Out of Sight Read online

  Aubusson rugs graced dark, glinting wooden floors. Gilt-framed mirrors tossed around images of New Orleans’s rich and famous, the glitterati of the city. French Empire chandeliers, their lights supported by gold swans, and a series of Baccarat crystal wall sconces brought blinding prisms searing from the women’s jewelry.

  “Ms. Fortune?” A white-jacketed waiter at her elbow offered her champagne, and she took a glass from his tray. He bowed and gave her a serious, deferential look.

  French doors stood open to the gallery. Poppy peered outside and found what she expected; it was empty. No guests could bear to risk missing a little of Ward’s golden attention. So far she had managed to stay out of his line of sight but she already knew he had been asking if anyone had seen her. She wouldn’t be free of his attention much longer. She had ignored three calls from him on her cell phone, and when he asked why she had not picked up, which he would, she intended to be honest and tell him she had needed some solitude.

  Poppy smiled a little. Ward would only be more anxious for her approval if she thwarted him occasionally. He expected to get what he wanted in all things.

  She stepped into the warm, fragrant night and closed her eyes for an instant. The gallery was dimly lit and relatively peaceful, despite the noise behind her.

  When she approached the grillwork railing, cold slipped over her skin Her heart speeded up and she wrinkled her brow. Rather than finding peace in the open air, agitation exploded through her. Sweat broke out along her spine and between her breasts. Her brow was instantly damp.

  Voices rose from the street below—laughter, high-pitched female yells punctuated by male bellowing. St. Louis wasn’t a main party street. People tended to wander through on their way to Bourbon Street and the center of the French Quarter. The group down there went on their way and relative quiet filled in behind them.

  Suffused light showed through shutters at the windows opposite. Overhead, blood-edged inky clouds slunk across a thin white moon.

  Breath caught in her throat.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Champagne slopped from the glass and over her trembling hand. Of course she was alone. She looked right and left, peered into every corner. Nothing on the gallery moved other than hanging flowers caught by the faint breeze.

  “Hi, Poppy. You seem edgy,” a familiar deep voice said.

  Poppy jumped and her knees locked.

  Sykes Millet wasn’t a man she would fail to recognize, even in darkness. “What are you doing here?” she said. “You weren’t here seconds ago.”

  “Of course I was,” he said with a hint of laughter in his voice. “I saw you come out but you seemed preoccupied. I didn’t want to make you jump.”

  He had done that anyway.

  Very tall, his black hair slightly wavy and grown past his collar, he sauntered toward her from the left, from the farthest reaches of the gallery. He wore a tux. She saw the snowy shine of his shirt in the gloom. With his jacket pushed back and both hands in his pants pockets, he took his time reaching her, enough time to give her a chance to consider fleeing inside.

  “Nice dress,” he said, arriving in front of her. His eyes passed over her body in a way that made her feel naked—or wish she were.

  Poppy turned very, very hot. “Thanks.”

  “Where have you been hiding yourself?”

  “I’ve been around.” And she was surprised he would know or care where she was.

  “You spent time in northern California with your folks.”

  The glow from inside the condo illuminated his face. Every feature had its own shadow. Winging black brows, heavy lashes around his eyes, high, sharp cheekbones and a square jaw. And his mouth. The outline showed clearly, a fuller bottom lip and corners that tilted up a little even when he was quite serious. He was serious now but she saw him suck a long breath.

  Sykes Millet was something else.

  “How long have you been back?” he asked, and she realized she hadn’t responded to his last remark.

  “Months,” she said. “I was only away for about a week. The club needs me around.”

  She was, Sykes decided, thinking about the last time they met when she had confessed to him how she had tried to break up Ben Fortune and Sykes’s sister Willow. “I think Liam and Ethan need you, too,” he said of her other brothers who were also involved in the business to much lesser degrees.

  “You didn’t say why you were here,” she said, visibly relaxing enough to sip her champagne. “Are you a friend of Ward’s?”

