Heather Graham (3 page)

She was helpless now. Those who really knew what they were doing were taking care of him. He’d been sewn up. Painstakingly. Inside and out. Now, tubes brought life-giving fluid to his veins. More tubes helped him breathe. He was ashen against the white hospital sheets. She was trying so hard to be stoic and strong, but she felt a little bit like the Wicked Witch of the West—she was melting. Watching him with all his tubes and pallor, she inhaled a ragged sob. She felt the nurse’s hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Marcel, remember, I can only give you a minute...

A minute. Ann knew she couldn’t waste that minute standing there like an idiot.

She hurried forward to the bed. Thoughts crowded her mind. She didn’t want to lose him. She loved him, terribly. Not as a husband—they’d never been meant to be man and wife—but he was her best friend. Her toughest critic; yet, when she was down, he was the first to cheer her. When she did well, he celebrated with all his heart. She touched his ashen hand—the one without the I.V. needle in it. He looked like death, but she felt the warmth of life in him. Encouraged, she clutched his hand more tightly. “You’re going to be all right, you’re going to be all right. I promise. I’ll see to it. And I promise, too, I’m going to make sure that whoever did this awful thing doesn’t get away with it.” She drew his hand to her lips, kissed the warm, dry flesh. “Jon, you will be all right. I promise.”

“He’s still feeling the effects of the anesthesia,” the kindly, gray-haired nurse offered. “And,” she added regretfully, “it’s doubtful he’ll regain consciousness tonight. But the
sub
-conscious is a wonderful thing. He may be able to hear you, dear. We never know. But we always encourage talking to our patients.”

Ann nodded, managing a smile for the nurse. “Jon—”

To her amazement, his eyes opened. They were hazy; then they seemed to focus on her.

His lips moved. Breath came from them. Breath, and some kind of a whisper.

Ann leaned closer to him. “Jon, it’s all right. Jon, you’re in the hospital. Wonderful people are looking after you. Wonderful doctors and nurses.”

He moved his lips again. He seemed so anxious! No matter what she tried to say, no matter how she tried to reassure him, he seemed desperate to speak.

“Jon, you mustn’t try so hard to speak. You need rest, you need to heal—”

“Ann—”

He was saying her name.

“I’m here, Jon.”

He moved his head.
No
.

“Jon, please...

The hand she held tightened. Just barely. She leaned closer to him.

“Annabella’s...

His eyes fell shut.

The tension left his hand.

Ann inhaled again, dizzy. He’d died on her, oh, God, he’d died...

“He, he...,” she gasped out.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Marcel.”

“But—”

“Honey, he’s unconscious,” the nurse said gently, taking her shoulders. “See all those monitors. That’s his heartbeat right there, on that screen to the left of the bed by his head. His vital signs seem to be sound and stable. That’s very good.”

Ann nodded blindly.

“I know that you being there just now was a big help to him,” the nurse continued. “What was he trying to do? Whisper your name?”

Ann turned and looked at the nurse in surprise.

“He...,” she began, then cut off.

No. That would have been nice, of course. Jon seeing her, recognizing her. Saying her name.

Except that he hadn’t been saying her name.

Annabella’s.

He had whispered the name of the club—the strip joint—where he had gone to watch his
Red Light Ladies
.

He was savagely hurt. Possibly still dying. He had come to her, fallen into her arms.

And through it all, he had said just two things.

I didn’t do it. Oh, God, I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it!

And now...

Annabella’s.

She turned back to look at him, biting into her lower lip. She prayed for him.

She damned him.

Didn’t do what, Jon? Look at what’s happened to you, and look what you’ve given me to go on. What the hell didn’t you do, Jon? And why the hell would you look at me and whisper,
Annabella’s?

