A Grand Seduction

Jaded Temptations

A Grand Seduction

Copyright © 2011 by Lisa Logan Kindle Edition

Second E-book Publication: September 2011

First E-book Publication: April 2008, Eternal Press Publishing

Cover design by J. Rose Allister

All cover art and logo copyright © 2011 by J. Rose Allister

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

ABOUT THE E-BOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED: Your non-refundable purchase of this e-book allows you one copy for your own personal reading on your computer or device. You do not have the right to distribute or resell this book without the prior written permission of the author. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or fee, or as a prize in any contest.

A GRAND SEDUCTION

LISA LOGAN

Jaded Temptations

Many thanks to my good friends Ron Valle, for answering endless questions about the book’s setting, and Ken Skeen, for his astute insight and procedural resources.

Lanie stared at the downpour through the checkerboard grid separating her from the front seat of the police car. She’d just come this way a few hours before—indeed, hundreds of times before that—yet the passing scenery was foreign, hostile.

A crackling on the radio pierced the dull haze surrounding her thoughts. “Unit seven?”

The younger of the two cops in the front seat–the one Lanie had privately nicknamed Officer Hottie—snapped up a handset. “Seven.”

“
Say your position and E.T.A.”

“
FDR near Battery Park. E.T.A...” he trailed off, looking at his partner—Fatso, Lanie called him—scowling over the wheel at the rain wipers thwacking back and forth across the windshield.

“
In this shit? How about half past ain’t gonna happen.”

“
E.T.A. thirty minutes.”

“
10-4.”

Lanie’s stomach clutched in a fresh wave of despair. She was going to jail. Jail, 10-4. E.T.A. right this damn minute, and her life was over.

Just as fast as his had been.

Street lamps streaked by, mocking snippets of light as if the end of a tunnel were near and Lanie was about to be thrust out of the darkness into sunshine. In fact, she was trapped in a tunnel that was about to collapse. How could it have come to this? This wasn’t her fault. If only she hadn’t needed the money so bad, she could be back in her rat-hole of a room at the Ur-Jacked-Up women’s shelter. Now she was facing fingerprints, a mug shot of what promised to be a haunted, mascara-streaked face, and “the search.” Yeah, the search. Al had told her all about that.

Bile rose at the way he’d laughed, waggling his brows at her when her now ex-boyfriend got out of the joint and explained what happened after the preliminary niceties of fingerprinting and mug shots.

“
They throw ya in a room with a bunch of other unlucky stiffs, then everyone strips down so’s they got nothing on but what God gives ya. Then ya line up against the wall, bend over, and grab yer ankles. Bastards come down the line and finger your crack like they was checkin’ yer tonsils from the wrong end. My sphincter’s permanently fucked from the jackass who did me—his finger was the size of two of Uncle Pete’s thumbs put together. Motha.” Her breath soured at the memory, and Lanie shifted uncomfortably on the back seat—a motion that was more of a minute wriggle before the hands cuffed behind her gave a squeal of protest. They wouldn’t do “the search” on a woman, would they? I mean, Officer Hottie wouldn’t be so bad, but not searching that hole. That would be like rape or something, right?

She sighed. Of course they would do it, only it would be women cops up into her colonic business to make things all proper. She was screwed—in all senses of the word. Which was, ironically, what this whole thing was about.

The car pulled off the highway a short time later, making a hop onto a street lined with towering multi-story glass fronts. It shouldn’t be her taking this magical mystery tour of New York. It should be them—whoever the hell “them” really were. Cindy and Angel probably weren’t their real names. They hired her to do a job, then left her to clean up the mess. Well, had she realized this involved more than a shower afterwards and laughing to the bank, she wouldn’t be looking at the world through police car-colored glasses now. She’d have told them to go screw the guy themselves.

As they pulled into an underground parking garage, her past life echoed in sharp relief to the future, the way the squeal of the Crown Victoria’s tires echoed in the closed space. Harsh artificial light tore through the migraine starting in her left temple. As the two officers took up positions to lead her into the hell known as the NYPD, she mused that the women responsible for the whole affair were probably sitting in some fancy uptown club right now, a martini in one hand and foie de gras in the other. Laughing in delirium over her plight. Or worse, planning a way to make sure she was silent about their arrangement. Not that they had much to be alarmed about. From what little she knew, no one would ever believe her story anyway.

One Year Later

The clattering hum of diners at Odette’s raised an unusually brisk din around the trio gathered for midweek luncheon. Seated on three out of four padded wrought iron chairs at a window table overlooking the steely silver blue of the Delaware, the women ate in a cone of uncharacteristic silence.

Across the glassy sheen of the river rode the thick lush of greenery fronting New Jersey. The spectacular view was all but hidden to the women on Pennsylvania’s side of the river–they were too busy casting occasional glances at the empty fourth seat while they chewed.

