Bulletproof Billionaire. Mallory Kane
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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 $5,000. 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 rabais,” he said and leaned closer. “It is…” He shrugged eloquently. “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 connexion?” 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. Multinational 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 coffeehouse 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 coffeehouse, 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 junk.” He nodded toward the easel. “We like to see everybody help out.”
“And I like to help out, 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 De-Blanc. 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 as 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,