Thigh High (23 page)

“He's a rich man. A powerful man. He'll gain nothing from this prosecution. You know him. Intercede for them.”

Jeremiah's mouth twisted in a nasty way, as if he'd bit into a rotten tomato. “You dated me to spy on my investigation, to mislead me when you could. You slept with me to distract me so they could rob the bank today.”

“They
didn't
rob the bank today.”

His voice was slow, low, and intense. “Lady, you have guts.” Turning on his heel, he walked away, down the street, around the corner, and out of sight.

Nessa stared after him, stared at the place where he'd disappeared, her eyes and cheeks burning with humiliation.

A little more than an hour ago, she'd believed she would marry him, bask in his love, love him in return. Then she'd seen the news, he'd seen the news, and their brief chance at happiness had evaporated.

Worst of all, he had tried to make her believe he was indifferent to her. But he wasn't indifferent at all.

He believed the worst of her. He despised her, hated her.

In the background of her consciousness, Nessa heard Chief Cutter say, “All right, Miss Calista, Miss Hestia. I'm sorry, but I have to arrest you.”

The sun disappeared completely now. Lightning flashed, thunder boomed.

“Do you know what that is?” Nessa pointed at the sky and shouted to Chief Cutter. “That's heaven protesting the arrest of two of its kindest citizens.”

“Chère, there's no reason to yell at Chief Cutter. He's only doing his job!” Hestia turned to the chief. “Will we get to ride in the patrol car with the lights flashing and the siren on?”

“There's no need for that.” Chief Cutter got out a pair of metal handcuffs.

“But that would be so exciting!” Calista said.

“Sure. What the…heck. I'll turn on the siren and the lights.” Chief Cutter sounded choked and hopeless. “Miss Hestia, I need your wrists.”

Nessa kept her back turned. She couldn't stand to observe as Chief Cutter placed handcuffs on her sweet, eccentric, slightly mad and totally loveable old aunts. She heard the click of the metal as they shut—and a hard
thunk.

She swung around and saw Chief Cutter standing, slack-jawed, while Hestia looked down at the handcuffs at her feet.

Calista hid a smile.

The crowd laughed jeeringly.

The cameras clicked and whirled.

“Chief, I'm so sorry.” Leaning down, Hestia picked up the handcuffs and handed them to Cutter. “Calista has always given me such a bad time about my skinny wrists and narrow hands—I play the piano, you know, and was quite good in my youth. Put them on me again, and I promise they won't fall off.”

Nessa put her hand on the jut of her hip. “Yeah, Chief Cutter, just in case anybody in the crowd didn't get a picture of you putting the handcuffs on one of the sweetest women in New Orleans, do it again.”

“Nessa, there's no need to use that tone,” Hestia said.

Chief Cutter signaled for Rav Woodland, and when Rav had loped over, he tried to give him the handcuffs. “You do it.”

“No, sir!” Rav backed away, hands in the air. “My mama would slap me upside the head if she found out I put cuffs on Miss Hestia or Miss Calista.”

“What do you think my wife's going to do to me?” Chief Cutter muttered. Then he raised his voice. “You're going to lose your job if you don't follow orders.”

“I don't care, sir. I can't do it, and I won't do it.” Rav backed farther away.

As Chief Cutter looked around in frustration, Nessa watched her aunts put the handcuffs on each other.

It was funny, in a horrible way, to see them catch Chief Cutter's attention and to see his reaction: the horrified start, the guilty glance around the hostile, grimly amused neighborhood.

“We're ready,” Hestia chirped.

Calista proudly displayed the handcuffs to Nessa. “We've never been arrested before.”

In a silence interrupted only by the wind-blown rustle of leaves in the trees, Chief Cutter took an arm for each of them. “We'll set bail as soon as possible, within twenty-four hours for sure.”

“Bail,” Nessa whispered.

How was she going to make bail for her aunts? She didn't have any extra cash stashed away for possible arrests!

Chief Cutter marched them toward his patrol car.

Hestia held her arms crooked so the handcuffs didn't fall off again.

Calista waved and made little chirping noises of encouragement at her friends.

And Nessa's heart sank with each step they walked away from her.

