KENNEDY
Staring at the text message on my phone, my stomach twists the same way it did when I received it yesterday afternoon.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
A shiver rolls through me reading it, as it has every time I’ve looked at it in the twenty-four hours since it popped up on my phone. I scan over our brief conversation, even though I know exactly what it says by heart after rereading it a hundred times.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
The rickety old building set out on stilts over the bayou housing The Shanty stands in front of me…and it screams at me to turn around and RUN back to my car.
You’re fucking crazy for coming here alone to meet with that man…
You have no idea who he is or what he wants…
Yet, I still came running to the man who knew exactly who I was but who intentionally kept his identity a secret while he seduced me only feet away from my entire family.
Because of the mystery or because I can’t stop thinking about what he did to me?
Saying it’s the former would be a lie. With the way I haven’t been able to stop thinking about his mouth on my core, his tongue flicking my clit expertly, I don’t stand a chance of getting the man out of my head without knowing who he is and finding out why that happened. Besides me making shitty decisions while I’m hopelessly horny and full of champagne.
Hence, walking into this place.
Where I very well might get murdered and dumped into the bayou without anyone being the wiser.
I slip my phone back into my purse and slowly make my way toward the restaurant, feeling overdressed in my skin-tight dark-gray dress and matching suit coat and four-inch heels that sink into the dirt and gravel parking lot with each step.
My footing falters, and I almost break my ankle before I manage to right myself and finally reach the front door. Sucking in a steady breath, I tug it open and step inside the dingy establishment.
The smell of fresh fried seafood hits me immediately, and my stomach grumbles, reminding me all I’ve had today is four cups of coffee. Between all the stress and endless caffeine fuel, it’s a wonder I don’t have ulcers.
Maybe I can at least get something to eat before he murders me and dumps me into the water for the gators.
I shouldn’t laugh at my own dark thoughts, but I do as I make my way farther inside. It draws a strange look from the hostess who stands straight ahead, talking with one of the waitstaff behind a handmade podium that looks ready to topple over with a slight breeze, just like the entire restaurant does.
Shit.
The dim lighting makes it difficult to see too far into the establishment, but I scan the bar stools and tables that are visible for anyone who looks even slightly like the man from Saturday night.
Sandy-blond hair.
Piercing green eyes.
Those sinful lips.
I try to picture everyone I see with a mask covering the upper half of their face, and someone sidles up next to me. An arm brushes against mine, sending a little jolt of electricity through me, and I start to jerk away, but a large, warm hand settles around my hip and squeezes.
“Running off somewhere? We haven’t even had a chance to talk, Cherie.”
That same voice—velvet and gravel all rolled into one—directly in my ear makes my pussy clench and brings the same rush of memories that’s been drowning me since I stumbled out of that choir loft.
I whirl to face the man who’s had me at such odds for the last few days, trying to figure out what the hell happened and how I ended up with a stranger’s face between my legs.
Holy shit!
We may never have met in person before, but I know the face well from viewing it on his law firm’s website a hundred times and seeing it spread across the papers every time he made a grandstand opposing the Hawkes.
“You!”
Cassius fucking Whitaker.
I shove his hand off my waist. “It was you?”
The corners of his mouth twitch like he can’t fight his smile at my reaction. He holds up a hand to stop me from saying anything else. “Before you delve into whatever tirade you have sitting between those pretty lips of yours, let’s sit down and get something to eat. We have a lot to discuss.”
“We have nothing to discuss.”
His face hardens for a moment, and he takes a step toward me, leaning down so the hostess won’t hear us. “Don’t walk out of here in those sexy heels without hearing what I have to say first, Kennedy. Please, you owe me at least that after what I did for you the other night.”
Fuck, what he did to me the other night…
As if I could forget.
Now that I know who it was, all I want to do is forget it and pretend it was all some nightmarish erotic dream, but my stomach rumbles again.
Cass glances down at it. “Have you eaten today?”
I shake my head. “No.”
His lips curl slightly. “Then, let’s go eat.” He dips his head close to my ear again. “I promise if you still want to, you can spear me with one of those stilettos on the way out.”
I scowl at him. “Oh, I will want to. No doubt about that.”
He grins and presses his hand against my lower back as he leads me through the restaurant, following the hostess. The heat of his palm seeps through my dress, warmth spreading from that simple point of contact.
