Ethan was the sole person in the greater New Orleans area that Caroline had really known when her husband disappeared. Her daughter, Casey, away at Duke pursuing a degree in medicine, hadn’t even come home to help her mother deal with the sudden loss. She was busy with her studies, and she’d always hated both the Big Easy and her father, who she was convinced was fucking all of his assistants. She would have shrugged at the idea that he’d run off with all of their money, leaving behind nothing but a little apartment on the eleventh floor of a Canal Street high-rise and a stack of bills and IOUs that filled the lower left drawer of the credenza in his study.
That find was appalling beyond words, on top of the sudden disappearance, a move so unexpected that Caroline had half-expected to receive a ransom note from some South American revolutionaries needing money to further their political agenda. Ted’s business interests mainly were mining and logging in the Amazon, although considering the opulence of the apartment, Caroline wasn’t sure if her husband of twenty-three years wasn’t importing something other than bauxite and aluminum. Meanwhile, he’d claimed that fateful morning that he was off on another meet-and-greet with his counterparts in Columbia, and he would be back in a few days. He never came back, and Caroline had no choice but to call for help.
A few weeks after Ted’s disappearance, she met Ethan in a swanky little café just outside the French Quarter called The Palace on St. Peter’s. It was early evening in late September, and the narrow street was cooling off as the sun slipped west behind the Superdome. The sounds of merriment couldn’t reach this far beyond the Quarter, so the street was quiet and lonely, only the click of her heels on the broken sidewalk and the snap of wind-swept banners overhead broke through the Tuesday night peace.
The cab had dropped her a block away on purpose. She’d wanted to walk the rest of the way to the café to calm her nerves. Caroline had never had more than cursory conversations with the dashing young business juggernaut at parties, but she’d seen how he’d looked at her, and she understood what was behind those eyes now more than ever. Their first telephone conversation had solidified that, and subsequent phone calls had led to this fateful meeting. When she arrived at the entrance, twin wooden doors with faded and peeling black paint and brass doorknobs, she looked up at the sign and its coat of arms—a reddish wolf on a silver shield - and hesitated. She could turn around now and just try to figure it out on her own. It wasn’t too late. There had to be other avenues to solve all the money problems, to find the husband who had undoubtedly skipped town to avoid debt collection or worse. And yet, she knew better. She’d had plenty of time to think about it, to come up with a strategy, to seek out new avenues of relief, but nothing was presenting itself as a solution, and time was running out. All she had now was what was through the front door of the Palace, and she had already agreed to it.
The Palace, she thought, and inside, she would find the king; Kingfisher as it were, but a king nonetheless. He owned half the shrimping industry in the city, and he had heavily invested in other shipping enterprises, including the manufacture and sale of the newest state-of-the-art high-capacity cranes that dotted significant ports across the Eastern seaboard. His villa in the Quarter was luxurious and beyond regal, and his plantation down the river had been the subject of the HGTV show “American Palaces”. It was no surprise that he would continue to play up to his nickname, the “River King”.
Glancing back up at the sign again, Caroline wondered if he owned the place and if, in fact, that sign brandished his personal coat of arms. Shrugging, she cast a glance up and down the empty street and put her hand on the doorknob. It was now or never.
The place was small and as empty as the street outside. It was also unimaginably dark with only tea lights burning in tiny decorative vases that looked like they were made of ancient porcelain. The bar to the left sported a single black gentleman, the bartender, in a black vest and white shirt complete with black bow tie. He nodded when she looked at him but didn’t say anything. To the right, the small dining area was packed with cozy little wooden tables and chairs, an intimate setting, definitely not a boisterous scene a la the places on Bourbon or Royale; not a family restaurant. Caroline took two tentative steps into the room when a match flared, and she saw the man waiting for her. Swallowing, she started across the room, watching him light the cigar and then flick the match out and drop it into an ashtray nearby. He was standing at the bottom of a set of steps leading up, one hand on his cigar and the other thrust into the pocket of his trousers.
She didn’t have to see him clearly to know that he was disgustingly handsome or that his grey eyes were taking in every curve of her body and every movement as she walked towards him. It was a given, and she’d already experienced both. His eyes had been on her at both parties she’d attended with Ted, and every time she’d looked up, he’d been watching—creepy at first, she’d thought, and then an incredible turn-on after Ted’s indifference—he was too busy racking up debt to fuck his wife, she realized how much she welcomed the stares, and at the second party, she’d been sure to wear some a little tighter and more revealing. Tonight, she’d done the same, but this time, it wasn’t just a tease. He had required it.
He smiled and greeted her when she stopped a few paces away. “Good evening, Caroline. You look absolutely lovely tonight.” His accent was Deep South New Orleans, but it was light and fresh, not a heavy drawl. His schooling up north had taken a lot of that out of him, not to mention his father being from Canada. Still, he played the part of the Southern gentleman well—it was good business. He stepped forward and offered his hand, which she graciously accepted. His eyes never left hers, although she could see how he wanted badly to look down her plunging neckline. It was plunging for a reason. But there would be time for that, she knew. This deal would be concluded soon enough, and then he could look as much as he wanted. In the meantime, he’d not gotten so far in business by not looking people in the eye and shaking their hands firmly. Old habits and good ones. And while this wasn’t a business meeting, per se, there was no point in not being honest, open and respectful. Caroline had come here fully aware of the situation and the offer, and she appreciated immediately how he made her feel comfortable and safe.
She had to admit that he looked amazing, standing there smiling, his coat open to show off the slim waistcoat he was known for, even in the blistering days of summer. His teeth gleamed in the low light as if they shined of their own accord, and his smile was honest and broad. She could see how it stretched into his eyes like a boy’s smile on Christmas when all the presents he’d wanted most fell into his lap, and he couldn’t wait to open them.
“Good evening, Ethan. Lovely to see you again.” She chided herself at being coy, but she was unsure what to say or do. Let him handle it, she thought. Let him lead. This is, after all, his show.
“Lovely to see you, too, Caroline. Won’t you join me upstairs? I believe we have an agreement to seal.”
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