Dangerous Women Part 45

"Yeah," Danny managed. "She's good. We're good ... together. I'm asking you to, uh, please back off." He didn't know that Peter had been going to the club so often. How many times had he been in a private room with Delia while Danny waited like an eager puppy in the bar across the street?

"For you, of course," Peter said with a magnanimous nod. "I wish you both the best." Took a sip of coffee, walked over to the window to gaze out at the muddy swath that was more bayou than river now. "Of course, for your sake, I hope she doesn't get a better offer." He glanced back at Danny. "Or rather, if she does get a better offer, that she doesn't take it."

"Right," Danny said. "Appreciate you understanding."

Peter set the mug down on the table by the window. "By the way, the final vote on the poker room is day after tomorrow. I need you to lean on Councilman Nagle. Catch him doing something." His smile widened. "Maybe your Delia can help you out with that." Then he shrugged. "Or not. Best to keep business and pleasure separate, right?"

"Right," Danny repeated. It was a challenge, a power play. Peter wanted to know how much he could trust him. Wanted to know how far Danny would go to keep the influence that had protected him for so long.

Yet Danny knew that it didn't matter. It was already too late. Danny had tried to bare his teeth. From now on, Peter would be watching his back, waiting for the moment when he could throw Danny to the wolves and keep his own hands clean.

Danny simply had to find a way to do the same to Peter first.

He jerked his head in a nod. "Got it. I'll take care of it."

Peter's smile widened. "You're a good friend. Give my best to Delia."

The next week was quiet and calm. Danny readied himself for the next time Peter called on him, ready to record the exchange or whatever else he could do, but his phone remained silent. Delia spent every night at his apartment, only returning to her own place to change clothes and water her plants. She told him that Peter had stopped coming to the club and wanted to know what Danny had done. He merely smiled and said, "Better that you don't know." He couldn't tell her that he'd done nothing except grovel, that the only reason Peter left her alone was because it suited Peter to do so.

And, as Danny had feared, it didn't last.

"He came to my apartment!" she told him after he opened his door to see her standing on his front step. Her lower lip trembled and her eyes were red from weeping. He quickly pulled her inside, took her to the couch, and held her while she poured it all out to him.

Peter had given her an ultimatum-go with him or he'd not only have her evicted but he'd make sure she never found work in this city again.

"I don't know what to do," she told him, looking more defeated and beaten down than he'd ever imagined she could be. "I can't ... I won't leave New Orleans. It's too special to me." Delia's eyes lifted to his. "People like him are destroying this city. I hate it. I hate them all!" Her voice broke on the last word.

Sweat p.r.i.c.ked Danny's palms. He could kill Peter. There were a hundred different ways he could do it and stage it like an accident or suicide. Or maybe Danny could go to the feds, tell them everything he knew about Peter's dealings.

"I'll take care of it," he said, kissing her. He stood up, but she caught at his hand.

"I don't want you getting into trouble," she said, eyes wide and frightened.

"It'll be fine. I promise." He gently pulled free of her grasp. "You can count on me."

Danny walked along Chartres Street to Dumaine, headed to Jackson Square and watched pigeons swarm around a b.u.m with a bag of stale bread. A handful of street artists gamely displayed their wares, casting desperate smiles to the spa.r.s.e trickle of tourists wandering by, and ignoring him, since he was obviously a local and not worth wasting the energy of false friendliness on.

He would kill Peter Bennett, he told himself. That was the only way out. Going to the feds wasn't an option. Anything Danny told them would sink him just as thoroughly as it would Peter, and he didn't have any evidence other than his own testimony.

Late afternoon turned to dusk as he sat on a bench in the park and considered his options, planned out his steps. When full dark came, he headed down Decatur, stopped in a sleazy T-s.h.i.+rt shop full of tourist c.r.a.p, and bought a cap. After that, he cut over to the Riverwalk, entered Peter's building, and took the elevator to his floor, keeping the cap pulled low over his face to avoid being caught by any cameras.

Peter answered the door, eyebrow lifting in mild surprise at Danny's presence. His gaze flicked to the cap and then back to Danny's face. "You okay? You look upset."

"Yeah," he replied. "A bit. Can I come in?"

