Bound by Moonlight

BOUND BY MOONLIGHT

By Nancy Gideon

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

C’mon. C’mon.

She shifted from one foot to the other and scowled through the grated front window, unable to see anything in the dark, uninviting interior.

It’s not like I don’t have better things to do at the butt crack of dawn on a Sunday morning.

She checked the luminous dial on her cartoon character wristwatch, a silly gift from her father she couldn’t make herself toss away. It was the only thing from her past she’d hung onto. Everything else belonged to her new incarnation: Kikki Valentine, exotic dancer and somewhat reluctant temporary prostitute. Temporary because as soon as she had the money put aside, she’d enroll in a real school for dance and the past few months would just be a bad dream. At least that was the plan. But, lately, things weren’t going in the direction they were supposed to.

Lately, she’d been questioning a lot of things that had seemed like a good idea at the time.

She didn’t mind the life so much. It was hard, but she was tough. You gotta pay your dues, her daddy had always said, and this current school came with some pretty hard knocks. Still, it wasn’t the life she minded—it was the weird shit that was going on lately, the whispers passing from one girl to another. They were all nervous, and fear was like an STD—it spread everywhere if unchecked.

Some of the girls were even talking about getting out, getting away while they could.

But if she caved now and gave up on her dreams, what would she have except more of the same dead end she’d struggled to escape?

She’d always been the rebel, too impatient to wait for chances to come her way. Not the smart one, like her brother. Not the sweet one, like her sister. She was the one who was just a little bit harder to love, her mama had told her after one of many arguments. The others were praised for their academics and good behavior. The future engineer. The future nurse. That left her, the all-time screw up.

She had her daddy’s piss and her mama’s vinegar. And from the time she was toddler, she’d wanted to dance. She wanted to be center stage, a star so bright no one could look away.

Rhythm beat in her blood, motion stirred through her soul. Music seduced her body the way a lover never could. It was magic. She’d mastered hip-hop in grade school and was mimicking the steps to all her mama’s favorite movies by the time she was a preteen. Dirty Dancing, Simply Ballroom, Step Up, Save the Last Dance, and Stomp the Yard. At thirteen, she was sneaking into clubs with a fake ID just to dance, with anyone. Until she got caught.

She’d never fit into the home scene, anyway. Too many rules and regs. But lately she’d been thinking about maybe giving the folks and school another chance. Probably because of the weird shit.

She paced in front of the clinic, her feet pinched by her new boots, then tried the door again. Cupping her hands by her eyes to lessen the glare, she peered inside. No lights were on, just the familiar soft fluorescent glow. Damn, where was the doc? If she didn’t hurry she’d miss her bus, and she couldn’t afford a cab.

Maybe she could call. Just this once. They’d come get her. She was sure of it.

She straightened and glanced about her gritty surroundings. It looked like a scene from one of those end-of-the-world movies. Not a creature stirring. Just steam roiling out of the alleyways, swirls of white over oppressive gray, as if the streets had been bled dry of all color and life. In the grainy light, she could see her reflection through the grating over the window, seeing what others saw: A cold, frightened little girl with teased auburn hair, hiding behind heavy makeup and garish clothes. Alone.

Or was she?

Something clattered and skittered across the bricks around the corner of the building.

About damned time.

She let her cigarette drop and ground it out under the toe of her platform boot, then stepped off the curb to check the alley. A vehicle was parked at the far end, a squat, dark shape in the shadows and mist. Duh! She should have gone to the side door first instead of wasting time, waiting out front like an idiot. She started walking toward it.

Hello? Doc, is that you?

She gone a few more yards when suddenly the headlights came on, bright and blinding. Shielding her eyes, she kept walking.

Hey, it’s me, Kikki. Turn those off, will ya?

Instead, she heard the low purr of the engine coming to life.

She froze in the glare, like a performer with stage fright.

Stones crunched as the car moved forward at a slow stalking pace.

She started back peddling toward the street, hearing those whispers in her head, warning her to be careful, warning of the danger. Because of the other girls. Finally, she scrambled and ran, darting to the safety of the sidewalk. There, she fumbled in her purse, looking for the pepper spray she always carried as the car edged into view, turning onto the street to stop in front of her. The passenger window slowly rolled down, taking with it the image of a frightened young girl all alone.

Though unable to make out the face of the driver within the shadowed interior, she exhaled a shaky breath, casting off the shivers of panic. Probably just a john looking for some early action. Maybe he’d give her a ride to the bus station if she threw in a little extra. A little lagniappe. ‘Cuz these new boots weren’t made for walking.

