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Jean-Pierre’s smile disappeared completely, something flashing in his eyes that looked a lot like loss. “Not recently. I’m a widower.”
Lamont blinked, having not expected that. “I’m sorry,” he said and almost meant it. “Look, I hate to run, but—”
Jean-Pierre stepped aside. “No, the apology is mine. I’ve kept you when I said I wouldn’t. Please, have a nice afternoon.”
Feeling off in a way that he didn’t like, Lamont made his way to the car. “Thank you for the reminder, James,” he said when he was buckled in. “I’d gotten caught up in some work.”
“No problem, sir,” James said and pulled away from the curb. “I’ll get you there in time.”
If James didn’t, it wouldn’t be the driver’s fault. Stupid festivals. Stupid traffic.
He glanced at his phone to make sure his new hires watching Broussard’s building were still where they were supposed to be. And they were. Dammit, Broussard. Go home already. Or wherever it is you’ve stashed that kid. This was taking a lot longer than it was supposed to.
He startled when his phone buzzed in his hand, muttering a curse.
“Sir?” James asked.
“Nothing. Never mind. I’m fine.” Maybe better than fine. It was Ashley. Maybe she’d heard from Broussard. He put the phone to his ear. “Hello, Ashley.”
And what the fuck?He hadn’t just seen James’s mouth twist in a frown, had he? A judgmental frown at that. James didn’t even like Joelle. What business was it of his that Ashley called him? The man better watch his step. Drivers were a dime a dozen in this town.
But James had been with him for at least twenty years, so he’d let it go. This time.
“Hi,” Ashley cooed. “I just got it. Thank you!”
Got it? Oh, right.“The bag. You’re welcome.”
“You really shouldn’t have. It’s too expensive.”
But what she really meant was of course you should have and please, do it again. “It was the least I could do considering you had to throw yours away.” Hers had been a cheap handbag. Maybe from Target. The one he’d had sent to her new office had cost five hundred bucks. “But that’s—” He glanced at James, who’d straightened out his face and now listened placidly to the radio softly playing jazz. “That’s part of the assignment. Confidentiality, you know.”
“Oh, I know. I won’t tell anyone. Hell, I don’t have anyone to tell.”
It was true. Like all of his previous mistresses, she had no family. No friends. She really would have made a very nice replacement for Joelle.
“Well, enjoy it. I need to go now.”
“Wait! Did he... you know? Did he leave his office? Have you followed him?”
He frowned. “What part of ‘confidential’ did you miss?” Then he realized how it sounded. “I apologize. I’ve had a busy morning.”
“It’s all right.” Although she sounded a lot less bouncy than she had a minute ago. “I was just hoping you caught him. To stop him.”
“We will,” he said, infusing warmth into his voice. “And I’ll keep you informed, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, then hung up.
His frown morphed into a scowl. She didn’t just hang up on me. But she had. Maybe it was better that he’d hired a new assistant. With that attitude, Ashley wouldn’t have worked out after all.
With a last check on the men guarding Broussard—still no movement other than brief periodic walks up and down the block—he slid his phone into his pocket and closed his eyes. He pushed all thoughts of Broussard, Xavier Morrow, and Gabe Hebert from his mind, mentally picturing how this meeting would go.
It would go well, just like all the meetings that had come before. He was well-liked. He looked good on camera, sounded even better. He had an amazing career record. He was senatorial.
He might even be presidential.
He smiled. He definitely liked the sound of that.
Mid-City, New Orleans, Louisiana
