the smoldering building from all sides, but it was
only too obvious that the structure was gutted. The stench of wet charred wood
and the chemical foam they'd sprayed over a burned-out car parked in the alley
next to the building added an unpleasant density to the thickened air.

Terri got out with J. D. and slammed the car door as she surveyed
the scene. "I hope that guy has decent insurance," she said, nodding
toward the car before scanning the other buildings. "Not a good place for
a campfire—the whole block could have gone up."

J. D. walked up to a patrolman who was busy filling out a field
report. The uniform recognized him and lowered his clipboard.
"Lieutenant?"

J. D. scanned the crowd, looking for particularly avid faces.
Mostly there were tourists; some were snapping pictures. "Where are you
boys at here?"

"They got the fire mostly out, Lieutenant, but the building's
history." The officer grinned. "We got a survivor, though."

"Lucky bastard." Terri peeled off her jacket and draped
it over her arm as she plucked at the front of her blouse a few times.
"Must have been a hot one."

"Old building, lotta wood," the cop told her. "All
it takes is a little gasoline, a match, and whomp, you got yourself a
barbecue."

"Officer. Lieutenant." One of the firemen joined them.
Water made channels in the black of his soot-streaked gear. "Security
guard from down the block claims the place was empty, but we pulled someone out
of there. We're going in to have a look around, see if anyone else was caught
inside."

J. D. nodded. "Where's the survivor?"

"Still at the unit, getting oxygen." The firefighter
jerked his chin to the left.

J. D. saw the fire rescue unit, parked two alleys down. Two men in
paramedic jackets were flanking a smaller figure sitting just inside the open
back doors. A glimmer of dark red hair made his eyes narrow. "Is that a
woman?"

"Yeah. Real looker, too." The uniform cleared his throat
when Terri gave him the eye. "Uh, not a local, according to witnesses.
She's not carrying any ID and she's not saying much. Couple of minor head
injuries."

"Nice that you noticed that," Terri drawled. "Her
being such a looker and all."

J. D. didn't laugh. To Terri, he said, "Start canvassing the
crowd. I'll talk to the girl."

She huffed in mock disgust. "You always talk to the
girls."

J. D.'s attention remained fixed on the woman, who
had
a plastic oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth. Her hair was red. An unusual
red, deep and pure, that glowed like old garnets. He'd only known one woman
with that particular color hair.
Can't be her.

He stepped over a double length of wide gray fire hose and headed
for the unit. As he drew closer, he saw other, disturbing details—the small,
slender build, the pale skin, the elegant, long-fingered hands. Even the shreds
of ripped stockings still clinging to her legs couldn't disguise their shapely
length. Or the two-inch-long scar running down the front of her right leg.

The memory hit him like an angry fist.

Are you all right?
Seeing her white face, the
blood running down her leg. She'd fallen in the cafeteria, right next to his
table. Lifting her up.
You're bleeding—

One of the paramedics looked up. "Help you, Lieutenant?"

"No." When he saw the blood on her clothes, J. D. pulled
the mask from the woman's face. And even though he was braced for it, the sight
of her face nearly drove him to his knees. "Sable."

Wide eyes, as dark as
café br
û
lot,
stared
up at him in shock. She didn't say a word.

He tossed the mask aside, still not convinced she was real. As he
reached for her, she moved her head, just enough to avoid his touch—and the
stunned look turned to one of anger and disgust.

An answering rage welled up inside him, hot and strong enough to
make him want to snatch her up in his arms. He forced himself to study her, but
he
couldn't see where the blood had come from. "What happened
to her? Where is she injured?"

The paramedic retrieved the mask. "She's okay. She just
inhaled a little smoke, got some bumps on her head. Probably slipped and fell,
trying to get out."

He wanted to strip her down and check her personally. "And
the blood?"

"The head wounds didn't break the skin; I don't think it's
hers."

J. D. saw fear flicker over her face. "Is she done
here?"

The paramedic checked her lungs with a stethoscope, then nodded.
"Yeah, but she needs a follow-up. She might have a concussion."

"I'll handle it." He took her by the arms, felt her
flinch, felt the contraction of the tense muscles beneath her soft skin. What
color remained under her skin abruptly went out of her face at that first
touch, the same way it had that day at the cafeteria. Her dark eyes remained
fixed on his face.