  “Nope. But I know who he is, everyone does by now. When I saw you I hoped you might be able to tell me why I would be invited. The invitation said something about my attendance being an advantage—to me.”

  She gave a short laugh and tossed her long, dark hair away from her shoulders. Poppy’s skin was olive and smooth, her eyes almond-shaped and almost black. Sykes couldn’t see her without thinking she looked Mediterranean. By the time this long-legged woman turned fifteen, she had flowered into the pattern of what she would become.

  “That sounds like an invitation Ward would approve of,” she said. “Confidence is his watchword.”

  How well did she know him, Sykes wondered. “He must be an old friend of yours.”

  “Fairly recent, actually.”

  And yet she felt she knew the way he thought?

  Disappearing at the sight of Poppy had not been a mature thing to do, but he had needed time to collect himself and think. And to watch her. That had been a pleasure for longer than it probably should have been.

  “I gather Ward Bienville is thinking about a run for the Senate.”

  Poppy swirled the champagne in her glass and looked up at him. “That’s what he says. And that’s what all this is, I’m sure.” She waved toward the crush inside the condo. “He’s starting to test the waters seriously. Finding out his chances of getting the kind of backing he’ll need if he goes forward.”

  “The Bienvilles are an old Louisiana family. They’re supposed to be filthy rich in their own right. Haven’t they had statesmen before?”

  She raised one bare shoulder. Her black dress was demure enough, a sheath that ended at her knees, but it was strapless and Poppy had full breasts that rose softly above the top and showed the shadow of deep cleavage.

  “You could be right,” she said at last, “about the statesmen bit. But Ward hasn’t lived the high life.”

  Sykes cocked a brow. “You could have fooled me.”

  She smiled and pushed her hair behind her shoulders again. “I didn’t put that well. From what he’s said, his branch of the family has been more involved with good works. His parents were missionaries and he’s lived all over the world in various trouble spots. He doesn’t like to say much but I think his work has been mostly under cover to assist with advance intelligence for aid groups.”

  “Sounds impressive,” Sykes said. “He must be quite a man.”

  He studied her expression closely.

  “I’m sure he is,” she said, noncommittal. Sykes didn’t hear a lot of admiration in her voice.

  He shouldn’t be relieved. “So I’m here as a potential donor? And you, too?”

  “I guess. What are you working on these days?”

  Sykes frowned. He hadn’t expected the question. “An interesting piece. We’ll see if it’s still interesting when it’s finished.” An urge to see her again didn’t surprise him. They had unfinished business. “Ben and Willow sound happy. I’m glad they decided to stay in Kauai for a while. At least they can hope for peace there.”

  She had stiffened. “The Embran have been quiet here,” she said almost under her breath.

  Sykes gave a single nod. “Ben talked to you about that?”

  “Not a lot. But I’ve seen Marley, and we’ve discussed what’s been going on.”

  Marley had not mentioned Poppy to Sykes. He might feel like asking her why if he did not figure she had sensed tension between him and Poppy.

  “Marley looks wonderful pregn
ant, by the way,” Poppy said in a rush as if she could hear his thoughts, which he knew she could not.

  Since he and Ben were young teens and Poppy a little girl she had complained that she could hear telepathic communications but not send them. And she only heard what full telepathists wanted her to hear.

  At the moment she watched him too closely, he assumed because he was quiet. “She’s nervous waiting for something else to happen,” Poppy said. “Having a baby probably makes you more sensitive. It isn’t just you and the world anymore. You’re responsible for someone else.”

  Sykes inclined his head. She looked away from him. This introspective Poppy was different from the woman he thought he knew.

  “Have you told Ben what I did?” she asked softly.

  He almost felt sorry for her. Her brother Ben had been her closest friend and she must still fear he would turn away from her if he found out the truth. “He doesn’t know a thing unless you’ve told him. Look at me, Poppy.”

