Chapter One Eden Kelley bade her last patron of that day goodbye with a bouquet of false hopes. The exquisite handmade camisole and tap pants, the trademark garments of her boutique, Eden's. t, would not be delivered by the end of the week. Her reassurances were not worth the price of a cheap spool of thread. The lie broke her heart, but no one must guess that when Eden left tonight, she would never be back. Her life, as she knew it, was over. The hopes. The dreams. The wedding. her wedding. She had been planning the design of her gown for as long as she could remember, from the romantic sweetheart neckline to the elegant train, kissed with hand-stitched pearls, each applied with the same loving care she gave every handmade confection in her lingerie boutique. Instead of her wedding gown, Eden found herself busily stitching up the government's case against her financier and franc~, Winston Elijah Broussard III. Web, daaalin'. You must call me Web. I can see now I'm going to be heartbroken if things don't work out between us . Web was New Orleans laid-back, Cajun and more sensual than the Big Easy itself. Add to that, Eden thought bitterly, a Louisiana-born Boston gangster. She'd fallen for it all--his financial backing, his long, sultry looks, the clouds of hothouse orchids he bestowed on her. his marriage proposal. Eden swallowed hard and threw the dead bolt on the front door of the boutique. She'd learned an easy lesson the hard way. She would never again sit back and allow any man to take care of her. When had she grown so foolish? She hurried now, anxious to make the break and leave behind the remnants of her dreams. In keeping with her routine, she locked the display case tastefully strewn with dreamy hand-sewn lingerie, plucked her antique needle-point satchel from the coat closet, then headed for the back staircase. Web's handsomely appointed office occupied the entire third story of the Cambridge brownstone. She had to make this good, make this seem an ordinary farewell. Web already suspected a leak, a defector, a traitor in his organization. If she screwed up now and gave him any inkling that she had already gone to the Feds and would never be back, he would. stop her. Drop her into the Charles-River, or whatever mobsters did these days. ' In a lifetime of command performances, always bending herself to what she thought someone else wanted her to be just to survive, this one had to be Eden's most con-, vinci rig
The mahogany-paneled stairwell was dark. The stair runner muted the sound of her steps as she ascended to Web's inner sanctum, but the pounding of her heart echoed in her ears. The skirt of her peach wraparound dress whispered against her long, silk-stockinged thighs. She reached the third-story landing and took a deep breath to boost her nerve. His door stood ajar. Eden sighed with relief. If the door had been closed, she would have been forced to wait on the deacon's bench outside. This understanding, which was carved in stone, should have been a clue to her months ago of something very much amiss. She straightened her shoulders and slipped through the door of the outer office, calling softly, making herself into the besotted creature he supposed her to be. "Web darling?" No answer came. She crossed the thick burgundy pile carpeting. She could hear the low murmur of men's voices, Web's and one not very much like his except that they were speaking half in English, half in the Cajun-French patois. She called out again as she pushed open the heavy door to his private domain and slipped inside. "Web? I'm leaving now. I just wanted to see you" She broke off. He sat at his desk, his dark good looks appearing sinister to her now. He was, as ever, impeccably attired, his suit and shirt adorned by a scarf rather than tie. But he wasn't alone. Another man, pockmarked and dark and slightly built, stood by the windows overlooking the street. He stared at her a moment from unusual fiery, amber-hued eyes that chilled her. By the cut and skilled tailoring of his jacket, she knew he wore a gun. The man flicked ashes at an old-fashioned brass spittoon and turned deliberately away. Eden smiled guilelessly, as if she hadn't a clue what kind of man this was. Only a few months ago, that would have been true. Sitting at his ornate desk, Web stubbed out his cigarette and turned toward her. His dark eyes narrowed against the smoke into 'dangerous slits. "Eden. What are you doin' here, darling'?" "I..." She swallowed hard, remembering that the outer door had been left ajar. Her heart knocked painfully. Why would he leave the door open unless he meant her to get the