Hey there, honey, she cooed. Lookin’ for a party?

She started toward the car with an exaggerated roll of her hips, bending down near the window to begin bartering when the shadowed figure leaned closer. The passenger door was pushed open. She began to smile.

You nearly scared me to death turning on the headlights on like that, she scolded with a breathy little laugh as she leaned in. What—?

Strong fingers gripped her upper arm, jerking her off balance on the skyscraper shoes, yanking her upper body forward before she could think to struggle. Her temple struck the door’s edging, making everything go as bright and glittery as the New Orleans nightlife she loved.

A sharp sting at the base of her throat, a flare of burning heat.

Then the door closed, and the car moved ahead into the morning mists.

CHAPTER ONE

One glance as she stepped out of the cab told Charlotte Caissie what she’d feared from the start. The situation was high risk and potentially dangerous.

She swept the area with a professional stare, studying the scene with a cop’s attention to detail. The press were everywhere, seeking scraps to tantalize the public’s hunger for information. The more sensational, the better.

She scowled, wishing she had the authority to make them scatter like the vultures they were. Unfortunately, she wasn’t here in an official capacity. She couldn’t just brush them off with a flick of her badge.

And as she looked over their feeding ground, she asked herself yet again, What the hell am I doing here?

Then, when her attention was caught by the most controversial criminal figure in New Orleans, she had her answer.

He was hard to miss as he stepped out of a dark town car and impossible to look away from as he came toward her, all lethal grace and fixed intensity. A shiver rode across her skin.

She was here for Max Savoie.

His reputation as Jimmy Legere’s unflinchingly loyal enforcer had been built upon tales of gruesome deeds. On whispers, rumors, because no one really had a clue as to who or what Max was. No one but her. And then he’d stepped from out of the kingpin’s shadow to assume his mentor’s place with a frightening competence and control.

Savoie, with his dark, forbidding looks and ferocious silences, had become her obsession. A smaller prize wouldn’t have drawn her out, unprepared, into this terrifying arena. Less important stakes wouldn’t bring her to face the most daunting endeavor of her career without backup. She cursed him under her breath yet was unable to take her eyes off him.

Sleek, powerful, and deadly. Not quite masked by the smooth, easy strides, his animalistic aggression provoked her senses. The same way it had the very first time she’d seen him walk through the station in handcuffs all those years ago as if nothing could touch him.

For this occasion, he wore the sophisticated trappings of a wealthy businessman. Tailored Armani created a glossy image but couldn’t subdue the rumbling threat of harshly cut features. Black hair arranged by the drag of fingers rather than careful barbering, and a heavy horizon of solemn brows above eyes like pale, impenetrable jade added to his ruthless mystique.

Unblinking, unsmiling, he stepped right inside her guarded circle of personal space—and offered his arm.

Ready?

Her hesitation brought no change to his expression, though his voice dropped to a deeper register.

If you want to get back into the cab, I’ll understand. I would be the last one to fault you for it. A pause, then a soft goading, Coward.

That brought the expected stiffening to her spine. I said I’d come with you, and I’ll stick it out.

Heroically spoken.

Now’s not the smartest time to be amused at my expense, she growled. I’m only doing this for you. I wouldn’t be here for anyone else.

All traces of mockery dropped from his expression.

I know. He lifted her hand, moving her palm along his freshly shaven cheek, stirring up the delicious scent of his aftershave along with her usually guarded emotions. "And that means everything to me. You mean everything to me."

She swallowed hard. Her fingertips tenderly stroked along his jaw as he leaned down slowly, making her breath catch. Her eyes fluttered shut. At the sound of his quiet chuckle, they flashed open again.

"You’re trying to distract me, cher. Though the invitation is tempting, it won’t work. I’m not leaving."

She shoved away from him to glare at the gauntlet laid out before them. Give me one reason why I put up with you.

He smiled, heat kindling in his gaze. Because you know that while everyone here is admiring that dress and how beautiful you look in it, I’ll be anticipating how you’ll look as I’m taking it off you.

Hmmm. She eyed him thoughtfully. Damned good reason. Okay, let’s get this over with.

Your enthusiasm is less than overwhelming, but the reward of seeing you naked will sustain me.

She laughed and finally relaxed enough to tuck her hand possessively into the crook of his elbow. Let the bastards do their worst. I’m ready for them.