"Absolutely." Peter stepped aside, closed the door behind him. Danny swept his gaze around the condo. No one else here. No one else on this floor, for that matter. No one had seen him come in. He had it all planned. Collapsible baton in his pocket to take Peter down, then make it look like an accidental fall in the shower. Doubtful it would be found out as murder even if there was a proper investigation.

Peter leaned up against the counter, watched Danny impa.s.sively. Maybe he knew why the cop was here. Probably did, in fact. He had to have known it would come to this.

"I almost forgot," Peter said abruptly, pus.h.i.+ng off the counter and moving to his desk. "Forgot to give you that, ah, loan money you asked for."

Sweat p.r.i.c.kled Danny's back and his hand eased toward his gun. This was perfect. Peter was going to pull a gun from that drawer and then Danny could shoot him in self-defense.

But it was a thick envelope that Peter retrieved from the drawer. Danny dropped his hand before Peter could see, heart thudding unevenly. The man was paying him for busting Councilman Nagle with a prost.i.tute earlier in the week. Nagle had agreed to vote Peter's way rather than face a humiliating arrest, and the poker room had been approved, no doubt the first of many.

Peter held out the envelope to him. "I think you'll be happy with this. I know I am. Good work with that, by the way."

He didn't move for several seconds, then finally stepped forward and took the envelope. Opened it to see that it held at least ten grand.

Danny closed the envelope and tucked it into the pocket in his jacket. "Appreciate this," he said, voice sounding odd and rough in his ears. He didn't have to kill Peter. He had other options. He could take Delia away from here. He'd convince her to leave. They could start over somewhere else. Away from this f.u.c.ked-up city. Away from Peter.

"Come by next week," Peter said. "We'll talk." He paused. "You should bring Delia by sometime. Unless you two broke up already?" He lifted a bottle of water, drank without ever taking his eyes from Danny.

"No," Danny replied, feeling the weight of the question, responding to the statements.

The man grinned. "That's real cute. How long you think that'll last?"

He wasn't talking about Delia, Danny knew. Peter was toying with him, wanting to know how long this little flare of defiance would go on before Danny settled down and behaved again.

Like the dog at the cafe, who'd slunk off instead of attacking. That dog was probably dead now, Danny thought, or at the very least still hungry, slinking through the city, willing to brave a few kicks to get a sc.r.a.p or two.

No more slinking. No more sc.r.a.ps.

"Forever," he replied. With a practiced move, he pulled the baton from his pocket and snapped it open. Baring his teeth as he stepped toward Peter. Reveling in the shock and fear on the man's face as the dog finally turned on his master.

He called her in the elevator, asked her to meet him at the Ca.n.a.l Street Ferry. He figured he'd beat her there, but when he arrived at the dock, he saw her leaning on the rail down at the end, looking out over the wallowing river and the blinking lights of cars crossing the bridge.

A tension he hadn't even been aware of leached away. A part of him hadn't been sure she'd come, afraid that she'd cut her losses and leave him behind. Yet now he realized that she'd known where he'd gone, had been waiting nearby for him.

She turned at the sound of his hurrying footsteps, watched him as he approached.

"Danny ...?" she said, reaching up to touch his face. "What's going on?"

He caught her hand in his, kissed it. "I love you, baby. I'll keep you safe forever, I swear it."

Her breath caught. "Oh G.o.d. What did you do?"

"It's cool," he said. "I swear. I ... I'm good."

She bit her lip, then closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around him. "Yes, you are."

He lowered his head and breathed in the scent of her, feeling all the s.h.i.+t and the muck of his life slipping away. "Let's go," he said. "Let's leave this place forever and start over somewhere else." He didn't want to stay, but he also knew he couldn't leave her behind. She'd end up as beaten and broken as those other girls ... yet, even as he thought it, he knew that it was an excuse, knew that he wasn't strong enough to leave without her. But maybe if they both left, started over ... maybe he could get unbroken.

She pulled back, shock and disappointment flas.h.i.+ng across her features. "You want me to leave? I can't!"

"It's just a city, baby," he said, holding her face in his hands. "Nothing but a bunch of buildings and streets and c.r.a.p and a.s.sholes."

