Mallory Kane - Bulletproof Billionaire

“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.”

Adrienne swallowed against the tightness in her throat. Nothing she couldn’t do. Did Jolie suspect why Adrienne needed cash?

Jolie’s dark eyes sparkled as she gave Adrienne a quick kiss on the cheek. “Now I’ve got to go,” she said, and looked Adrienne in the eye. “Be careful.”

“I will, I promise. I always am.”

“Call me.”

Alone in her multimillion-dollar mansion, Adrienne clutched the thick envelope to her breast. On paper, Adrienne was one of the wealthiest women in New Orleans. But in truth, the only money that was really hers was the cash that she secreted away, mostly on her own, but occasionally with the help of friends like Jolie.

Tonight she was twenty-five hundred dollars closer to freedom.

SETH DROVE TOWARD his apartment, enjoying the feel of the powerful Mercedes engine through the steering wheel. He drew in a huge breath. He just might have done it. In the privacy of his car, he slipped a finger beneath the starched collar of his shirt. He couldn’t wait to get home to his fancy Warehouse District apartment, where he could change into a worn, comfortable pair of jeans and relax.

Pulling out his Confidential-issue phone as he maneuvered toward Magazine Street, he speed-dialed Conrad Burke’s cell.

“Burke? Yeah. Interesting evening. Apparently Jerome Senegal set up this highly promoted and advertised charity auction for the sole purpose of having a private meeting with District Attorney Sebastion Primeaux. The D.A. spent a half hour closeted in the dead husband’s study with Senegal.”

Seth heard babies crying in the background. He’d caught the head of New Orleans Confidential at home with his six-month-old twins.

“The D.A. Interesting. We’ve suspected Primeaux, but nobody has ever put the two together in private before. Good work. How did it go with Adrienne DeBlanc?”

“Smashingly,” Seth said wryly. “I’m not clear on her relationship to Senegal and the others, but we have a date tomorrow.” His body reacted in anticipation of seeing the beautiful widow again. “Don’t worry. If she knows anything, I’ll get it.”

JEROME SENEGAL WAITED impatiently in his limousine while Remy “Swamp Rat” Brun and Jacques Vermillon made contact with Gonzalez and his guards. Senegal chuckled at the memory of the frightened look on Bas Primeaux’s face. Then his mouth twisted.

“Hah. Primeaux ought to be scared, the pervert,” he said as the flicker of a match lit the darkness, filling the car with the smell of sulfur. He puffed at his cigar as Tony Arsenault held the match.

“No problem with Customs?”

Senegal settled back in the glove-leather seat. “No problem. If Gonzalez has everything ready on his end, we can move forward. Whoever engineered the raid on the McDonough Club will be back where he started.”

“Here they come,” Arsenault said. “Want me to pat Gonzalez down?”

“No, he’s fine. Even if he has a weapon he will not use it. He may be ruthless and cruel, but he’s not stupid. He kills me—number one, he’s dead, right?”

Arsenault laughed.

“And number two, his supply of guns is cut off.”

The limousine door opened and a lean dark man with a pockmarked, ravaged face and a well-groomed goatee slid in, bringing with him the smell of the wharf.

“Señor Senegal. It is a pleasure, as always.” Ricardo Gonzalez smiled, revealing gleaming white teeth. They reminded Senegal of an alligator.

“You’ve worked out a method to provide me with additional inventory, I hope.” Senegal rolled his cigar between his fingers.

“Si. I was gratified to learn that you were expanding. We have much coffee in Nilia, and we are only too happy to share. For an appropriate price, of course.”

Senegal waved away both the cigar smoke and the South American rebel leader’s words. “Cut the bull and get to the point. I’ve made arrangements to get the bags past Customs, but what if there’s a screwup?”

Gonzalez splayed his long dark fingers on his knees. “Not to worry. The way we have manufactured the coffee bags, it would take a genius to suspect that the dark brown fiber is actually the bark that contains the raw material for your drug.”

“Woven into the bags. Clever. Will my people know what to do?”

“Si. It is the same procedure as always. They only have to separate the darkest fibers from the lighter material.”

Senegal raised an eyebrow to Arsenault, who nodded.

“Got it,” he muttered.

“Now, Señor Senegal, what about my equipment?”

Senegal jerked his head at Arsenault. “Tell Jacques to show the gentlemen the guns.” He looked back at Gonzalez. “They’re ready to be loaded.”

“All five hundred, plus ammunition?” Gonzalez’s eyes glinted with undisguised greed.

“Two-hundred-fifty. You’ll get the rest once the first shipment of coffee arrives safely.”

Gonzalez laughed. “Fair enough. It is a pleasure doing business with you, señor.”

He held out his hand but Senegal raised his cigar to his mouth and took a deliberate puff.

Gonzalez laughed again. “If the circumstances were different, Señor Senegal, I would take great pleasure in flaying every inch of skin from your body.”

Senegal blew a smoke circle into the air. “If circumstances were different, I’d let my second-in-command loose on you with his machete. He’s quite talented, you know.” Senegal rolled down the automatic window and tossed his cigar out onto the damp pavement. “Have a pleasant trip back to Nilia, Señor Gonzalez.”

Arsenault opened the car door and Gonzalez got out. Senegal tapped on the privacy window of the limo as a signal to the driver to pull away.

Arsenault grinned. “That should show the bastards who tried to shut us down, eh?”

Senegal tented his fingers thoughtfully. “Is the new location ready?”

Arsenault grunted. “Oui. We’re using the house on Jackson Street, right off Annunciation. Looks fine from the outside. The lab is on the first floor. We have heavy curtains on the windows.”

“Security?”

“Iron gates—locked. Oleanders hide the entire front from the street and our friend Deandra Jameson has listed the house as an exclusive, at a price no one will even consider. The real estate sign will explain the comings and goings of people, and supplies will be delivered and the refined drug removed by a renovations company truck.”

“Good. And the last matter? Adrienne DeBlanc’s investment portfolio?”

“No problem. If anything goes wrong, she’ll take the fall, I guarantee it.”

LILY HARRISON HUDDLED in a dark alleyway on the edge of the Warehouse District. The summer heat lingered in the asphalt and burned her feet through her thin-soled, high-heeled sandals. Every noise, from a laughing couple passing on their way to their car, to a rustle in the garbage bags that lined the alley, grated on her raw nerves.