Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven) (10 page)

Miss Prim and Proper approached the door which
magically opened. A white-coated attendant with a linen napkin draped over an
arm guided us, without a word, to the rear of the restaurant.

The interior dripped old-world charm, the walls
lined with wine racks set at asymmetric angles, the floor polished to a dark
walnut, lighting low and intimate even in the middle of the afternoon. The
place obviously didn’t cater to the lunch crowd. This was a reservation only,
late-night dinners, no prices on the menus destination for those in-the-know.
Tables for two and four were set far apart, assuring privacy and room for carts
to bring out specialty items like Caesar salad prepared at the table, or things
flambéed… I was only guessing, of course, as street vendors and delis were my
usual haunts. I left cuisine to Annie who provided me with as much authentic
Mexican fare as I desired.

Like a lot of eateries in the city, it was long and
narrow, but the rear made an ‘el’ with a small, dark and intimate cubby housing
leather chairs and an octagonal table with place settings for two. The waiter
pulled out a chair for the woman. He pointed a long, aquiline nose in my
direction and left, closing a door I’d not noticed when we came in. The woman
smirked and indicated I should sit opposite her.

“Would you like something to drink, Mr. Shephard?”

“Micah. And yes, thank you.”

Frigid air poured from an overhead vent and I was
glad for the sport coat. I would have been happier to have more light. Candles
flickered in wall sconces spaced far apart. The door to the main restaurant was
on my right, another, almost invisible in the dark wood paneling, was left and
slightly behind me.

With peripheral vision on full-alert I caught a
glint in both quadrants as the weak lumens danced along the wainscoted walls.
Surveillance cameras. They were discreet, but not invisible.

The disapproving waiter returned with white wine for
the woman and bourbon, neat, for me. He murmured something and the woman looked
up, inquiring, “Would you care for anything to eat?”

“No, I’m good.” The Reuben sat heavy in my belly.
The bourbon would help with digestion, so I slugged down most of it and looked
up at the waiter expectantly. He took the hint but before leaving, he cleared
the dishes and silverware in front of me.

I was getting tired of thinking of her as ‘the
woman’ so I asked, “And you are…?”

“An advocate.”

That was clear as mud.

The ‘advocate’ proceeded to unbutton her silk
jacket, revealing a softly feminine pale blue blouse cut in a very low vee, the
cleavage exposing lightly freckled skin and plump mounds. Being a man-whore
isn’t easy, but I managed to direct my gaze back to her full lips, taking those
small triumphs over my lust where and when I could.

I said, “I like knowing who I’m dealing with.”

“I’m not important.”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

She fiddled with the edge of the blouse, adjusting
it so the bits of lace fell flat along her rosy flesh. As a distraction, it was
a spectacular success.

I’m not clever with verbal sparring on a good day
and this ‘he said, she said’ was definitely not going in my favor, especially
if I managed to swallow my tongue in the process.

And a herd of horses was not getting me to stand up.

If I couldn’t be witty, at least I could be
persistent, so I said, “Well?”

“Why do you need to know, Mr. Shephard? Are you
planning on asking me out?”

“Do you want me to?”

She paused long enough to give me hope and no small
amount of fear that she’d say yes. This one was a complication I could do
without.

She took a deep breath and exhaled, “Madeline.”

Gripping the freshened tumbler of bourbon, I drank
deep and considered the black widow spider eyeing me with interest.

“Are you as dangerous as your namesake?”

She laughed out loud at that, seemingly delighted at
my reference to the actress who played the executive strategist on the original
TV version of
La Femme Nikita
.

“Is that how you see me? Cold, cruel, efficient?”

Add master manipulator and, yes, that’s exactly how
I saw her: an ice queen who could melt my bones.

“You didn’t answer the question… Madeline.”

“I thought I just did.” She took a sip of wine, then
said, “Perhaps we can explore next steps later. Right now we have more urgent
matters to discuss.”

“I’m still waiting…”

“And I thank you for your patience, Mr. Shephard.”

The mystery door eased open on a whisper, revealing
a tall man, elegantly lean and wearing a black tonal lightweight wool two
button suit that I’d bet the farm carried the Canali label. I’d dated a runway
model back in the day. Some of it had rubbed off.

“I’m Damien Maxwell.”

That surprised me. The CEO of Dark Haven, Inc. was
Jamison Caldwell. Maxwell wasn’t a name I recognized.

I stood to shake hands, his grip strong but the skin
oddly cool to the touch. Familiar, though I couldn’t say why.

He went around the table to Madeline, giving her a
brilliant smile.

“My dear, thank you for bringing Mr. Shephard. You
look lovely as ever.”

The voice proclaimed unctuous Euro-trash polite-speak,
but his eyes sizzled like coals as he raked them over his advocate’s lush
curves. A long forefinger stroked her neck, tracing the line along the nape and
pausing briefly at the tight bun, the uptick in his lip telling me he had the
same desire to see those strawberry blonde strands hanging loose about her
shoulders as did I.

The woman, Madeline, leaned into the caress, eyes
lowered, her thick lashes tickling high rounded cheekbones, lips slightly
parted. The fingers that worried over the bits of lace edging suddenly stilled.
I imagined her nipples growing taut in the energy surge, him to me and back
again, the air so thick with lust you could cut it with a knife.

When he spoke the voice was without accent, yet I
sensed English was not his native tongue. Deep, well-modulated, he sounded like
the intellectual I suspected he was: a product of a privileged upbringing, with
enough inherited wealth that he allowed himself indulgences, one of them being
a lifestyle choice that challenged the mores of those who served him.

He was cold, hard, and dangerous; and despite the
doors to either side of me, I knew I was trapped in a room with no exit.

