CHAPTER TWO
CASH
Three Days Later
Not a single thought has entered my mind that hasn’t involved my pretty little bandit, but Mardi Gras has a knack for lingering, so I’m not too stressed about it.
It’s a simple fixation hangover, something I tend to welcome after fumbling a trick. Not that I encounter that scenario often, which explains the reason it’s plaguing me. And I certainly didn’t fumble anything that night. So, it’s nothing. It’ll be a thing of the past soon.
Jax tosses his chips into the pot, not bothering to glance at his cards. “You gonna tell us about …” He takes his typical second-too-long pause before pressing on my bruise—metaphorically. “The detour you took on Tuesday?”
We’re at the Underground—the La Lune Noire employee haven, which is filled with bars, restaurants, and entertainment areas.
It’s in direct contrast to the classy 1920s opulence of the rest of our establishment, but no less exclusive.
Our employees are practically a cult. Anything goes here, with the only rule being to never tell Axel or Ryker, the two oldest Noire siblings.
But their wives, Zara and Mercy, respectively, are with us.
And both are eager for the same details Jax is requesting.
I should fold my worthless hand, but none of them can read me, so I raise to accompany my response. “No.”
Confidence almost always trumps good cards. Wager enough preflop, and the pot is yours, regardless of what you’re holding.
“Give us something,” Mercy demands, calling my bet with a triumphant glimmer in her brown eyes.
Mercy was Ryker’s best friend long before she was his one and only, so she’s been around since I was a kid. She’s sharp, but still not attuned to discerning my antics, probably because she’s good and pure down to her marrow.
She thinks she has the winning hand. She doesn’t. Jax does.
Since she’s been challenging me the last few rounds, my strategy has shifted to drawing her out when she can’t win against him. Best-case scenario: they all fold for me to reign the victor. But if all I reap is that she simmers down after a loss to Jax, I’ll sweep the next several hands with ease.
Zara is the opposite. She hears everything unsaid and can spot deception from across the room. Mahogany hair and wicked green eyes. Loyal but formidable.
She clinks her nail against her glass, folding in search of a juicier prize. “Was it a woman or something sinister?”
Heat zips up my spine as flashes of that night whip through my mind—backflips and threats and sparkling amber eyes. Couldn’t hurt to give them something.
“Both.”
One Week Later
Maddox flicks his butterfly knife around at the threshold of my office, strands of his onyx hair slipping from his man bun to graze his temple, announcing that he just left his wife sated. “Figured out the girl’s name yet?”
I hate that he knows shit. He’s two years older and my best friend. And it’s like we can get inside each other’s head—a talent we’ve both manipulated for some epic pranks. One that landed him Tessa, thank you very much.
I’m sure I’ll cave soon enough and tell him everything, but for now, I grip the fraying threads of my dignity. If I’m not careful, he’ll start talking about me inhaling the scent of her hair, which is his determining factor for how gone a man is.
My eyes never leave my computer screen, which currently has facial recognition software on it. It’s failing miserably at discerning who the beauty in my picture is. Who knows why? Her mask, the lighting, or the lack of her existence.
“Who said anything about a girl?”
“Your sudden disinterest in the female gender for the past ten days—the cabaret girls asked if you were dying. Your weird preoccupation with computer screens—I didn’t even know you used your fucking office.
And your face.” The clicks and clacks of his balisong halt as he pushes off the doorframe to saunter inside. “You’re down bad, aren’t ya?”
Down bad?
“Fuck no.” I close out the program and spin my chair toward him. “It’s nothing. A loose end that’s nagging me.”
In an effort to prove that, I launch into the details about my mystery girl, sans the dollar-bill-fate request. Maybe he’ll be able to help me identify her.
“Christ,” he howls, grabbing his chest. “You’re in trouble, man. She beat you at your own game.”
“Only if I don’t find her, which I will,” I protest as I lock up my desk and office door, with us still inside.
“You did get turned down cold at Café L’Ambroisie,” he jeers.
“What the hell does that have to do with this?”
“I’m sensing a pattern.”
This is why involving my family in shit like this bites me in the ass. I told them a girl turned me down, and they’ve never let me forget it. Even though we all know it had nothing to do with me.