"Spoken like one of NOLA’s finest. Chin up, sha. Don’t let them see what frauds we are. The tough homicide cop and her mobster-beast boyfriend milling with the city’s best. You’ve got to love that bit of irony. Shall we?"

She hesitated, and when he glanced her way, she surprised him with her sudden candor.

I love you, Max.

His breath hitched as if she’d put a round into his chest at point blank range. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then his free hand slid over the top of hers to press lightly as he growled, That sustains me, too.

And together they breached the society that shunned them.

She’d say one thing for her least favorite politician, Simon Cummings sure knew how to throw a wingding. He’d pulled strings all over the Crescent City to commandeer the streets surrounding Jackson Square for his block party-style fund raiser. The pre-ticketed event promised plenty of good PR for those contributing to the launch of his new foundation. And security was high, separating the curious from the charitable to protect celebs from being mobbed by fans.

Charlotte groaned as they were approached by one of the off-duty cops hired to keep things under control. Donner, from robbery. His smooth face betrayed no emotion as his palm slapped against Max’s shirt front.

Sorry. Private party.

Sorry. Invited.

Without breaking from the man’s challenging glare, Max carefully reached into his jacket with his fingertips, keeping his hands visible, and produced the embossed card. When the officer refused to look at it, he tapped the embossed lettering with one finger.

That would be me.

I know who you are, Donner snarled. "What you are."

"And I believe you know my date. Who and what she is."

Donner’s gaze flickered to acknowledge her. Caissie.

Donner. Are you finished, or are you going to piss me off even more by asking to see my identification, too?

He stepped aside with a grim, Have a nice evening.

Like that’s going to happen now, she muttered to herself.

The instant they passed through the roped-off area, the press swarmed them like blood-thirsty horseflies. The two of them garnered headlines on their own, but together, stepping out openly as a couple for the first time within camera range, they were media magnets. A scowling CeeCee fielded their rapid-fire questions with a crisp, No comment. Max never spared them a glance as he towed her into the fray. Until Karen Crawford planted her microphone in his face. Before the Terror of Tabloid Journalism could begin her barrage, CeeCee pushed between them.

Back off, Crawford. I’m not on the clock and I don’t have to be polite.

Her nemesis arched a penciled-in brow. Refusing to let age force her out of her youth-obsessed profession, Crawford now stooped to pure shock value to sell herself and her stories. Her comments were precisely lobbed grenades.

Detective, this is a glamorous look for you. Obviously you’re enjoying the spoils of Jimmy Legere’s ill-gotten fortune.

Boom! Direct hit.

I buy my own clothes, Ms. Crawford. A job that you give very little credit pays for them.

"I hadn’t credited you with having good taste. Crafty eyes swept over her escort. Until recently."

Max’s arm curled protectively about CeeCee’s waist, protecting the reporter. Ladies, play nice. This is a charity event, after all. Smiling grimly at the newswoman, he couldn’t quite believe CeeCee’s insistence that Crawford had the hots for him, but if so it didn’t hurt to be pleasant. This once.

"You’re looking very elegant yourself, Ms. Crawford. Putting our faces under your byline along with your lies must pay you well."

She grinned like a shark. Not as well as an exclusive would.

Dream on, Crawford, CeeCee growled. The only thing exclusive about him is me.

The reporter chuckled. Can I quote you? At $500 per ticket, you’ve come out in public as a couple in a big way.

CeeCee gaped up at Max. Five—

He gave her a warning squeeze as he answered the reporter. It’s an important cause to both of us. Let’s focus there, shall we?

Crawford pounced on the opportunity. Important why?

We both lost our mamas when we were young enough to still need them. We were lucky to have strong influences step in to raise us. Others aren’t that fortunate.

The Cummings Foundation targets homeless and exploited children, Crawford pressed, hoping to keep the usually closed-lipped Max talking. I know the detective owes much of her rearing to Father Furness and St. Bartholomew’s. But when Jimmy Legere took you in, wouldn’t you consider that more exploitation than salvation?

His gaze went flat and cold. No. ‘cuse us, please. Interview over.

Max propelled CeeCee forward, making her hurry in her four-inch heels to keep up with his long strides. His days of remaining in the shadows were over. He was here to make a statement and when Max Savoie set his mind to something, he was as subtle as a bulldozer: Get out of his way or get plowed under. And she was crazy enough to ride shotgun as he strode into the headlining limelight.

