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JUNE 2001 -- THE LAWMAN WHO LOVED HER
FEBRUARY 2003 -- HEIR TO SECRET MEMORIES
JULY 2003 -- BULLETPROOF BILLIONAIRE

Excerpt from The Lawman Who Loved Her      Gerard Fontenot stood in the shadows, in an alley off St. Peter Street, waiting. Waiting was something he understood. He didn't like it, but he could do it. He had waited for four years to be here tonight. And while he waited, he'd planned.      A small smile played around his thin lips. Detective Maxwell had underestimated him. They all had. They couldn't pin his wife's murder on him, although Maxwell had tried. For some reason, he had taken Fontenot's case as a personal vendetta. He'd dogged Fontenot's footsteps until he'd nearly driven him crazy.      Shooting Maxwell four years ago had been a foolish mistake, caused by Maxwell getting too close. Maxwell had almost blundered onto the truth about Fontenot's wife's death.      No more mistakes. He'd learned patience and control in prison. He'd perfected his plans and honed his hatred to razor sharpness. He'd always known he was smarter. Now he was invincible. No one could touch him now.      He was playing with Maxwell, toying with him like a cat with a mouse, and the results were already more than he could have hoped. It was a brilliant maneuver to involve Maxwell's ex-wife. Brilliant. Maxwell was spooked. Fontenot could tell. The detective knew what he was up to, but he couldn't do anything about it       Fontenot's smile widened as Maxwell's Laser pulled up to the curb. The detective unfolded his lanky frame from the car, and glanced around. Fontenot stood absolutely still, relishing the tingling excitement as Maxwell's gaze flickered past the shadowed alley in which he stood.       His heartbeat accelerated and a bead of sweat limned his upper lip as Maxwell disappeared into the stairwell leading to his upstairs apartment. Although Fontenot could no longer see him, his mind counted out each step, each action, as Maxwell moved inevitably toward his destiny.       Fontenot didn't move a muscle, didn't breathe. His muscles tensed, and his groin tightened in anticipation as sweetly agonizing as slow, drawn-out foreplay. He waited.       By the time Cody's brain registered what he'd heard, it was too late. He threw himself sideways with every ounce of strength he commanded, but it wasn't enough. His head hit first, and slid as his shoulder slammed into the hardwood floor. For a few seconds, the quiet, ominous click echoed in his ears, seeming louder than the explosion which followed.       He lay, tense and still, listening for any sound that would tell him his attacker was still there. Nothing. The building was quiet, now that the echo of the gunshot had faded. Down the hall, he heard a door slam. His mouth turned up.       Thanks, neighbor. Good thing he wasn't hurt. Cautiously, he reached for his gun, and his left shoulder screamed with pain.       Too slow. Dev and the other guys would give him hell for being too slow to dodge a bullet. Dana would be terrified.       He winced at that unguarded thought. No she wouldn't. She wasn't part of his life any more. He sat up slowly, and took stock of his condition. Nasty bump on his forehead, painful scrape on his cheek. Bullet wound in his shoulder. From the way it felt, he guessed the bullet had gone clean through the meaty part of his bicep. He turned his head and saw the mark on the wall. Yep.       He stood, and swayed with unexpected dizziness. His left arm didn't want to work, and he could feel blood, hot and sticky, wetting his sweatshirt. He glanced down. Damn. His leather jacket was ruined.       Cody pulled out his cell phone and nudged it open with his chin. He pressed a fast-dial button, and leaned against the wall, praying that his partner hadn't let his cell phone battery go down.       "Dev? Hey, man. I need some . . . help." Cody blinked against the blackness that was seeping in from the edge of his vision, and looked at the kitchen chair, which had been positioned directly in front of the door.       "Help? How'd you manage to get in trouble in the past fifteen minutes? What's up?" Detective Devereaux Gautier's voice was tinged with amusement.       "Well, I've got a situation. At my apartment. Can you get over here right away and call it in?       "Situation? You okay?" His partner's voice immediately became professionally crisp.       "Yeah, I'm okay," he said wryly. "Just a flesh wound. Fontenot booby-trapped my door. Listen, man, I'm afraid he may have done something to Dana's place." His gaze roamed over the revolver and the nylon cord securing it.       "Fontenot? So your crazy notions about that bastard ain't so crazy, eh? Stay there, Code. I'll be right over."       "Nope. Can't. Dana's out of town. Her answering machine says she'll be back tomorrow. Dev? Can I count on you?."       "You know it, my man."       "Thanks." He flipped off the cell phone and walked over to look more closely at the .38 special. The cord had been run through the trigger guard and around the back of the chair, then fashioned to an intricate pulley mechanism attached to the doorknob.  He looked at the barrel of the gun, then at the door, then back at the gun.       Cody cursed as he took in the full implications of what he saw. "If you wanted me dead, I'd be dead, wouldn't I? You're playing with me."       Anger, harsh and swift, cut through him, then his knees went weak. "Dana," he whispered, refusing even to allow his brain to imagine what Fontenot might have done at her place. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the tiny gold disk he'd found this morning on his car seat. He knew how it had gotten there.  Fontenot had been in Dana's apartment.  He'd left the earring on Cody's car seat as a message.   I can get to her.  Cody closed his fist around his ex-wife's earring.       "I swear to God, Fontenot," he whispered to the empty room. "If you hurt one hair on her head, I will hunt you down like the monster you are." ##

 