“That was two years ago, and we’ve established that the only reason I blew it was because the pianists used some voodoo witchcraft to take me down.”
“Logic. Or … what if your ability to reel in a lady with a simple grin is as lost as your wallet nearly was?” His devilish enjoyment is audible in every word.
“Never gonna happen. Just like my wallet, my grin is priceless and intact.” Refusing to take the ludicrous bait, I pull on a floor-to-ceiling shelf and guide him inside a tunnel. “Let’s go.”
My great-grandfather started La Lune Noire with a quaint speakeasy during Prohibition.
It was off the beaten path just enough that it became the sought-after place for connected men to conspire.
Our family expanded it a little more each decade, buying up the places nearby.
Even after the ban on alcohol was repealed, we clung to the secret passageways and coded entry for our business model.
Everything we do is cloaked in that same blanket of clandestine operations and exclusivity.
There is no room without a backdoor to freedom.
Unless, of course, it’s regarding sibling harassment.
“And when you find her, will you see it as a victory because you outfoxed her, or will you be singing …” He lifts his phone into the air like a boombox, and the music ricochets off the old brick corridor as he belts out the lyrics to James Arthur’s “Can I Be Him.”
That’s what I get for revealing my hand.
Two and a Half Weeks Later
They all fucking know. I held out for a while after telling Maddox, but when I still didn’t find anything, I considered them a necessary part of my research.
It was more desperate than the Serendipity ploy.
Since the only picture I have is with her face partially covered, sharing with my family has proven to be useless for me and amusing to them.
It’s fucking pathetic.
I may have lost my damn mind. I honestly don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.
I’ve always hated defeat, but keeping my sanity is a worthwhile prize, so it’s over.
I’m moving on and getting back to normal.
It’s been far too long since I entertained a woman.
That must be it, which makes the remedy crystal clear.
With that in mind, I tromp down the penthouse stairs with renewed spirit and wander into the kitchen for breakfast. Only Axel is present.
Sometimes, everyone is here, and sometimes, it’s empty.
The absence of even Zara leads me to believe this is by design because the man rarely lets his wife begin her day without him.
I stroll past him with a simple, “Good morning,” and grab myself a cup of coffee in our Art Deco kitchen.
The black-and-gold color scheme, sky lights, and retro appliances are lavish.
At first glance, that’s what catches people’s attention.
But that’s not what renders this area a showstopper.
It’s the massive dining table and the unbelievable sense of family devotion instilled here through the mandatory meals and exuberant chaos. Home.
The weight of Axel’s scrutiny lands on my back, so I turn, leaning against the marble countertop, ankles crossed, with an air of nonchalance.
He adjusts his glasses, surveying me over his computer screen and sipping his own cup of joe. “It’s been a month.”
I knew he’d stress about this when there’s nothing to fucking worry about.
Axel is the dad of the group. Our parents died in our house fire when I was twelve.
Axel was only twenty-one, but with Ryker’s help—who was nineteen—he moved us all into the resort, raised us, and ran the business.
We were a handful. Maddox was fourteen and pissy.
Jax was eight and scarred. Rena was six and spirited.
And I was … resigned, determined to embrace every single perk of our new life and not let the emotional fallout touch me.
I’m sure Axel questioned his competency on a daily basis, but he shouldered it all and became our whole world. He is by far the best man I’ve ever known, which is why his fatherly perspective has him viewing things heavier than need be.
My gaze flicks to the two-story windows in the adjacent great room, showcasing the golden-hued New Orleans cityscape, before I park it on him. “I told you all at family dinner last night that I was no longer looking for her. I’ve moved on. You should too.”
He tilts his head—his dad hat and godfather ways colliding—like he’s debating what he should share with me. “So, if I had a list of all the female cat burglars between the ages of twenty and forty that I could find names for, you wouldn’t be interested?”
Fuck. That’s unexpected. Most thieves use aliases, but it could still lead to something. At this point, I should let it go. But it’s like doing the hard work of counting into an eight-deck blackjack game and losing the aces. Maddening.
I’m a damn junkie after one whiff—sweet and sexy and intoxicating. This must be what women feel like after a night with me. I’ll have to keep that in mind from now on. It’s tortuous.
I take my time responding, breathing in the steam and drinking my coffee. “Should I be?”