Born to be Bad. Crystal Green
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at her, focusing. “Duncan.” Then he stretched, a canary-eating grin on his face. “Kissing up to our chief again?”
“Anything to get your panties in a wad, Smith. I believe you’re in my chair?”
Waller acted surprised to be sitting there. “Well, pardon my butt.”
Yawning to a stand, he offered her the seat with a grand gesture. Then, with deadline purpose, she pretended to get to work, but Waller wasn’t leaving.
“What can I do for you?” she finally asked, giving him a smile that one usually reserves for a salesman who rings the doorbell during dinner.
“Reaching a little high for your talents, aren’t you?”
The comment felt like a sucker punch. “Aren’t you the last person to be judging talent? Since you don’t have any yourself, I mean?”
An indefinable emotion passed over Smith’s face, and Gemma wanted to take her smart-ass comment back. Actually, that really wasn’t true. He was exasperating, and deserved a return helping of everything he dished out.
Not that Smith probably cared about what she’d said to him. He had a way of not giving a tinker’s damn about anything.
“Duncan, congratulations. You’re growing a spine. Now all you need to be a decent reporter is the ability to read lips, which I was doing a few minutes ago. Ah, the miracle of office windows.”
“You…?” Gemma stopped herself, remembering some sort of happy-hour rumor about Smith having a deaf sister.
With the smug laziness of a sunning gator, he leaned against another reporter’s empty desk. “It’s easy to distinguish the name ‘Theroux’ on a woman’s lips. So you overheard him and a crony arguing today?”
“You tell me.”
“Yes, you did. And you think, sweet little thing, that you’ll be the one pen-slinging warrior who’ll hit his heel and bring him down.” He shook his shaggy head. “Another well-meaning crusader bites the dust.”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“Sure, but there’s always enough time to write about sleaze and sex at my desk. I’m more interested in how you’re going to survive.”
Gemma accessed her waiting story in the computer. “How adorable. You’re fixated on my safety.”
“I said I’m interested.”
His meaning dug into her skin. She whipped around in her chair to face him. “You’ve got your own assignments, so don’t even think about mine. Concentrate on those cheating wives and crimes of passion. I’m busy.”
For a second, it seemed like Smith himself wanted to be writing about more than tabloid fodder, too. But this was Waller Smith, the guy who wandered in an hour late every day, then alternated power naps with every other sentence he punched into his computer. This was a “reporter” who mindlessly reached his word count, collected his check and called it a day.
He proved Gemma right by shrugging and ambling away, but not before he said, “Watch your back, Duncan. In every direction.”
Was that a warning about Theroux or Smith?
Feeling surrounded, Gemma cleared her mind and attacked her story.
She’d get her man. No matter what her co-worker—or her conscience—said, Damien Theroux was all hers.
AS THE SUN CHASED THE RAIN from the sky, then disappeared beyond the horizon itself, customers walked into a swanky, jazz-soaked restaurant two blocks off the well-worn paths of the French Quarter.
Some came to Club Lotus to eat the contemporary Creole food—the almond-crusted soft-shell crab, the turtle soup, the shrimp remoulade. Some came to listen to a saxophone mixing with a moody bass guitar.
But the ones who’d received crystal markers etched with a panther from the bartenders who worked in Damien Theroux’s other establishments had come to gamble.
The process was easy, just like the city itself. If you had a lot of money—or if you didn’t mind losing what you had of it—you would be invited to the hidden game room. On designated nights, you would dress in elegant clothing, stroll through Club Lotus and its tables of curious diners, go straight back to the waiting elevator. There, you would drop your crystal marker down the chute and wait for an employee to send up the car.
After taking the elevator down, feeling your pockets weighted with money you hoped to double, you would emerge into another world—one that not every person was fortunate enough to frequent.
In Theroux’s gaming establishment, you would find burgundy walls lined by mahogany wood, a fortified room with a small window where you would exchange your money for chips and ceiling fans that cut into the smoke from gratis Cuban cigars, the Cristal and brandy fumes. You would scent the sweat from gamblers who weren’t having much luck.
You would search among the one-armed bandits for the tables—blackjack, poker, roulette and craps—picking your game for the night. As the music of clanking chips and slot songs urged you on, you would settle at that poker table, knowing you were bound to win.
A hostess might ask if you needed anything, but she wouldn’t be talking about women or nose candy. Not at Theroux’s place. You were here to win money, to take advantage of the high-dollar markers that legal casinos didn’t offer.
No limits.
Tonight would be your night.
An hour into your game, as your pile of chips grew into several columns, you would see the man himself walking the exposed upper floor, trailing his hand along the railing, dressed in a tailored suit as black as his reputation. When he nodded, you would return the gesture.
After all, you would be taking Damien Theroux’s money home, and he deserved your appreciation.
DAMIEN TORE HIS GAZE FROM the nodding man at the poker table and strolled to a corner of the upper floor, where Jean Dulac, a childhood friend who wore a ready smile and Armani threads, awaited him. Jean’s dark brown hair was spiky, a bit wild, but the man’s pedigree was much slicker. He was the son of the local mob boss.
“I see that tonight’s bird knows you’re here,” Jean said.
Damien didn’t need to look at the poker tables again, but Jean did, locking on to the latest retired CEO to grace the room. Gerald O’Shea, former chief executive officer of Havishau Corporations, had gotten rich off the sweat of his employees by helping himself to a few generous bonuses while bankrupting the company. Consequently, the peons who’d worked for him were suddenly left without jobs or retirement accounts.
Men like O’Shea were the reason this gaming establishment existed. Damien took their crimes personally.
“I kind of like this moment. The calm before the storm that sweeps the bird into its own trap.” He extracted two cards from the lining of his Versace jacket. “See. Twenty-one, Jean. I hit the big hand this morning.”
His friend ignored Damien’s reference to a ritual—superstitiously drawing cards at the crack of dawn to predict if the day would be a winner…or a loser.
“Don’t underestimate your feelings. I’d say you relish this, Damien.” Jean shook his head. “Too much, if you ask me.”
“Who did ask?”
“Sorry for having a history with you. I thought maybe I was allowed to give a damn, considering we used to raise some hell together.”
“You’re worried?”
“Concerned.”
“I’ve got Roxy for that.” Damien shot a sidelong look down at Jean. “As long as you and your papa get a cut from tonight’s take, there shouldn’t be a problem. Life remains good.”
As Damien focused on O’Shea again, he could feel the burden