Thigh High (5 page)

But he did give rewards for efficiency, for self-motivation, for ingenuity. According to a
Business News Monthly,
Premier Central Banks was one of the top one hundred companies to work for, as long as one stayed clean and smart.

Mr. MacNaught had been duly impressed by Stephanie's performance, and he'd given her huge bonuses.

Stephanie had been careful to dole out the occasional faint praise for Ionessa—not enough to get her promoted, but enough to keep her on. Because the last thing Stephanie Decker wanted was to have to run this bank herself.

And until this damned investigator was finished, that was exactly what she was going to have to do.

Picking up the vase, she slammed it against the wall. It shattered into a million pieces, and she took a long breath.

The cleaning people were so careless.

Before she stepped back into the lobby, Nessa allowed the air-conditioning to cool her hot cheeks.

While Nessa had won the battle, Stephabeast had won the war. She always did, because no matter how sternly Nessa lectured herself about shrugging off Stephanie's insults and slurs, Nessa reacted. Nessa handled bad boyfriends, eccentric aunts, nosy boarders, never allowing them to disrupt her sleep or serenity. But there was something about Stephanie's smug malice that made Nessa want to chop her down to size—and today her disappointment had overcome her good sense. Now she had a bitter taste in her mouth and the clear knowledge that Stephanie would thoroughly enjoy taking her revenge.

The line had dwindled down to Mrs. Fasset, a girlhood friend of her aunts, and George Broussard, the middle-aged, overworked bartender at Mike's Brew Pub two blocks down. The morning rush was over. Thank God. Right now, Nessa couldn't have managed a crisis—because all eyes were on her. Everyone in the bank—the customers, the tellers, and Eric the guard—waited to hear her good news.

Thankfully, she had experience with ironic smiles.

And at that moment, the door of the bank opened. A man stepped just inside, a big man, blocking the intense New Orleans sunshine.

Nessa glanced up, then did a double-take.
Wow.

She would have sworn she only mouthed the word, but Julia gave it voice. “Wow.”

He was tall. Very tall. His broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, and his hands were massive. One gripped a bulging leather briefcase. He wore a dark suit, a white shirt, and a red tie that should have fixed the eye, but didn't. It was his face that riveted her…His handsome, battered face. He reminded Nessa of Russell Crowe in
Gladiator,
broken and rising like a phoenix from the ashes of his life.

He exemplified tragedy.

He exuded power.

He looked at the small group of stunned tellers, his gaze moving from face to face, memorizing each feature, his face impassive…. Until he reached Nessa. There his gaze lingered, a slow interest kindling in his green eyes.

Nessa took a small, involuntary step back.

Then, with the fluid grace of an athlete, long strides and swinging arms, he continued on his way into the newly arranged office and shut the door behind him.

“I just came,” Julia whispered.

“Sh!” Donna whispered, and nudged her. “You horny old broad!”

“Oh, like you didn't,” Julia said.

“Yeah, but I don't talk about it.”

“Whew!” Mrs. Fasset's open mouth snapped shut, and she sagged against the countertop.

Carol, who was waiting on her, nodded. “That was spectacular. Miss Dahl, who do you suppose he is? The guy who's going to give you your raise…so to speak?”

Laughter swept the small group.

“I don't get it. What are you women talking about?” Mr. Broussard asked. “He looked like the kind of guy it takes five of us to toss out of the bar, and we're lucky if he doesn't come roaring back for more.”

“Yeah, that guy's not good-looking,” Eric agreed.

“He sure isn't,” Julia said with enthusiasm. “He's more than good-looking.”

Donna let out a long sigh of pleasure. “He's a god.”

“Well, he scared the hell out of me.” Lisa stood with her hand pressed against her flat chest. “I wanted to tell Eric to take out his gun and shoot him.”

Nessa smiled, a raw twist to her lips. “He's the insurance investigator who's going to solve the mystery of the Beaded Bandits.”

“But what's he doing in your office?” Lisa asked.

“That's not my office. That's his office.” Nessa could almost taste the bitterness. “All I'm doing is assisting him in gathering the evidence.”

Donna took an audible breath. Nessa shook her head at the shocked, pitying expressions directed at her. “Don't. I told you I don't hope anymore. And neither should you.” She smiled at them, mocking them gently. “Because Stephabeast will be directing operations at the bank until further notice.”