  Her breasts rose with an indrawn breath and she turned her face toward him again. She was beautiful enough in an unconventional way to all but stop his heart.

  “I told you it was up to you if you wanted Ben to find out. I would never step in the middle. Willow already knows and if she doesn’t feel like saying anything, why should you?”

  “To start over with my brother.”

  Impulsively, he touched her shoulder and let his fingertips slide to her elbow. She shuddered almost imperceptibly. Sykes felt the atmosphere between them change. There was a connection. He wanted that connection. “Give things time,” he told her. “Sometimes we get too deep into something and it takes a while to climb out.”

  She smiled and the glitter in her eyes might be moonlight on tears.

  “There you are, Poppy. I only just found out you were here at all.” Sykes heard the soft, Louisiana gentleman’s accent and expected Ward Bienville’s arrival. The instant Poppy looked at the man over her shoulder, Sykes withdrew along the gallery.

  “You are a vision, honey,” Ward said, coming through the doors. He turned Poppy toward him and held her by the arms while he kissed her forehead. “But you always are a vision.”

  Dark blond, tanned, built like a middleweight boxer, but sleek and with a perfectly straight nose and regular features, Bienville had all the physical attributes he’d need for any photo op. Thick hair, Sykes thought, with a little smile that didn’t warm him.

  He didn’t like the possessive way Bienville behaved with Poppy. The greeting didn’t sound as if it were coming from a casual acquaintance.

  Poppy glanced in Syke’s direction but he had already made sure he was out of sight.

  “This is a special night for me,” the other man said. His hands passed up over Poppy’s shoulders and circled her neck. “I want it to be special for you, too. You know how much you mean to me.”

  From where he was and in this light Sykes had to use his third eye to see their faces clearly. He blessed the power that allowed him to go beyond the ability of his human sight.

  Lips slightly parted, Poppy stared into Ward Bienville’s almost begging brown eyes. A dewy anticipation hovered around her. She didn’t even blink.

  “I’ve got to talk to these people,” Ward said. “I know everyone thinks I’ve got steel nerves. They’re wrong. I’m still new to this. Tonight I need to know I can look at you while I’m talking to them. I need to see you believing in me.”

  2

  Ward held Poppy’s hand tightly. She had never seen him agitated before but she could feel excitement running through him.

  “I was afraid you weren’t coming,” he said under his breath. “I kept trying to call you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, but I had a rushed day. I wanted to take my time. If I’d known you needed me I’d have been here earlier.” And she would have. He was a kind, considerate man, and from the looks he got, a number of women in the room would cut off a hand to replace Poppy’s in his.

  As they passed the piano, Sonia Gardner, the lovely singer reached out to take hold of Ward’s sleeve and smiled up at him. He bent over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She whispered in his ear, and he laughed before carrying on to stand beneath a portrait of a woman in mid-nineteenth-century dress, who bore a resemblance to Ward.

  He let Poppy go as if it hurt to be separated from her and moved to stand in front of an ornate marble-topped demilune table. Stacks of small boxes stood on the table.

  A space cleared around him and Poppy tried to melt back into the crowd. The best she could do was a place beside one of Ward’s advisors just behind those closest to Ward.

  As wide as he was tall, this man was all muscle. His ascetic features and rimless glasses didn’t match his tense stance, or the impression that he could walk through concrete walls.

  The room quickly got too hot for Poppy. Overhead fans moved the air and a muddle of perfumes, but didn’t cool anything. Poppy disliked being hemmed in.

  When the chatter died down, Ward said, “Since I want you all on my side, I’ll keep this short.”

  A chuckle went through the partygoers, and a smattering of applause.

  “Is there anyone who doesn’t know why they were invited here tonight? Other than because they are among the brightest, best and most beautiful in New Orleans?”

  Another chuckle and a chorus of, “No!”

  Poppy rubbed the space between her brows. She felt a little sick.

  “I guess you could say I’m on a fact-finding mission. I need to know who my friends are and how far they’re prepared to go to help me start turning things around in a big way for Louisiana.”