HEIR TO SECRET MEMORIES A Man on a Mission: After he was brutally attacked and left for dead, Jay Wellcome had lost all of his memories.  But even his amnesia couldn't erase the haunting image of a nameless beauty . . . .    Though Jay never anticipated they'd ever come face-to-face, Paige Reynolds appeared before him like a beautiful apparition.  Although he didn't -- couldn't-- remember her, his fingers burned with the knowledge of the curves of her body. Paige tearfully claimed that her young daughter had been kidnapped.  She needed him, and her vulnerability guaranteed his protection.  And now nothing would stop him from tracking a killer--  especially when he learned that her child was also his.

Reviews for HEIR TO SECRET MEMORIES The full review is here at Elizabeth Benway's Lovin' In Louisiana page. "This story of young lovers torn apart will touch your every emotion and the struggle of two determined parents to find their child will grip your heart. And the passionate love never lost between hero and heroine shines through. HEIR TO SECRET MEMORIES is a very poignant book that I am pleased to add to my keeper collection!"                                                                                       Elizabeth Benway

HEIR TO SECRET MEMORIES   Excerpt by   Mallory Kane PROLOGUE Summer, seven years ago Paige Reynolds woke up the way she had since the day her mother died, scared, lonely, praying it was all a dream and her mom was in their tiny kitchen, making coffee.  But a deep breath yielded no delicious aroma of coffee, just an ache of grief in her heart.       Then through the haze of sleep she heard the comforting scratch of pencil against paper.      Johnny.  She was safe and warm and loved.  Johnny was here and he was doing what he did so often.  Drawing her while she slept.      She opened her eyes to meet his sapphire blue gaze.      "Morning, Tiger," he said softly.      He had on faded jeans and no shirt.  His brown hair was tousled and that cowlick stuck up in the back, a little like Dennis the Menace.     Her heart filled to bursting with love.  She'd never been as happy in the entire seventeen years of her life as during this past six weeks.      "You're up early."  She didn't want to get up yet.     They'd spent most of the night making love.  Johnny had been quiet, more intense than usual.  He'd held her and loved her and pressed kisses along every inch of her as if she were some precious icon and he were an obsessed worshiper.  He'd acted as though he were memorizing her, body and soul, so he'd never forget her.     His fierce passion had been a little scary.  But he'd whispered "I love you" a thousand times, and finally, as dawn reddened the sky, she'd fallen asleep feeling safe and sheltered in his warm strong arms.      Just thinking about the night made her body thrill.  She sat up in bed, letting the sheet fall behind her.  Looking over her shoulder at him, she smiled.  "You sure you're ready to get up?"      He made a low, growling sound in his throat, threw the sketchpad aside and dove into bed with her.      Afterwards, she lay in the crook of his arm while his fingers brushed lightly through her hair.      "Paige?"      "Hmm?"      "Have you thought about what you're going to do?"      Her hazy glow faded a bit.  "What do you mean?"      He kissed her cheek.  "It's been over three months since your mother died.   What are you planning?  Can you afford to go back to school in September?"      His question sent her heart hammering against her chest.  Claws of panic began to tear at her insides, just like they had each week as she counted her tips, praying there was enough money to pay the rent one more time.  She sat up, pulling the sheet protectively against her.      "I thought we . . ." she started, but as soon as she said the words, as soon as she brought her gaze up to meet his, she knew.      "You're leaving."  Her voice cracked on the last word.       "Paige, no.  Wait."  Johnny sat up too, and grabbed her arms.  "Listen to me."     But she was already withdrawing into her protective shell.  It had always just been her and her mother.  Then when her mother died, her whole focus had been on survival.     But that was before Johnny had seen her in Jackson Square and asked if he could sketch her.  Before he'd brought love and sunshine back into her life.      She'd believed Johnny's words of love, just like her mother had believed her father.  But her father had left her mother when she needed him most.  And now Johnny was leaving her.      