“Son of a bitch.” Carol strung the swear words together like beads on a rosary.

Mrs. Fasset slapped Carol's wrist. “That is enough, young lady!”

Yes,
Nessa thought as she made her way to Mr. Mac's office. That was the way to distract them from her sudden plunge in prospects. Point out their own.

Knowing she'd left them wallowing in their misery and human enough to enjoy it, she walked to her office.

Oh, pardon me. Mr. Mac's office.

She paused in the open doorway. “Mr. Mac? I'm Nessa Dahl. I'm to assist you with your investigation.”

Mr. Mac looked up from the files he had scattered across his desk, scrutinized her, looking for fault where she knew there was none. “Come in,” he said. “Shut the door behind you.”

She did as she was told, cynically aware that she'd dressed the part of an executive to play the part of a sycophant.

“Sit down.” He indicated the chair before the desk.

Her resentment at his command was savage and surprising. She had been disappointed too many times to take this setback with her usual equanimity.

What was she going to tell her aunts? And the boarders—oh, God, she'd told all the boarders she expected a promotion. So many people to bear witness to her failure…

“Miss Dahl.” Mr. Mac said her name so sharply she jumped.

“Yes, sir.” She would brood later. For now, she focused on him.

His eyes were so richly green, his hair so dark, his face so unabashedly masculine, he should have been handsome. But he looked more like a street thug than an insurance investigator. The guy was probably thirty-six years old, and probably six-foot-three or -four. He wore his dark hair in a short military cut. At some point in his past, his face had been used as a battering ram. An expensive suit had been altered to fit him perfectly, yet nothing could conceal the heavily muscled shoulders and arms. When he turned his head, she could see a scar almost hidden along his jawline, as if some skilled surgeon had done repairs. He wore his hair combed to one side with a drape of bangs over his forehead, but white scars mottled the skin along his hairline. It looked as if someone had knocked him down and kicked him—and as big as he was, she didn't want to run into the guy who'd done it.

No wonder the older tellers swooned and young Lisa shivered. When he watched Nessa as he did now, with eyes as green and cold as glacial ice, she wondered what work he'd done before taking the mundane job of insurance investigator. Put a machine gun in his hands, and this guy looked like the Valentine's Day massacre come to life.

When he spoke, his voice was deep and rough, as if he had a cold—or that beating had done damage to his throat. “I have heard that tact is the ability to tell a person to go to hell and make him look forward to the trip.”

Whatever she'd expected, that wasn't it. She blinked at him, then said cautiously, “So I've heard.”

“And I've been told in no uncertain terms I don't have that ability.”

She hated to agree after an acquaintance of thirty seconds, but as abrupt as he was, she guessed he was right.

“That's why you've been tapped to help me with this investigation. You're known for your ability to handle difficult people.”

“I'm to handle you?”
Bitchy, Nessa. It's not his fault you can't fight your way up the food chain.

He lifted his eyebrows as if her response surprised him. “I'm not difficult. It's other people who are.”

She almost laughed. Not difficult? Perhaps not. Demanding. Intelligent. Intense. She suspected he was all of those things and more. If she remembered that, she could handle him.

But just once, she wished someone would take the trouble to handle her.

“You are familiar with the crimes, aren't you?” he asked.

“Pretty much everyone who lives here is familiar with the Beaded Bandits.”

“I thought so, but you looked so perturbed, I thought perhaps I'd confused you.”

“Not at all. I was…” What could she say? “I wondering how an investigator from somewhere North—”

“Philadelphia.”

“Of course. From Philadelphia, discovered I was known for my ability to handle people.”

“That's why they call me an investigator.” He delivered the line deadpan, as if he didn't know he was funny—or as if he had no sense of humor.

Oh, dear.
“Where would you like to start?”

“I need to see the banks here in the city where the crimes occurred. I've watched the videos, but nothing is the same as walking up the steps, standing inside, and surveying the situation. I assume I'll see the Mardi Gras celebration?”

“You won't be able to get away from it.”
In fact, you're alone in the city. Come to the party at the Dahl House tonight.
The words hovered on her tongue. Every hospitable instinct urged her to speak. But an innate caution stopped her. The party was famous, fun, overwhelming, with friends dropping in and leaving all evening long. But to Nessa it seemed as if Jeremiah Mac would move through the crowd like a black hole and suck all the life from the party.