Madeline sat motionless, chest rising and falling in
slow, languid movements, the man’s hands now resting lightly on her shoulders,
elegant fingers following the line of her cleavage, spreading the thin material
away to expose the top of a lacy confection.

Voice in a deadly purr, he stated, “She’s lovely,
isn’t she?”

Madeline’s hand fell away to rest on her lap. Both
of us concentrated on the rise of flesh, floating the man’s fingers, up, down,
up. I had to force myself to breathe as he freed a breast from the confines of
the blouse and bra, flicking at the nipple, then pinching wickedly hard between
thumb and forefinger. Hissing through clenched teeth, the woman arched against
the assault. My cock jumped and strained against my jeans.

Though my body enjoyed the show, my brain screamed
caution and made getting out of there a priority. If I got caught up in more
mind fucks, I’d lose myself completely, if I hadn’t already.

Muttering, “Perhaps I should leave you two alone,” I
pushed away from the table but stopped abruptly when he said, “You used to like
this sort of thing, Micah.”

Forcing my eyes away from the woman’s exposed flesh,
I stared up into an abyss so terrifying, it turned my knees to jelly.

He was right. I used to like that sort of thing, as
he put it. I still did, sick as that made me. It was the reason I’d retreated
into the Goth world so many years ago, and the reason why it still pulled me
back when loneliness and an empty soul longed for something, anything to let me
feel the way I’d been with Trina… alive, with pain and pleasure my only
realities.

As if on cue, the waiter entered bearing a refill of
bourbon for me, but nothing for my host. Without a word, Maxwell rearranged
Madeline’s clothing with practiced ease. When she was put to rights, the server
led her gently from the room. The dark closed in, suffocating me.

This was a well-rehearsed tableau, not something
cooked up just for my benefit. I had to believe that, otherwise I might be
forced to entertain the option that Maxwell had damning information on me from
a time in my life I’d rather keep buried. If O’Hearn or Annie or Juan knew what
I’d been…

Maxwell eased into the seat still whispering
Madeline’s body heat.

He asked, “Was I wrong about you?”

A ‘yes’ fought past my lips but both of us knew that
to be a lie.

Heart hammering, I decided to go on the offensive.
“You brought me here for a reason, Mr. Maxwell. Why the games? Why not lay out
your proposition and be done with it?”

Steepling fingers, he smiled and said, “I needed to
be sure you were the man for the job.”

“And that is…?”

Ignoring the question, he continued, “I need someone
who … understands.”

Dammit, more cryptic comments. If I had a gun, I’d…

Shit, I
did
have a gun. And Damien Maxwell
clearly did not consider that to be a problem. That spoke of arrogance. More
likely, it meant I had an arsenal trained on me, and the first wrong move I
made would be my last.

As if reading my mind, Maxwell chuckled and said,
“Exactly right, Micah. I’m happy we’re on the same page.”

Not much scared the shit out of me anymore, but Damien
Maxwell did.

“Why am I here, Maxwell?” That my voice remained
steady was no small matter of pride.

“I need for you to perform a small service for me. I
understand you are looking into the recent unfortunate events with some of the
young ladies who frequent our various establishments.”

I nodded, waiting for him to go on.

“I believe we have mutual concerns. While you are in
New Orleans, I would like you to ask a few questions, discretely.” He pulled a
number ten envelope from his inside breast pocket and handed it over, then
continued, “The names and addresses are all there.”

I took the envelope, still baffled. First off, how
did he know I was going to New Orleans, unless… Crap, everything was on my
kitchen counter. O’Hearn had eyeballed the pile just last night, and anyone
with skills could get into my apartment and find out all they needed. At that
point I was ready to check myself into Bellview. Damn it to hell, I couldn’t be
more stupid if I tried.

Before letting my brain completely check out, I
decided it’d be best just to assume Maxwell knew what I knew and stop spinning
my wheels.

Still needing to pin him down, I growled, “Ask them
what, exactly?”

“About unusual activity, Mr. Shepherd. Our
interests, as you already are aware, extend to several major urban centers, but
it is New Orleans that is our most important secondary hub. We suspect that
someone has designs on our operations.”

“A corporate takeover?”

“That would be one way to look at it, yes.”

“So why not just send a squad of accountants down
there and flush them out. Why me?”

“Discretion, Mr. Shephard. This must be kept low
profile or we risk a war that none of us can afford right now. You go there to
seek answers about the murders. I’m asking you to quietly expand your
investigation to include people you might not normally consider.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Maxwell, I’m not
exactly the soul of discretion.”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “Yes, we are
aware of that, Micah.”

“If I agree, what’s in it for me?”

And please don’t tell me that
little display earlier was another off-the-wall retainer. Ten minutes with the
black widow and she’d be feeding me my balls as hors d'oeuvres. As for the cash-advance
and the blow job… well, the jury was still out on that.

Damien Maxwell stood and walked to the door. Before
exiting, he said the one thing I’d prayed to hear for over sixteen long years.

“I can give you that which you seek, Micah.”

CHAPTER NINE

Big Easy

W
inding my way along 9
^th
,
head down, hands jammed in pockets, I couldn’t help but feel lost and alone,
completely out of my depth, and hopeful as hell.

Maxwell said he could give me what I sought. At one
point in my life I was sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that what I wanted was
to find Catrina, to recapture the magic, to rekindle that blaze she’d ignited
in my belly.

But sixteen years later, after endless
disappointment, and endless self-flagellation over what I might have done to
drive her away, I was no longer so sure of my feelings, let alone what I wanted
in my life. The boy ached to return to the womb, the man recognized the
futility of false hope. Together they walked a tightrope with no safety net.