on her bouncing upon the wide shoulder of his varsity jacket. She grimaced for his benefit. “These hormones are killing me. No man in his right mind messes with an expectant mama unless he wants her wearing his balls as earrings.”
“Ouch!” Her All-American handsome partner winced in universal male empathy. “Thanks for the head’s up.” He took over the handling of the low-level hood while she unstrapped the additional padding that had increased the illusion of vulnerability, but also protected her own slightly-rounded middle.
Glare darting between them, the thug recovered enough to threaten, “I know the drill. This is entrapment. You ain’t getting no charge to stick. My lawyer’ll have your nuts!”
Babineau smirked down at him. “We’re not after you, Leo. You’re a small fry. You got yourself two choices I can see. One, we let it slip that you’re cooperating with our investigation, a real blabbermouth, naming all kinds of names. You wouldn’t last a day back on the street.”
The punk’s bravado crumpled. Finally, he asked, “And two?”
“You cooperate. Point us up the food chain, and we protect your dumb ass. You’re just an appetizer. We’re after the main course.”
The partners waited while frantic wheels spun in the muck of Leo’s fear and greed. Greed won out. “What’s in it for me?”
Detectives Caissie and Babineau exchanged glances. She took the lead with a brusque, “Depends on whatchu got to trade, and what we think it’s worth.”
“My contact. Names, dates, places,” he offered with cunning desperation.
“You’ll wear a wire?”
He hedged at that. “I’d be dead man walkin’!”
“Not if you’re smart. You look to be a smart boy.”
He studied her like the beady-eyed rat they wanted him to become as she pulled off the scarf shadowing strongly cut, make-up free features. Taking in the aggressive bristle of black hair, multiracial skin tone, and hard dark eyes, he frowned as thoughts leapt beyond his precarious situation. “I seen you before,” he mused, head tipping slightly. “Not on the streets. Not without your face paint.” Realization struck like a slug from her Sig. “On the news. With Max Savoie.”
Babineau arched a brow in her direction. “You are a photogenic pair, Detective.” He smiled slightly at the rapidly paling criminal and jumped to take advantage of his alarm. “And just how you think Max Savoie’ll take to hearin’ you made rough with his wife? His pregnant wife. Were I you, I’d stop worrying about your bosses and consider what he’ll do.”
Fear of the NOPD came nowhere close to the threat of New Orleans’ notorious Mob henchman. Savoie’s name was whispered with the same awed terror as the Boogeyman. He’d been the cold, soul-devouring darkness at the back of Jimmy Legere’s empire, the whisper of ill-fated doom answering to his call alone, until a tough as nails detective had claimed his heart and his allegiance . . . according to reporter Karen Crawford and the news. Savoie now controlled Legere’s legacy, turning it from crime into a powerful business, allowing him to walk, bold as you please, into society soirees with the same unruffled chill he’d once maintained while wading in blood and retribution.
Max Savoie was someone no one with a brain or a prayer for a future messed with.
Voice shaky, Leo Pomerelli insisted, “Take me in . . . then we’ll talk.”
– – –
He felt her presence even before gates opened onto the long drive leading to their gracefully crumbling plantation house. Her essence teased up his nose, stirring awareness like a smooth stone dropping into a deep pond. Ripples of warmth and desire spread outward in eager little shivers.
She was home, and everything calmed in his complicated world.
He waited, still as the heavy antique furnishings, a large indistinguishable shape teased out by flames from the low parlor fire as the front door opened. Shoulders relaxed at the brisk staccato of low heels on marble tile. Her silhouette hurried by. The tap of footsteps paused, backtracking until she framed the doorway the way she did his life, with her strength, proud stature, and shrewd intuition. Her smile flashed in welcome.
“There you are.”
His reply rumbled, a rough caress. “Welcome home, sha. How was your day?” Those simple domestic comments steeped in intimacy relaxed the taut line of her stance.
“Same ole, same ole.” She entered the room with her long, confident stride, crossing to him as an end rather than a means to the rest of the day. Fingertips brushed over the bristle of evening stumble on his cheek on their way to cup the back