"No. It's so much more than that." She tried to shake her head. "There's a soul to this place, rich and wonderful. We survived Katrina and we'll survive this. We ... I ... have to stay. Why can't you see it?" She reached up, pulled his hands from her face, but continued to hold them. "Oh, Danny," she breathed. "Peter's gone now. You don't have to be who you were anymore."

She knew, he realized, as the last of his tension dissipated. She knew he'd killed Peter, understood the lengths he'd go to for her ... and didn't hate him for it. "No. I can be better," he insisted. "I can be ... if I'm with you." He squeezed her hands. "But not here. It can't work here. New Orleans died when the river left. There's always gonna be guys like Peter here, looking to cash in on the wreckage. They'll tear this city up and salvage every sc.r.a.p they can from it, and they won't give a s.h.i.+t who gets crushed in the process."

He couldn't see her expression in the gloom, but he heard a sigh of what sounded like resignation come from her. Maybe she was starting to see things his way? "I have money," he told her. "We can go to Lafayette. Start over. We'll be together." His phone rang and he cursed, pulled it out to see it was Detective Farber. Ice knotted his stomach. Had Peter been found already?

"Think about it," he mouthed to Delia before he stepped back and answered the phone.

"Get this," Farber said without preamble. "Ernst's gun matched the slugs found in Jack-D's body." Jack-D, a pimp even sleazier than Jimmy Ernst, who specialized in girls who didn't just look very young but really were. He'd been found down on Basin Street the day before Ernst took a swim in the mud. "Betcha one of Jack-D's boys capped Ernst as a get back," the detective continued. "At any rate, we got enough to close both cases."

"Yeah," Danny said. "That's good. Do it." He hung up, looked out at the river and frowned. Didn't make sense that a p.u.s.s.y like Jimmy would go after Jack-D. Didn't make sense that anyone would give enough of a s.h.i.+t to take out Jimmy in revenge. A whisper of unease lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. Delia had known Peter was dead. Had she wanted Danny to kill him?

He began to turn back to Delia, felt two p.r.o.ngs of cold metal against his throat an instant before hot lightning flashed through his body. He dropped to the concrete of the dock as pain danced through his nerve endings and he fought for control of his muscles.

She stooped and slipped the Taser back into her purse, pulled him upright, and leaned him against the railing. She was strong-those dancer muscles served her well as she toppled him over the side to the waiting muck below.

He landed flat on his back. The impact knocked his breath from him, but the mud quickly gave way beneath his weight. She leaned over the railing, met his eyes as he sank.

Delia checked her watch, waited as the river slid along its banks with a contented, relieved sigh. In the distance, metal groaned as a s.h.i.+p heeled over with the change in the tide. Moonlight painted the river in a sheet of soft grey, an elegant lady settling into comfortable retirement.

She looked down at the silt below. Barely a ripple to show that anything had disturbed it. A sigh of regret slipped from her. "You were a good boy, Danny," she murmured, a sad smile touching her mouth. "The best one yet."

Delia touched her fingers to her lips, blew a tender good-bye kiss toward the silt below, then turned and headed back to the heart of her city.

Diana Gabaldon New York Times bestselling author Diana Gabaldon is a winner of the Quill Award and of the RITA Award given by the Romance Writers of America. She's the author of the hugely popular Outlander series of time-travel romances, international bestsellers that include Cross St.i.tch, Dragonfly in Amber, Voyager, Drums of Autumn, The Fiery Cross, A Breath of Snow and Ashes, and An Echo in the Bone. Her historical series about the strange adventures of Lord John include the novels Lord John and the Private Matter; Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade; a chapbook novella, Lord John and the h.e.l.l-Fire Club; and a collection of Lord John stories, Lord John and the Hand of Devils. Her most recent novels are two new Lord John books, The Scottish Prisoner and Red Ant's Head, and a novel omnibus, A Trail of Fire. She's also written a contemporary mystery, White Knight. A guidebook to and appreciation of her work is The Outlandish Companion.

In the fast-paced story that follows, the young Jamie Fraser, one day to be one of the protagonists of the Outlander books, is forced out of his Scottish home and set to wandering in the world, with many new experiences waiting ahead of him, some pleasant, some decidedly not-and some dangerous and dark.

VIRGINS.

OCTOBER, 1740.

NEAR BORDEAUX, FRANCE.

