Hunter of Shadows Page 3

  Her handsome protector had just become a major inconvenience.

  Three

  Pretending to be who and what he was not was an inbred means of survival. It made Silas a natural for undercover work. His quickness to adapt under pressure and absolute fearlessness in the face of danger put him right where he needed to be, under the nose of mobster Carmen Blutafino, and exactly where he wanted to be, partnered temporarily with Detective Alain Babineau of the NOPD. The need was professional, the want strictly personal, and his current job as dealer at Manny Blu’s private card table served both purposes well.

  MacCreedy had suggested the pairing when he and Babineau were soloed by partners on leave. Babineau, who was already undercover in Blu’s operation working a complex extortion case with Vice, got him in once they discovered a niche for his talents.

  Silas was good with cards. In a life so bereft of freedoms, a deck offering risk and chance, as well as financial rewards, had been infinitely appealing when he was younger. Not that he gambled. He had a cautious respect for the odds. But manipulating them was altogether different. He didn’t have to cheat, although he could do so without detection. He just had a flair for the table, shuffling and flicking out the various suits almost too quickly for the eye to follow, using dexterity and an uncanny knack for numbers to ensure that the house ruled.

  MacCreedy read Blutafino easily at their first meeting: a cheap hood longing for the polish of a respectable criminal. So Silas gave him what he wanted—the impression of class. He had his hands manicured and wore a tuxedo on his first night. He kept his face smooth, his short hair slick, and his expression one of elitist snobbery behind a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. The other employees thought him too pretentious for a strip club, but Manny loved it. After the first night Silas was moved to the private game behind closed doors, where the upper echelons of New Orleans came to indulge their vices. Right where he needed to be. Jackpot.

  Developer and mayoral candidate Simon Cummings sat at his table tonight, along with a midlevel arms dealer and a member of the archdiocese. Silas dealt, making no conversation and very little eye contact.

  After a few hands, Manny dropped by to chat with the players. The gun runner Artie Culper, who was knocking back scotch fairly liberally, pointed his glass at MacCreedy.

  “New dress code, Manny? Trying to give the joint a little sophistication?”

  Blutafino smiled easily. “He came with the monkey suit. Afraid a little style will rub off on you, Artie?”

  Artie took a long swallow, studying Silas over the rim of his glass with hard, suspicious eyes. “What happened to your other dealer?”

  “Dennis got himself picked up for a third DUI. He’ll be out of circulation for a while. Creed came highly recommended. He runs an honest table, don’t you, Mac?”

  “Yessir, Mr. Blutafino.”

  “There’s nothing honest about this place,” Artie scoffed. “And I don’t like strangers.”

  “We’re all friends here, Arthur.” Blutafino’s gaze chilled. “If you don’t think so, you can go elsewhere.”

  Artie gestured for a refill, sputtering, “I was just funning with you, Manny. You always show a fella a good time. I just don’t like putting my coin and trust in the hands of fellas I don’t know.” Another gauging look at MacCreedy.

  “Mac, show him your hands.” When Silas did so, Manny gripped one and crushed the fingers together, grinding until Silas winced. “These hands are his livelihood. Creed knows if there’s even the hint of something not on the level, he won’t be able to feed himself, let alone flip another card. Isn’t that right, Mac?”

  “Yessir, Mr. Blutafino,” he managed with just enough strain in his voice for Manny to release him to massage his hand.

  “Our employees are smart enough to be loyal, but in case a fool slips through, everyone on this level gets searched before leaving. What they do and see here stays here.”

  “Can we get back to the game, Culper, or does the man need to sit there in his Fruit of the Looms to prove he’s not taping something to sell for an exposé?” Cummings complained.

  The arms dealer laughed and shrugged. “No hard feelings.”

  “Of course not, sir.” Silas smiled thinly and called for a new deck.

  Once Blutafino moved away, Culper drew a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Anyone mind if I smoke?”

