by Tamara DeStefano

“Join me for a dance, Mrs. Willoughby?”

Rachel looked up at Frank Watson and smiled demurely though her skin crawled at the prospect of waltzing with the man. Accepting his offered hand, she turned on her newly acquired Memphis accent and answered, “I would love to, Mr. Watson, but please, call me Rachel.”

“If you promise to call me Frank.” The tall, red-haired snake led her out onto the crowded dance floor.

Leaving Jack’s side a moment earlier, she’d made a beeline for the reptile they intended to snare, sidling up beside him as he’d excused himself from a small group of men. She’d introduced herself, complimented his home and then thanked him for inviting her and her husband to the charity gala, all while concealing two emotions. Repugnance was the first. The thought of what this man had done to innocent people for the last ten years made her sick. The second was a feeling of extreme pride.

She’d been nervous about her first assignment, so much so that she’d thrown up early this morning just thinking about it. Tom had held her hair as she retched like a sorority girl over the toilet. He’d held her in bed afterwards, asking if she was sure she still wanted to be a major player in the operation. She’d answered without any hesitation —“Yes. I want to get this guy.”

And here she was, in the lion’s den being whirled across the polished floor by the guy himself. And it had been easy. The minute she’d recognized him across the room it was like her fear flew out the two-story windows. She knew what she had to do and wasted no time doing it. “Make contact as soon as possible,” Jack had said. And she’d done it…without throwing up all over her gown.

Pride was an understatement. She felt downright exhilarated.

“You mentioned you just moved to Atlanta from Memphis?” Frank’s hand slid lower down her back as he did a change step to the right in time with the chorus of violins.

Graze my ass again and you’re gonna draw back a stump, she wanted to growl, but instead answered, “Yes.” She frowned.

The expression did the trick. Frank took the bait. “You don’t look happy about the move.”

“Atlanta is lovely, really, it’s just that…,” she broke off, allowing her voice to crack.

“What?” he asked, as he side-stepped her to the left in time with the music.

Rachel studied the swish of her gown as it brushed her toes while she drummed up the requisite emotion. After a moment she let him see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. As a kid, she had realized she could cry at will. The trick came in handy now. His cinnamon-colored brows knitted together and she looked away quickly as if she didn’t want him to see her distress. He leaned in closer, ducking his head to see her tear- streaked face.

“Are you all right?”

Rachel allowed him to pull her closer, trying hard not to wrinkle her nose. He wore too much cologne. She’d never been a fan of cologne. And thankfully neither Tom nor Jack appeared to ever wear the stuff. The best way she could describe Tom’s natural scent was Thanksgiving dinner—spicy, warm and inviting. She’d breathe him in and immediately feel comforted, at peace, totally calm. She could wrap herself in that scent and loved the way her skin absorbed the fragrance when he held her in his strong arms.

Jack’s scent, on the other hand, conjured a completely opposite set of emotions. His skin smelled like the slopes of Aspen, sharp, brisk…dangerous. His scent made her feel on edge. It gave her goose bumps, reminding her of the ice and snow of the frigid Rockies. Jack’s scent wasn’t comforting. It was disconcerting.

“Rachel?”

She looked up at Frank’s face and grimaced. “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling out of his arms and hurrying to the edge of the dance floor. She made her way to an unoccupied corner of the ballroom hoping he would follow.

After a heartbeat passed, Rachel felt a hand on her shoulder. Smiling inwardly, she turned to make eye contact with her prey.

“Whatever it is, I bet I can help,” he assured her.

She shook her head in defeat. “This isn’t your problem.” She hesitated and swiped at the few tears lingering on her cheeks. With a nervous chuckle she looked up at him. “God, I can’t believe I just teared up. You must think I’m an emotional wreck.”

“Not at all.”

“I feel like an idiot.” She moved to walk away, but he took hold of her elbow, stopping her.

“What’s bugging you?” he asked softly.

The bastard actually sounds sincere. Rachel realized it was his charm that put people at ease. His handsome face and gentlemanly manner were no doubt responsible for his success as a ruthless criminal. The idea made her think of the poetic words, “Will you walk into my parlor,” said the spider to the fly.

