Sweet Revenge (Full-length romantic suspense novel, New Orleans Trilogy book 2) Page 19

  He shoved the glass impatiently onto the nightstand. Que diable—none of it mattered. He'd never get the chance to find out which was the real Grace. She was leaving, and that was that.

  Sighing, he gingerly kneaded the unbruised area of his temple. "M'fous pas mal." Who the hell cared. After today he'd never see the woman again.

  * * *

  Creole snapped back to consciousness with a start. He must have drifted off for a minute. Forcing himself to turn on his side, he perused Grace's place. She'd drawn the filmy white curtains in the bedroom. The curtains they'd almost made love on top of.

  With an angry curse he shook off the unwanted memory and peered into her living room. He didn't see her, but two small suitcases stood ready and waiting by the door. And there was a man sitting on the couch.

  Creole bolted upright. What the hell…

  His blood curdled in his veins when he looked closer at the man's face. He recognized that face. He'd never forget it as long as he lived, etched as it was into his darkest memory—from the video of his brother's murder.

  For a brief moment he was paralyzed with horror. Where was Grace? What had they done to her? He scoured what he could see of the apartment for any sign. There! Something moved behind the opaque curtains in the bedroom! He could just make out two silhouettes—those of Grace and another man, facing each other.

  Almost blind with terror, Creole launched into action. Groping for his weapon—right where it was supposed to be. Stumbling to the phone—C'mon, c'mon Morris, answer!

  "Morris! Davies is in Grace's apartment. I'm going over there."

  Suddenly the man grabbed Grace's arms, savagely twisted them behind her and pushed her to the bed.

  Non!

  Creole threw down the phone and raced to the balcony. Le bon Dieu—

  Before he could complete the thought, he hurled himself over the rail like a madman and jumped. Praying he'd make it across the four feet of thin air to her balcony. In time.

  Chapter 15

  Grace struggled with all her might against the disgusting man who held her fast. She knew it was useless. Even if she got loose from this one, there were two others in the living room to catch her.

  He only laughed. "Give it up. Nothing you do's gonna save your cop lover boy." He sniggered, then pushed her onto the bed and leered into her face. "Or you, neither, sister."

  The perverse irony of his "endearment" hit her hard. Muse had risked her life to put this detestable scum and his boss in jail. Tears of pride stung Grace's eyes as she sank her teeth into the creep's arm. She could do nothing less.

  He backhanded her. "You little bit—" The crash of something heavy tumbling onto the balcony floor cut off his insult. "Just in time," the man sneered, looking up. "Wouldn't want to start the fun without your boyfriend here to watch."

  "Creole, no!" she screamed. "It's a trap!" Her captor drew a huge, ugly gun and dragged her to the French door. "Watch out!" she sobbed.

  He wrenched open the door, and for one horrible moment her heart stopped beating. Creole lay on his back on the balcony, frozen in a Mexican standoff with the two men from the living room—all guns drawn and pointing at each other. Nobody moved.

  The man holding her broke the impasse by pulling her forward and pressing the barrel of his weapon into her temple. "Drop it, Levalois, or I'll kill her now."

  "Let him!" she cried, and stomped the heel of her sensible loafer onto the man's instep, devoutly wishing she hadn't been so quick to discard Muse's lethal stilettos. "Run!"

  The three bad guys spared her amused glances before turning back to Creole, who gave her a look of such profound regret that her hovering tears threatened to spring free. He lowered his gun.

  "Let her go, Davies," he demanded quietly, as the other goon took it and yanked him to his feet. "It's me you want, not her."

  "Oh, but you're wrong," said the third man, a man whose eyes looked so evil it sent a chill down her spine. He slid his sleek weapon into the back of his waistband and straightened his stylish trousers. "I want both of you."

  It was then she knew with horrifying certainty, Davies was going to kill them.

  Somehow she found the strength to go on breathing. She could not give in to the pure dread that gripped her whole body in a suffocating vise. It would be too easy to succumb to it, to let her fate be decided by these corrupt, immoral demons who thought life was so cheap and meaningless. She must fight for what she believed in, fight for the lives of Davies's future victims if he succeeded in killing them and eluding justice once again. And fight for her own love, the man who sat across from her in the black limousine they'd been forced into, but who might as well be a million miles away.