  That brought a cheer.

  “Thank you,” Ward said, meeting eyes straight on. “Whatever happens I want all of you to know that my doors are always open to you. If you have a question, ask. Doesn’t matter what it is…well, it almost doesn’t matter.” He gave a charming grin and laughed with the onlookers.

  “The people closest to me from the outset are here. They are your go-to people while we get ourselves off the ground—if that’s what we decide we want to do. Bart Dolan is my public relations know-it-all.” He pointed at a small, thin man with a sandy crew cut and darting eyes. “Con Willis is security. Raise your hand, Con.”

  The man beside Poppy put a hand in the air.

  “Dolph Huddle is admin. Yeah, all of it at the moment. We really are a grassroots operation.”

  Blond Dolph stepped forward with a boyish grin on his all-American face. He had the torso of a swimmer and his thighs strained against his tux pants.

  “Last but not least, the delectable Joan Lewis is our treasurer.”

  Small, dark, middle-aged and attractive, Joan Lewis ducked in a mock curtsey and wiggled her fingers all around.

  Dolph Huddle placed himself to Ward’s right and held up both hands for quiet. “We aren’t going to start talking money this evening,” he said. “That’ll come soon enough.”

  More laughter, the knowing kind between people who didn’t talk about money, they just had it. The Bienvilles were certainly well heeled.

  “But we are asking those of you who want to join us to take one of the zippy black boxes on the table behind us here.” He grabbed and opened one and held out a gold pin reading WWW. “Discreet, but the message says it all for us. Win With Ward! Those who are with us from the beginning will be the only ones to own these limited-edition pins.” His voice rose and his words were echoed back from around the room.

  “We’re hoping you’ll wear one of these—or two if you’re real enthusiastic—and sign the book Joan has. We want it as a keepsake of this night.”

  This was how these things were done, Poppy guessed, but never having been part of anything political in her life, the whole performance embarrassed her.

  “I’ve got one more thing to tell you,” Ward said. “And to me it’s the most important thing I’m going to say this evening. I don’t have a wife.”

  Cheers went up and the next round of laughter l
asted a long time.

  “Now, you know if there’s one thing that raises eyebrows, it’s a single politician. I don’t think I can fix that before you all go home tonight, but I can ask you to give me a little help with the problem.”

  He had his crowd in his hands, Poppy saw. They loved his delivery and the way he embraced them with his words and made them his nearest and dearest buddies.

  “You askin’ for volunteers?” a man called out.

  Ward cocked his head to one side. He appeared in deep thought. Then he walked forward, reached between the people in front of Poppy and took her by the wrist. He pulled her gently through and turned her to face everyone.

  The dresses, the faces, the movement, everything blurred before her.

  “No,” Ward said. “This is not the future Mrs. Ward Bienville. Yet. This is Poppy Fortune. Some of you know her from Fortunes in the Quarter and you know her fine family.”

  Had he lost his mind, or was she losing hers?

  “I just wanted to share with all of you that she’s the best thing that has happened to me. I never met a sweeter, more intelligent and generous woman in my life. So, the next time you encounter her I’d take it very kindly if you’d sidle up and whisper, ‘That Ward is one fine man. You ought to consider him.’”

  Poppy could no longer distinguish between sounds. She let Ward hold her hand because she might have fainted without the support. And she managed to smile.

  She gazed around blankly, aware of myriad auras that blasted forth from the gathering. Powerful emotion and obsessive ambition radiated in the room.

  Then she looked into a pair of electric-blue eyes.

  Without saying a word, Sykes Millet let her know he disagreed with every compliment Ward had paid her.

  3

  Poppy Fortune was nothing. One way or another, Sonia would get her out of the picture with Ward. He must consider the woman demure, the perfect little shadow for a successful politician, but he was wrong. He needed someone who would shine, someone who could do the things that might be needed to pull in that special favor and make all the difference.