At first glance, Michael Furness appeared more a man given to brawling and rough spirits than to the spiritual. His big, coarse figure should have appeared imposing behind the clerical collar, but something in his eyes and smile showed an inner compassion that reached out to the lost and those in need. When he’d founded a small church in a rundown neighborhood, its doors had opened to all. And they’d flocked to him, those of bruised heart and soul and body, and he’d gathered them close.

Charlotte had considered St. Bart’s home while her top cop father was working the streets undercover. She and her best friend, Mary Kate Malone, who was the light yang to her dark yin, grew up inside the humble embrace of kindness and care, Mary Kate an orphan, CeeCee left on her own. She owed the priest more than she could ever express, and Max knew it. Which is why he headed straight for that calm man of God in spite of—or because of, who was standing next to him.

Father Furness stood on the steps of St. Louis Cathedral speaking with NOPD chief Byron Atcliff.

CeeCee froze. But it was too late to run. They’d already been spotted.

I was hoping Max would bring you, the priest murmured in a surprisingly gentle baritone as he swallowed her in his embrace. It’s good to see you, Lottie. And Max. He put out a big hand. I wish you’d let me give you the proper accolades for what you’ve given to the church.

No thanks needed, Father. I wish there was more I could have done.

Furness patted his hand and released it before Max grew uncomfortable enough to tug away. Knowing praise made him uneasy, the priest doled it out in small doses.

Looks like you’ll have no trouble raising the rest of what you need. CeeCee glanced around at the well-heeled crowd. A lot of deep pockets here looking for good press.

And speaking of deep pockets, I see one I need to fleece. Father Furness winked at her. For a good cause, of course. Come see me, Lottie. Anytime.

She promised she would, but they both knew she probably wouldn’t unless work brought her to his door. He gave her another hug and left her to deal with the two very opposite, and at the moment, confrontational men who meant the world to her.

Byron Atcliff was more than just CeeCee’s superior. She’d practically grown up on the seat of a squad car between him and her father when they were partners on the street. A wiry man, as relentless as Furness was forgiving, Atcliff despised crime in any form. And in his eyes, Savoie was its bold embodiment.

As police chief, he worried over the career of his most decorated detective because of that association. As her godfather, he fretted over the happiness of his best friend’s only child. He regarded Charlotte with a disapproving frown as she pushed her unacceptable escort in front of him. To his credit, Savoie met his gun-barrel glare without flinching.

Uncle Byron, CeeCee murmured, trying to soften him up as she linked her arm through that of the rigid figure at her side, Max Savoie. Max, Chief Byron Atcliff.

I believe we know one another by reputation, Max said.

Yes, we do, Atcliff returned just as stiffly. No hand was offered. None was expected, considering Atcliff had spent his career trying to put Savoie and those like him in prison. Or the morgue.

Atcliff was about to turn away when he caught CeeCee’s flinty stare calling him on a promise that he’d give the man behind the mobster a fair chance. And Atcliff prided himself on being firm, but fair. Even when it was choking him.

Scowling, he pinned Savoie with a stabbing glance. Father Furness tells me you’ve almost single-handedly been responsible for the rebuilding of St. Bart’s.

The father was exaggerating to make me more palatable in your eyes.

That unexpected honesty didn’t throw Atcliff off. If anything, it made the chief sink his teeth in deeper. The money Jimmy Legere spread around for charity was fertilizer. He hoped it would grow a good opinion to cover the stink of what he was. What are you spreading, Savoie?

Max remained unblinking for a long, lethal moment then he offered a narrow smile. I don’t have much of a green thumb.

Atcliff snorted. Still, you’ve managed to grow on my goddaughter. You harm her career, I’ll cut you down like chokeweed.

Understood.

I’m not in favor of this relationship, the older man continued. And I can’t say I approve of you parading it around.

Good thing for me your opinion isn’t the one that matters most.

Riled by the coolly mocking tone, Atcliff warned, "You break her heart, I’ll pull you out by the roots."

CeeCee stepped between them with an exasperated, Would you two stand down? Uncle Byron, Max is my choice. Deal with it. Max, you will respect his right to be pissed off about it. Clear?

They gaged one another again, measuring the degree of influence and threat to their treasured relationships with the same woman. Cop versus criminal.

Take care of her, stay out from under my feet professionally and I won’t have a problem with you, Savoie.

I’ll stay out of your way unless you push that professional foot into our personal lives again. Then I’d have to make myself your problem. In a big way.