With his hands full of files, he went to the cabinet and opened the top drawer.

Well. Stephabeast might consider Nessa his secretary, but apparently he did not. Nessa tested him. “Would you like me to get you some coffee?”

“When we go out, we'll stop at Starbucks.”

She had been tense; sitting here watching a man work relaxed her to no end. “This is New Orleans. We'll stop at Deaux.” Oh! And she liked directing him, too.

“As you say.” He placed the manila folders in their proper position. “Are you familiar with the other branches?”

“Certainly. There's the occasional emergency that requires me to visit them to help out.”

“I want to interview all the tellers who were robbed.”

“This morning?”

“Of course.”

“I'll need to schedule them.”

“Pick some place neutral. Deaux, if you like it.” He shut the drawer and faced her. “Then I need to talk to the policeman in charge of the investigation.”

“That would be Chief Cutter.”

“You know him.”

“He's an old friend of the family.”

He nodded as if that confirmed some perception he held of her. “I was told you knew everyone in New Orleans.”

She was tense again. “Who told you that?”

“Is it true?”

“Yes, but…” But it was almost spooky how well he knew her, as if he'd been studying her from afar.

“Then I chose my associate wisely.”

Associate. She was flattered. Yet she wanted to question him further, to find out who'd talked to him about her. But he'd already proved he wouldn't answer her queries if he didn't wish to. She supposed that was the investigator part of his job; he had to protect his sources.

But what sources would talk so freely about her?

“So wherever we go, you'll do the talking?” he asked.

“I will.” When he looked at her as he did now, as if he knew what color panties she was wearing, the hair rose on the back of her head. She stood, a quick, uncomfortable leap to her feet. “I'll make the calls right now.”

“Do it here.”

No wonder he needed someone to help him out. He was the oddest, most abrupt man she'd ever met. Furthermore, although he worked while she made the calls, unloading his briefcase, loading DVDs into the new changer that had been placed there for his convenience, she was quite sure he was eavesdropping. Why, she didn't know. Calling the banks and sweet-talking the managers into releasing their employees for an hour was not that interesting. Nor were her calls to the tellers who had gone on to other jobs. When she put down the phone, she felt on edge. “We're set. Do we need to tell anybody we're leaving?”

“No.”

She waited, but apparently Jeremiah Mac saw no reason to explain himself—to her or to anyone.

Well, all right.

“I'll get my purse, Mr. Mac.”

“Call me Jeremiah.”

“All right, Jeremiah.” Stephabeast would hate that Nessa called him by his first name. She would hate that Nessa could leave during bank hours. She would hate that Nessa no longer reported to her—and she wouldn't say a word. Mr. MacNaught himself had demanded Nessa's cooperation.

Nessa found herself liking this assignment.

She got her purse out of her desk—the desk she'd said farewell to this morning, the one that sported an invisible and apparently unbreakable ball and chain—and with a cheerful wave at the tellers, walked across the lobby and out of the bank, Jeremiah Mac on her heels.

The heat and humidity had intensified. The street was getting busy. In the distance Nessa could hear the roar of the endless party on Bourbon Street. “Let's go to the corner. We can catch a cab there.”

Jeremiah walked a few steps away, then stopped to look back at the bank. “It looks like a house.”

“You would be right, sir.” Nessa listened in amusement as her Southern accent strengthened in response to the plain, flat notes of Jeremiah's Yankee voice. “This branch of Premier Central has a history. It was originally built before the War between the States by the prosperous Steve Williams family. The Williamses, being a New Orleans family of proper sentiment, backed the Confederacy, and by the time the war ended, their fortune had vanished.”

“It pays to back the winning side,” Jeremiah said without inflection.

“So it does, although some would say honor and integrity are more important than winning.”

“The some who say that—they've never held the shit end of the stick.”

An involuntary gust of amusement caught her by surprise, and she shook with laughter.

He watched her. “Right?”

“You most definitely are right.” So while he gave off the aura of wealth, at one time, he'd been poor. Poor enough to understand how poverty could grind one down, trap one in a dead-end job, and eat away at one's confidence until that person feared to make a move because disaster loomed so high.