J
ACQUES MORET SAT AT
a select table at Divinity’s, a man impeccably dressed in a lightweight charcoal gray suit, silk shirt, crimson vest and designer tie. He had a long, slim, aristocrat’s face, bright hazel eyes, sleek dark hair, and very full, sensual lips. His smile gave away dimples in his cheeks. He was handsome and charming; his elocution was excellent, with the slightest touch of a drawl that added to his completely masculine charm. When he walked through a crowd, feminine eyes followed wherever he went. He always smelled subtly and pleasantly of expensive aftershave. He cultivated his natural ability to seduce, and had, since he first discovered the power of his charm at age twelve, wielded that power with dispassionate pleasure and amusement. Tonight, he dined with the usually level-headed CEO of a tour company, a smartly dressed and chic woman in her mid-thirties. She was the type, he had decided, who usually spat out her orders with the precision of a drill sergeant. Her perfectly tinted hair was curled fashionably at her nape; she might well have worn her custom red suit down a runway in Paris. Her makeup was perfect; her nails were perfect. She was a regal no-nonsense beauty of the contemporary business world, the type taking over the business world and sending good men out pounding the streets for a job—while crying out for the ERA—he thought a little resentfully.

But not tonight.

Tonight she was falling for him. Ms. Exec was beginning to giggle into her wine—a select chablis from a very special year and very special winery. Select not just because of its quality and age, but because of its potency. One thing he’d learned early in business was to take every advantage. He didn’t think twice about getting his prospective clients drunk, nor did he suffer the slightest qualm of guilt regarding the matter of seducing them.

Ms. Ellie Exec, he thought of her, disregarding her real surname entirely. Sometime in the future, it would matter again. Tonight would be a special conquest. His secretary had learned that her coworkers considered her to be an ice queen with unbreachable defenses. She was the power behind one of the biggest travel agencies in California, and what she could do for his riverboat and hotel enterprises was phenomenal. A good night tonight and he’d not only prove himself beyond the shadow of a doubt, but after stripping her mentally throughout the day, he was truly intrigued about the possibility of discovering that her undergarments were as deliciously red and perfect as her designer nails and suit. He’d make it worthwhile for her; she’d remember New Orleans with fondness for a long, long time. By morning, he’d have a piece of both her business—and her.

He lifted his wineglass to hers, smiling. “So you are enjoying Divinity’s?”

“Le poison est magnifique!”
she replied. Her French was good. Better than the usual dull, stuttering typical Anglo-American slaughter of the language. She had blue eyes and that perfectly coiffed platinum hair. He liked blondes. He’d learned when he was young that there was—no matter what the century—a certain contempt among many Creoles and Anglos for the Cajuns, Creoles being descended from the French and Spanish while the Cajuns were descended from the Acadians cast out of Nova Scotia.
Coon hounds
, his people were sometimes called.
Coons
. And from the most illiterate—
coon asses
. Yet lots of people got past prejudices. He thought he had, more or less.

But most Cajuns were dark-haired. For some reason, he liked seducing blond women. Actually, he just liked seducing women. But blondes...

The quick and easy conquest of a basically virtuous blonde always gave him the sense of a double-edged victory.

He poured more wine into her glass from the bottle sitting in the ice bucket at his side. “I’m glad you’re enjoying our famous Divinity’s.”

“Are you about to tell me it’s not popular with the locals?”

He shook his head; his eyes locked with her blue ones. “New Orleans is world-renowned for its restaurants and food with sound good reason. The locals often come here. But there are many interesting places here. For music, for dance. Jazz. Café au lait. Beignets.”

“Where is the best place for jazz?” she asked him.

He arched a brow, a subtle, half smile slipping into his features.

“A strange place.”

“What do you mean, a strange place.”

“You can walk down any street in the Vieux Carre and hear wonderful jazz. But the best...

“Yes?” she said, leaning closer to him across the table. He spoke softly on purpose, drawing her nearer and nearer to him.

“Would you hear some of the best jazz, then?”

She frowned. “Is it in a—dangerous area?”

He shook his head. “You’d never be in danger with me.”

“Then...

“There is jazz...and there is dance.”

“What kind of dance?”

She knew. Her blue eyes were wide. Her lips were slightly parted. She took a very long sip of her wine. Good. A few more sips of wine. A trip to the club. She’d be on him like a ball of fire.

“Exotic dance,” he said quietly.

Her mouth formed an
O
.

“Perhaps too exotic for you...

“Do...nice—I mean, er regular, women go there.”

He smiled. His best, most devastating smile. “Even the most chaste of the Louisiana Old Guard go now and then. Yet, of course, it is a challenge, I imagine, for a woman like you.”