Her breath caught in a sob.      "Paige!"  He shook her, gently but firmly.  "I love you.  Weren't you listening last night?  I love you.  Wait a minute."  He jumped up, his naked body pale and beautifully lit by the sunlight shining through the apartment windows.  He got something from his backpack and came back to the bed.      "Give me your left hand."      Hesitantly, Paige held out her hand, which shook.  Don't leave me her heart screamed.  I love you.      She watched his face as he took her hand in his.       "God, you're shaking," he whispered.  "I didn't mean to scare you.  I did it all wrong."      She felt something cool slip onto her finger.       "What . . . "      Johnny pulled her hand to his chest and placed his hand over it.  She felt his heart beating fast, felt the warm familiar comfort of his hand over hers.  "This was my mother's ring.  Father had it made especially for her. She wore it 'til the day she died.  I want you to wear it."       He looked at her solemnly.  "I love you.  I will love you forever.  Will you marry me?"      A sharp pain pierced her breast.  "M-marry?"      He nodded, and a lock of hair fell over his forehead.  "I have to go back to school too, now that summer's over. Come with me.  To Boston.  We can live together.  Be married.  You could go to school up there."      "M-married?"      Johnny laughed and kissed her.  "M-m-m-married.  Now stop stuttering and say yes."       Paige's eyes burned with tears.  When her mother had died, she'd been left to face a world she wasn't prepared for.  In the weeks that followed, she had learned the meaning of the word alone.     "Oh Johnny.  I thought you were leaving me."     A shadow crossed Johnny's face.  "I'm never going to leave you.  I love you.  I just have to take care of one thing.  My father's not going to be very happy about this."  His mouth twisted.  "He's never happy about anything I do these days."     He jumped up and pulled on his jeans.  "So I just need to run home and talk to him.  I want him to meet you.  He'll love you once he meets you."     Paige felt as if she were on a merry-go-round that had gone out of control.  Her head was spinning.  She put her hand over her fluttering heart.     He wanted to marry her.  Marry!  She was seventeen and all alone in the world.  He was probably twenty and . . . .  She suddenly realized she didn't know anything about him, except that he wanted to be an artist but his father disapproved.      But he loved her.  He wanted to marry her.     "How long have you been thinking about this?" she asked, grabbing one of his white monogrammed shirts and pulling it on, pushing the long sleeves back so she could fasten the buttons.     Johnny was gathering up stuff and throwing it in his backpack.  He shrugged.  "From the first time I saw you in Jackson Square.  You were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.  I knew I had to draw that classic face."     He turned and threw his arms wide.  "Then you smiled and stole my heart."     She giggled.  "I didn't know you were in school.  Where'd you say?"     Johnny shot her a sharp glance.  "Harvard."     Paige flopped down on the bed.  Harvard?  They'd been together six weeks and she'd never known he went to Harvard.  A tiny hummingbird of fear began to flutter in her breast.   "Harvard?  Are you rich or something?"     He shook his head as he slid his sketchpad into a pocket of his backpack.  "Something," he muttered.      He was avoiding her eyes.  She wanted to stop him, make him look at her.  She wanted him to promise her everything was going to be perfect.  That he would love her forever and never leave her.     After spending a few seconds adjusting the zippers on his pack, he came over and cupped her face in his two hands.     "Come on, Tiger, don't look so scared.  We're going to have a wonderful life, I promise."  He kissed her, then murmured something and pulled her tightly to him and deepened the kiss, his warm body hard against her.  Her body molded to his and her insides grew liquid with yearning.     Oh she loved him.     Moaning in frustration, he pulled away reluctantly.  "I've got to get out of here."     Paige bit her lip and tried to think clearly.  He was leaving, and that scared her, but then he was coming back.  "Where does your father live?"     "Up the Mississippi coast," he said as he set his backpack near the door.  "Not far."     Paige still felt like that merry-go-round was out of control.  "Johnny, stop for a minute and talk to me.  How will you get there?"     "My car."     "You have a car?"          He turned around, smiling wryly.  "Sure.  A Mustang Cobra.  Now listen.  I'll spend the night at home, and then by tomorrow I'll have the old man convinced.  He'll be dying to meet you.  So wait for me here."      That hummingbird's wings sped up in her breast, stirring up the memories of her mother crying alone at night.  She tried to ignore them, rubbing her thumb over the ring as if it could create magic.  As if it would bring him back to her.     "Maybe I should go with you now," she suggested.     His face shut down and he pushed his fingers through his hair.  "It wouldn't be a good idea.  Like I said, my father will take some convincing.  