Knight Errant Read online

  Somewhere after the part about going to bed with Nicholas, she lost track of the conversation. After those few moments in the hall last night, it seemed she was destined to obsess over what she couldn’t have. Finally realizing that he’d fallen silent and was watching her, his eyes darker than ever, she smiled weakly. “This is a silly conversation. I’m doing just fine here. I make enough money to cover my expenses—”

  “Because you don’t have any.”

  “—and I have a place to live, and I don’t ever intend to consider prostitution as a means of support.” She also didn’t intend to continue discussing sex in any shape or form with him. It was too hard, too tempting. Too cruel.

  For a moment he looked as if he wanted to add something, but when he finally spoke, it was about the dresser. “How long do you leave that stuff on?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Another five minutes.”

  “If I help you clean it up, want to go someplace afterward?”

  Her instinct for self-preservation immediately and vehemently answered no, but her cop side stopped the refusal from materializing. She was here to keep an eye on him, remember? If she turned him down, he would probably go anyway, and then where would that leave her? Just how happy would it make Sam and their supervisors if she let Nicholas go out at night alone because she thought it was safer than dealing with the sexual longings that just looking at him aroused in her?

  “Yeah, sure,” she agreed. Even though she knew it was risky. Even though she didn’t want to. Even though she couldn’t think of much that she wanted more.

  When time was up on the stripper, she gave him one of two putty knives, then went to work scraping the gel and layers of old paint from the dresser. Crouching on the opposite side, he did the same, managing to look perfectly comfortable and to stay perfectly clean.

  When they were almost finished, he suggested that she get changed. She was happy to leave the rest of the work to him, since they were working on opposite sides of the mirror and in closer quarters than she found comfortable. She quickly agreed, took clean clothes from the closet and went down the hall to the bathroom. By the time she returned, he was done, and her dresser looked about ten pounds lighter.

  “Nice dress.”

  “Yes, it is.” She rubbed a bit of stripper from the marble top with a paper towel. “I can’t wait to get it all finished and see how it looks. I think I’ll do a dark stain, maybe a—”

  “Dress.” He interrupted. “Not dresser.”

  Her face, reflected in the mirror, turned just a little pink. “Oh. Thanks.” It was a simple dress, sleeveless and long, a solid teal top with lots of embroidery in a dozen shades of metallic thread, layered over an exotic print skirt. She had paid too much for it but had worn it so much that it no longer looked expensive but rather as something the Lainie he thought she was could afford.

  They left the apartment and O’Shea’s and walked to the heart of the French Quarter, standing for a time in Jackson Square, watching the street performers. It was a warm evening, like spring instead of fall. Everyone around was in a festive mood, she was standing in front of St. Louis Cathedral with the fragrance of roses in the air, and she was with a handsome man. Could life get much better?

  Yeah, it could. For starters, Nicholas could be just a man—not an ex-con, not her assignment. She could be just a woman, and this pack around her waist could hold nothing more important than a vial of perfume, a key to a hotel room and the requisite sex-in-the-nineties condoms. Jimmy Falcone could disappear from the face of the earth. All the world and all the problems outside Serenity and the French Quarter could cease to exist.

  Bending close to be heard above the surrounding laughter, Nicholas asked, “You like oysters?” At her nod, he took her hand, pulled her through the crowd and started toward a side street. Once they were away from the tourists, he didn’t release her, at least not for a block or more. She regretted that he did then.

  The bar he took her to was compact, squeezed between a T-shirt shop and an antique store. There were fewer than a half-dozen tables inside, all but one of them occupied. They took the one.

  “Why did you come to New Orleans?”

  He had ordered a dozen oysters and tea before asking the question. Lainie wished he hadn’t asked it all. “Because I was looking for someplace different.”

  “Someplace better.” So he remembered that they’d had this conversation Saturday. “But why New Orleans? Why not Charleston or Charlotte or Mobile? Why not stay closer to home?”