Even more determined to bust this guy, Rachel let tears fill her eyes again. “You can’t help.”

He smirked with obvious confidence. “I’m a very wealthy man,” he said, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Wealth opens doors, and those doors inevitably reveal answers to problems.” He took a sip and then added, “Let me open a door or two for you.”

“Why would you be willing to help me, a virtual stranger?” She blotted her tears with a small napkin he had handed her while trying to remain inconspicuous from the other guests.

He looked around the room and then back at her. “It’s a charity ball. Let’s just say I’m in a giving mood. Plus, a little bird told me all about you. You headed up the Hispanic Children and Families Foundation, chaired Women for Latino Youth Development and Achievement and helped find homes for immigrants in Memphis. And in the few months you’ve been here in Atlanta you’ve already become a major part of our String of Pearls charity. I think you deserve a little help.”

Rachel smiled both externally and internally. The FBI sure knew how to manufacture an alias. “That bird must really do his homework,” she said, wiping her nose.

“I’m giving a tidy sum of money to your charity this evening. I feel I have a right to do a background check or two.”

“One or two?” she asked with a raised brow, still dabbing her moist cheeks. Glancing around the ballroom at the couples dancing and the ones sitting at tables, she smiled and then looked back at him. “There are more than a few people here, Mr. Watson. You must have a great memory for detail to recall my history so easily.”

He flashed a brilliant, bleached smile. “Photographic. And I like to know as much as I can about my friends.”

Rachel hid her mounting concern. Maybe the tears were too much. Was this guy playing her? Did he really have a photographic memory or was he on to them?

She couldn’t read his slate eyes and wondered if she should continue luring him into incrimination or back off. She suddenly doubted her ability to make the decision on her own. She scanned the room, looking for Jack. At first she couldn’t locate his tall, broad-shouldered form, but after a moment she found him.

He stood near the huge bank of windows. His body language was casual and laid back, his smile devastatingly sexy. He leaned in close, chatting with a woman. But not just any woman. His companion was none other than Olivia Watson, the snake’s wife and partner in crime. Rachel recognized her immediately from the intel photos they’d been issued. She was even more beautiful in real life. Blonde hair, blue eyes, bronzed skin, a body that belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition.

Jeesh, I’m gonna be sick. Rachel’s stomach clenched painfully, but it wasn’t nerves this time. The roiling in her gut felt more like…jealousy.

Jealousy? Over Jack?

Tom had become so important to her in such a short amount of time. He was sweet and giving, courageous and brave. His kisses curled her toes. His touch set her skin on fire. How could she feel all of those things with Tom and still manage to feel jealous watching Jack flirt with another woman?

She looked away, giving herself a mental slap.

Her first assignment and already she was blowing it. Get a grip. He’s doing his job. Now do yours and stop acting like a damn rookie.

Meeting Frank’s gaze, Rachel softened her expression, lowering her lashes. Tom said when she looked at him that way there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her. Rachel just hoped the expression worked on sociopaths, too.

“I assure you,” she hesitated for effect and then added, “Frank.” He smiled, obviously pleased she’d finally used his first name. “I am a friend. I’m just, well,” she glanced at Jack and then back again. “I’m at the end of my rope.” Grimacing, she leaned in closer and whispered, “It’s funny, I’ve only just met you but I feel like I can confide in you. I’m not sure why.”

“For some reason I put people at ease. Always have. You have my undivided attention,” he urged with a nod.

“It’s my husband.” She hesitated, worrying at the napkin she clutched in her fingers. “He’s been unfaithful to me,” she finally added.

“How do you know?”

“I caught him.” She glanced Jack’s way, but he wasn’t there. Scanning the outskirts of the room, Rachel couldn’t locate him.