And trust me, you don't want to hear what my stepmother will have to say.  I'll be back here no later than three o'clock tomorrow afternoon.  I promise."      Then he grinned and grabbed her, hugging her tight, and bent his head to give her another mind-drugging kiss.     "I love you Paige Reynolds.  Soon to be Mrs. Yarbrough."     Paige smiled a little shakily.  "I love you too.  More than you can imagine.  Don't be late.  I'll wait for you, right here."     "You'd better."  He took her left hand and kissed her palm, then turned it over and kissed the ring.      "And don't take off this ring.  Not for anything.  It's magic."  He grinned and his blue eyes sparkled.  "It'll bring me back to you."     He picked up his pack and left, closing her apartment door behind him.      Paige stared at the door for a moment, bringing the ring up to her lips as he had.        Magic.  He'd said what she'd been thinking.  It must be true.      She ran to the window.        Down on Urselines Street, he slung his pack over his shoulder and looked up.  He waved, then walked away toward the levee, his loose-limbed, graceful stride as familiar to her as his face.     Paige watched until he disappeared around the corner.  As soon as he was out of sight, panic grabbed at her heart again.  She pushed it away.     "I'm going to be married," she whispered in awe, sitting down on the bed.  "Married."  She flung her arms wide and flopped down on her back.     "Mrs. John Yarbrough."  Her thumb caressed the ring.  Her life was never going to be the same again.   CHAPTER ONE Today Edging a bit closer to the front door of Sally McGowan's chic Garden District home, Paige smiled sadly at the irony.  Seven years ago she'd been an orphaned, pregnant teenager, scared and alone, forced to accept the grudging, disapproving charity of her aunt in order to survive.       Now she was a well-respected social worker.  The road had been hard, the hours of studying and working and taking care of her daughter brutal, but she had done what her mother had never been able to do.  She'd put her heartbreak behind her and concentrated all her love and energy on her career and on Katie, her beloved child.      Tonight she found herself in a roomful of overdressed, snobbish people who were here to pay inflated prices for mediocre art to raise money for other sad young girls.  And at the same time make themselves feel generous and altruistic.     She'd been invited by her friend Sally, whom she'd met when the two of them had served on the same committee to raise money for a homeless shelter.     Paige took another step and smiled at a young man who was watching her curiously.  Several people had looked at her that way this evening.  She touched her cheek.  Was there something wrong with her hair or makeup?     Someone bumped into her.  It was a short, plump man dressed in white tie and tails with an honest-to-goodness monocle that popped off his eye and dangled by its silver chain.     "Excuse me," she said automatically, biting her lip to keep from laughing.   He looked just like a penguin.  He harumphed and waddled away.      Was it just her or did everyone here tonight look like cartoon characters?  Earlier she'd seen a sour-faced woman with a white streak in her coal black hair and a white wrap with what looked suspiciously like Dalmatian spots on it.        Chuckling to herself, Paige wished her daughter Katie was here.  Paige had never been good at being pompous and chic, and she and Katie could have a blast matching these folks with their cartoon counterparts.     She looked at her watch.  Katie had been indignant when Sally had sprung the last minute invitation on Paige.  Tonight was supposed to be pizza night, plus tomorrow Katie started her second year of swimming lessons.     Paige had promised herself she'd be home by eleven, and it was already eleven-thirty.     Tossing her long blonde braid over her shoulder, she threaded her way through the crowd to tell Sally she was leaving, and practically collided with Cruella DeVil.      Paige hastily apologized.  But the woman with the Dalmatian-spotted wrap not only looked like the character, she behaved like her too.  She waved away Paige’s apology as if she were shooing a fly, and sucked on the cigarette dangling from her long, shiny holder.       The woman’s hostile gaze swept disdainfully over Paige's black skirt and silver blouse before she turned her back.     Something about her seemed vaguely familiar--not many women had such a prominent streak in their hair.  Maybe Paige had seen her at another charity event.         Just then Sally sailed into the room, her flowing red gown with sleeves that draped to the floor drawing every eye.     "Well?" Stopping in front of Paige, Sally gestured theatrically, sloshing champagne from a crystal flute. "Did you see it?"      "See what?" Paige asked.      "My latest discovery.   Haven't you wondered why people keep staring at you?  Remember, I promised you an evening you wouldn't soon forget."      A tinge of unease tightened Paige's belly as her friend ushered her toward the east wall of the room.  Sally’s surprises were predictably obscure.  "I saw the ice sculpture," she ventured.      "Not the ice sculpture."  Sally waved her arm.  "My newest artist."     