women. A voice boomed over the public-address system, but she couldn't make out the words. There was only sensation, the feel of Cain's body pressed to hers, his hands against her back.
Just as quickly the moment crystallized, leaving her staring up at Cain, a man with dangerously hypnotic eyes and a mouth capable of sin—and salvation. Standing in the circle of his arms, with the heat of his body soaking into hers, her mind screamed caution, but her heart mourned. And her body craved.
The ribbon of longing unfurled through her like a spool of shrapnel-lined silk, unbearably soft but devastatingly sharp, seducing and slicing at the same time.
Before she could stop herself, not even sure she wanted to, she pushed up on her toes and lifted her mouth to his.
CHAPTER NINE
New Orleans
Twenty-two months earlier
I love games. I'm good at them. I enjoy the nuances and the strategy. I adore the cunning. Laying traps and luring my opponent in, smiling as I do so, it's all part of the fun.
Defeat is not an option.
From behind a contorted modern-art sculpture, I watch Detective Cain Robichaud pull his mobile phone from his pocket and bring it to his face. I watch his body tense, his expression darken. I can tell he's protesting. I see him frown. And I smile.
Because in the end he mutters under his breath and walks away, abandoning the rendezvous he'd arranged to coincide with the warehouse district's monthly street festival.
The good detective cuts his way through the crowd of art shoppers and club hoppers, but it's not until he rounds a corner that I lose sight of him. Courtesy of an emergency that does not exist, he's gone. Soon he'll realize the diversion, but I should have enough time to milk his informant.
Tensions are escalating. Another casino owner has gone missing. Some say a Goose has been stolen. That someone is fighting back…
…that someone else is about to be taught a lesson.
I recognize the informant immediately and make my way toward Mimi's, the eclectic art gallery specializing in pink poodles and purple monkeys. He's got a to-go cup in his hand and a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He's nervous. That's what gives him away.
A smile, some small talk, and soon I've got him in my pocket. I suggest we go somewhere more private, and with a nauseating gleam in his eyes, the man who calls himself Manuel agrees.
Once we're alone behind a renovated warehouse, the dark-skinned man with long dreadlocks leans against the brick wall. "He's going to own this town," he brags. "A pretty woman like you, he might enjoying owning you, too."
I grit my teeth. "I'm not for sale."
"That's what they all say," he says, then drags on his cigarette. "But Oncle has ways of changing people's minds."
So I've heard. "Why do they call him the Goose?" I ask, pretending ignorance.
Manuel laughs. "The Goose isn't a person, mais non . The Goose is Oncle's trump card. It's how he's going to own the city."
I know that much. Just two days before, I overheard my brother vowing to gets his hands on one. He said it was the only way to beat them.
Of course, when he saw me, he clammed up.
I want to know why. "I don't understand."
Manuel takes a last drag on his cigarette and drops it. "People think computers are where it's at, that all that modern who-ha makes them better, stronger. But all you gotta do is go to the movies to know computers are going to be the undoing of society. All it takes is something the size of a nickel to—"
I see his eyes go wide and, without turning to look, I know.
"To what, Manuel? Something the size of a nickel can do what?"
The deceptively quiet challenge jump-starts my pulse. I spin toward the voice, not at all prepared for the sight of him standing so close, or the awareness in his eyes. He knows.
"Detective."
He looks over me, toward Manuel. "I thought you'd see things my way."
And by the time I look over my shoulder, the other man has vanished around the corner.
"Well, well," Cain
Just as quickly the moment crystallized, leaving her staring up at Cain, a man with dangerously hypnotic eyes and a mouth capable of sin—and salvation. Standing in the circle of his arms, with the heat of his body soaking into hers, her mind screamed caution, but her heart mourned. And her body craved.
The ribbon of longing unfurled through her like a spool of shrapnel-lined silk, unbearably soft but devastatingly sharp, seducing and slicing at the same time.
Before she could stop herself, not even sure she wanted to, she pushed up on her toes and lifted her mouth to his.
CHAPTER NINE
New Orleans
Twenty-two months earlier
I love games. I'm good at them. I enjoy the nuances and the strategy. I adore the cunning. Laying traps and luring my opponent in, smiling as I do so, it's all part of the fun.
Defeat is not an option.
From behind a contorted modern-art sculpture, I watch Detective Cain Robichaud pull his mobile phone from his pocket and bring it to his face. I watch his body tense, his expression darken. I can tell he's protesting. I see him frown. And I smile.
Because in the end he mutters under his breath and walks away, abandoning the rendezvous he'd arranged to coincide with the warehouse district's monthly street festival.
The good detective cuts his way through the crowd of art shoppers and club hoppers, but it's not until he rounds a corner that I lose sight of him. Courtesy of an emergency that does not exist, he's gone. Soon he'll realize the diversion, but I should have enough time to milk his informant.
Tensions are escalating. Another casino owner has gone missing. Some say a Goose has been stolen. That someone is fighting back…
…that someone else is about to be taught a lesson.
I recognize the informant immediately and make my way toward Mimi's, the eclectic art gallery specializing in pink poodles and purple monkeys. He's got a to-go cup in his hand and a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He's nervous. That's what gives him away.
A smile, some small talk, and soon I've got him in my pocket. I suggest we go somewhere more private, and with a nauseating gleam in his eyes, the man who calls himself Manuel agrees.
Once we're alone behind a renovated warehouse, the dark-skinned man with long dreadlocks leans against the brick wall. "He's going to own this town," he brags. "A pretty woman like you, he might enjoying owning you, too."
I grit my teeth. "I'm not for sale."
"That's what they all say," he says, then drags on his cigarette. "But Oncle has ways of changing people's minds."
So I've heard. "Why do they call him the Goose?" I ask, pretending ignorance.
Manuel laughs. "The Goose isn't a person, mais non . The Goose is Oncle's trump card. It's how he's going to own the city."
I know that much. Just two days before, I overheard my brother vowing to gets his hands on one. He said it was the only way to beat them.
Of course, when he saw me, he clammed up.
I want to know why. "I don't understand."
Manuel takes a last drag on his cigarette and drops it. "People think computers are where it's at, that all that modern who-ha makes them better, stronger. But all you gotta do is go to the movies to know computers are going to be the undoing of society. All it takes is something the size of a nickel to—"
I see his eyes go wide and, without turning to look, I know.
"To what, Manuel? Something the size of a nickel can do what?"
The deceptively quiet challenge jump-starts my pulse. I spin toward the voice, not at all prepared for the sight of him standing so close, or the awareness in his eyes. He knows.
"Detective."
He looks over me, toward Manuel. "I thought you'd see things my way."
And by the time I look over my shoulder, the other man has vanished around the corner.
"Well, well," Cain
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