She's afraid. Why?
It wasn't as if he'd never
touched her before. He'd touched her plenty. All over. Every inch.

Before he could haul her to her feet, the patrolman appeared at
his side. "Lieutenant, you'd better come over here and have a look at
this."

He let her go. "What?"

Like any man, Billy preferred screwing to jerking off, but he'd
oddly enjoyed sitting in his truck and stroking himself as he'd watched the
building burn. No one had paid any mind to him, not even the two
curious
old folks who had parked their big Lincoln Town Car behind his truck and come
out to stand and gawk. They were only three feet away from his window, but for
all they cared, he could have been invisible.

Yet he'd been the one to give them the show. Him, no-account Billy
Tibbideau.

It was a strange thing. Billy liked doing his little side jobs;
he'd always been smart enough to get away with them, too. Only this time,
knowing Isabel was caught in there and being burned alive, and that he was the
one who'd put her there—that made him feel special. Powerful.

He liked the feeling.

"That's right, girl," he muttered as he worked his fist.
"I got you this time, didn't I?"

His pleasure didn't last long, though. It dwindled as soon as he
saw a firefighter haul Isabel Duchesne out of the burning building. He stopped
stroking himself as soon as he saw her emerge, coughing and covered with soot.

Aw, damn.
His erection abruptly wilted in his
fist.
Why the hell ain't she burned up?

The old lady standing on the sidewalk turned to stare at him as if
she'd heard him.

He scowled back as he tucked his flaccid penis back in his jeans
and yanked up his zipper. "Who you looking at, you nosy old bitch?"

She opened her mouth to say something, and then her eyes shifted
to the other side of his truck. She grabbed her husband's arm and tugged him
back toward their car.

He smirked. "That's right, you better—"

Something drove Billy's head into the steering
wheel,
then dragged him across the bench seat and out the passenger door.

The big dark man slammed him into the cab frame. "This your
idea of working?"

Billy stared up into Caine Gantry's black eyes. His boss was the
only man Billy respected—and feared— more than his own daddy.

"Hey, Caine." He darted a nervous glance at the fire.
"I was—I just—"

Caine turned his head and stared at the blazing building for a
long moment. When he looked back at Billy, his expression was ferocious.
"You dumb son of a bitch."

Billy knew he was in for it then, and did the sensible thing: He
kneed his boss in the groin.

Only Caine shifted a moment too soon, and Billy's knee connected
with the big man's thigh, which was the same as smacking into a brick wall.

His boss smiled and stepped back. "Thank you."

Caine had a reputation for never hitting first, or more than once.

"It ain't what you're thinking." Billy stumbled back,
frantically trying to put space between them. "I didn't do nothing wrong.
I'm on the job, Caine, honest."

The big man came after him. "I'm paying you to sit here and
jerk off in front of old ladies?"

Shame and rage buzzed in Billy's head as he struck again, this
time going for Caine's belly and ribs. The big man only pushed him back and hit
him in the face—once.

Pain exploded inside Billy's head, while big dark spots danced in
front of his eyes.

A heartbeat later Caine had him pinned against the truck again. He
leaned in and sniffed, then shoved a
hand into Billy's back
pocket and pulled out the empty pint of Jack.

He looked into Billy's eyes. "I told you what I'd do if I
found you drinking again, didn't I?"

Sweating and shaking, Billy swallowed, and then nodded once.
"It won't happen again. I just slipped up, Caine. Just a little bit."

The bottle went flying and smashed all over the road.

"Aw, come on." Tears welled into Billy's eyes. "You
can't do this to me. We're friends. I got a wife—I need the work."

Caine reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a wad of cash,
which he stuffed in Billy's bleeding mouth. "That's all you're getting
outta me." He released him and took a step back. "Hit the road."

Billy spit the stained bills into his hand and clutched them.
"Ain't got to be this way, Caine. You and me, we can work this out.
Things'll be better—"

This isn't happening.

As Sable sat in the back of the unmarked police car, she tried to
sort out what had happened. Marc was dead, and she had nearly died herself.
Someone had knocked her out and then had set fire to the warehouse.

To cover up the murder.

Why would someone want Marc dead? Was it because of his campaign?
Was this some kind of assassination? She'd researched him before they'd met,
and she knew how popular he was—he'd been favored to win the election easily,
and even the press liked him.