With one last stroke of a violin, the waltz ended and the couples on the dance floor clapped for the six-piece orchestra. Rachel began clapping without much emotion, but Frank took hold of her elbow and maneuvered her through the throng of guests. She allowed him to lead her out into the cavernous foyer. Couples mingled on the black and white checkerboard tiles beneath the diamond-like glow of a crystal chandelier. Frank ignored them, led her past the wide, central staircase and then straight into a large room off the main entryway lined with books and smelling of leather.

He closed the door behind them, indicating a pin-striped sofa. “Sit, we’ll have more privacy in here.”

Rachel took a seat, sweeping her gown out from beneath her heels. “I don’t want to take you from your guests.”

“It’s early. I’ll have plenty of time to rub elbows later.” He opened a crystal decanter and poured two generous drinks. Walking up to her, he held out a glass. “It’s Glendronach, single malt. If angels drank,” he held the glass up to his scrutiny, “this would be their beverage of choice.”

Rachel accepted the liquor. It smelled amazing, but she didn’t take a sip. Instead she shrugged lightly. “You’ve just been so kind.” She hoped her Memphis twang wasn’t beginning to sound hokey. “I wish everyone was as kind as you are.”

He took a sip of his drink and then sat across from her. “Tell me what’s going on with your husband.”

She set the glass on the coffee table and stood. Pacing the finely-woven Oriental rug, she wove a tale. “I have two young women working in my home as maids. They’re Venezuelan, very pretty.” She stopped pacing and chewed her thumb nail. “Sisters.” She glanced at him. “My charity work puts me in contact with large numbers of immigrants here on work visas on a regular basis. I find them employment, homes, support. On occasion I hire some of them myself. I’ve never had any trouble before.”

She slumped into a wing chair opposite him and put her hand over her mouth with a distressed look on her face. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled through her fingers. “I can’t believe I’m laying this all on you.” As tears fell from her lashes, she leaned forward and put her head in her hands.

“You think your husband is involved with one of these women?”

She looked up. “They’re girls, teenagers, eighteen and nineteen.” Worrying at the fabric of her dress she continued. “And I don’t think he’s involved with one of them. It’s both of them.”

He drained his scotch, leaned back in his chair and looked at her pointedly. “I’m so sorry.” He hesitated for a moment and then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Does your husband know you know?”

She looked down at the floor. Trying to appear uncomfortable she began wringing her hands in her lap. She shook her head. “No. I left the room before they saw me. I’m not good at confrontation. I’m a wimp if you want to know the truth. I’m not proud of that.” She looked at the ceiling and shook her head again. “God I can’t believe I’m sitting here telling you all of this.” Wiping away tears she looked back at him.

“Did you fire the girls?”

She shook her head no. “I caught him this morning. I haven’t talked to them yet. I just keep seeing their faces. They were scared.”

“I’m surprised you’re here with him.”

She wrinkled her brows. “My husband’s marriage vows may mean nothing to me right now, but this charity means everything. I can’t turn my back on these people. They need our help.” She studied the floor and continued wringing her hands. “I know I have to confront my husband, and I will. I also know I should fire the girls as soon as I get home, but I.…”

“What?” he urged.

“They have nowhere else to go. They have no family but each other. In Venezuela they had to prostitute themselves just to eat. Here they hoped to be safe from that, but….” She shook her head ruefully. “My husband took that hope away from them. I don’t blame the girls. I blame him. He took advantage.” She stared off into space. “It’s what he does best.”

Her gaze re-focused and her hand fluttered at her throat. “I know you probably think I’m a fool, but I can’t just kick them out in the street.”

“I don’t think that at all. You’re sympathetic. I admire your integrity.”

Looking at her lap, Rachel kept comments about his compliment to herself. If she didn’t know Frank Watson’s true character inside and out, she’d think he was actually as caring and compassionate as he was wealthy. But the vast wealth he enjoyed on a daily basis flowed into his hands on a tidal wave of blood, despair and pain. His legit business associates and the law-abiding world in general seemed to look at Watson through rose-colored glasses. But in the dark underworld of white slavery there was no such illusion. His sadistic cruelty and terrifying fits of rage were well known. The man was a modern day Jekyll and Hyde.