  MacCreedy produced an expensive gold lighter. “Allow me, sir.”

  Culper eyed him for a moment, then leaned forward to the suck flame into tobacco. “Thanks.” When Silas left the lighter out on the table, Artie felt generous enough, after insulting the man’s dignity, to ask, “You want one, or don’t they let you smoke?”

  “Not when I’m dealing, sir. ’Sides, my lady would have my head if she tasted smoke on me after I told her I’d quit.”

  The men chuckled and got back to cards, forgetting about the lighter that MacCreedy toyed with occasionally, using the tiny camera inside to document the faces of those present.

  Players came and went as the night wore on, and Silas began to wonder how he was going to get the lighter out of the room. It would pass casual scrutiny, but if viewed close up, the modifications were apparent. He excused himself from the table, letting another dealer take his place. He was heading for the men’s room when a new arrival caught his attention.

  Warren Brady. The police commissioner?

  Silas eased out of sight, just inside the hall leading to the bathrooms. Had the commissioner been advised of their undercover operation, or had he been purposefully kept out of the loop? What exactly was he here to discover? That corruption went all the way to the top?

  He doubted Brady would recognize him, given that he was newly transferred and rarely reported in person, but Babineau would be familiar to him. Hopefully their paths wouldn’t cross, since attendees of these games came and went through a private entrance.

  Was Brady careless enough to think his presence would go unnoticed? Was he stupid enough to be unaware of the dangerous compromise to his office? Or was he simply at home among his own kind? The investigation had just gotten a helluva lot more interesting.

  MacCreedy bummed a cigarette from one of the passing waitresses, then took his time lighting it, clicking off several shots of the commissioner and Blutafino shaking hands and laughing with Simon Cummings. And then a few snaps of something he hadn’t expected to see: Simon Cummings and undercover detective Alain Babineau with their heads together near the stairs, just outside the bustle of activity. It might have been nothing. It might have been a very big something. He needed to get the potentially damning photos out of the building, but handing the lighter off to Babineau suddenly didn’t look like a good idea.

  Mingling with a trio of high rollers calling it a night, Silas quickly took the stairs down to the main floor. In the glare of bright lights from the showroom where exotic dancers displayed their agility, MacCreedy cast about for a place to conceal his smuggled evidence.

  “Hey, Creed,” came a loud call. “What are you doing down here? You ain’t supposed to leave the game rooms until your shift is over.”

  He turned to see one of the massive bouncers striding his way. Damn. Now he’d not only have to explain, but also would most likely be searched on the spot. He had the lighter in his hand, readying to give it a toss when another voice intruded.

  “There you are, lover. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  He got a quick glimpse of glossy black hair and deep sapphire eyes. Then slender arms encircled his neck, pulling him down for a long, lusty kiss that had him gripping her narrow waist to keep his knees steady. Finally, she slid from his mouth to whisper against his cheek, “You looked like you might need some assistance.”

  He rubbed his hands up under the skimpy lace top she was wearing. There was no time to question her presence or motives as he tucked the lighter into the waistband of her scandalously short skirt, murmuring, “Take this for me. I’ll owe you one.”

  With his arm a
bout her hips, Silas turned to the glowering bouncer, Todd, with an awkward smile. “Sorry—had to let my lady know I was working late, and they don’t allow phone calls from upstairs. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to come down on my break.”

  She immediately produced a welling of tears. “You’re not going to get fired, are you? Because of me?” Her voice trembled.

  “No, miss,” Todd assured her quickly. “I’ll make sure he don’t. I’ll tell them he came down with me. Just this once.”

  She gave him a wide, wobbly smile that would have melted a heart of stone. “Thank you. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

  He flushed as she stroked his arm, then stammered gruffly to MacCreedy, “We’d better get you back before Mr. Blu sees you’re gone.”

  “Right away.” Then he turned his attention to the enigmatic woman at his side. “I’ll be by later to pick up where we left off.”

  She touched a soft kiss to his lips and said serenely, “I’m sure you will.”

