CHAPTER ONE

"Who takes their secretary to a working dinner at a freaking bed and breakfast?" I asked aloud as I sped down Great Mississippi River Road in Louisiana plantation country. I didn't usually talk to myself, but the stress of the situation more than justified it.

"I mean, what's wrong with a restaurant in the French Quarter? People travel from all over the world to eat there."

I steered my 1965 cherry-red Mustang convertible out from behind the 18-wheeler to make sure the black BMW was still up ahead. As soon as I'd spotted it, I dropped back behind the hulking truck. I couldn't let Bradley know I was following him.

Bradley Hartmann was the president of Ponchartrain Bank on Canal Street in New Orleans. With his shocking blue eyes, full lips, and chiseled jaw, he was without a doubt the sexiest bank executive this side of the Mason-Dixon line. And he was mine. We'd been seeing each other for the past three months, ever since his divorce was finalized. Okay, maybe we started seeing each other a bit before then, but that was an accident. I promise.

The problem was, now that his ex-wife was out of the way, his sexy new Chinese-French secretary was in the way. All six feet of her. And at five feet ten inches myself, I wasn't used to looking up to a woman, especially not one as lowdown as Pauline Violette. She did everything she could to keep me away from Bradley—including scheduling these weekend working dinners at bed and breakfasts outside of town. And judging from the way she batted her violet, almond-shaped eyes at him, it was clear why.

"How is it even possible that her eye color matches her last name?" I asked as I hit the gas. "Her boobs are clearly manmade, so those eyes have to be too."

I glanced out the passenger window to try to catch another glimpse of Bradley's BMW, and a flash of pink caught my eye. But it wasn't the coral-pink hue of the thousands of oleanders that framed a stunning, three- story, columned plantation home. It was the pink crinoline skirt of the woman standing on the balcony. It was a hauntingly beautiful image, like something you'd see in an old oil painting.

Unfortunately, the road started to curve sharply, but I was too busy staring at the Southern belle to notice. My tires hit the soft shoulder, and I jerked the steering wheel hard to the left. But it was too late. My car slid sideways right into a swamp.

"Mamma mia!" I exclaimed as I realized what had happened. And I did want my mother. Because when I restarted the engine and tried to drive to land, I discovered that I was stuck in the filthy swamp mud.

I threw open my car door, mentally whispered a farewell to my new boots, and stepped into the black swamp water. I trudged around to the back of the car and saw that the rear passenger tire was the problem. I needed to find some wood or stones to put beneath it to try to gain traction. Just as I was about to turn around and head for shore, I made a horrifying discovery. The water was moving.

That's when a bumpy black reptile lifted its moss-covered head above the surface of the murky swamp water, and I came face-to-face with an alligator.

The unsightly beast opened its toothy, cavernous mouth and made a loud hissing sound.

Make that an angry alligator.

"G-good gator," I stammered, frozen with fear.

The alligator lowered its head back into the water and began swimming in a circle, its large cat-like eyes trained on me like the sight of a gun.

"Nice b-boy, Al," I said as I began inching backward through the watery, foul-smelling mud. In case the alligator decided to charge at me, I needed to make it to the driver's side taillight to have a clear shot at the open car door. "Or, maybe you're an Alli?"

As though confirming my suspicion, she slapped her tail hard against the surface of the water.

I estimated her to be around six feet in length—precisely Pauline's height. Then I promptly reminded myself that during my rookie cop days in Austin, Texas, I'd once tackled a male ostrich that was getting frisky with some mothers at a petting zoo. Plus, I'd seen the Gator Boys and the Swamp Men wrestle alligators on TV, so I figured that I could take her if push came to shove, er, thrust came to lunge.

Alli stopped near the stump of a bald cypress tree and opened her mouth, revealing eighty or so two-inch-long yellow teeth.

Okay, maybe not.

I took another step backward, and she resumed circling.

"That's right, girl. Just keep swimming," I whispered, advancing another inch or two. "It's good for your waistline." I took another step, and my right foot sunk into what felt like a muddy mass of tree roots. I tried to pull it out, but it was stuck solid. Just like the rear tire of my Mustang.

I felt a fresh wave of fear wash over me, but I knew I had to keep calm. I took a deep breath of the putrid swamp air and tried again to free my foot.

"Franki?" a male voice called.

