Jaron hated his life and hated himself for ever being stupid enough to get sucked into this sewage of corruption and mayhem. He wanted out. He'd been part of the syndicate operation since he'd been eighteen and had been looking for an easy way to earn a fast buck. He had brought Charmaine into this cesspool, this underbelly of society. He blamed himself that she was now tied to Booth Fortier for life. His wife. His whore. His slave.

There was only one way to escape-money. Lots of money. Enough to fake his death and Charmaine's and set them up for life in South America or Europe. He'd been making plans for over a year and yesterday he'd driven into New Iberia and mailed a letter to St. Camille. Step #1-make contact with the wealthiest woman in Louisiana.

He had written just enough to whet her appetite, to make her curious. By now, Grace Beaumont had probably read the letter and was trying to decide if what he'd told her was true or not. But after she thought things over, she'd come to the only logical conclusion. Once she had accepted the accusations against the governor and Booth Fortier as the truth, she'd be ready to bargain with him for the proof that would prove her husband's and father's deaths hadn't been an accident. He didn't have the original documents, of course. Booth kept everything locked away safe and sound at the bank. But he had photocopies in his home safe. Almost as good as the real thing. Enough for Grace Beaumont to take to the police; enough for a judge to issue a search warrant.

Once he had the five million, he'd tell Charmaine about his plan. She'd be scared. Hell, who wouldn't be frightened out of their mind at the thought of double-crossing Booth. But they really didn't have much choice. It was either risk everything, including their lives, or continue living in hell.

Jaron hurried along the hallway that led to the den. On the far side of the room, a set of French doors stood slightly ajar. When he drew nearer, he heard his sister's muted laughter, as if she'd covered her mouth with her hand. She couldn't even laugh out loud for fear it would displease Booth.

Someone else laughed. Louder. Robust. A man's deep-throated chuckles. Someone not afraid for Booth to hear him.

Jaron eased open the French doors and glanced outside. Stretched out on a padded wooden chaise, Charmaine lounged by the pool. Her round, voluptuous body was tanned to a golden hue from endless, mindless hours spent in her bikini outside in the hot Louisiana sun. Of course, it didn't hurt that both she and Jaron were biologically prone to café-au-lait complexions. His mother had said they had Creole blood, but his Aunt Hattie had whispered that their great-grandmother had been the quadroon mistress of a rich Creole doctor.

A big, masculine hand shoved Charmaine's waist-length auburn hair to one side, then lathered her back and shoulders with colorless suntan lotion. She turned her head slightly, just enough so she could glance up and over her shoulder in order to look at the man who was touching her so tenderly.

Damn, they were fools! What if Booth saw them? Would Charmaine be able to explain why Ronnie Martine had his hands all over her?

Jaron stepped outside onto the deck that ran the length of the sprawling old house. A hundred and fifty years ago, the place had begun as a large raised cottage, and had been expanded over the years into a six-thousand-square-foot house. Booth's father had purchased the house and twenty acres for back taxes when the widow whose family had owned the house for generations fell on hard times. Booth's daddy had been a shrewd businessman-and every bit the heartless bastard Booth was. At least that's what folks around these parts said.

"Booth's home, isn't he?" Jaron said, his question more a warning than anything else. "I heard him talking to someone-"

Charmaine gasped when she saw her brother standing only a few feet away. Despite the surprise in her eyes, she managed to smile. "He's holed up in his office with Ollie."

"Ollie? You mean Oliver Neville, his lawyer?"

"Yes, silly, what other Ollie do we know?" Charmaine flopped over on her back. Ronnie Martine capped the lotion bottle and placed it beside the chaise on the concrete patio that surrounded the pool. When Charmaine glanced at Ronnie, her whole face brightened and her cheeks flushed. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, Mrs. Fortier."

Ronnie wore a pair of tan cotton slacks, a white short-sleeved cotton-knit shirt and a pair of brown leather sandals. He was a big guy, about six-one, with massive shoulders, ham-hock arms and tree-trunk legs. He'd been working for Booth nearly eighteen months now, a trusted employee; but there was something about the guy that bothered Jaron. Something other than the fact he obviously had a thing for Charmaine-and she for him.

Was Booth out of his mind giving Ronnie the job as Charmaine's personal bodyguard? That was like asking a fox to guard the henhouse. He didn't know how far things had progressed between his sister and her protector, but if they weren't already screwing around, it was only a matter of time.

Another reason he'd had to put his plan into action a bit earlier than he'd figured on. He had originally thought he'd send the letter to Grace Beaumont a couple of months from now so she would receive it on the fourth anniversary of the car wreck that had killed her husband and father. But with things heating up between Charmaine and Ronnie, he realized he had to get his little sister safely away from Louisiana before Booth found out she was betraying him with another man. If he even suspected what was going on, Booth would kill Ronnie and Charmaine.

Ronnie walked across the patio toward the round wooden table, reached down under the open umbrella-shade and lifted the pitcher of lemonade the housekeeper had prepared at lunchtime. Jaron came up beside him. Ronnie offered him the glass of lemonade he'd just poured.

Jaron shook his head, declining the offer. "You need to be more careful," Jaron said, his voice only a whisper.

"Huh?" Ronnie squinted his inquiring eyes.

"I can see what's going on with you and Charmaine," Jaron said. "If Booth ever picks up on any vibes-"

"There's nothing going on between Mrs. Fortier and me. You're way off base with that kind of accusation."

"I'm her brother. I love her. I don't want anything bad happening to her," Jaron explained, not buying Ronnie's denial. "Anything else bad, that is. Being married to Booth is bad enough."

"You've said too much," Ronnie told him. "I like Mrs. Fortier. She's good to me. And I'd never do anything to cause her harm. But I work for Mr. Fortier and my allegiance is to-"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Theoretically your allegiance is to Booth, but-" Jaron glanced decidedly at Ronnie's crotch. "We both know you'd feed your best friend to the gators for a chance to screw my sister."

Charmaine sat up quickly and glared at Jaron. "What are you two talking about? You both look so serious."

"Business," Jaron replied.

"Business, business, business." Charmaine's full, pink lips formed a sassy pout, then when she was certain both men had seen her sultry expression, she sighed. "That's the only thing y'all ever talk about. Booth's always sending me out of the room so he can talk business."

"Did I hear my name mentioned?" Booth Fortier stood just inside the open French doors.

Jaron swallowed hard, then turned to face his brother-in-law. Booth Rivalin Fortier wore only the finest clothes. He had his own tailor in New Orleans. He kept a barber and a manicurist on retainer. The man prided himself on his personal appearance. With a strenuous exercise routine, he kept his five-eleven, fifty-nine-year-old body in prime condition. Vanity, pure and simple. Booth was a proud, vain man. When he'd started going bald in his mid-thirties, he'd tried a toupee and even considered plugs, but at forty, he'd shaved his head, giving his appearance a Yul Bryner exoticness.