  She answered his knock wearing loose black lounging pajamas with wide-legged pants and a cropped top. The fluid knit skimmed her long, sleek lines. Spaghetti straps bared pale shoulders and arms delineated by firm muscle. Her hair was loose, cascading to the middle of her back in soft, thick waves. Her feet were bare. Silas found the look dangerously alluring for its femininity and display of unapologetic strength. And his chest was suddenly so tight, he could barely take a breath.

  Simple sexual chemistry. An irresistible pheromone drawing him to his mate.

  Nonsense.

  He inhaled, holding his breath until his mind cleared and the clutch about his ribs relaxed.

  She handed him a glass of wine and let her gaze caress him. He’d come straight from the club, still wearing the tux. The tie hung loose about his neck and the first few buttons of his dress shirt were open. Her stare went to the chest hair revealed in that careless V, her deep blue eyes going a shade darker.

  “I feel seriously underdressed,” she murmured in that smoky voice.

  He didn’t react as her fingertips traced down the lapel of his jacket. “I don’t know your name.”

  She smiled. “Nica.”

  His heartbeat quickened as her touch traced over him, and he kept his tone brusque. “I believe you have something of mine, Nica.”

  Her smile faded at his abruptness. “Come in, Detective MacCreedy.” She turned away to start down a long hall.

  Silas had no choice but to follow. He’d been naïve to hope she’d just hand him his property at the threshold. “How did you find me?” he asked, trying to keep his gaze from the hypnotic sway of her hips.

  “I called your station, said one of their detectives had done me a great service and I wanted to write a note of appreciation. When I described you, they told me your name. Then I staked out your district office and followed you to the strip club.”

  Simple, logical, efficient. He admired practicality. And he more than admired her, even if her intentions were highly suspect. Following him wouldn’t have been an easy task; he was extra careful in his undercover role not to invite a tail. He had a very good idea of what she was and what she did, but that didn’t lessen the attraction. It should have.

  Why was his brain having such trouble keeping up with his libido?

  The wine, the sexy outfit, made him wary and aroused. If there’d been candles and music he would have backed away, recognizing a sensual trap. But the living area was well lit, and she headed for a laptop open on the coffee table. She sat on the couch, not the love seat, and patted the ample space next to her. As he sat, he looked to the computer to see one of his photos of the commissioner, Cummings, and Blutafino filling the screen—she’d already downloaded his images. Alarm stirred.

  He’d respected her privacy with the backpack, but she hadn’t returned the favor.

  Nica leaned back into the cushions and sipped her wine, watching his expression tighten. “What are you up to, MacCreedy? Indictment or extortion?”

  “That’s my business, not yours.” His tone was gruff with displeasure.

  “I believe you invited me to make it mine when you passed me these interesting snapshots to smuggle out. Try the wine. It’s an excellent pinot gris.”

  He ignored the glass on the table and gave her a challenging glare. “I want my property and any copies you might have made from it. And I want these erased.”

  “You want a lot and give little.” Her jaw squared with equal belligerence. “You make it sound as though I’m your enemy.”

  “I don’t know what you are.” He couldn’t seem to pull himself from her hypnotic gaze, and he fought the attraction threatening to drown him.

  “I told you, I have no stake in this game you’re playing. I’m merely a spectator intrigued by the entertainment value.”

  “I’m glad you’ve been amused. Give me my property.”

  Her tone could have frosted the glass in her hand. “Ask nicely.”

  His fierce expression didn’t soften as he drawled, “Pleeeease give me my property so I can go home.”

  She held his gaze for a long moment, then turned to the laptop, closing down the program and deleting the file from her hard drive. Surging up from the sofa, she stalked to the bar, reaching over it to find the lighter on the shelf behind it. Then she returned to the couch, tossing the lighter to him.

  “Apparently the Terriots still don’t train their beasts to have manners. Get out.”