"Bradley," I breathed. "Oh thank God." My relief quickly gave way to dismay, however, when I realized that he must have seen me following him and Pauline before I ran my car off the road. But surely he would overlook that minor detail now that I was standing in filthy, mosquito- infested swamp water and being stalked by an alligator.

"Don't move," he said in a calm, even tone. "You don't want to startle him."

No, I most certainly don't, I thought.

"As soon as he turns to swim away, make a dash for the other side of the car."

"Don't you think I would've done that by now if I could?" I asked, trying to control my increasing hysteria.

"Why can't you? What's wrong?"

"Let me see… Where should I start?"

"Franki," he began, a note of tension creeping into his voice, "why can't you get to the car door?"

"My shoe is caught on something." Should I add that my new boots were the knee-high lace-up kind—with triple buckles?

"Okay, then slip your foot out of your shoe," he said through clenched teeth.

No, now was clearly not the time to tell him. "Um, it's not exactly the slip-your-foot-out-of-your-shoe kind of shoe."

There was a heavy silence.

"Then we're going to have to wait him out," he said.

I gasped. Was he seriously not going to come into the water and pull me out? I mean, saving me from an alligator was the least he could do after planning to take his secretary to a B&B, right?

"If I move, he could attack," Bradley explained. "And you're his closest target."

Before I could protest, I heard an ear-splitting bellow behind me. I jerked my head to the left and saw the largest alligator I'd ever seen. At roughly fifteen feet in length, he was practically a dinosaur.

Terror shot through my body like a white-hot flash of lightening. But I fought to keep my wits about me because the gargantuan gator was standing near Bradley. And as mad as I was about Pauline and the whole leaving-me-to- the-gator thing, I could hardly let Bradley be eaten by a Tyrannosaurus alligator on my account. I had to do something. And fast.

I started jerking my trapped foot as hard as I could. But each time I did, I sunk deeper and deeper into the gooey swamp bottom. The water level was now above my knees, and my panic level was considerably higher.

"You've got to stay still," Bradley warned. "He's extremely dangerous."

"No kidding."

"April is mating season. I think he's looking for a mate."

"Well, tell him Alli isn't interested. And neither am I," I added, just in case.

The big gator bellowed again, causing the hair to stand up on my arms.

Had my refusal offended him or something?

"He's headed toward the water now," Bradley said. "Stay calm."

"Easy for you to say," I muttered under my breath.

I heard a splash as the alligator entered the swamp. At that same moment, Alli dipped beneath the surface of the water. Now there were two of them. Lurking.

Oh God, oh God, oh God. I promise I'll never lust after an alligator handbag or shoes again for as long as I live if you let me survive this, I thought. Then I held my breath and waited.

The swamp was deadly silent, except for the croaking of some green tree frogs.

I started when I heard the sound of a car door opening.

"Bradley, get back in the car!" Pauline called. "It's not safe."

No need to worry about me, Pauline, I thought. Not only was the sultry secretary trying to steal my boyfriend, now she was also trying to convince him to leave me for gator food.

"I need you to stay in the car, Pauline," he replied. "I can't have anything happen to you."

Wait a minute. He can't have anything happen to her? What about me? I felt a sudden surge of anger-induced adrenaline course through my body. With a steely calm, I crouched down, unbuckled and unlaced my boot and pulled my foot free. Then I yanked the boot out of the tangled roots and rushed around to the driver's seat. I'd paid three hundred bucks for those boots, so there was no way I was leaving one of them in the swamp—gators or no gators.

The second I got into the car, I pulled my 9mm purple Ruger from the glove compartment box. I looked out my driver's side window and saw Bradley kneel down to examine my rear tire.

"Start the engine and press the accelerator," he called.

I did as I was told and watched through the rearview mirror as mud flew from the spinning tire.

He motioned for me to stop. "Let me find something to put under the tire, and then I'll have you try again."

"Be careful," I said.

With my gun in hand, I surveyed the area for hungry—or horny—alligators while Bradley gathered a few small cypress branches.

He arranged the branches beneath my tire and stood up, wiping his hands. "Okay, now."

I hit the gas full throttle and felt my tire gain traction. The car started forward and then spun out to the right, just as something struck the side of my car. I had a terrifying thought. One of the alligators had lunged for Bradley and hit my car instead! I threw the car into park and leapt out with my gun drawn.

"Are you crazy?" Pauline screamed. "You could kill him!"