Ian Murray knew from the moment he saw his best friend's face that something terrible had happened. The fact that he was seeing Jamie Fraser's face at all was evidence enough of that, never mind the look of the man.

Jamie was standing by the armorer's wagon, his arms full of the bits and pieces Armand had just given him, white as milk and swaying back and forth like a reed on Loch Awe. Ian reached him in three paces and took him by the arm before he could fall over.

"Ian." Jamie looked so relieved at seeing him that Ian thought he might break into tears. "G.o.d, Ian."

Ian seized Jamie in embrace, and felt him stiffen and draw in his breath at the same instant he felt the bandages beneath Jamie's s.h.i.+rt.

"Jesus!" he began, startled, but then coughed and said, "Jesus, man, it's good to see ye." He patted Jamie's back gently and let go. "Ye'll need a bit to eat, aye? Come on, then."

Plainly they couldn't talk now, but he gave Jamie a quick private nod, took half the equipment from him, and then led him to the fire, to be introduced to the others.

Jamie'd picked a good time of day to turn up, Ian thought. Everyone was tired, but happy to sit down, looking forward to their supper and the daily ration of whatever was going in the way of drink. Ready for the possibilities a new fish offered for entertainment, but without the energy to include the more physical sorts of entertainment.

"That's Big Georges over there," Ian said, dropping Jamie's gear and gesturing toward the far side of the fire. "Next to him, the wee fellow wi' the warts is Juanito; doesna speak much French and nay English at all."

"Do any of them speak English?" Jamie likewise dropped his gear, and sat heavily on his bedroll, tucking his kilt absently down between his knees. His eyes flicked round the circle, and he nodded, half-smiling in a shy sort of way.

"I do." The captain leaned past the man next to him, extending a hand to Jamie. "I'm le capitaine-Richard D'Eglise. You'll call me Captain. You look big enough to be useful-your friend says your name is Fraser?"

"Jamie Fraser, aye." Ian was pleased to see that Jamie knew to meet the Captain's eye square, and had summoned the strength to return the hand-shake with due force.

"Know what to do with a sword?"

"I do. And a bow, forbye." Jamie glanced at the unstrung bow by his feet, and the short-handled ax beside it. "Havena had much to do wi' an ax before, save chopping wood."

"That's good," one of the other men put in, in French. "That's what you'll use it for." Several of the others laughed, indicating that they at least understood English, whether they chose to speak it or not.

"Did I join a troop of soldiers, then, or charcoal-burners?" Jamie asked, raising one brow. He said that in French-very good French, with a faint Parisian accent-and a number of eyes widened. Ian bent his head to hide a smile, in spite of his anxiety. The wean might be about to fall face-first into the fire, but n.o.body-save maybe Ian-was going to know it, if it killed him.

Ian did know it, though, and kept a covert eye on Jamie, pus.h.i.+ng bread into his hand so the others wouldn't see it shake, sitting close enough to catch him if he should in fact pa.s.s out. The light was fading into gray now, and the clouds hung low and soft, pink-bellied. Going to rain, likely, by the morning. He saw Jamie close his eyes just for an instant, saw his throat move as he swallowed, and felt the trembling of Jamie's thigh near his own.

What the devil's happened? he thought in anguish. Why are ye here?

It wasn't until everyone had settled for the night that Ian got an answer.

"I'll lay out your gear," he whispered to Jamie, rising. "You stay by the fire that wee bit longer-rest a bit, aye?" The firelight cast a ruddy glow on Jamie's face, but he thought his friend was likely still white as a sheet; he hadn't eaten much.

Coming back, he saw the dark spots on the back of Jamie's s.h.i.+rt, blotches where fresh blood had seeped through the bandages. The sight filled him with fury as well as fear. He'd seen such things; the wean had been flogged. Badly, and recently. Who? How?

"Come on, then," he said roughly, and, bending, got an arm under Jamie's and got him to his feet and away from the fire and the other men. He was alarmed to feel the clamminess of Jamie's hand and hear his shallow breath.

"What?" he demanded, the moment they were out of earshot. "What happened?"

Jamie sat down abruptly.

"I thought one joined a band of mercenaries because they didna ask ye questions."

Ian gave him the snort this statement deserved, and was relieved to hear a breath of laughter in return.

"Eejit," he said. "D'ye need a dram? I've got a bottle in my sack."