It should be the searing fire of hate burning through me.
Should be…but definitely isn’t.
The hostess unceremoniously dumps two menus on a rickety table in the corner next to grimy windows overlooking the bayou. I settle into a chair that rattles underneath me on the uneven, heavily distressed, hand-hewn floor.
“This place is certainly”—I scan the tight restaurant, from its mismatched tables and chairs to random graffiti drawn on the wood panel walls—“quaint.”
Cassius removes his suit jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair, then removes his cufflinks, drops them into his pocket, and rolls up the sleeves of his crisp button-down white shirt, exposing thick, muscled forearms.
Christ, why is it so hot when a man does that?
He slides into his chair casually, like he isn’t taking a seat across from someone he’s spent years trying to destroy financially. “Oh, come on now, Kennedy, don’t be such a snob.” Settling back, he crosses his arms over his chest. “First, this place has the best catfish in all of Louisiana. And second, I knew you wouldn’t want to be seen anywhere with me, and out here, we won’t run into a soul either of us knows.”
I keep scowling at him, unconvinced by his argument about the fish or not being caught here with the enemy. But as I scan the restaurant, the few mostly local-looking people don’t seem to be paying us any attention.
“Like I said”—he hands me a menu—“I suggest the catfish. But the jambalaya is excellent, too.”
“You come here often?” I sneer at him. “It looks like just the type of place someone as low as you would hang out.”
He barks out a laugh, drops his menu to the worn tabletop, and leans back in his chair, absently fiddling with his napkin with the same fingers that brought me to release. “You really think that little of me, don’t you?”
The edge in his voice almost gives me pause, but then everything he’s done on behalf of his client, Falco Enterprises. comes rushing to the forefront of my mind. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“All the Hawkes feel the same way?”
“Of course.”
One of his sandy-blond brows rises. “Even Angelina and Allie? What about Astrid? My interactions with them at the Daily Grind have always been quite pleasant.”
I scoff. “Bullshit. If they were pleasant, it was only forced pleasantry because you were a paying customer. My cousins would’ve kicked you out with their foot up your ass if they could have.”
He grins at me. “This is precisely why we needed to talk.”
The waitress heads over before he can say anything else. “What can I get for you?”
Cass offers her a panty-melting grin that brings a blush to her cheeks. “I’ll have the catfish and whatever beer you have on tap.”
I scan the menu and cringe. “I’ll have crab legs and a beer, too.”
It’s going to kill my diet, but I’m on my feet enough running around all day that I’ll burn it off tomorrow, hopefully. Too bad my ribs can’t put up with another session with Atlas in the morning. Just thinking about it makes them ache, and I absentmindedly press a hand into my side.
Whatever it is Cass wants, I can’t stay here with him any longer than necessary to find the answer. “So, what did you want to talk about? You have until I’m done cracking these suckers open and sucking down the crab meat for me to hear you out. Because if anyone gets wind that I had dinner with the enemy, I’ll never hear the fucking end of it. They might crucify me—literally—or dump me in the bayou out here to be eaten by the gators. Which, incidentally, is what I’ll suggest we do to you when I talk with Isaac on Saturday.”
Those mossy-green eyes spark with amusement. “Ah, come on, Cherie. You don’t mean that.”
“I do. You think I want to be sitting here across from you?”
A grin plays at his lips again. “You seemed to enjoy my company on Saturday.”
That same hot rush floods my body, just as it has every time I’ve relived our little run-in, and I squirm in my seat against a throb between my legs. “That was a mistake.”
He arches a brow at me. “Was it now? And if I’d been anyone else, would it still be a mistake?”
I press my lips together, answering his question with a cool look rather than words.
Chuckling, he holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, fair enough. But you’re forgetting one thing.”
“Oh, yeah?” I raise a brow at him. “What’s that?”
He leans forward halfway across the table until the scent of his crisp aftershave or cologne, or whatever the hell it is, envelops me so completely that it annihilates the seafood smell in the air around us. “That I now know what your cunt tastes like, and that’s something I can never forget, no matter how much you might want to pretend the night never happened.”
Fucking hell.
Grinding my teeth together, I square my shoulders. “Whitaker, just tell me what it is you want.”
“Here are your beers.” The waitress drops them at the table and hustles away without a second look.
I grab mine and guzzle down a few gulps of the ice-cold, hoppy liquid to try to cool my body’s simmering rage and that same attraction toward the man I absolutely cannot be attracted to.