“Do I look so stuffy?” she inquired.

Another smile. “You are a beautiful woman.”

“But a stuffy one.”

He poured her more wine. “You are beautiful.”

“I’d like to see this place. What’s the name of it?”

“Annabella’s.”

His hand had just curled over hers when he saw his secretary slipping into the restaurant, weaving his way through the tables. Ryan Martin. An earnest young man with freckles and red hair, he wore a worried look.

Jacques cursed him in silence while keeping his smile in place for Ms. Ellie Exec.

“Mr. Moret, forgive the intrusion,” Ryan said, breathless as he reached the table.

Ellie Exec wrenched her hand back.

“Ryan...you knew I wished not to be disturbed.” He kept just how much he hadn’t wanted to be disturbed from his voice.

“This is incredibly important.”

“Ellie...you will excuse me for just a moment?”

He rose. The blonde rose as well. “Actually, I should just call it a day. Thank you so much, Mr. Moret. Dinner was wonderful.”

“But, wait, it’s so early...

“Merci, merci. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

She started out. Jacques was so mad he thought he would have punched Ryan if they hadn’t been in a public place. He dropped his napkin on the table and sank into his chair, rubbing his temples.

“What is it?” he snapped icily.

Ryan sat across from him. “Gina L’Aveau’s body was found in a dark alley tonight.”

Jacques’ hand dropped. He stared at Ryan, started to reach across the table and grab him by the collar, but managed to refrain.

“What—what—”

Hell. What time had he left her?

“When?” he said.

“Right after eight. I—I didn’t mean to interrupt. But she is your kin, even if distant. I—I had to tell you.”

Jacques nodded. “Yes, yes, of course.” He stood abruptly, no longer interested in Ryan.

“Jacques—they’d be arresting that artist fellow right now if he wasn’t all cut up himself.”

“What?” Jacques paused, barking out the word.

“The artist—Marcel—made it to his ex-wife’s place, bleeding like a stuck pig. The cops followed him there.”

“Oh?”

“He may not make it through the night.”

“Ah.” Jacques stared at Ryan. “You did right. You did right to come to me. Keep up on the situation. And pay my tab. Tip well.”

He left the restaurant. Miss Ellie Exec had surely had plenty of time to catch a cab by now.

But she hadn’t. She was sauntering down the street. He watched her for a moment.

He was a gambling man. One in a wild, tormented mood. He hurried down the street, catching up with her. He grabbed her arm, spun her around. Before she could speak or protest, he kissed her with hot, open-mouthed fury and passion. He held her close, hands slipping beneath her hem and cupping her buttocks, pressing her against his sex. She was stiff for a second; then she melted like butter. He’d judged right. She’d spent so long proving herself untouchable that she was desperate for a man.

She finally managed to break her lips from his. “Jacques, we’re on the street, for God’s sake!”

“We can remedy that.”

He hailed a cab quickly, urging her into the vehicle. While the driver brought them to their destination, he discreetly slid his hand between her thighs. She was wearing a garter belt.

It was probably red. He liked garter belts, and he liked red. But it didn’t matter. Gina was dead. It didn’t matter who this woman was anymore. She was going to get what she wanted.

Gina was dead.

And it looked like an artist was going to fry for it. If he lived.

He turned to his Ellie Exec again and started kissing her passionately.

She was going to like it hard and dirty.

Exactly the way it would be.

The doctor was definitely a good solid man. He stood his ground while sympathizing with the difficulties of the cops. “Don’t worry about Ann Marcel having a chance to see Mr. Marcel tonight. She’ll get to look at him and hold his hand. I assure you, he can’t help you find his attacker tonight, fellows. He’s not going to say anything lucid.”

“We didn’t have to have lucid,” Jimmy said.

Mark cleared his throat. “You’ve been in surgery with Marcel, Doctor, so you may not have heard that we suspect that Marcel was wounded while he was murdering a hooker.”

“I’d gotten wind from one of the nurses that there’d been a prostitute murdered in the same vicinity. And I’m not blind to the fact that the hospital is crawling with cops now.”

“We really could have used a few minutes with him,” Mark said.