Finally, with the wail of child who had been abandoned once too often, she ran after her great-aunts and sobbed on their shoulders.

“It's all right, Nessa,” they murmured in unison, patting her back. “It's all right.”

A big raindrop splashed on the back of her neck. Another hit her cheek.

She grabbed for control. “You've got to go before you get wet.” She kissed first one aunt, then the other, and helped them into the barred backseat of the police car.

As promised, Chief Cutter turned on the lights and the siren, and the aunts waved from the back window as they drove off.

Peripherally, Nessa knew the press had filmed the farewell, and now they rushed toward her, microphones extended.

But the rain was coming down in earnest. The lightning flashed. The thunder boomed. And she couldn't talk. She could barely hold on to her bit of composure long enough to run toward the house. Toward Maddy. Toward safety.

She gained the porch, realized Maddy held the screen door open for her, and blundered through, feeling foolish, out of control…. And lost. So lost.

Her aunts, her security since she was barely five, were gone, in jail, and she didn't know how she would get them out.

Jeremiah, her lover, the man whose ring she wore, despised her.

She managed to get a few steps into the entry, braced her hand against the wall, and wept as if her heart would break.

She heard Maddy shut the front door against the tumult of rain and reporters outside. She heard Pootie clear her throat repeatedly. And still she couldn't rise from the morass of despair into which she had sunk.

Until she heard Pootie say, “I've got to go upstairs to check on a few things, but before I do, I think you ought to know—that man you think is Jeremiah Mac…”

Nessa caught her breath. Looked up. Saw the bitterly amused, twisted and dismayed expression on Pootie's face. “I
think
is Jeremiah Mac?” she choked.

“He's misrepresenting himself. He's the CEO of Premier Central Banks.” Pootie clomped toward the stairway. “That guy is Mac MacNaught.”

That night, Stephanie Decker stood in her bathroom, creaming the make-up off her face and listening with half her attention to the local news, when a single phrase caught her attention.

“…Arrested Calista and Hestia Dahl in their own home today for the robberies at Premier Central Banks.”

Stephanie looked in the mirror, her eyes wide in her white, smeared face. “What?” She ran into the bedroom, tripped on the hem of her robe, caught the footboard with one slick hand, and hit the floor with a thud.

She didn't care. This was good. So good.

On the TV, Arlanna Ramos stood in front of the Dahl House, frowning as Chief Cutter put the handcuffs on the two elderly women. Nessa stood with her back to the scene, looking absolutely miserable. Furious. Helpless. Probably she was mortified, too. Stephanie cackled with delight. This was the best newscast ever!

Quickly, she grabbed a DVD, stuck it in the recorder, and pushed record. She wanted to save these memories
forever
.

Ooh. She'd have to write an e-mail to Mr. MacNaught. Not that he didn't know what was going on, but she had been incredibly successful in creating her own little slant and adding juicy details to the plain facts. Look at what she'd done so far. Discredited Jeremiah Mac to the point that Mr. MacNaught had told her to keep an eye on him, and gotten Nessa pulled off the job with him and back to the grunt work of running the bank. Which was exactly what the little slut did best, except for screwing the private investigator, which apparently she did exceptionally well, because he'd been sniffing after her all day and every night.

A drop of makeup remover slipped onto Stephanie's lip, and absent-mindedly, she licked it off. And shuddered. That tasted awful.

She had to decide when she was going to tell Mr. MacNaught about the panties. For it to be effective, it had to be before the investigator left. She could tell Mr. MacNaught about the secret entrance into the vault then, too, and he'd probably give her another raise. Maybe a promotion to a bigger bank. In fact, what she'd ask for was to be moved to some other city where no one knew her—

“…Mac MacNaught…”

Hearing his name jerked Stephanie's attention to the television.

Arlanna continued, “Mac MacNaught, the president and CEO of Premier Central Banks, was on hand for the arrests.”

But they were showing the wrong picture.

“The reclusive Mr. MacNaught made his satisfaction with the arrests quite clear.”

Stephanie talked back to the TV. “Hey, stupid, you've got the wrong guy.”