  As they drove through the Quarter toward the Mississippi, Creole's expression was shuttered and unreadable in the bright afternoon light slanting through the limo's tinted windows. She wanted to reach out to him. Hold him. Reassure him that she didn't blame him for their awful predicament. Let him know she'd gladly die if it meant he'd go free.

  But they'd bound her wrists with duct tape and used Creole's own handcuffs to shackle his hands behind his back. He stared straight ahead at the air between them, refusing to meet her gaze. He was doing it again, exercising that uncanny ability of his to go into cop mode, to shut off all emotion, all sign of personal feeling. The only flicker she saw was when they cruised through an old, run-down section of the riverfront and pulled up to an ancient building labeled Louisa Street Warehouse. Why was that name so familiar?

  Letting out a deep sigh, she wondered what was going through his mind. And hoped like hell it was a plan to get them out of this mess.

  The fetid decay of wharfside refuse wafted from tumble-down structures as they were herded through a partially boarded-up door into the cavernous, deserted warehouse. The scuttle of small creatures and creepy-crawlies greeted her ears in the gray dimness, and she pressed closer to Creole.

  The whole place was horrifyingly familiar. From the brief glimpse she'd gotten on the tape. One look at Creole's face confirmed her darkest fears.

  Okay, now she was really scared.

  Up until this minute she'd been sure they would somehow escape. That Creole would find a way to overpower their captors. Or that Morris would come to their rescue. Something. Anything. But as she was pushed unceremoniously into a robust wooden chair similar to the one that had held Luke, and had her wrists taped to the heavy, splintery arms, she felt her confidence slither away like a rat abandoning ship.

  Omigod. She was going to die here. Just like Luke.

  "Please," she said hoarsely, speaking for the first time since being shanghaied into the limo, "What do you want from us? I don't have the tape anymore. Fox took it."

  "Fox will be dealt with," Davies said, his tone brittle and cold as flint. "As for you two … let's just say your interference in my business is starting to annoy me. I don't like being annoyed."

  Despite the ovenlike heat that suffused the warehouse, Grace shivered. She didn't know how to respond. To deny their involvement would be folly on many levels. To apologize, unthinkable.

  "You'll be a hell of a lot more annoyed when you fry for killing a cop," Creole said as if unaffected by the threat they were under. "Even you haven't been that stupid up till now."

  Grace licked her lips. Obviously Creole had also decided they were going to die, and meant to go down in flames. There was a certain dignity in self-destruction under these circumstances, she supposed. Still, she didn't like the look that came over Davies's face at Creole's commentary. Maybe if they didn't antagonize him, he'd make their deaths quick and painless.

  A light snapped on, circling her in a yellowish glow. Her stomach clenched when one of the two goons entered the warehouse carrying a video camera on a tripod. The unbidden image of Luke's bound and battered body snaked through her mind.

  Sweet mercy. Would she be forced to endure a similar fate? And Creole, too? Suddenly death seemed a much more appealing alternative.

  She glanced a
t Creole where he'd been bound to a matching chair. His face was white as a ghost, his eyes glued to the camera. His throat worked, and for a second she thought he might be sick. They had discarded the handcuffs and taped both his wrists and ankles to the sturdy arms and legs of his chair, which had been placed a few yards away and facing her. He yanked at his bonds, trying in vain to free himself.

  "Let her go, Davies," he repeated in a ragged shout, and she suddenly realized the terror that blazed in his eyes was for her—not himself. "I'll die real good for you. You don't need her." Again he jerked at the tape.

  The devil laughed. "Sure you will, if I decide to kill you. Maybe I'll just burn out your eyes and let you live. After seeing what I do to your lady, living might be worse torture than anything I could come up with." Again demonic laughter. Then he stuck his face close to Creole's. "And teach you cops to leave me and my business alone!"

