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Bulletproof Billionaire
Bulletproof Billionaire

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Bulletproof Billionaire

Язык: Английский
Год издания: 2019
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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.

“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.

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.

Still, the softness of her lips, the drifting down of her long-lashed eyelids, told him she hungered for the touch of a man. And given Senegal’s treatment of her, Seth figured if he showed her a bit of gentle respect, she would be putty in his hands.

Every protective instinct in him had risen at Senegal’s treatment of her, but he couldn’t deny the question that remained.

Was she a willing participant in the mob? Was she an excellent actress who underneath her delicate mask was cut from the same hard calculating mold as the woman who had lured his father into her web of seduction? He pushed aside the doubts as he wrapped his fingers around her nape and bent his head to kiss her.

When his lips touched hers, she gasped and pushed at him. “No.”

Startled, he withdrew.

Her perfectly manicured hand flew to her mouth, and for an instant sheer panic shone in her eyes.

Adrienne took a long breath, trying to calm her racing heart. Seth studied her and she could almost hear his thoughts. They echoed through her, too. What was the big deal? They’d flirted, and he’d tried to kiss her. There was no reason to panic.

But he didn’t know that it had been years since a man had kissed her. A few had tried, but after Marc, Adrienne had thought she’d never again be tempted by a man’s kiss. She’d panicked not because Seth had tried to kiss her, but because she’d wanted him to. The idea that she was vulnerable to a man’s attentions frightened her.

“You should be going, Mr. Lewis.” She pulled herself to her full five feet three inches and lifted her chin, pasting on her best serene, perfect-hostess smile.

He cocked a brow. “I’m free for dinner if you’re busy for lunch. Or lunch the next day, or dinner, or—”

She smiled reluctantly and shook her head at his tenacity. Why not? From what he’d said he would only be in New Orleans a few weeks at the most. She longed to be in the company of a young handsome man, even if just for lunch. The last time a man had looked at her with such open admiration in his eyes had been her senior year at Loyola University. He was the brother of one of her sorority sisters, and she’d come very close to falling in love with him. But her dreams of happily ever after had been harshly cut short when her father had announced that she would marry Marc DeBlanc.

Now, older and wiser, she knew she’d been naive. She’d watched her sorority sisters planning their own weddings and had fallen in love with the idea of love.

Still, the way her pulse sped up at Seth’s charming flirtation reminded her of those carefree days, and she actually found herself thinking about what she should wear. “Lunch tomorrow will be nice, Mr. Lewis,” she said, edging away from him.

“Good. Say noon?”

She blushed. “Make it one. I have a commitment in the morning. We could meet—”

“I’ll pick you up. Wear something a little more casual than that.”

Adrienne was still smiling as she closed the door. She leaned her forehead against it for a second. Had she really agreed to have lunch with Seth Lewis, a man she didn’t even know?

“Adrienne? Is everything all right?”

Adrienne turned and nodded at the owner of the pleasant New Orleans accent. Jolie Sheffield was one of Adrienne’s few trusted friends. The daughter of the sous chef at The Caldwell, her father’s flagship hotel, Jolie had been Adrienne’s childhood companion, playing with her in the kitchens and hiding in the laundry chutes of the hotel when they were children.

Now, thanks to Adrienne, Jolie owned her own catering business.

“The food was perfect, as usual,” Adrienne said, giving Jolie a hug. “Thank you.”

Jolie smiled and sketched a mock bow. “Pleased to be of service, ma’am.”

“Stop it,” Adrienne laughed. “Is there a cup of coffee left in the kitchen?”

“Probably, but I can’t stay. I have a brunch in the morning, and I haven’t even started on the brioche.” Jolie hugged Adrienne again, and slipped an envelope into her hands.

Adrienne’s fingers curved around the bulky package. “Jolie, this is too much! I told you, there’s no rush in paying back the loan.”

“Oh, please.” Jolie’s straight black hair slid over her forehead and she tossed it back with a shake of her head. “Let’s not go through this every time. It’s only fair I pay you back a percentage of Cater Caper’s profits—especially since you’re not charging me interest. I’m more successful than I ever dreamed I’d be, and I have you to thank for it. You were the one who told me there was nothing I couldn’t do.” Jolie’s dark eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Good words for you to remember, too. There’s nothing you can’t do.”

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