Cassius grins at me and shifts back into his chair, taking an absent sip from his glass. “I want you to listen because I’m trying to stop a war.”
* * *
CASS
“Prevent a war?” Kennedy’s pale brows rise, and then her shrewd, icy-blue gaze narrows on me. If looks could kill, this one would freeze my heart instantly. “What the hell do you mean, prevent a war?”
This is where things get tricky.
Even if I had managed to broach the subject on Saturday night, it probably wouldn’t have gone very well then, either. She would have realized who I was and had me thrown out of the event I wasn’t invited to in the first place before I could reveal the real reason I wanted a discussion. And now, after what I did to her, she’s on the defensive, and maybe she has every right to be. I took advantage of the opening she gave me, clearly at a moment of weakness for her. It put her in a very compromising position, and she probably thinks that was all intentional when it truly wasn’t.
Touching Kennedy.
Getting her off.
It was a primal need to take care of a woman who was so desperate.
Even if she wasn’t mine.
She has all the reasons in the world not to believe a word that comes out of my mouth, no matter how sincere I am, but all I can do is try.
I take another sip of my beer and rub my thumb through the condensation on the glass. “My run-in with your cousins after the fire led me to believe that everyone in your family thinks Falco Enterprises was behind it.”
She snorts and crosses her arms over her chest, pushing her ample breasts up farther in the low V-neck dress she wears beneath her suit coat. Professional and sexy. Exactly what Kennedy Hawke is at all times. “Why wouldn’t we believe it’s your clients? They’ve given us every reason to suspect them.”
I nod slowly. “Suspect them, yes, but can you prove it’s them?”
When she doesn’t answer, I raise a brow at her.
She scowls and shakes her head. “Of course not, because they’re too smart for that. But it doesn’t mean they’re not behind it.”
“Or it means they weren’t behind it, and that’s why you can’t find any evidence of it. Have you even once stopped to consider that?”
She reaches forward, grabs her beer, and takes a long pull from it, drumming her nails against the glass. “Of course, we considered it and pretty easily dismissed it since there’s no one else who would want to do us any harm.”
“No one else, huh?”
My mysterious meeting with Damon yesterday resurfaces in my head. I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind since he walked out, which makes this conversation even more important. “I’m not so sure that’s true.”
“What do you mean?”
I lean forward slightly. “As you know, I’m bound by attorney-client privilege, so there are a lot of things I can’t tell you.”
“How convenient for you.”
Her animosity only stirs my cock under the table. She has a lot of fight in her. This woman is used to getting in the ring—literally and figuratively—and she sees me as an adversary to beat into submission.
Fuck is that hot.
I run my finger around the rim of my glass. “I’m telling you right now, Falco wasn’t behind it.”
She starts to interrupt, but I hold up a hand.
“Let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that you believe that.”
She scowls but lets me continue.
“That means there is someone else in New Orleans who wants the Hawkes to fail, if not worse. It means there’s another danger out there. Another enemy.”
And now, I might finally get to tell her what I intended to the other night.
Locking my eyes with her so I can gauge her reaction, I reveal what I’ve been doing behind the scenes for the last several months since the fire—besides filing bullshit injunctions against the Hawkes. “I’ve had one of my guys looking into the situation.”
Her blue eyes flare wide. “You what?”
“I’ve had a PI friend of mine looking into the fire and into what’s been going on around town to see if he can get any sort of leads on who might be after the Hawkes.”
“Why would you do that?”
I flash her a half-grin. “Because I’m a sucker for a pretty blonde with a magnificent cunt, I guess.”
Her cheeks blaze red. “You did all this in the last three days?”
I shake my head and lean back. “No. I’ve been looking into it since the day of the fire. When Angelina, Jude, and Luca Abello almost slit my throat for showing up to protest Falco’s innocence.”
A scowl twists her lips. “They would’ve been warranted.”
“Would they have?” Leaning forward, I rest my forearms on the table. “Why would I go to all the trouble, time, money, and effort of doing this if I knew my clients were behind it?”
“Maybe your clients are keeping that fact from you, keeping you out of the loop?”
“I doubt that.”
“So, if”—her glares makes it clear she doesn’t believe it for a second—“this PI of yours does exist, what has he found?”