“Mr. MacNaught wouldn't stop to speak to the reporters, but he did take the time to exchange heated words with Ionessa Dahl, niece of the Dahl sisters and a Premier Central Banks employee.”

“You've got the wrong guy.” Frantically, Stephanie punched a new channel into the remote, landing on a local news report showing the same story and same man, Jeremiah Mac, and identifying him incorrectly as Mac MacNaught.

She was starting to feel sick to her stomach. She tried another local channel, then tried CNN.

Of course, that was dumb. The national networks weren't going to cover a story in New Orleans about two old ladies gone soft in the head and stealing—

“And today in New Orleans—”

Stephanie sat, stunned, and watched the same story unfold, and the same name flash under Jeremiah Mac's picture.

And she realized she'd been tattling about Mac MacNaught…to him. She'd been blackening his character…to him.

Her career with the bank was over.

But maybe an e-mail explaining that she did everything out of loyalty to the bank. Surely he would understand that.

And probably he didn't remember that part in a previous e-mail where she called him a nasty little lecher who spent his time in New Orleans going to parties and dancing with transvestites…. Wincing, she sat down at her computer and proceeded to grovel.

In the morning, Mac woke with a grim sense of purpose. He'd been betrayed, but it wasn't the first time, and truth to tell, he'd expected it. After all, the people in his life had proved, time and again, that no one could be trusted.

So he did what he always did when he arose; he called his secretary. “Where's Radcliffe?”

“He and the team got rerouted to Houston, but”—he heard her clicking the keys on her computer—“their plane is landing right now, and they'll be in the city in time for the Dahls' bail hearing.”

“Do we know when it is?”

“In Louisiana, a bail hearing must be held before the judge in forty-eight to seventy-two hours, and it seems there's a powerful push among the authorities and from the public to get the Dahl sisters released as soon as possible. So the hearing is set for this afternoon. When they finalize the time, I'll let you know.”

“Do that. Did you acquire their mortgage?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Start proceedings to foreclose.”

“I…Mr. MacNaught? That's not possible. They're current in their payments,” Mrs. Freytag said.

“During the transfer, the computer screwed up and records of their payments were lost.”

Mrs. Freytag sounded startled and affronted. “Is that really necessary?”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Freytag. I'm afraid I heard you incorrectly. Did you question my judgment?”

He could almost see Mrs. Freytag snap to attention. “No, sir. I'll take care of that right away.”

With the efficiency that served him well, he used the rest of the conversation to catch up on the business in his office.

When Mrs. Freytag had brought him up to speed with everything that required his attention, he hung up, poured himself a cup of coffee, sat down on the bar stool, and stared hard at the chair Nessa had occupied only twenty-four hours before.

He had become what Nessa thought he was. The kind of banker who foreclosed on elderly, disadvantaged women.

He had a decision to make.

Nessa had proved treacherous, as treacherous as his mother and his father, as treacherous as he'd imagined.

But that didn't change the fact that the sex hadn't lessened his desire for her one iota. He was, he supposed, in love with her, or at least in violent lust with her, and as a man who prided himself on facing the facts, he knew he couldn't go back to his life and exist with any kind of satisfaction.

So he had two choices.

Live without her and find himself reduced to the kind of man she imagined Mac MacNaught to be: miserly, miserable, and a caricature of Scrooge MacDuck.

Or absorb her into his life, knowing full well the kind of viper he took to his bosom, knowing he would have to spend the rest of his life waiting for the time when she'd strike at his heart and try to kill him.

There was no choice.

He'd live with her.

But on his terms.

Right now, he held the power. Nessa had to post bail, and his team of attorneys would make sure the bail was set high. She also had to hire an attorney for her aunts, and his team of attorneys would make sure the only lawyers that had a chance of succeeding would be the most expensive in the city.

At the same time, his lending company would demand immediate repayment on their mortgage.

If this case went to trial, the Dahl fortune would be wiped out.

Mac knew he hadn't misread Nessa's affection for her aunts. She would come to him again, offer herself and whatever else he wanted, and he'd negotiate carefully, paying her to be his mistress, to tend to his sexual needs, to show him affection and pretend she meant it….