  She watched in horror as Creole spat in Davies's face. And felt her blood curdle. It was going to go badly for her. Very badly. And in the worst possible way—impersonal, cold-blooded, unmerciful cruelty, with no rhyme or purpose other than to hurt Creole.

  Davies calmly walked over to her, accepting a thin, cloth-covered bundle from one of his henchmen. Eyeing the long package nervously, she took a deep, steadying breath. There was no way she would play along with this macabre script. No matter what was done to her, she must not show her suffering. She would spare the man she loved that much. He had enough agony to live with. She would not add her own to his burden.

  She closed her eyes and prayed for strength as she listened to the tink of metal implements being unwrapped, the click and whir of the camera being set up, and Davies's voice giving the order to shoot Creole's legs with his own gun if he tried anything.

  She kept them shut tight when her blouse was ripped open and torn from her shoulders. And when she heard Davies light a cigarette in front of her, and smelled the nasty, acrid scent of the smoke as it curled over her face.

  But when she heard Creole's strangled, "Non!" and burst of Cajun invective, she wrenched them opened and looked past her tormentor, latching steadfastly onto her lover's desperate eyes.

  Despite shaking like a leaf, she straightened her spine and tried to appear strong and calm, as though she weren't about to faint from sheer terror. To reassure him she could take whatever was dished out. But she hadn't seen the tape, and the panic in his eyes told her he knew better than to believe her naive assurances.

  "I love you," she mouthed, knowing it might be the last time she'd be able to say the words. Regret, sharp and poignant, stabbed through her. Why hadn't she told him last night, as she lay in his arms?

  She noted almost absently that the lens of the video camera was pointed at Creole's tortured face, and not at her as she'd expected. A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek and over his clenched jaw, dropping onto his stark white T-shirt.

  Davies stepped closer to her, lowering the cigarette in his hand to the level of her chest. A deathly calm wrapped itself around her soul, and she braced herself for the impact of its red glowing tip onto the flesh above her breast.

  She clamped her teeth against it, against the scream fighting to erupt, and bit into her tongue until she tasted blood. Waiting…

  Suddenly Creole roared, and with a sharp crack and a crash was on his feet, the heavy chair fractured to kindling. Splintered wood sailed everywhere.

  At the same time a loud bang cracked through the warehouse. From her fog of panic, she saw Creole swing his fists wildly, aided by the chair arms still taped to them. His two guards flew to the floor.

  Dimly, she realized that Davies hadn't even reacted.

  He stood over her, paralyzed, not moving a muscle. The cigarette dropped from his fingers, landing in her lap. An odd expression seeped over his face, and the strangest thing happened. A delicate spray of scarlet rain sprinkled over her, and a bright red coin-size hole appeared in the middle of his forehead. Everything went deathly quiet. Fascinated, she watched a stream of crimson spurt from the coin and spread over his face. Then he collapsed at her feet.

  All at once the warehouse was full of people. Agent Morris shouted at the center of the hubbub. She didn't understand what all the fuss was about. Creole suddenly yelled and dove at her, brushing at her legs with frantic fingers. Vaguely she was conscious of a hot biting sensation in her thigh, and the smell of burnt fabric. The cigarette, she thought impassively, as he ripped the duct tape from her wrists.

  He uttered her name in an anguished voice, pulled her to her feet, and then she was surrounded by his strong, wonderful arms. Everything else melted away but the scent and feel of his powerful body cradling hers. He muttered something in Cajun, then held her out and asked, "Are you all right? Talk to me, woman."

  "I'm good," she murmured. "Now." Sighing, she pressed back into his warm embrace. Not for anything would she let him go. Not ever.

  He kissed her hair. "Dieu, I thought I'd go crazy."

  Over his shoulder she saw something that made her mouth part in surprise. It was a woman—a woman who looked remarkably like her. A gun was cradled in her unsteady grip, pointing shakily at Davies, as though she was afraid if she lowered it the monster would rise up from his pool of blood on the floor and sneak away.

