Thigh High (9 page)

“You okay?” She fumbled her cell phone out of her purse.

“What are you doing?” Mac asked sharply.

“Calling the police.”

He caught her hand. “Don't bother. He's long gone.”

“But there's a gun. They could get fingerprints—”

“And do what? Catch some drug user who is already on parole? As has been pointed out to me multiple times today, during Mardi Gras, the police don't have time to do more than herd people.” With a grimace, Mac rose to his feet, then fixed his dark eyes on her. “Why in the hell did you throw those hailstones? Don't you know you're not supposed to resist a mugging?”

“Why the hell did you kick him?” She mimicked him. “Don't you know you're not supposed to resist a mugging?”

He didn't answer. He used his silence to demand an explanation, and she found herself muttering, “I hate thieves.”

He laughed, a brief bark of amusement.

That startled her. She didn't know he
could
laugh. “I don't see what's so funny. I hate being robbed. I work too hard for my money to hand it over.”

“You could have been hurt.”

“
I
could have been hurt? What about you?
I
didn't do an imitation of Bruce Lee. Not to mention—” A tear on his jacket caught her attention. On the side, under his arm, right through the fabric. She could see light through it. “What did you do? Did you—”

The pistol had gone off. The pistol had discharged.

“Damn it, he shot you.” She lifted the material.

She expected to see that the bullet had struck only the coat. Because otherwise, how was he standing?

But a red stain spread across his white shirt.

“My God, he shot you,” she repeated, her voice rising. She caught at him. “Sit down. Let me—”

“It's nothing.”

“Nothing? You're bleeding.”

He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to his side. “The bullet nicked me, that's all.”

“I'll call an ambulance.”

Again, as she lifted her phone to her ear, he caught her hand. “No.”

“You've been shot.” Didn't he understand how serious this was?

“I'll go back to my hotel and wrap it up.”

“Wrap it…it's a gunshot wound. You can't just wrap it up!”

He was starting to look amused. “The bullet didn't even puncture an organ.”

“Oh, well, then. As long as it didn't take out a kidney or anything,” she said sarcastically.

“If I'd been a little quicker on the kick, he wouldn't have gotten the shot off at all.”

“Shame on you! You're not up on your karate!”

He seemed to take her seriously. “I work on it three times a week, but I was in my twenties when I started lessons. I was too old to have developed the necessary speed.”

She didn't understand his pigheaded insistence about not going to the hospital, but then, she never understood this stiff-upper-lip stuff. “You are such a guy.” She lifted her phone, and when he would have caught her hand again, she glared. “I'm calling in a favor with the cab company. They'll figure out a way to come and get us.”

He lifted his brows. “Where are we going?”

“I'm taking you to my house.”

 

You are a dumb shit, boy.

Russell Whipple ran, aiming his steps for the spots without hailstones.

You couldn't hit your butt with both hands.

The breath seared his lungs. Sweat dribbled from under his hat and the scarf over his face.

Stop whimpering, boy, and take your lickings.

His hand throbbed from that kick. He knew plenty about broken bones, and nothing was broken, but God damn, who knew that big bastard could jump like that? And that bitch—she'd hit him hard enough with that hailstone to cut his head.

You clumsy little shit, you can't do anything right.

He took a chance and glanced behind him.

He was alone. Well, except for a couple of tourists wandering along, looking lost, and a busboy smoking at the back door of a restaurant.

Panting, Russell leaned against the wall, pulled off the hat, used the scarf to wipe the sweat off his face, and made himself relive the scene.

It had started when he caught a glimpse of Jeremiah MacNaught.

He hadn't believed it. He thought for a moment that he'd been concentrating on him so hard, his mind had conjured him up. But there he was, walking along, head and shoulders above the tourists. Then the crowd had parted, and Russell saw who held him by the hand.

Ionessa Dahl.

Mugging them had been a whim, a whim brought on by too much work and too little sleep. He hadn't planned it.

You little shit, you're a screwup.

But his revenge on Mac was perfectly designed. He'd spent months putting everything in place, and the fact that Mac was in town…. Well, one more plan had to be implemented.