  The smart thing would have been to go. Yet Silas hesitated, angered by her tone and words, shamed by his behavior toward a female who’d had no reason to help him, yet had. And agitated by the way her scent tormented his senses into a painful awareness, even as she glared at him with disdain. An apology started to form, but couldn’t best his abused pride.

  “I’m not on a leash to the Terriots,” he growled.

  “No?” she sneered. “If you wear their mark seared into your flesh, you obey their command. Expecting me to believe otherwise insults me even more than you have with your rudeness.”

  “I don’t care what you believe. You say you’re an independent? Don’t pretend you have any more freedom than the rest of us.”

  She grew even colder. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know you’re a slave to whoever holds your reins. We’re all bound by someone’s chains—so don’t act as if you have no master.”

  Visibly trembling, she said with a contemptuous chill, “You no longer amuse me. I was wrong to think I saw something in you. You’re a waste of my time.”

  “And you’ll take up no more of mine.”

  Silas surged to his feet, towering over her. She held her ground, clearly unimpressed by his size or his temper, fearless in her fury and purposely barring his exit.

  “You’re in my way,” he snarled. When she remained planted, he took her by the upper arms, intending to move her aside.

  But the feel of her bare skin shocked through him, awaking strange, overwhelming emotions. His focus faltered, then fixed upon her incredibly warm, smooth skin. So soft and deliciously scented. Desire rumbled and his hands lingered, lightly stroking, drifting upward to the firm curve of her shoulders. An earthquake of urgency shook him, and even as frantic logic argued against it, Silas knew he’d never wanted anything as desperately as he wanted this female.

  Nica’s pupils widened. She took a shuddering breath, then clasped the back of his head in her hands to drag him down to her parted lips.

  Explosive pleasure shut out all else.

  They kissed as if starved for the taste of each other, as if no other meal had ever satisfied. Deep, plunging, lapping kisses that quickly overpowered reason and resistance.

  Nica’s will weakened beneath the drugging sensation. This mindless, careless passion was a shock. Things she’d always avoided seemed a necessity with this overbearing male. She lost herself in the tight wrap of his arms, surrendering to a wild, hot madness.

  She let her legs give way, using the sudden slackening
weight of her body to unbalance him. Then it was easy to toss him down to her carpet, where she was instantly astride him. As the volcanic kisses continued, his hands clasped her waist to move her over the massive ridge of his erection until she was panting raggedly. She lifted off his lips just far enough to meet his gaze, those cool gray depths now an iridescent blue that confirmed he was as desperate for her as she for him.

  With a last tattered effort, Silas asked, “Do you still want me to go?”

  “No.” Her hand reached for the zipper of his tux pants. “I want you to come.”

  Her impatient growl lit a firestorm of need, inflaming desires Silas couldn’t comprehend or contain. His fingers hooked in the elastic band of her pants to shuck them down her sleek legs as he rolled her abruptly beneath him. An answering urgency kindled in her eyes as he palmed her hot sex, then plunged fingers into her molten core with rough repetitions until her eyes glazed and fluttered shut.

  She shuddered beneath him. Her hoarse cry broke into hurried gasps as she tugged his pants open and wrestled them down his hard flanks, then urged him to sink between the legs that quickly locked about his waist. His deep, claiming thrust and fierce, greedy demands rushed them toward a devastating pleasure that shattered them.

  Dazed, Silas wondered, What the hell just happened?

  “Am I mistaken, or did a Category Five just rip through here?”

  Nica’s slightly breathless and admiring question made Silas laugh as he toppled onto his back beside her. His senses surged and ebbed in a luxuriously intimate tide as he lay there with closed eyes. Her hand remained entwined with his as they slowly recovered.

  A soft, sensual sound purred from Nica, and Silas brought her hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. Bemused by his overwhelming sense of contentment, he opened his eyes and gazed through the skylight at the lit windows of the hotel looming over them.

  He chuckled. “I wonder if any of your neighbors were turned on by the show.”