“
Not like her to be this late.” Twyla Franks shook a tumble of champagne-colored curls, then stabbed at a tomato wedge that she tucked in her mouth with a grace many women of the sort concerned with things like how to consume a salad with artistic precision would envy.

Ridelle reached across Twyla’s plate and snapped up a breaded salmon stick, dunking it in marinara before pulling it back across to her mouth. Somehow, she managed this without dripping the red sauce yet again on the white linen tablecloth. “What do you mean? It’s totally like her to be this late.”

Twyla ceased her artful dance with the salad long enough to throw a meaningful look at the younger woman’s reach across the table. “Excuse you, Miss Manners. And Frannie usually calls when she’s late.”

“
No excuse for me. And that’s Miss Walters to you. You want me to stop reaching? Just call it what it is and shove that plate of salmon appetizer over here.”

The third in the trio piped up. “Yes, I’m sure the restaurant’s linen service would appreciate the effort as well.”

Ridelle turned to Dominique Trudeaux with a grin, the pair of silky brunettes regarding each other—one’s shining bob hanging to the shoulder, the other’s upswept in a sleek chignon half hidden under a large brimmed, wool felt hat—as the plate found its way between Ridelle’s half-eaten Monte Cristo and a floral spray centerpiece. Without looking, Ridelle reached out and relieved the platter of yet another slender piece of salmon. “And why do they call them ‘fingers,’ anyway?”

Dominique rolled bedroom eyes. “Probably because ‘fish sticks’ or ‘slabs o’ salmon’ doesn’t sound quite as posh.”

“
And ‘fingers’ is supposed to sound appetizing? Kind of disgusting, when you think about it—naming a food after a body part.”

The baby carrot headed for Twyla’s lips halted in midair, then reversed direction. “Thanks again for another round of charming meal conversation, Ridelle. Is it by complete accident that you manage to make me lose my appetite at least once during our get-togethers, or are you keeping score?”

“
I’m keeping score.” Ridelle chewed through the reply, her grin playing up fresh girl-next-door looks—an inventory of otherwise unremarkable features that transformed into a cohesively attractive whole. “Besides, you’re always worried about watching your figure when you’re a stick already. I’ve seen heftier stalks of celery at an Amish road stand. So you should thank me for saving you that fifty calories of lunch you almost ate.”

“
Funny. Really, though, I’m worried about Fran. What if there’s been an accident?”

Dominique dabbed the corners of her mouth to protect lipstick already laid to waste by shrimp Pesto. Blessed as she was with lips naturally tattooed in a permanent scarlet pout, however, her angular features and ivory silk complexion did not suffer from the absence of L’Oreal. “So call her.”

“
I tried her cell when I went to the ladies’ room earlier. She turned it off.”

“
Maybe she and Prince Charming are having another row.” Dom skewered an artichoke heart and the last piece of shrimp. “Or is that Prince Charles? Bruce is getting a little hairy around the inner ears these days.”

Ridelle snorted as she scuffed her chair legs away from the table. “If they did, we’ll hear about it soon enough. Meanwhile, speaking of the ladies’ room, I’ll be right back.”

Rising, the girl tugged down the powder blue waistband of her Juicy Couture velour hooded jacket. The other two women speared and chewed as she turned…and then froze.

Twyla frowned. “Honey? What is it?”

Ridelle’s voice was cautious. “Frannie.”

The others turned and saw Frannie Myers approach, red hair tumbling out from under a white straw hat. Her dress was a travel-wrinkled but flattering A-line, cinched in at the waist with a wide belt that accentuated her hourglass form. Frannie’s button-down collar was turned up slightly; simple pumps, a necklace of chunky white beads, and oversized sunglasses completed a look that said casual money. Or would, if not for her posture. The walk was clumsy, defeated, and despite Ray-Bans that covered half her face it was no chore to see the expression she wore.

Fear.

Twyla jumped up and rounded the table, past Ridelle who was still rooted to the spot. “Frannie?”

The redhead’s voice shook as she spoke. “Sorry I’m late. It’s been a day.”

The front ties of Twyla’s silk Georgette blouse fluttered as she took Frannie by the elbow and led her around to the vacant spot at the table. Frannie allowed herself to be taken, staring out over the Delaware while her friend pulled the chair out for her. She plopped down in defeat, sitting her handbag—a twenty-five hundred dollar Armani pony hair—absently on the floor next to her.

No longer mindful of nature’s call, Ridelle sank down in her chair across from Frannie. “What happened?”

Before the woman could answer, a twenty-something waiter descended with almost caricature cheer. The menu Frannie had turned down when the hostess offered was thrust back in her direction. “May I get you something to start off?”

“
Just coffee today, Ronald. Thank you.”