Because the way Russell saw it, Mac had to die.

This time, he would stay dead.

If Mac had planned it, it couldn't have worked out better. He was stepping out of a cab at the Dahl House, assisted by Ionessa Dahl herself.

He let her pay the driver, then slip her arm around his back and help him up the front walk.

He appraised the house as he walked. No wonder the thing was on the National Registry. It looked like the old mansions in Philadelphia, the kind he'd visited while earning his way through college.

The wraparound front porch was six feet off the ground, the steps leading up to it broad and worn. The house, handsome, brick, with all the trim painted white, rose two stories with an attic above that. Yet the paint was peeling, and even from here he could see rot on the exposed wood.

Still, this was Southern grandeur at its most attractive. “Nice place,” he said in deliberate understatement.

She laughed, a brief gurgle of surprised amusement. “We like it.”

“We?”

“My aunts and I.”

“So you have family.” In his experience, family was nothing to brag about.

But her smile crooked up fondly. “My great-aunts Hestia and Calista. When my parents were killed, they took me in.”

“That's a good deed.” One, in his experience, she'd had to pay for, over and over again.

“They're good people, born and raised in the city. Everyone knows them. Everyone loves them. The Dahl Girls and the Dahl House are legend in New Orleans.” She scanned the outside as if looking for something, then let out a sigh of relief. “At least it didn't hail here.”

“How do you know?”

“The roof isn't damaged. We had to get a new one after Katrina. The hurricane ripped the shingles off.”

“The Garden District is high ground, I've heard.”

“It is. That's why the house survived with no flood damage.” She helped him up the stairs. “But once the roof went, it leaked and we had to repair damages inside. Not to mention every window was broken.”

He remembered the troubles New Orleans suffered after the hurricane. “Looters?”

“Oh, no. My aunts refused to leave the house, and they had guns. Looters didn't stand a chance. The windows went during the hurricane—flying debris.” Nessa pointed at the giant live oak in the side yard, then opened the front door and maneuvered him inside. “They told me branches snapped off like twigs and flew around the yard.”

“You didn't stay?” The entry way was huge, with doors leading off it and a magnificent stair made of gleaming wood and polished within an inch of its life.

“They wouldn't let me.” That obviously didn't sit well with Nessa.

An elderly woman, tall and straight, dressed in a vintage fifties-style purple silk dress, with a turban wrapped around her head, came bustling out of the dining room. “Of course we couldn't let you stay, dear girl. You're young. We're old. Someone has to carry on the family line.” She eyed Mac, appraising first Nessa's arm around him, then his face and body, as a suitable candidate.

Clearly annoyed, Nessa said, “
Not
right
now
, Aunt Hestia. I'm too busy trying to get Mr. Jeremiah Mac somewhere where I can bandage his gunshot wound.” She pulled his jacket back.

Vaguely, Hestia blinked at the bloodied shirt, then at him. “Young man, are you in danger of dying?”

“No, the bullet only took a bit of skin.” He would be sore, but not unduly so.

“Then, Nessa, don't let him bleed on the rug,” Hestia scolded. “The guests will start arriving in an hour.”

On one side of the entry, large double doors were flung open. Inside, he could see a small ballroom, and in the corner a band was setting up. On the other side, he saw the dining room where white-coated caterers decorated a long table and the sideboard. Rich odors of sausage, garlic, and peppers permeated the air. His stomach took notice and growled. “You're having a party,” he said.

“Yes.” Nessa's jaw set in annoyance. “It's the Dahl House Mardi Gras party.”

“It is a social event of some magnitude,” he suggested, and watched in amusement for her reaction.

“Of course it is,” Hestia said vigorously. “Guests fight for an invitation. I'm so glad Nessa has a date, and one that seems so…well, Mr. Mac, don't be insulted, but you seem almost normal.”

“Have I disappointed you?” She certainly acted as if he had.

“No, the band is good—we probably don't need any more entertainment tonight.” Hestia beamed at him as if she were talking sense.