  She tried to think of the best answer she could give, the one that would ring true with him, that would make him quit wondering and asking. She couldn’t tell him that she’d never had any desire in her life to visit New Orleans. She came from gracious, old and Southern. She preferred the modern, cosmopolitan New South of Atlanta. At least, until recently she had.

  She could tell him that she’d come with a man who had given her such sweet promises before leaving her stranded and broke in a strange city with no way to get back home and no home to get back to. She could say that she’d come because of a man, because of a relationship gone bad that had driven her away from everything she knew and into this strange new place. But some perverse part of her didn’t want him to think that any recent man had been that important to her. She didn’t want to pretend heartache and sorrow.

  She accompanied her answer with a shrug. “I’d been in Atlanta a long time.”

  “Five years isn’t so long.”

  “I beg your pardon. Tell me about the last five years of your life. How long did they last?”

  He grinned. “A lifetime.”

  She moved her arms from the table as the waiter brought the oysters on a bed of ice. She picked up her fork and one damp, gritty shell, prying the mollusk free and letting it dangle from the fork. “I wasn’t particularly satisfied with my life in Atlanta,” she went on and realized that that much, at least, was true. “One day I decided to make a change—a big change. I’d never done anything foolish or reckless in my life, so I decided it was time. I gave notice on my apartment, quit my job and came here. I chose New Orleans because it was as far as I could go at the time. The bus ticket took practically all the money I had, but I figured that with all the tourists, I could get a decent job, find a place to live and start all over again.”

  Finally she ate the oyster, savoring its cool, fresh flavor with just a hint of lemony tartness. Nicholas let her eat two more before prompting her to go on. “But?”

  She smiled ruefully. “Finding a job took time and money—two things I didn’t have much of to spare. And I didn’t count on the cost of living. Even a cheap motel adds up to a lot. The only apartments I could afford were either in areas where I didn’t want to live or so far out that getting to work was a problem. Then I heard about Kathy’s House. I showed up one day, looking for help, and Karen offered me a job.”

  “Just like that. A stranger.”

  Lainie nodded. They had been prepared to use a little influence. The agent in charge of the Falcone case was Remy Sinclair, and his wife, Susannah, was a nurse at the center. They could have trusted her to get Lainie an in with Karen, but Remy hadn’t wanted to involve Susannah unless there was no other way. Lainie had tried it on her own first, and it had worked. Karen had been happy to give her a job and, a few weeks later, a place to live.

  “Any regrets?”

  Plenty. She shook her head.

  “Even though it hasn’t been easy here?”

  “It hasn’t been so hard. I found a job and a place to live that I can afford. I’ve met some nice people, and I like my work.” She smiled as she speared another oyster. “Hey, I’m not living under a bridge and selling my body to anyone who’s got the money. It hasn’t been hard at all.”

  Chapter 4

  From the oyster bar they went to a club that advertised the best blues band in the Quarter. It was an intimate place, dark and smoky, with a shapely blonde serving drinks to customers interested in the music, not in ta
lking. It was the sort of place where Nicholas could spend an entire evening—exactly the place where he had spent Sunday evening. He’d even sat at the same table, in the corner facing the doors, his back to the brick wall, his gaze mostly on the street. He’d never made it to Bourbon Street and the bar where his friend Monique had worked. The music had drawn him in here, and he had stayed the rest of the evening.

  Beside him Lainie was sitting forward in her chair, arms on the table, eyes closed. She was pretty and innocent, he’d told her earlier, and it was true. With her ultrashort hair, delicate bone structure and easy smile, she did, indeed, project innocence. Right now, though, right this minute, everything about her put him in mind of sex, not innocence. The way she absorbed the soulful music. The way she swayed from time to time in rhythm with the tune. The way her mouth slowly curved into a sensuous smile. The way her eyes needed a moment to bring him into focus when she opened them and smiled that sensuous smile at him.

  When he spoke, his voice was husky and thick. “Want to dance?”