Oh, so now she was worried about the alligator too? Ignoring her protests, I scoured the scene for the offending creature, and that's when I saw him. Bradley, that is. Covered in mud and propped up on his elbows in three-inch-deep swamp water. That was no gator I'd hit, it was my boyfriend. At least, I really, really hoped he was still my boyfriend.

I rushed into the water and knelt at his side. "Are you okay?"

He spit something brown and slimy into the water. "Fine," he replied, a tad tersely.

"Let me help you."

"Now there's an offer you can refuse," Pauline said.

I shot her a look. Was that a Mafia jab?

Bradley stood up in silence and did a quick body check before walking to the shore.

"Let me see if I have a towel or something in the car," I said. I ran to the Mustang, but all I could find was a travel-sized package of Kleenex.

I hurried back to Bradley and began dabbing at the mud on his shirt with a tissue. "I'm so sorry about your suit."

He pulled away.

I blinked, surprised. "I said I was sorry."

"It's not about my damned suit, Franki."

"Oh?" I asked, doing my darnedest to feign innocence. But I knew exactly what this was about.

"What were you doing out here on River Road, miles from New Orleans?" he demanded.

Pauline sauntered over and folded her arms across her chest. "Yes, what were you doing? Shopping for a plantation home?"

I met her arrogant gaze straight on but avoided her question. "Nice of you to finally get out of the car."

Bradley looked from Pauline to me and sighed. "Never mind, Franki. We'll talk about this later."

Pauline glanced at her smartphone and turned to Bradley, instantly dismissing me. "We still have twenty minutes before your meeting with Mr. Stafford, and according to Google we're only about twenty-five miles from the bed and breakfast. We can still make it if we hurry."

Bradley looked down at his wet, mud-stained clothes. "I can't go looking like this."

"Well, you have that extra shirt and your suit coat in the car, and I have a bottle of Perrier in my purse. If you slip off your pants, I can have some of the more visible stains out before we get there."

Bradley nodded and started for his car.

I gasped. "You're not actually going to take your pants off for her, are you?"

He turned to look at me. "Franki, it's business. This meeting is critical to the future of the bank, and it's my job to do whatever I can to make sure it's a success. I've got to go."

As Bradley climbed into his car, Pauline spun around to face me. She was standing so close that her long, black hair lashed across my face like a silken whip, and her heavy perfume stung my nostrils. "Well, I hope you're satisfied," she said. "Thanks to your little spy game, you've not only ruined Bradley's thousand-dollar suit, you've also potentially cost him a multi-million dollar business deal."

I stared at her open-mouthed. When Bradley told me that he couldn't come over because he and Pauline were having a working dinner at a B&B outside of town, I'd assumed it was just the two of them. I had no idea that they were meeting a client there, not to mention such an important one.

"Now close your mouth and go get cleaned up," Pauline continued. She narrowed her undoubtedly fake violet eyes and looked me up and down. "You're a hot mess."

She did a runway-model turn and strutted to the car.

Oh, I was hot all right. With shame and blinding rage.