“Mr. Mac is not my date,” Nessa snapped. “He arrived in New Orleans today.”

“Then of course you had to bring him. Our hospitality is legendary.” Hestia placed her hand on his arm and confided, “It would be a disgrace if she didn't ask you.”

Nessa's face turned the color of his brightest red power tie.

Busted!
Oh, this could be played to his advantage.

“He's the insurance investigator for the bank, and he's looking into the Mardi Gras robberies,” Nessa said.

“Really. How interesting. Mr. Mac, you may call me Miss Hestia—everyone does.” She shooed them toward an open corridor. “Nessa, take him to the utility room and bandage him up, then bring him back—he looks like he knows how to dance.” She bustled into the ballroom.

Nessa had claimed her aunts were some of the renowned eccentrics in New Orleans, but he hadn't expected…Miss Hestia. “Why does it matter if I dance?”

“The aunts love to dance, and there are never enough men who can.” Nessa led him through a short hallway to the bustling kitchen.

He had found the source of the enticing smells.

A tiny black woman, so old she made Miss Hestia look like a teenager and so short she could walk under his outstretched arm, bellowed directions at an entire team of food preparers and chefs.

There was nothing wrong with her lungs.

The bustling crew arranged hors d'oeuvres, stirred bubbling pots, and placed raw biscuits on baking sheets.

Nessa waved. “Hi, Miss Maddy. This is Jeremiah Mac.”

“Good to meet you, Mr. Mac. What are you doing in here, child, and dressed like that? You'll be late!” Maddy scowled so heavily Mac stopped in his tracks.

“We got mugged. He's shot. Aunt Hestia said to bandage him up in the utility room—”

“Do it fast, because we need that sink.”

As casual as these women were, Mac wondered if gunshot victims appeared at the Dahl House every day.

“Yes, ma'am.” Nessa hustled him into the large utility room and shut the door. “On party day, it's a good idea to stay out of Miss Maddy's way. She's been running this show so long, we couldn't do it without her.”

Remembering the deep wrinkles around Maddy's mouth, he said, “She looks ancient.”

“She is. We just don't know how ancient. Aunt Hestia and Aunt Calista remember her cooking when they were little, but Miss Maddy won't hear of retiring. She says sitting around would kill her.” Gently Nessa pushed him down on a low, battered stool. “Personally, I think if the hurricane didn't do it, nothing will.”

“She was caught in the hurricane?”

“She lost everything. She lost all the mementos of her son, killed in WWII. Thank God the aunts had a couple of snapshots in their photo albums.” Nessa sadly looked into space. “Can you imagine the pain of having no family?”

He snorted.

Nessa blinked at him. “What's wrong?”

“Sorry.” He hadn't meant to betray himself like that. “Sometimes family can be a pain in the ass.”

“Yes, but it beats the alternative. Take off your shirt.”

“It's stuck.” He tugged lightly on the bloody material.

She winced as if his wound were hers. Getting a towel, she wet it in warm water, then folded it into a pad and handed it to him. “Soak your shirt loose.”

Going to the large cupboard in the corner, she opened the doors and rummaged inside. “Who's a pain in the ass?” she asked.

“In my family? All of them, pretty much.” As he waited, he looked around. The room had once been a porch. Now the walls were pale pink, the floor cracking linoleum.

“Siblings?”

“A stepbrother. Joe. He's fourteen years younger, though, in the military.” A washer and dryer and a big, old, deep sink occupied one wall. Another wall was floor-to-ceiling drawers and cupboards, and between them, a hanging rod full of kitchen towels.

“He sounds like he's okay,” Nessa said.

“I barely know him.” If he didn't give her something, she wouldn't quit. “My mom is never going to win the prize for Mother of the Year. My grandparents don't much care for me.” An understatement—when his mother popped up pregnant, her working-class family had been deeply ashamed, and they'd never forgiven him for being born. “My stepfather…he doesn't like me much.”

“But your mother…wasn't she on your side?”

“Don't get the wrong idea. My mom tried. She really did. It was just a difficult situation”—and that was an understatement—“and she didn't have intestinal fortitude to stick by me. Most people aren't like Miss Maddy or your great-aunts. Most people, when put to the test, fail. My mom was no different.”