“No!” He stood up, abruptly offended at himself. No fake affection. Nothing but pure, clean lust. He didn't want her whispering that she loved him, he didn't want her clinging to him afterward, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes and claiming that was so good it made her cry. Thinking about how she made him believe he was the lover of her dreams, that he could someday hope to win her love…he felt sick to his stomach to think how she'd duped him.

But she knew a little of what he felt—by now, she had discovered his real identity. Yes, let her feel a little of the betrayal that bit at him.

He wondered if she remembered all the things she'd said to him about Mac MacNaught, and repented of them.

The doorbell rang, and when he answered it, a red-eyed, exhausted-looking Gabriel Prescott stood on the other side.

Mac stood back to let him in. “How'd you get here so soon?”

“I hired a plane to fly me in from Houston.” Gabriel carried a small suitcase and a computer case. “I could
not
find a room in this city. Mardi Gras, they all said. Mind if I crash on the floor?”

“I'll have them bring in a cot. Or—no, maybe
you'd
better ask the management. Right now, I'm the most hated man in New Orleans.” Thank God Mac had secured the Garden Suite for another two weeks before the news broke. If they could, the innkeepers would have thrown him out on his ear. The night before, after the video from yesterday afternoon had flashed from every television set, he'd waited two hours in the restaurant for his table at Brennan's—and he had had a reservation.

“As soon as I saw the reports on CNN, I remembered this.” Gabriel pulled out his computer and put it on the table. He brought up a slice of video. “After the first theft, the police filmed the witnesses. This is Melissa Jude, the teller who was robbed.”

“I know it's ridiculous.” Melissa sat in a metal folding chair, twisting her hands in her lap. “I know it's impossible. But it seemed as if…I think that they…”

“What is it, Miss Jude?” an off-camera policeman prompted.

She looked up, right into the camera lens. “The more I think about it, the more I think…those guys really were women.”

Mac stared at the screen, bitterness rising in him. “That was what Melissa didn't have the guts to tell me.”

“It was there all the time, right under our noses,” Gabriel agreed. “When you proposed your theory, I didn't think you were right about Ionessa Dahl, but you were. She has been playing us and every possible law-enforcement agency for fools.”

“I know.”

“When I looked into those clear blue eyes on that video, I thought she must be the gentlest, kindest, purest soul in the world. You'd think I'd know better than to judge someone by the package.”

“You'd think.”

“Well.” Gabriel dusted off his palms. “Let me get changed. I'll visit the banks. I want to talk to my men. I don't like this last robbery. Don't like it at all.”

“There won't be another one. We have the thieves in custody.”

Gabriel scrutinized Mac. “You're kidding, right?”

“It's obvious. The Dahl girls have been robbing my banks for years. They
are
the Beaded Bandits.”

“Agreed. But not yesterday. Those were copycat bandits. The MO is only superficially the same, and look at the tapes! One guy is taller than the Beaded Bandits, and the other is shorter. And one's a chub.”

Mac stared stonily at Gabriel, hearing the words but not wanting to comprehend him.

“You
have
viewed the tapes, haven't you?” Gabriel asked.

“No.”

“You've viewed every other tape numerous times, but you didn't bother to view this one. What the hell…? Do you like thinking the Dahl women committed this robbery, too?” Gabriel must have seen some flicker of betraying emotion in Mac's face, because he stumbled backward. “You do. You want them to be guilty of everything. What? Are you so used to the people you trust betraying you that you're more comfortable that way?”

Mac jerked his head back as if he'd been kicked. “What do you know about that?”

“Everything. I'm a security man, and you keep a low profile, but the information is out there if you look in the right place.”

Mac stepped forward, fists clenched.

Gabriel stepped forward and met him.

The two men locked gazes.

Mac recognized a cold, harsh truth. Gabriel wasn't going to back down.

He stepped back.

If his capitulation was a victory for Gabriel, Gabriel didn't show it. “Okay. You don't look if you don't want to. You ignore the truth if you like. But you're paying me to see what you don't want to. I'll make sure the banks are secure, and I will make sure that camera is set up correctly and inconspicuously in the vault of Miss Dahl's bank. I figured if that hole had been open for a hundred years, we didn't need to worry about plugging it right away, but the way things have been going, the entire population of New Orleans is probably in there right now, smoking a joint.”