Atcliff assessed the arrogant man who’d somehow managed to snag the heart of Tommy Caissie’s daughter. Did the shadow-cloaked thug have a steadfastness CeeCee could depend upon, the strength to support her, and the wisdom to protect the best damned thing he’d ever have? Savoie wasn’t someone he’d enjoy seeing across the dinner table during the holidays. He doubted they’d ever make comfortable small talk while fishing off his boat together. But he was Charlotte’s choice, and Savoie didn’t give an inch when it came to claiming that.

And there was nothing wrong with a little arrogance.

Chief Byron Atcliff allowed a grim smile and a taut, Understood.

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That went well.

Max had no comment as they followed the tidal push of the crowd around the Square.

Booths fronting the Pontalba Building offered unique handcrafted items from area artisans, all donated for the cause: Exquisite jewelry, paintings, one-of-a-kind and vintage clothing, as well as accent pieces in metal, glass, and ceramic with price tags only the rich could afford. Not much of a shopper, CeeCee kept her attention on Max. She noticed his silence and distraction and followed his stare to the source: Karen Crawford.

Max, she’s a cold, soulless bitch from hell. You know better than to talk to her.

He stopped. Do you agree with her?

Startled by the question, CeeCee laughed. I hate to think I’d agree with Crawford on whether it’s night or day.

His unblinking gaze wouldn’t let her off the hook.

Oh, for fu— Do we have to do this now?

Is it the timing or the topic you find so objectionable?

She put a hand on one hip. What I find objectionable is the fact that you haven’t told me how you like my new shoes.

He continued to glare at her.

Come on, Savoie. You know you want to look.

He held out for another admirable moment. Then glanced down, checking out the navy-blue heels barely held in place by a serpentine twist of shantung winding over the top of her arch. She smiled to herself as a low growl vibrated from him.

Like them? She pivoted her foot on the pointed toe to show off all the views.

He took a harsh breath. I’m going to suck on your toes after I take them off you.

Good. Then that’s money well spent.

Max shook off his lustful fascination and regarded her once again with that insistent silence, waiting for his answer.

She sighed. Okay. Do I think Jimmy used you? Yes. You know it’s one of the things I hated most about him. Do I think he loved you and cared for you and raised you like a father would? Yes, damn the old fart, he did. So I have to be grateful to him for that, which annoys me to no end. But whatchu gonna do?

Despite their fishbowl situation, Max impulsively put his arms around her, drawing her up against him for an easy press. "I’m sorry, cher. I didn’t mean to spoil our evening out by being disagreeable. She rode his heavy sigh without argument. We don’t belong here with them. Maybe we should just go home."

Though tempted by the offer of escape to a much more pleasant toe sucking, she shook her head. Screw them, Max. We’re here for Father Furness and St. Bart’s and all those kids he’s helping. So let’s go spend an obscene amount of Jimmy’s ill-gotten gains on something that will do some good. Besides, you promised there’d be dancing. Don’t you want the chance to grope me inappropriately in front of all these repressed, upscale folks?

She felt the slow curve of his smile against her temple. How inappropriately?

Since I left my cuffs at home, I’ll let your conscience be your guide.

Laughing, he curled an arm about her shoulders.

There was a time when she would have thrown off that possessive gesture as too personal for a public venue. But not tonight. Tonight was all about him. About them, as a couple. Tonight, she snuggled against him as they walked amongst the unsuspecting. The cop and her mobster-beast boyfriend.

Low, bluesy music from the far side of the Square reached them over the sound of the crowd. Piquant smells from the food stations tantalized upon river-moistened spring air as they wandered from booth to booth, awareness of one another sizzling like the fryers serving up catfish and hushpuppies. It was nice, that simmering sense of belonging to one another, of comfortable closeness and anticipation for two people who had never belonged anywhere.

Max stopped at one of the tables. He turned to her, his expression somber as he lifted a creamy string of pearls. I’d like to see you in these.

And probably nothing else, she teased.

He didn’t smile. His mood grew strangely distant as he laid the long rope about her neck, looping it a second time to admire the way they glowed against her skin. Would you wear them for me?

She touched the smooth orbs tentatively. An extravagant gift from someone who rarely gave them. Unless she counted her car and the treasured flowers reduced to petals kept in a bowl at their bedside. He wasn’t a creature of impulse, which got her wondering about the significance of the perfect beads.

They’re beautiful, Max. Thank you.

He counted out an alarming stack of bills to the woman behind the cash box, then took CeeCee’s hand to lead her along the crowded street. He didn’t look around, his focus set grimly on his central purpose for the evening. To be seen.

No longer a mere shadow at the heels of Jimmy Legere, where Max Savoie walked, attention followed,