“That is such a terrible attitude. So cynical. I wish that you…well, there's no use saying that, after what happened today.”

“You wish that I what?” he asked softly.

“I wish that you could have a family like mine. My great-aunts always do what they think is right, no matter what the consequences.”

“It's great that you have so much faith in them.” Not that he believed what she said, but it was nice she did.

Nessa really wasn't the kind of woman he'd expected.

Even if he'd never seen her on the video, he would have known she came from money. She wasn't as tall as he'd expected, only about five-seven, but her legs were long and slender, and somehow, rich women always had delicate bones and striking faces.

Not that she was rich; he knew the amount in her bank account to the last penny, and a pitiful amount it was.

She didn't seem the type to sell that body for money, not even in marriage. Too bad, because if she weren't an accomplice in these robberies, he'd be willing to plunk the money and a ring to get her in his bed and keep her there. He knew himself well enough to admit he'd never tire of having her beneath him in bed, making her abandon all that proper gentility, making her sweat and move and scream while he—

“Is that doing it?” she asked.

He stared. “What?”

She came over and lifted the damp towel away from his side and peeled the material away from his side. “There you go. Now you can take off your shirt.”

“Right.” He'd pay to hear her say that in the bedroom.

He unbuttoned, tossed the shirt on the washer, and waited.

Nessa tucked a stack of clean rags under her arm, then opened a drawer and took out ointment and a roll of gauze. She turned back to him…. And stopped cold, her eyes wide and shocked.

“What's wrong?” As if he didn't know.

His body had been knit from his grandfather's muscles and bones, and his grandfather had worked on the docks, then in the mills. Like him, Mac had broad shoulders, a massive chest, big arms, and huge hands. Ashley Wilkes he was not.

More to the point, old, pale white scars from the knife attack covered the left side of his body, and although the gunshot wound was twenty years old, it still formed a pale pink scar on the right shoulder.

“Wow,” she said. “You must work out a lot.”

For once he was grateful for the much-vaunted Southern tact that praised his attributes and ignored his blemishes.

“Karate, of course,” she said, “but you lift weights, too.”

“And run.” Interesting. He was strutting and he wasn't even on his feet.

She put her supplies down on the floor. She shed her jacket, unbuttoned the top two buttons of her white shirt, and rolled up her sleeves. She was all business, without a hint of coquetry, yet as she knelt beside him, he looked down at her profile: at her smooth cheek, her generous lips, at the hint of cleavage from the previously buttoned-up assistant manager—and he wished she were performing another task for him, one less onerous and more…erotic.

Taking a deep breath, he erased the thought from his mind. He'd managed to inveigle himself into her home; he most definitely did not need an erection now.

With the aim of furthering her guilt, he said, “I'm sorry to get shot and mess things up.”

She smoothed a damp cloth across the wound, rinsed the cloth, then did it again. With her fingertips, she pressed carefully on the edge of the wound, and sighed with relief. “It's not bad.”

He looked. A lucky shot for him. The bullet had sliced a two-inch gash through his skin. “I told you so.”

Exasperated, she said, “Mr. Mac, has no woman explained that those are the most noxious words ever spoken by a man?”

“I've certainly heard enough women say them.”

“But then they're true.”

Those gloriously shaped lips tilted upward in a quirky smile, and she made him want to smile back. Odd. He'd expected to feel desire, but never to discover such humor in her.

Of course, there was a sort of wicked humor in once a year robbing the bank where she worked of such a small amount the police failed to pursue the matter.

She was intelligent. She'd proved that today in her dealings with the police, her staff, and more important, with him. He had come here to keep an eye on her; two eyes would be better. “So this is the Dahl House,” he said.

“Yes. We're very proud of it. Of course, it's old, it's big, and the upkeep so massive.”

“How do you do it?”

“I make enough to pay the insurance and taxes and pay the bills, and I put a little away every month. The repairs from the hurricane wiped out my savings, but once I work my way into management…”