The Punisher

“I don’t dress for them. I dress for you,” she said, leaning forward and brushing his lips with hers. Saint felt a stirring in his body—even after twenty years, he still found his wife the most alluring, desirable, provocative woman he had ever met.

“We’ll make it an early night,” he said.

“Here.” She smiled again. “An early night here.”

Saint was about to respond when he caught a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked up just in time to see Lincoln and Cutter walk past his window, Reston squeezed in between them, helpless. They were guiding him past the crowd queued up in front of the club, down the sidewalk and across the street now. Toward, fitting enough, the Saint Motors lot there, which was now—with his purchase of Reston’s assets—the single biggest luxury car dealership in the state of Florida.

Of course at this time of night, the dealership would be completely deserted. Perfect for his purposes. Not so for the unlucky Peter Reston.

The limousine pulled the last few feet up the drive, and stopped in front of the club entrance.

As Dante exited the car, Saint rolled down his window. Good crowd tonight—Saints and Sinners was never going to be much more than a break-even proposition (what nightclub ever was?), but at least the past few months, they had stopped losing money. A good thing, too—he knew John would have hated having the place shut down. The club had been his pet project, and his son—both sons, in fact, John and Bobby—spent a considerable amount of time here. As did Saint himself. He had an office upstairs, next to the private club rooms, one where he often conducted business that wouldn’t have been . . . appropriate to deal with downtown.

Dante came around the back of the car and opened the door.

Saint stepped out, and the crowd surged.

Flashbulb after flashbulb went off.

Saint waved—making sure to catch the eye of the Times’s photographer—and then turned to help Livia out of the car.

Reporters began to shout out questions.

“Any firm decision yet on the gubernatorial race, Mr. Saint?”

“Are you fund-raising now?”

“What about your family? How do they feel about you getting into politics?”

“Mr. Saint!”

“Howard Saint!”

“Over here—Mr. Saint!”

Saint kept a smile glued on his face, and continued to wave and walk forward, one hand on Livia’s arm. Dante was pressing through the crowd, blazing a way for them to the club’s front door.

“There are rumors about an FBI investigation into Saint Holdings, Mr. Saint. Any comment?”

A step away from the entrance, Saint froze.

He’d recognized the last reporter’s voice instantly—Danny Palmer, from the Tampa Times. Five feet, six inches of irritation, as far as Saint was concerned. Since the day that Saint had begun to formulate his plans, the man had been all over him, into every aspect of his business. Writing piece after piece on his companies, his family, himself, none of it openly hostile, but all of it filled with innuendo and suggestion, all of it intimating that Howard Saint, two-time Chamber of Commerce president, Tampa’s wealthiest and most successful businessman, was nothing more than a crook.

And now this. Spreading rumors of an FBI investigation. Saint couldn’t have that story out there—not now.

Even if it was true.

“Does that concern you, Mr. Saint?” Palmer called out. “An FBI investigation?”

He felt Livia’s fingers tighten on his arm.

“Leave it,” she whispered, urging him forward.

Saint ignored her and turned around.

“Danny,” he said, locking eyes with the reporter. “First I’ve heard of any investigation.”

“Really? So you’re not worried?”

“No.” Saint smiled at him, and then shared that smile with those members of the crowd, the press in particular, who were listening. “The only thing I’m worried about these days is Pittman resigning with the Bucs.”

Laughter—from everyone except Palmer. The reporter himself didn’t even crack a smile.

“I hear that’s a done deal,” Palmer said.

“Well, I’m glad. That means I can relax and enjoy the evening. And I invite you all—” his gaze took in the crowd again “—to do the same. Especially you, Danny.”

“I’m working,” Palmer said.

Saint shook his head. “All work and no play, Danny. You know what they say.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Oh, but I do.” Saint took a step forward, and lowered his voice so that only Palmer could hear him. “You know I do, Danny. I worry about you quite a bit, actually.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing the man visibly pale, and struggle for a response. Saint didn’t give him the chance to find one.

With a final wave to the crowd, he turned back to his wife and entered the club.

Saints and Sinners was—as John had so eloquently put it—a multiple-use facility. He’d originally built it intending to rent out the ground floor as a restaurant, and use the second story as a private club for his friends and closest business associates.

They’d barely broken ground on the project, though, when John and Bobby had come to him, suggesting that they open a nightclub in the space instead.

The name—Bobby’s suggestion—had sealed the deal. Saints and Sinners. Howard had loved it from the first.

The ground floor had been split into a half-dozen different rooms, for the differing clienteles that the club attracted. Also Bobby’s idea—a club room for the rich twenty-somethings; a cigar lounge for the overachieving young businessmen and women; even a restaurant, with tables, quieter music, a minimal food menu—for Howard Saint’s business associates and friends. He and Livia would end up there later this evening, more likely, but for now, they were headed for the club room.

To reach it, though, they had to pass through another throng of well-wishers, crammed together by the coat check. More handshakes and smiles, more small talk. Saint exchanged views about the upcoming city council race with Commissioner Myers; promised Ben Mix, his number two at Saint Motors, ten minutes tomorrow morning; complimented Rebecca Grafton, who did public relations for all his companies, on the dress she was wearing; managed a few quick words with District Attorney LaRue on some outstanding business.

Just as he finished speaking to the DA, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned.

He found himself face-to-face with Quentin Glass. For the first time all night, a smile of genuine pleasure crossed his face.

“Quentin,” he said, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Good crowd tonight. Excellent work.”

Glass was Saint’s right-hand man—the only one who’d been with him from the very beginning, since Howard Saint had arrived in Tampa almost twenty years ago, determined to make something of himself. Glass had stayed with him every step of the way, through the good times and the bad, helping him do just that. Just as tonight he’d helped gather a cross section of Tampa’s key movers and shakers— politicians and businessmen, entertainment figures and sports stars—to be seen here with Howard Saint. It was not officially a fund-raiser—Saint hadn’t declared his candidacy yet—but connections were certainly being made tonight. Valuable connections.

“Thank you, Howard. Believe me, it wasn’t that hard. They all wanted to be here.” Glass leaned closer to his employer and lowered his voice. “Lincoln reports that problem from before has been taken care of, by the way.”

“Ah.” Reston. Saint nodded in satisfaction.

Glass looked over his employer’s shoulder then, and smiled. “Livia. You look extraordinary tonight.”

“Flatterer.” She linked her arm through Saint’s and gestured toward the bar, where the crowd was two and three people deep. “What are the chances of getting something to drink?”