  Her smile faltered. Her gaze didn’t. Dancing, for all its innocence, could be dangerous. Like her. Dancing to music like this meant getting intimately close, moving in a lazy, indolent manner better suited to a bedroom on a hot New Orleans night than a public place like this. It meant touching, rubbing, holding, tormenting. It meant tempting themselves and fate.

  He didn’t think she had the nerve. He hoped she didn’t. He prayed she did.

  All serious now, she rose from the table, walked a few feet away, then waited. He gathered his courage, then joined her.

  The dance floor was small, bordered on three sides by an arc of tables, on the fourth side by the platform where the band performed. Nicholas reached for her, and she came willingly into his arms. He clasped his hands behind her back. She slid one arm around his neck and rested the other hand on his upper arm. They fell into the same easy rhythm as if they’d done it a thousand times before. Making love to her would be the same way, he suspected. All new but as familiar, as natural, as breathing.

  She nestled her cheek against his throat, and her fingers on his arm slid around to the underside. His muscles tightened automatically, there and everywhere else. He had asked for this, he reminded himself as desire began building deep in his belly, as his arousal began swelling against her belly. He had known what would happen, had known he couldn’t touch her without wanting her. It was pure torment... and purer pleasure. He had never felt so intensely, had never wanted so desperately, even though he knew it was futile. After last night’s rejection, she wasn’t going to suddenly forget her misgivings, whatever they might be, and acquiesce tonight. Still, he wanted this. He needed it. Tonight, alone in his bed, he would pay the price, but right now he just might die without it.

  The song went on forever, a mournful tune that wrapped around them in a smoky haze. His mouth brushing her ear, he murmured, “The whole time I was in prison, I had these dreams of a woman with no name, no face, nothing of substance, but last night it was you...and you didn’t pull away. We were in your bed, and I was inside you and—”

  She stumbled against him, pressing hard against him and he sucked in a taut breath. He was accustomed to the discomfort of purely physical arousal, more than accustomed to the dissatisfaction of his only means of relief. This was something more. This was beyond easing with a few erotic thoughts and a little dexterous handwork. This was painful, unbearable, and it was going to remain unsatisfied until she took pity on him.

  And if she never did? Some other woman would, and Lainie could be his erotic thoughts.

  The music stopped, and slowly their dance ended. She didn’t release him, didn’t pull away, didn’t lift her gaze from the vicinity of his chest. She just stood there, body to warm body, barely breathing, not moving. He freed one hand and raised her chin, but she still refused to look at him. Was she afraid of what she might see, of what he might expect? Or afraid of what he might see?

  “Let’s go home.” He turned her toward the door, then followed her, one hand still on her waist, between the tables and through the open French doors. They’d covered half the distance back to Serenity in silence before she stopped on a street corner and faced him.

  “I can’t...” She shrugged helplessly.

  His smile was a little cynical and a lot wistful. “Don’t turn me down until I ask. It’s hard on my ego. I don’t expect you to...” He mimicked her shrug. “It was just a dance, Lainie, nothing more.”

  After a moment, she nodded and began walking again. With a frustrated shake of his head, he followed her. Just a dance. Nothing more. Right.

  When they reached the block that O’Shea’s was on, it was his turn to stop on the corner. He muttered a curse that brought Lainie up short. She looked back at him, puzzled, then followed his gaze to the car parked in the middle of the block ahead. It was a limousine, black, beyond elegant into ostentatious. Only one man routinely traveled New Orleans’ tougher neighborhoods in such a car. Only one man had the power, the influence and the reputation to make such an undertaking safe.

  “Do me a favor. Go to Kathy’s House and wait there.”

  “Whose car is that?”

  “Falcone’s. Go on. I’ll let you know when he’s gone.” He gave her a little push toward the street, but she didn’t go willingly.

  “Falcone’s not interested in me,” she protested. “He’s not going to pay any attention to me.”

  “Jimmy’s interested in anyone within a mile of me. He’ll be particularly interested in a woman I’ve had dinner with. Just go to Kathy’s House, Lainie, and let me handle this alone.”