He stood and walked to the bar. After he poured himself another drink, he turned and leaned against the burled walnut cabinet. “Let me help you out.”

Rachel looked up, shaking her head back and forth. “No. I’ve already imposed on you too much.” She stood to excuse herself. “You invite me into your home and I thank you by dumping my problems into your lap.” She kicked her gown’s train out of her way and turned to leave. “Thank you Mr. Watson.” She glanced back at him. “Frank…thank you for being so kind, but I should go now.”

“Rachel.”

She stopped after a few steps and turned to face him.

“Listen,” he said, walking forward. “I want to help you.” He came closer, standing just inches away. His grey eyes bore into hers. “Let me help you,” he whispered.

Rachel looked up at him with hope in her gaze, trying to look helpless and vulnerable. He lifted his hand and caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

Holy shit. Are you kidding me? He’s gonna hit on me now?

She didn’t know why she was surprised at the turn of events and did her best to conceal the emotion along with hiding her extreme disgust. “How can you help?”

He lowered his hand and smiled. Rachel got an image of the Cheshire cat in her head. “I’m Frank Watson.”

As if those two words explained everything. And of course, they did.

“I’ve spent years cultivating friends in a wide variety of circles. Some of them just pretend to like me because of the money.” He shrugged lightly. “Their loss. But some of my acquaintances are true friends and I know they’d agree with me that you need help.”

“My marriage is already ruined. No one can help with that.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. Let me take the girls off your hands.”

Her eyes searched his and she allowed a note of hope to creep into her expression while inside she jumped for joy. Here it was. The first step. Oh sure his words weren’t enough to condemn him, but they were a step in the right direction. She was sickened by his nonchalance, but she was also glad to be a part of his downfall. “Take them off my hands?”

“You don’t want to put them out on the street and I agree with you. They’d just end up getting into more trouble. They’re just kids really. Who knows what their fate would be.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be much different than their lives had been in the Venezuelan slums. I couldn’t do that to them.”

“I know a few people who would be happy to take them in.”

“What do you mean?”

Frank smiled. “They’re families who have the same interests that you do. One of them, a Senator and his wife, take in immigrants all the time. Like you, they find them jobs, set them up with housing, and acclimate them until they can earn citizenship. I think they’d be a perfect match for your girls.”

“So you could find them a place to live?”

“I definitely could. And this way, your husband doesn’t have access to them, and they can live in a safe, nurturing environment until they get themselves on their feet, so to speak.”

“Really?” She smiled, her hand rising to touch her heart. She inhaled deeply before letting her breath filter slowly through her lips.

The gesture wasn’t lost on him. “Really. I’ll make some calls later and get it all set up.”

“But what if they can’t take them in?”

“That’s not an issue. I know they’ll be glad to help.”

Rachel smiled up at him. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You’re a beautiful woman. That smile is a good start. But I wouldn’t turn down a hug.”

Rachel envisioned herself kneeing him in the crotch, but he was so damn slimy she was sure the blow would glance off with little effect. She couldn’t stand being in the room with him, talking to him, smiling at him.

And now she’d have to hug him.

She wanted to vomit, but instead she smiled brightly and opened her arms. He swooped in like the predator he was and crushed her in his arms.

That second, the library door opened.

“Get your damn hands off her.”

Rachel recognized the voice immediately. She turned to see Jack standing in the doorway with Olivia Watson at his side.

*****************

Uh-oh, what now? Stay tuned for Chapter Three Thursday, September 9. And don’t forget our guest chef tomorrow, the fabulous Barbara Monajem.

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About the author

Tamara DeStefano | I'm a writer, reader, movie junkie and Oreo eater. All though I should invert the order of this list. Oreo double stuff cookies and milk...THE BOMB BABY! My favorite genre is paranormal, love those vamps. I write paranormal, historical and contemporary. I've even tried my hand at YA. Writing makes me happy. Hope what you do makes you happy too!!

Don't stop there. Try...

• Atlanta Exposé — Epilogue
• Atlanta Exposé — Chapter 10
• Atlanta Exposé — Chapter 9