  A tall, dark-haired man stood at the woman's side, gently rubbing her arms, speaking earnestly, trying to coax the gun from her fingers. She appeared numb with shock, and resisted his efforts. Morris hovered behind them, teetering in a comical vignette of indecision. She looked at the woman again.

  Grace gripped Creole's shoulders, unable to believe her eyes.

  Muse? Could it really be? Her look-alike suddenly glanced up, meeting Grace's stunned gaze, and the gun tumbled into the man's waiting hands.

  It was!

  "Muse! Oh, my God, it's Muse!"

  * * *

  Creole took several steps backward and observed the sisters embrace, hugging and crying, hugging and crying some more. He wanted to be happy for Grace. After all, it was for this touching reunion with her twin that Grace had come to New Orleans.

  And he was happy for her. Honestly, he was. But he wanted it to be him she clung to like she'd never let go.

  He sighed, brushing off the EMT who was attempting to examine his arms for splinters. And no, he didn't need to be smeared with any damn antiseptic ointment, either. What he needed was a good, hefty dose of anesthetic. Something that would dull the craven fear that had lodged in his heart the second Davies lit that cigarette, knowing what he planned to do with it—and on whom. Something strong, that would take away the nightmare of not being able to prevent it from happening. Something numbing, that would deaden the pain of Grace turning to another for comfort and support after the ordeal was finally over.

  She'd left him. Even after she'd said she loved him.

  His chest tightened unbearably, remembering the tender look in her eyes as she'd silently formed those three precious words across the no-man's-land of hopelessness that had separated them. As if she'd truly meant it.

  Dieu, he couldn't recall the last time he'd shed a tear. Not as a child. Certainly not in the last three decades of his life. But at that quiet declaration of love, a lifetime of pain and unfairness had become too much to bear.

  Even before those words he would have done anything, anything at all, to save her. But tasting the salt of his own desolation had ignited something deep within him. Fury over their destined fate had exploded into a burst of rage so overwhelming it had fueled him with the strength of ten men.

  He'd wanted to kill Davies with his bare hands. And he would have, too, given another five seconds. Instead of the gratitude he should feel toward Muse for sparing him the evil and doing the job for him, he only felt an immense frustration that he'd been denied the opportunity.

  Seeing Morris was about to cart off Davies's two cohorts, he strode over to rescue his Glock from them—and a mountain of federal paperwork and red tape. Angrily he thrust the weapon into his empty should
er holster and adjusted the straps. This time the familiar weight didn't help a damned bit. He still wanted to stalk across the room and snatch Grace from the shelter of her sister's arms and back into his own. He fisted his hands against the urge, telling himself to get a grip.

  He was being a selfish jerk and he knew it. Grace was the innocent victim here, not him. She was the one who'd nearly had her flesh burned, not him. And it had been Grace's sister who'd rescued her, not him.

  He had no right to feel abandoned or betrayed. No right to feel bitter that someone else was holding her and soothing her. He had no claim on her, and she didn't need him. She'd made that clear enough this morning. Her pretty, impulsive words had changed nothing. She'd only said them because she thought they were about to die. He knew that.

  But he also knew he had to get out of there. Quick. Before his hurt and jealousy became painfully apparent to everyone on the planet. Schooling his expression, he spun on a toe, heading for the warehouse exit. And ran smack into the dark, rangy man who'd talked Muse down after the shooting.

  "Sorry, didn' see you," he clipped out, trying to step around the man he figured for FBI.

  "No problem." The man casually blocked the path and jerked his chin at Davies's body, which was being examined by the combined FBI and NOPD Crime Scene Units. "A nasty piece of work, eh?"

  Creole backed off, putting some space between them. "Yeah." He crossed his arms and peered over at the remains of the man who had been his obsession for the past three months, and very nearly the death of him. "Yeah, bien mauvais," he muttered. Very nasty.

  He should be relieved that it was all over. His brother's killer was dead, his own vow fulfilled. But mainly what he felt was … hollow.

  The FBI man held out his hand, sympathy flowing from his discerning gaze. "You're Detective Levalois, non? I'm Special Agent Beaulieux. Remi to my friends."