I sigh and run a hand back through my hair. “Not much. Just that there’s somebody in town who’s been going after Roselli.”
“Roselli?” She moves forward, scanning the tables around us to make sure there aren’t any eavesdroppers who might hear us discussing him. “What does any of this have to do with Roselli?”
“I don’t know.”
It doesn’t make any sense that the head of the mob here in New Orleans would have the same enemy as the Hawkes, but it’s the only thing that Marcel or I have been able to come up with after so many weeks of digging into places we shouldn’t.
Kennedy chews on the inside of her cheek, brow furrowed in contemplation. “We’ve heard the same. He actually talked to Angelina after the fire and tried to warn her there was somebody moving in on his territory, but—”
“But what?”
Her slender shoulders rise and fall. “Everyone thinks it’s bullshit and that he was just trying to cover his involvement in the fire or force us into the partnership we’ve been declining for decades. We haven’t been able to nail down anything on it despite our resources.”
“Neither has my guy, but there’s someone else out there, and for some reason, it seems they’re gunning for Roselli and the Hawkes.”
“How do you know it’s the same people or the same person?”
I shrug. “I don’t.”
It would be so much easier if I did.
Not being able to identify an enemy you can sense is worse than staring one down. The longer this drags on, the harder the Hawkes will look at Falco and, inevitably, me. And I can’t risk their ire being directed at me.
The waitress reappears with our food, interrupting the conversation, and we both sit back to allow her to drop the plates on the table. “Anything else I can get for you?”
“Two more beers.”
She nods and disappears again, and Kennedy watches me for a second before her eyes dart down to the king crab legs on her plate. A mountain of food enough to feed two people. Her eyes widen, and her tongue darts out across her lips.
Shaking out her napkin and laying it across her lap, she gives me an annoyed look. “Let’s just say I believe you, and that’s a tremendous if. Why would anybody be after both Roselli and us? It doesn’t make any sense. We’re not his allies. We’re not his friends. We’re not tangled up with him.”
“No, but you have a sort of truce, don’t you? Haven’t you operated in New Orleans side by side with him for the last thirty years, since Luca Abello stepped aside, without any real tension or confrontations?”
She chews on a chunk of crab. “Well, yeah.”
“So, doesn’t that make you guilty by association if someone’s coming after him, or him guilty by association if they’re coming after you?”
It’s a loose connection, but it’s the only one we can make right now.
She shakes her head. “That’s a big stretch. There must be something else, or maybe it’s two separate things altogether.”
“It might be, but I don’t want the Hawkes to waste their time focusing their attention and fury on Falco Enterprises. I’m telling you, it’s the wrong direction.”
“And I’m just supposed to trust you?”
I chew my food and swallow. “You trusted me Saturday, and you had no idea who I was. You would really rather trust a stranger than me when I’m sitting here, telling you this face to face to try to help you?”
Her eyes rake over me, centering on my lips for one second too long before she glances away. “It’s your face I have the problem with.”
I chuckle. “I have the mask in my car if you want me to put it back on.”
“Ha ha”—she rolls her eyes—“very funny.”
“I’m serious, Kennedy. I don’t want to see anything happen to you…”
The admission takes even me by surprise, and I trail off, realizing how insane that sounds.
Her eyes soften slightly for a second. She takes several more bites before she finally pauses, another piece of crab halfway to her mouth. “Why do you care?”
Locking my gaze with hers, I hope to convey the turmoil that’s been raging inside me since Saturday—since my entire view of her shifted. The woman I had hoped could be a conduit to Hawke Enterprises, to get them to back off the accusations against Falco so I don’t have to be looking over my shoulder or worrying about safety, became something else the moment I touched her.
“Why do you think?”
She shakes her head and digs into her food. “I’m not going to let you try to convince me that this is anything other than what it is.”
Here it comes.
Kennedy is gearing up to unload on me now, to unleash all the things she’s been thinking since we sat down, to put me in my place—which, according to her, might as well be that murky water outside the window.
“And what’s that?”
Her eyes dart up to mine. “A ploy to take the heat off your client. You’re a really good fucking lawyer, Cass. Even Isaac says so, despite hating your guts. So, I know you’d do anything to protect your clients. Though, going down on me at my own fucking charity event was a little beyond the call of duty, don’t you think?”
I smirk as I lean over the table toward her. “That wasn’t for Falco Enterprises. That was for you…and me.”