After his partner, William Graves, had died and Bill’s son, Troy, had inherited half the company, Reese had begun to hear rumors that the business was in trouble. He frowned as a thought occurred, jotting a mental note to see if Black Sand Oil and Gas had made any attempts to purchase the Poseidon platform. Was it possible they had some connection to the problems with the rig?
Delia walked away in a huff, her snug black dress shifting back and forth over a round behind she was clearly proud of. Arthur remained, his gaze following Kenzie and his grandson across the wide expanse of manicured lawn.
“So it’s true,” Arthur said, his attention returning to Reese. “You and my ex-daughter-in-law are involved? Delia mentioned she saw your photos on the front page of the newspaper at the grocery store. I didn’t believe it at the time.”
“We’re both single. We’re seeing each other—not that it’s any of your business.”
“Tsk-tsk, my friend. It’s not exactly appropriate to be dating one of your employees. Not in your position.”
It was true. He should have stayed away from Kenzie. For six months, he’d done his best, then, like a wrecking ball swinging out of control, he couldn’t ignore his feelings any longer. He wasn’t sorry. Kenzie was worth the risk. “I’m willing to take my chances.”
Arthur just smiled.
Reese continued on down the steps, crossing the lawn beneath a cloudy sky that signaled rain, deciding he would go to the graveside service after all. He’d stay at the back of the crowd, but if anyone gave Kenzie trouble, he would be there for her.
From now on, that was the way it was going to be.
It was early evening, a light rain beginning to fall. It was still hot in mid-September, the evenings warm and muggy.
Arthur sat in his favorite leather chair in front of the TV in his study, a plate of chicken casserole unfinished on the coffee table. His housekeeper had left for the day. Betty would be back in the morning to tidy things up and fix his meals, more reliable than his dead ex-wife ever had been.
And unlike Judith, who had constantly poked her nose into his business, Betty knew her place, which meant he rarely saw her. If she’d been thirty years younger and willing to service him once in a while, she would have been perfect. On another day, Arthur might have smiled at his own humor.
But today he had buried his youngest son. He didn’t have much to smile about.
A noise reached him from somewhere in the house. A jolt of fear hit him as he recognized the sound of breaking glass. Arthur shot to his feet as two men walked into the study, one big and wide, a pleasant face if not for the scowl digging lines into his forehead. The other man was short but muscular, with curly black hair and dark eyes a little too close together.
“What are you doing in my house? Get out this instant!”
“Put your shoes back on, Mr. Haines,” the bigger man said calmly. “You’re going for a ride.”
“A ride? What are you talking about?”
“Mr. DeMarco wants to see you. You need to come with us.”
When Arthur started to shake his head, the short guy with the attitude reached beneath his windbreaker and pulled out a heavy black pistol. “You’re going—with or without your shoes.”
Trying to hide his fear, Arthur sat back down and did as he was told. “You can put the gun away. You’ve made your point.”
Their car sat out front, an innocuous four-door brown sedan. The big guy got in behind the wheel and the short guy got in back with Arthur. He would have preferred the other way around.
“It’s almost three hours to Shreveport,” the big man said, looking back over his shoulder. “Maybe you can catch a nap.”
Arthur said nothing. Sleeping was the last thing on his mind. He owed Sawyer DeMarco several million dollars. At the moment he had no way to pay him.
Still, after the first two uncomfortable hours, he began to nod off, his head slumping down on his chest. The last thing he remembered was the short man calling the big man Nolan. The next thing he knew, pain shot through him as the short guy with the curly black hair elbowed him in the ribs.
“We’re here,” the short guy said. Nolan opened the rear car door and Arthur and the short man got out. They were parked beneath a green-striped awning in front of a separate entrance into the Pot-of-Gold Resort Casino, the flagship of DeMarco’s gambling domain.
In Louisiana, gaming was allowed only on riverboats, which were permanently docked on the water, in this case the muddy Red River that slugged through Shreveport heading south.
“Get going,” the man with the black hair said, shoving him forward, enjoying it. “Boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Nolan pushed the button on the elevator and it began its ascent to DeMarco’s penthouse apartment on the top floor of the club. Arthur wished he had remembered to grab his suit coat as he’d walked out the door. He looked wrinkled and tired after the long drive from Dallas. He hated being at a disadvantage.
DeMarco was waiting when the doors slid open and he stepped into the black-and-white marble entry beneath a huge crystal chandelier. Everything in the penthouse was overdone. Gold and scarlet, white gilded furniture, imitation Greek statues. It reeked of DeMarco’s lower-class beginnings, Arthur thought.
“You want a drink?” The words rasped out in DeMarco’s smoker’s voice. He took a sip of the expensive scotch he favored, making the ice clink in his glass. He was several inches shorter than Arthur, built like a linebacker, with broad shoulders and a thick barrel chest. He had dark brown hair that always needed trimming, black eyes, and a bad complexion. Sawyer DeMarco was not a handsome man.