  Reluctantly she stepped off the curb, crossed the street and, with a backward look at him, quickly covered the distance to the women’s center. He waited until he saw her climb the steps to the veranda, then he began moving again.

  The limo’s engine was running, the driver waiting behind the wheel. Nicholas would like to take that as an indication that Jimmy didn’t intend to stay long, but he knew from experience that it wasn’t. The old man wanted to always be prepared for a quick getaway, should the situation demand it. Such planning had saved his worthless hide from arrest or worse on a number of occasions.

  Drawing a deep breath, Nicholas walked through the first set of doors at O’Shea’s. He saw Falcone right away but ignored him and headed for the bar, where Reid was filling in for Jamey. He was wiping the counter with a damp cloth and keeping a close eye on their first-time customers, as were all the regulars. “You notice you have company?” he asked, his voice low, his tone blank.

  “Yeah. Have they been here long?”

  “Maybe ten minutes.”

  “Give me a beer, would you?” He’d ordered only one drink at the club and he hadn’t finished it because he’d been too preoccupied with Lainie. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he needed a little courage before he walked across the room and faced Jimmy Falcone for the first time in a long time.

  Reid pulled a cold one from the cooler and popped off the lid before sliding it across the bar. He didn’t offer a glass. Nicholas had done enough drinking in O’Shea’s for the bartender to know he didn’t use glasses.

  Picking up the bottle by its neck, he turned—and came to an abrupt stop as Lainie walked in the door. She smiled at Eldin and spoke to old Thomas and Virgil, then came to the bar, climbed onto a stool in the middle and greeted Reid warmly.

  So much for favors. She hadn’t given him more than five lousy minutes, though at least she’d had the sense not to speak to him. Gritting his teeth, Nicholas ignored her and made his way across the room to a table against the wall. Jimmy sat on one side, Vince Cortese on the other. Another of Jimmy’s goons stood against the wall a few feet away, his black suit coat unbuttoned, just a glimpse of a pistol in a shoulder holster visible in the dim light.

  Pulling a chair from a nearby table, Nicholas turned it around, then straddled it. “Hey, Jimmy. Vince.”

  His old boss hadn’t changed much. His hair might have gotte
n a little grayer, and there were a few more lines around his eyes, but he didn’t look five years older or long since betrayed. He was several inches shorter than Nicholas and probably twenty pounds heavier, but not much of it was fat. He was solid, tough, the kind of guy you’d think twice about taking on in a fight even if you were taller, younger and lighter on your feet. He was dressed in a suit that was custom tailored in outrageously expensive fabric, fine leather shoes, a linen shirt and a silk tie. There were another two dozen similar suits in his closet; two dozen linen shirts, all in white; two dozen silk ties, all conservative, and a dozen pairs of identical shoes.

  The gold nugget ring on his right hand caught what little light was available and flashed as Jimmy clasped his hands. “Nicholas. I expected a visit from you when you got back.”

  “A visit? Why? What would I say?”

  “You could start with ‘I’m sorry.’ You could explain what I ever did to you to deserve such treatment. You could explain why you tried to destroy my life.”

  I’m sorry. It was hard to offer an apology when the only thing he was sorry for was the fact that he hadn’t succeeded. He was sorry Jimmy had managed to buy and bribe his way out of the convictions. He was sorry the bastard was walking around free, still prospering. He was damned sorry that he hadn’t taken the easier way out twenty years ago and put a bullet between his eyes. But he wasn’t the least bit sorry that he had betrayed his boss.

  “I treated you like a son, Nicholas. I took you in, gave you a home, paid you a substantial salary and made you a part of my family, and you turned on me. Why?”

  “I earned that salary. I kept you and everyone who worked for you out of jail more times than I can remember.”

  “And the whole time you were working to try to put me in prison for the rest of my life. Why? What did I do to deserve that?”

  “You kill people, Jimmy. You profit from others’ misery. You destroy lives.”