Everything Sally did was dramatic, from her famous charity soirees to the way she scoured the city dressed in her talent-hunting uniform of jeans and a designer T-shirt.     Paige smiled indulgently.  "Have you been prowling through dusty junk shops again?"     "Of course.  It's the best way in the world to discover new artists.  I found this one in a musty little voodoo shop down near the docks.  It's the surprise I promised you."     A framed drawing hung by itself in the center of an alcove.  As Sally stepped aside, the crowd of people seemed to melt back into the paneling.     Paige stiffened as her vision telescoped in on the picture.     "Oh my God," she choked, shock stealing her breath and tightening like a vise around her throat.     It was a small piece, sketched in charcoal.  There wasn't much to it, just a few perfectly executed lines.  Only the eyes were fully drawn, but Paige recognized herself, much younger, looking over her naked shoulder with mischief in her glance.     "Voilá!"  She heard Sally's throaty laugh.  She felt all eyes on her.     "Isn't it stunning?  And the resemblance is phenomenal."       Sally's voice echoed in her head like music from the next room, heard but not recognized.  Her thoughts were on another time.  She remembered the very day.  It was the day Johnny had asked her to marry him, the day he'd given her his mother's ring and promised her he would love her forever.      The last time she'd ever seen him.     Paige squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth.  It couldn't be Johnny.  That was another life.  Johnny was dead.     Consciously relaxing her arms, she forced herself to smile.  "It's not me," she said tightly.  "It's just one of those amazing coincidences."       She stepped close to Sally, whose smile was fading a bit.  "Where did you get that?  You should have warned me," she whispered.      "I bought it for you.  I just wanted to display it first.  Do you know the artist?"     Paige shook her head and started to turn away, but Sally pointed, and her long red fingernail drew Paige's eye back toward the sketch.     As sudden as a punch in the stomach, Paige's diaphragm seized as she focused on the signature.  Three letters in a unique stylized script, followed by an anchor in the shape of a Y.  It was a design Paige would never forget, one she'd have sworn was embossed on her heart.     A shirt with that monogram on it was stuffed in a box, along with other mementos of a past that seemed like a long-forgotten dream.     For an instant, she ached to touch the letters, trace them with her fingers like she'd done long ago when she'd still believed in dreams.  Her hand lifted, her fingers reached, and she had to struggle to stop them from caressing the glass over the signature.     It couldn't be.  The dead didn't come back to life

BULLETPROOF BILLIONAIRE Thank God for sisters.      Seth Lewis sent a silent prayer heavenward as he pulled up in front of the fancy wrought-iron gate of the three-story house in the Garden District of New Orleans.  The hot mid-July evening and the recent rain lent a freshly painted look to everything, even the manicured lawn.  Damn, he hated this part of the city and the people who lived here.  He'd promised himself a long time ago that he'd never set foot in this part of town again.  But this wasn't his party.  He was on assignment.       He glanced at his reflection in the rear view mirror of the new Mercedes Cabriolet convertible that was part of his cover persona.  He still wasn't used to the face that stared back at him.  Clean shaven.  Expensive haircut.  Designer suit.  He lifted his chin and cocked a brow.       Seth Lewis, billionaire businessman.  His lip curled in a wry grin.  More like Seth Lewis, pretender.      It was only because of his three younger sisters that he had any chance of pulling off this assignment.  When he'd told them he needed to impersonate a suave continental financier, no questions asked, they'd rallied around him, just like they had seven months ago when he'd been shipped back to the states by the Army with both his kneecap and his dreams shattered.       They'd laughed.  They'd teased.  They’d pestered him with questions he refused to answer, except to assure them that it was all legal.  But they'd rallied.       Mignon had forced him into her upscale Warehouse District salon and given him a complete makeover.  It had been humiliating but necessary, he supposed.  After all, he couldn't enter the chic multi-million dollar mansion of one of the wealthiest widows in New Orleans with shaggy hair, a ratty beard, and rough, broken nails.  He'd drawn the line at a full body wax and a spa treatment though.  A man had to hold on to some pride.      Mignon had worked miracles, just like her ad campaign promised.  He'd walked in looking like a homeless man, and walked out looking like GQ.  No one would know he was the same person.      Serena, the elder of the twins, had taken him shopping for a designer wardrobe that probably cost more than his VA disability pension for a year, using an untraceable credit card issued by Conrad Burke, the head of New Orleans Confidential.  Teresa, the younger twin who planned to marry a millionaire as soon as she found one who fit her high standards, had decided what kind of car he should drive and had rented and furnished him a trendy apartment in the renovated Warehouse District.  