Born to be Bad. Crystal Green

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СКАЧАТЬ She wiped at the heat steaming the straight tendrils of her upswept hair into curlicues while the man’s disembodied voice continued to bluster behind the wall. A fountain tinkled in the background.

      Water. The splashes reminded her of Orange County, California, where the dog days of summer were tempered by beach winds and afternoons by the swimming pool.

      But that’s not where she belonged. She’d visited New Orleans and had never left, especially after the Weekly Gossip job had come along. The tabloid had sounded good because she’d been desperate for income and experience.

      Besides, the “Big Easy” had always sounded adventurous, a bit scary. Naughty.

      The last place anyone who knew “nice” Gemma Duncan would’ve expected her to end up.

      Over the courtyard wall, another male voice had joined the first one. Gemma idly closed her eyes, listening, lulled by the southern afternoon sounds.

      “You’re playing with some fire, here, Mr. Lamont. I’ll leave now, before our meeting humiliates you further.”

      Gemma’s eyes eased open, lured by the second man’s voice. His tone had the rough undertow of a bayou night, where unknown dangers were hidden by darkness, the buzz of crickets, the lap of black water against crumbling docks.

      A warm ache shocked her lower belly, then pulsed lower, urging her to press her thighs together. Man, if a mere voice could get her going, she really needed a date. Maybe it was time to start meeting more people and doing less work.

      People such as…

      She strained to hear him again, that echo of her fantasies—shadow-edged and wild, with just a hint of foreign danger.

      Right, she thought. Only in my craziest dreams.

      Most disappointingly, the first man was talking again, his N’awlins accent charged with anger. “You rigged that roulette wheel and bled me last night. Did you invite me to that gaming room with ruination in mind, Theroux?”

      Theroux? She knew that name.

      An intimidating pause spoke volumes, and she could imagine the accuser, Lamont, backing up a few steps.

      “Anything else?” Theroux asked. “After all, you invited me to meet with you alone, and I expected to deal in some true business with a man of your stature. But your threats don’t interest me, Lamont. Neither does your desperation.”

      “I resigned from the company three months ago, so you can’t hold anything against me now.” Lamont’s voice shook a little. “I’ve become a better man.”

      “After you’ve tasted what your employees had to endure? I think so.”

      “What are you, Theroux? Some self-appointed avenger? Yes? I lost a lot of money in your joint. I could—”

      “But you won’t. You’ll keep your voice down and go back to your home unruffled. Understand?”

      Had Theroux stolen from this Lamont? And what was all this talk about employees and revenge?

      Heart fluttering during the ensuing hesitation, Gemma shrank away from the gate, sheltering herself behind the brick wall. Maybe she should leave, but her inner journalist wouldn’t allow it. Sometimes the best stories were the ones you stumbled over.

      Damien Theroux was gossip gold, a city legend. A fixture in the good-old-boy network.

      Just by picturing what kind of man went with that kind of voice, she grew a little feverish.

      Was he suave? Graying at the temples? As bearish as Tony Soprano?

      While she considered it, Theroux’s victim, Lamont, was no doubt taking a moment to gather himself. He finally responded with more respect. “All I want is my money back, Mr. Theroux. I’ve worked hard for it.”

      “Not as hard as I did. And, rest assured, the proceeds will go to a proper place.”

      “Please!” Lamont’s voice cracked. “I’ll have to sell my home, you realize.”

      More silence cut through the humidity, and Gemma held her breath. The brick wall scratched against her cheek as she slipped down an inch, knee joints turning to liquid.

      This was ridiculous, hiding like a child. Eavesdropping. But she couldn’t leave. Wouldn’t leave.

      Heavy footsteps neared the gate. With a guilty start, Gemma opened her eyes, then darted behind a long, exhausted bronze Buick parked streetside. She held her crinkling plastic souvenir bag against her thigh, hoping it wouldn’t make another sound.

      She’d hit rock bottom, spying like this.

      As the iron gate moaned open, Lamont’s tortured voice echoed the rusty hinges. “You’re not getting away with this. You are not all-powerful, Damien Theroux!”

      Damien Theroux. Confirmation that this was the shady man she’d read about in the newspapers.

      She could hear Theroux’s steps come to a halt.

      “I wish I had the power of gods,” he said. “Then I’d fleece you in the afterlife, too, when we’re both in hell.”

      Oh, what a quote that’d make. Gemma only wished she had her tiny recorder on.

      From the sound of it, Lamont was getting braver, closer, as if he was at the gate, too. “Wouldn’t the public love to know about these other dealings? Your weaknesses? I think a few of your competitors read the papers, if you catch my meaning.”

      Theroux merely laughed—but not because he was entertained, obviously. Or maybe he was.

      By now, Gemma’s head was swimming. This could lead to a real story. Maybe an exposé of one of New Orleans’s most intriguing characters?

      Her ticket to respect.

      If she could just find out exactly what these “other” dealings were.

      After the seemingly endless lack of response, Theroux spoke. “I think you’re too smart to talk about my business, Mr. Lamont, if you catch my meaning.”

      That must have done the trick for Lamont because Theroux continued swinging open the gate. He shut it with finality and walked away.

      Oh, thank God, thank God, thank God he hadn’t seen her crouched by the Buick.

      As she waited a beat, a car drove by. Nonchalantly, Gemma flashed a smile at the miffed driver while he watched her hiding.

      When he’d passed, she paused another moment, peeking around the car, watching an overweight, bald man—Lamont—as he trudged back toward his foliage-obscured brick home. Moments later, he slammed his door.

      Quivering with the buzz of career success, Gemma peeked around the other side of the Buick, focusing on a tall, broad-shouldered, wiry figure as he moved down the street with the walk of a predator—slightly hunched, wary.

      He had black shoulder-length hair that echoed the lazy wisps of a fine cigar’s smoke. Hair that reminded СКАЧАТЬ