“I'll order my car for you.”

“If no one's talking to you, better let me do it.” Gabriel cracked open his suitcase, gathered clean clothes, got changed, and got out of there.

Mac was relieved to see him go. Gabriel was right. Mac welcomed his ravaged fury—it was easier to bear the pain of Nessa's betrayal.

Nobody had ever betrayed Gabriel. No one had ever abandoned him to a street gang and stood aside while they kicked the shit out of him…. Mac did something he never did. With his fingers, he explored the scars on his face. Opening his shirt, he looked at the marks on his chest, touched each one.

Some scars left a record on his flesh. He used to believe they were the most terrible.

Now he knew better. The worst marks stained his soul.

A call from Radcliffe told him the law team had landed and were headed to corporate rooms at the Hilton, and then to the courthouse where they'd make sure the bail was set to the proper amount. The justice system in New Orleans was as corrupt as most; they foresaw no problem in getting their way.

In a few hours, Nessa would have to choose between letting her great-aunts rot in jail or coming to Mac for mercy. And he…he'd left her no choice.

Sitting down at his computer, he tried to work, but he couldn't concentrate. This betrayal had rattled him. Every time he looked at a spreadsheet, he wondered what Nessa was doing now. How Nessa would react when she saw him. He amused himself with scenarios of how she would fling herself at his feet, begging for mercy, while he pretended indifference and left his law team to negotiate her surrender.

But no. Mac couldn't leave his law team alone with her. By the time she was done with Radcliffe, he'd be a sweaty suit full of Silly Putty. Mac would do the negotiating himself. He'd enjoy letting her try her little wiles on him…. His glance flashed to the spiral iron stairway. His memory flashed to the shy little blowjob, to the smile she gave as she finished and glanced up at him….

“God damn it!” He stood up and paced across the room.

Nothing about her was real. Not her smiles, not her eagerness, not her carefully orchestrated inexperience. He had to stop wanting to believe.

When the time came, he shrugged into his suit coat. He walked through the hotel. The doorman ushered him outside. His usual smile was not present, and Mac heard a sibilant whisper: “Bastard.”

Figured. He'd seen the news report.

He turned to the liveried young man. “That's right, I am. In every sense of the word. Now get me a cab.”

The doorman used his whistle.

The cab flew across the street and under the awning outside the building.

“Where are you going, sir?” the doorman asked.

“The municipal courthouse.”

“Of course you are.” He leaned down and murmured directions to the cabbie, who surveyed Mac with a cold eye, then faced the front.

Mac wisely fastened his seat belt seconds before the cab careened out from under the awning and onto the street. Obviously, in the cabbie's desire to kill Mac, he didn't take into account that he would die also—or maybe he figured it was worth it.

Mac held on grimly, not caring that he had become the city's most hated resident. After all, he'd been that before. And this time he was big enough to hit back.

The street outside the courthouse was packed with press. The cabbie stopped at the corner. “This is as close as I can get.”

Mac handed over the fee. “And this is as close as I can get to the exact amount.” He paused in pretended surprise. “Oh, wait. It
is
the exact amount. No tip for you.” He stepped out of the cab.

The press saw him immediately and swarmed like killer bees. They knew his name now, and shouted it at him.

“Mr. MacNaught, what do you hope to accomplish today?”

“Mr. MacNaught, do you intend to push for the full sentence?”

“Mr. MacNaught, will you take the Dahl sisters' age into account when arguing for their guilt?”

He pushed his way into the crowd, ruthlessly using his height and weight to make progress.

His lawyers formed a phalanx and moved toward him, and together they made it to the steps of the courthouse.

Radcliffe was shouting, “Mr. MacNaught has nothing to say at this time. Mr. MacNaught has nothing to say at this time.”

Mac let him, but when they got to the top of the stairs, he turned and faced the cameras. Speaking directly into them, he said, “I am not moved by pleas of age or feebleness. These women are criminals who stole from me, and I will push for the full punishment of the law.” Turning, he went inside.

He intended that Nessa should come to him and plead for her aunts.

That should bring her running.