The lavish apartment would be his home for the duration of his "visit" to the states.      He'd almost choked at the amount of money the elite Confidential Agency had spent on his cover story.  It backed up Burke's emphasis on the importance of Seth's part in the investigation.      A limousine pulled up behind him and Seth recognized New Orleans District Attorney Sebastian Primeaux arriving with the Mayor.  He'd known he'd be in exalted company at this shindig.  But the DA and the Mayor?  His target, the woman who was hosting this charity auction, sure traveled in important circles.      As Seth stepped onto the sidewalk, he assessed the other vehicles parked along First Street.  Teresa had been right.  Nobody drove economy iron.  Every vehicle here was European and cost six figures.      Seth closed his eyes for an instant, getting into character for the part he was about to play.      He was no longer a Special Forces Weapons Sergeant.  His career had ended when his knee had been in the right position to save two young Iraqi kids from a bloody death.  Nor was he the bored, pissed-off-at-the-world drifter who'd moped around the French quarter for the past seven months.  Not since he'd accidentally happened upon a bank robbery and neatly disarmed the idiot waving a semi-automatic weapon.  His fast action and his faster field-stripping of the weapon on the spot had ended up on the evening news, and had caught the attention of a Southern gentleman with a whisky-smooth drawl and the unyielding strength of steel.      Conrad Burke had contacted Seth and invited him into an abandoned warehouse that turned out to be a high-tech operations center the like of which Seth had never seen, even in the Army.       There Burke had introduced Seth to the Confidential Agency.  At first Seth had laughed at the idea of a secret agency operating above the law under the auspices of the federal government.  It sounded like something out of a spy movie, but he soon discovered that Burke was deadly serious.  He'd given Seth a brief rundown of the history of the agency and the reason this branch had been established in New Orleans.      Seth had listened, fascinated and bewildered.  The idea that such an agency existed was stupefying.  The idea that Conrad Burke had chosen him because he'd been in the right place at the right time and foiled a bank robbery was daunting.      For the first time since he'd come home, Seth found himself interested in something besides his own rotten luck.  Listening to Burke, he began to believe he might be able to redream his dream.  Maybe he could do some good.  Be somebody.  Make a difference.      So he'd stepped into the persona Burke had outlined for him.  He told himself it would be a like a special operation and he treated it that way--studying, preparing himself mentally and physically.  He forgot about Seth Lewis, street kid.  He was  wealthy, continental, suave, and filthy rich.      This assignment was nothing like a desert campaign.  Even so, he felt like he was on foreign soil.  He'd grown up in the Ninth Ward, a poor, beaten down section of the city.  Now he was in the exclusive section of New Orleans that ran along St. Charles Street.  His assignment, to win the confidence of the lovely widow of rumored Cajun mob mouthpiece Marc DeBlanc, then seduce her for any information she might have.      Refusing to imagine what this Garden District rich bitch who casually threw hundred-thousand-dollar parties without blinking an eye might look like, Seth squared his Gaultier-clad shoulders and prepared to beard the lioness in her den.       He hesitated with his hand on the ornate knocker, his confidence challenged by a twinge of doubt.  It worried him that he was so anxious to live up to Burke's expectations.  What if he failed?  All he knew was that he was tired of waking up every day wondering what the hell he was going to do with his life.  Burke's offer was a second chance.  He was not going to blow it.      He affected a polite, bored expression as the door swung wide, releasing muted conversations, an undertone of New Orleans jazz, and soft lighting, along with a whoosh of air-conditioning.      When his eyes lit on the vision who'd opened the door he had to clamp his jaw to keep his mouth from dropping open.      Framed in the doorway was an angel.  He blinked.  Working hard to maintain his cool, he remembered what Mignon had told him about the patrons of her exclusive spa salon.  The very rich are never in a hurry.  They don't have to be.  So he stood there as if he had all the time in the world and let his gaze roam over the woman.      She was golden-white all over.  From her sleek, pale hair pulled back from her face into some kind of intricate knot, to her simple floor-length dress, which looked white but shimmered with gold, she glowed.  She looked like a doll.  Like a fairy sprinkled with gold dust.      Seth took the hand she proffered, and could have sworn he saw a spark as his fingers touched her silky-smooth skin.  He knew he felt it.      When he met her gaze, his heart thudded to somewhere south of his stomach.  Her eyes were a deep sapphire blue.  But it was the look in them that hit him like a blow.  