Still smarting from Pauline's smackdown an hour later, I kicked open my front door and threw my mud-caked boots onto the floor. "Well, look what the cat dragged in," my landlady, Glenda O'Brien, said from a backbend position on the bearskin rug on my living room floor. For a sixty-something-year- old woman, she was startlingly flexible, no doubt due to her forty-something-year career as a stripper. My best friend and employer, Veronica Maggio, was on the floor beside Glenda, looking exactly as she had when I first met her in our freshman dorm at The University of Texas at Austin. She had her tongue sticking out one side of her mouth as she put the final strokes of Raspberry Fields Forever nail polish on her pinky toe. When she finished, she gave me the once-over. "What happened to you?" I sighed and tossed my purse onto the velvet zebra print rococo chaise lounge. I'd forgotten that Sunday was movie night, or "ladies' night" as Glenda had christened it, and that it was my turn to host. "Oh, not much. I spied on Bradley and Pauline, I nearly got us all killed by a couple of alligators in heat, and then I hit Bradley with my car and pulled a gun on him." "Oh, sugar," Glenda said, kicking her skinny, veined legs forward out of her backbend and coming to a standing position. "That sounds sexy." I rolled my eyes. "I'm dead serious." A coy smile formed at the corners of her mouth, and then she took a long, sensuous drag off her signature Mae West-style cigarette holder. "So am I, child. So. Am. I." I didn't bother asking her not to smoke since she owned the fourplex that all of us lived in as well as the rather unique bordello-style furnishings in my not-so- humble abode. But I did make a mental note to ask her to stop letting herself in to my apartment. "Why would you spy on Bradley?" Veronica asked, her brow furrowed. "You said you trusted him." She never ceased to amaze me. "So, the trust thing is what you're worried about? Not the part about the gator or the gun?" Veronica screwed the cap on the bottle of nail polish. "Well, you're in one piece, and you're not in jail, so I assumed that those other things got worked out somehow." "Well, you could at least act concerned, you know." "I'm sorry," she said, fidgeting with the ribbon on her pink baby doll pajamas. "It's just that I thought you were finally over your trust issue with men. That's all." "I was. I mean, I am," I hurried to add. "I trust Bradley, but I don't trust Pauline around Bradley." Veronica cocked her head to one side. "Well, isn't that the same thing?" "No, it isn't. You have no idea how manipulative she is. Plus, she's always so perfect and prepared. I mean, the woman carries a bottle of Perrier water around with her just in case she needs to remove a stain." "Perrier?" Glenda asked, wrinkling her mouth. "I don't get women who drink bubbly water when they could be drinking champagne. This Pauline sounds suspect, if you ask me." I cast Veronica a triumphant look. "See? Glenda doesn't trust her either." Veronica shook her head. "Trusting Pauline isn't the issue. The problem is that you're underestimating Bradley, and it's not like he's stupid." "No, but he's a man, and she's drop-dead gorgeous. She's built like a model, and she looks like Lucy Liu. To top it all off, she has violet eyes, just like Elizabeth Taylor. And you know how good Liz was at stealing other women's men." Glenda batted her inch-long, blue false eyelashes. "You know, Ronnie, I think Miss Franki's right. If there's one thing I learned while I was stripping, it's that even the smartest man is no match for a cunning woman." I nodded, vindicated, although I wasn't entirely sure that you could compare my Harvard-educated, bank president boyfriend to the average strip club patron. But then again, maybe you could. "You know what I think, sugar?" Glenda continued after taking a long, thoughtful drag off her cigarette. "What?" I asked, eager to hear her opinion. Glenda was a little rough around the edges, but she often had sage advice. "You need to make sure that she doesn't put nothin' over on you," she replied, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "So you're gonna have to stick to this Pauline like a pastie on a titty." Veronica cleared her throat. "Franki, will you let the dogs in? My toes are still wet." "I'll do it," Glenda said, hopping to her five-inch-high- heeled, slipper-clad feet. "I need to freshen up my glass of champagne, anyway." As Glenda paraded past me to the kitchen, I noticed that she too was wearing baby doll pajamas—in tight black fishnet with large holes cut from beneath her armpits all the way down to below the hip. It was quite possibly the most clothing I'd ever seen her wear. Glenda opened the back door, and my brindle Cairn Terrier, Napoleon, bounded over to me, his tail wagging. "There's my good boy," I said, bending over to greet him. Napoleon skidded to an abrupt stop, gave a quick sniff of my feet, and took a giant leap backward. "So much for the unconditional love of pets," I said. "I guess I'll take that as my cue to go shower the swamp off me." Veronica adjusted the bowtie on her cream Pomeranian, Hercules. "Hurry up so we can start the movie." "What did you get?" I asked, even though it really didn't matter what the movie was. The only thing I'd be watching were the images of Bradley's hurt face and Pauline's haughty one that kept replaying in my head. "Zombie Strippers," Glenda called from the kitchen. Obviously her turn to pick the movie, I thought. "By the way," Veronica began, "I made sugar cookies, and Glenda brought an extra bottle of champagne. Isn't this going to be fun?" I gave her a blank stare. "Yeah. Tons." Veronica placed a reassuring hand on my arm. "I know you're worried about Bradley, but try to relax and enjoy the evening." "I can't. On top of everything else, I might have cost him an important business deal. Do you think I should call and ask how it went?" "No," she replied. "Let him have tonight to cool off. Then tomorrow you can apologize and explain how you feel about Pauline. I'm sure he'll understand." I nodded, but I wasn't so sure about the understanding part, especially after my jealousy had almost gotten him killed—first by the alligators and then by me. I set off for the shower thinking that it was going to take a lot more than champagne, sugar cookies, and strippers to get me through the night.