She looked sad and surprised and fearful all at once.  He had an unfamiliar urge to gather her close and protect her from everything bad in the world.      "Hi," she said, her mouth turning up in a smile that stole a bit of the sadness from her eyes and lit them with delightful flickers of lighter blue.  "Do come in.  I'm Adrienne DeBlanc.  I don't believe we've met."      Calling on his military control to keep his gaze bland and bored, Seth swallowed his surprise.  This was the mob widow, answering her own door?  She didn't look at all like he'd imagined.  She was young, beautiful, elegant.  Her neck, bare of jewelry, curved enticingly above the plain neckline of her dress.  Her nape invited a kiss, while the delicacy of her diamond-studded earlobes made his mouth water.      "Seth Lewis," he said, affecting the vague continental accent he'd been rehearsing for days.  "Brechtman Forbes.  We just opened Crescent City Transports here."  Now came the tricky part.  He gestured vaguely.  "A new business acquaintance mentioned the charity auction.  Hope you don't mind me dropping by.  I have a soft spot for literacy causes."      Adrienne DeBlanc's smile drooped almost imperceptibly and her fingers went rigid in his.  "A business acquaintance.  Of course."      She sounded disappointed.     "Please come in.  Now who did you say--?"      She paused as a young man in a crisply-starched white coat apologetically whispered in her ear.      She inclined her head briefly.  "Please pardon me.  I have a small hors d'oeuvres crisis to avert.  Make yourself at home."      Seth nodded.  He'd dodged the first bullet.  His breath whooshed out in relief as he snagged a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.       The large front room with its hardwood floors and gauzy flowing curtains was sparsely furnished, giving it a cool open feeling.  The furniture was all white, with varicolored pillows and accent pieces.  She didn't have children, he surmised, or all that gleaming upholstery would be gray and stained.      Scattered around the dark wood-accented room were a dozen slender easels that held pencil sketches.  Seth worked his way through the crowd, affecting a bored nonchalance he didn't feel.  The room was filled with familiar faces.  Burke had shown him photographs of the suspected members of the Cajun mob, quite a few of whom were here tonight.      Seth's palms itched.  His collar was too tight.  Out in the desert, he could break down and reassemble an M-16 in seconds.  Field-dressing a wound was routine.  But navigating a party crawling with New Orleans big shots and members of the Cajun mob made him sweat.  He was way out of his league here.      A woman rumored to be eyeing the governor's seat in the next election looked him up and down as he passed.  Others he'd seen on the news --politicians and socialites--assessed him.  He put on a half-smile and let his gaze slide over them as if he could not possibly care less who they were.      He read the note attached to one of the easels.  Starting bid five thousand.  All proceeds to go to the Garden District Literacy Foundation.      He shook his head in wonder.  The drawing looked like something Serena or Teresa might have scribbled at age seven.   But then he wasn't here to judge the value of the art or the legitimacy of the charity.  He was here to seduce the hostess.      He sipped his champagne, wishing it was a frosty cold beer, and let his gaze roam around the crowded room.  Where had Adrienne DeBlanc gone?      "So what you think of this one, eh?" a voice said next to his ear as a strong hand clapped his shoulder.      Seth turned.  The speaker was taller than Seth, powerfully built with a thin puckered scar running down the right side of his deeply tanned face.  Seth recognized him immediately.       It was Tony Arsenault, a tall drink of swamp water rumored to be Jerome Senegal's most trusted lieutenant.  Only a few days before, Alexander McMullin, one of Burke's agents, had confirmed from a dying drug dealer that Senegal was the leader of the mob.      Seth took a swallow of champagne and shrugged off Arsenault's hand.  "No accounting for taste, I suppose."  Damn.  He sounded like a freakin' pansy!      The tall Cajun laughed.  It wasn't a pleasant sound.  "That is a polite way of putting it.  C'est merdeux," he said and leaned closer.  "It is crap.  I come because it is expected.  So where you from?"      Here goes.  "I'm here to assist with the opening of Crescent City Transports.  Perhaps you've heard of it?"      Arsenault's expression became guarded.  His dark eyes glittered.  "Crescent City Transports.  That is the new trucking company on Tchoupitolous?"       "Right.  We're quite proud of the location."      "So.  What's your connecion?" he asked, putting a French inflection on the word.      Seth held out his hand.  "Seth Lewis.  I work for Brechtman Forbes, the company that is expanding its transport business to New Orleans."      "Never heard of 'em."      "Based in Germany.  Multi-national corporation," he tossed out.  Was he overdoing the bored continental rap?      "Yeah?" Arsenault ignored Seth's hand.  "Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici?  What brings you to this place tonight?"      Seth grinned, then inclined his head toward the killer who was known for his inventive use of his machete.  He could almost smell the blood on Arsenault's hands.  There was a reason Arsenault was known as "The Knife."      "Business, mon ami," he said quietly.  "I overheard someone at a coffee house talking about the auction, and thought this might be a good place to meet some of the bigger players in New Orleans."      Arsenault's eyebrows rose.  "You heard about this event at a coffee house, eh?"      "Yep.  I like to keep my eyes and ears open."      "And so now you want to meet the big players?"  Arsenault laughed again.  The scar on his face gave him a demonic look.       Seth shrugged.  "It is a waste of time to deal with those who have no authority to--shall we say, deal."      Arsenault appraised him.  "You are a bright boy."  He clapped him on the shoulder again.  "Be sure and buy one of those pieces of crap."  He nodded toward the easel.  "We like to see everybody help out."      "And I like to help out, wherever and however I can."      The scar-faced man grabbed a flute of champagne from a tray and saluted Seth.  "I will remember that.  Keep in touch."  He walked away.      Seth released the breath he'd been unconsciously holding.  Shaking off his tension, using breathing techniques he'd learned in the army to keep his mind clear and his body prepared, he looked for Adrienne DeBlanc.  He didn't see her, but he saw a lot of money.      Serious money.   The kind of cash that had caused his father to abandon him and his sisters and his mother when he was just a kid.  The thought stoked his anger.      God, he hated money.      A soft touch on his arm got his attention.       "Mr. Lewis?"      It was Adrienne.  "I noticed you talking with Tony Arsenault.  Was he the business acquaintance you mentioned?"      Seth sensed her agitation and it grated on his already sensitive nerves.  Didn't she like the idea of him talking business in her home with a sadistic hit man?  According to his briefing, she knew everyone in the Cajun mob.  After all, her deceased husband had been Jerome Senegal's lawyer, which made him the mob's lawyer.      He nodded and quirked his mouth.  "I don’t think he shares my enthusiasm for the works up for auction.  Tell me about the artists.  Are they local?  Did you pick these pieces yourself?"      "You like the sketches?" she asked, her voice polite but carefully devoid of expression.      He studied her.  Her back was stiff, her smile looked fake.  Judging by her body language, she was hiding something, just like he was.       "They have a certain primitive charm," he murmured, raising a brow.      She blinked, then sent him an impish glance.  "Primitive charm?  You mean as if they'd been done by a six-year-old?"      He smiled.  She'd known exactly what he meant.  She had a good sense of humor in addition to her ethereal beauty.  He leaned closer.  "At six, my sister Theresa could draw better than that."      Her blue eyes widened, intent on his face.  "You have a sister?"      "Three actually."  Seth checked the urge to tell Adrienne about his sisters.  He had to be careful.  No one could know that he or his family lived here in New Orleans.      He changed the subject.  "So Mrs. DeBlanc, how do you manage such an interesting mix of people at a party this large?  Didn't I see the mayor a moment ago?"      Adrienne DeBlanc tried to tamp down her disappointment.  She should have known better than to think Seth Lewis was different from the other people here.  He was either connected or he wanted to be.      From the moment she'd opened her door and seen him standing there, his broad shoulders and lean hips perfectly clad in that ultra-high-fashion Gaultier suit, her breath had stuck in her lungs.  She'd almost forgotten she was a virtual prisoner in this house.  She'd let herself get carried away by a pair of amused hazel eyes.       Tony Arsenault had supplied Adrienne with the guest list written in Jerome Senegal's own hand, and had instructed her to set up the auction.  Every person here was connected to the Cajun mob in one way or another.  Even most of the politicians were suspect.      Seth's name wasn't on the list, but that didn't mean he was different.  He'd said he was new in town.  But he was wealthy, and the politicians were always looking for another source of campaign funds.       Besides, Tony had not only spoken to him, he'd laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture reserved for the few people Tony liked.  That erased any doubt in Adrienne's mind.  Seth Lewis was involved with Jerome and his goons, or he soon would be.      It was a shame.  He was so attractive.  He was much taller than she, probably almost six feet, and younger than most of the people here.  Everything about his appearance screamed money and power, and there was an aura of watchfulness about him.  She had the feeling that no matter what happened, he would be prepared.      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 further, 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 Sebastian Primeaux entering behind him.  So that was why Senegal had wanted her to host this charity event, so he could talk to the DA 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."