Satisfaction

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Satisfaction ISBN # 1-4199-0519-8 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Satisfaction Copyright© 2006 Candie Keane Edited by Ann Leveille. Cover art by Willo. Electronic book Publication: February 2006

This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 443103502. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Warning: The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This book has been rated S-ensuous by a minimum of three independent reviewers. Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (Erotic), and X (X-treme). S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination. E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature. X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

SATISFACTION Candie Keane

Dedication This book is dedicated to the people of New Orleans in their time of crisis. My heart joins many others in the hope that your city rises anew.

Trademarks Acknowledgment The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Formica: The Diller Corporation Glock: Glock, Inc. Mack Truck: Mack Trucks, Inc. Magic Chef: Maytag Corporation Marlboro: Philip Morris Incorporated Mustang GT: Ford Motor Company Steinway: Steinway, Inc. Viagra: Pfizer Inc. Wedgwood: Wedgwood Public Limited Company

Satisfaction

Chapter One Nick fought to contain his sigh of boredom as the honey-blonde’s lips bobbed down the length of his cock a third time. Tried and failed. He shifted against the storage room wall of the Alley Cat Café, striving to concentrate on the feel of her slick mouth and not the fact that he hadn’t eaten all morning. The scent of freshly made beignets and chicory coffee filled his nostrils as conversation and light laughter filtered in from the dining room twelve feet to his right. Surely people were beginning to wonder why the only waitress in the joint was late with their refill. The waitress in question knelt before him, the tips of her blue-veined breasts playing peek-a-boo beneath her strategically unbuttoned uniform. Apart from the fact that he was as hard as a twelve-inch pipe, he wasn’t surprised that she didn’t notice the sigh. If the tinkle of her chandelier earrings wasn’t enough to distract her, her practiced moans were. Despite the noise, she was damn good. She feasted on him, her lips stretching around the knob of his shaft, her tongue flicking lightly on the ridge before dipping into the slit like she was searching for the sweet treat in a cream-filled dessert. Her flattened tongue made a round-trip journey of his straining rod, first laving the purple-red tip then trailing down the length. She paused to suck his balls playfully, using a little tooth, before returning to the tip via the sensitive vein that ran along the base. A tight thumb-to-forefinger ring on the lower half of his cock made up for the fact that she couldn’t fit him all into her mouth. Watching her through half-lidded eyes, Nick fisted her honey hair. It would have been pretty without the perfectly spaced bottled highlights. He anchored his hand into the brittle strands, twisting his hips a bit, digging deeper. It was too much for her. She pulled back slightly, enough for him to know that for all her apparent expertise she couldn’t really take him. Not all of him. He shortened his thrusts, pacing himself. As usual, he was nowhere near coming. Hell. The equipment still worked, but the feelings, the exquisite pleasure that he used to get from sex, were not there anymore. His erection felt as hard and as ancient as a stone pillar in Cemetery Number One. Given the circumstances of the past year he wasn’t surprised. Sex had become a tool, a means to an end rather than an end itself. No longer did he fuck for pure satisfaction, the kind of satisfaction only found buried within the warmth of a woman he loved. The woman he loved was dead. “Something wrong?”

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Nick blinked. “Honey’s” doe brown eyes gazed up at him as she tried to speak with her mouth full. Unknowingly, he had painfully tightened his grip on her hair. He let the strands slip through his fingers, forcing a slow smile. “No, darlin’, everything’ll be just right as soon as you tell me where your boyfriend is.” Her boyfriend was the last of a long list of witnesses with information that could get a murderer convicted. “Honey” had been reluctant to provide Nick with his whereabouts until he’d shown a sexual interest. But Nick had been more than surprised when she’d boldly unzipped his pants without any preliminaries. Now he was thinking this was more trouble than the information was worth. She moaned in protest as he brushed her away from his still-solid cock, forcing the uncooperative organ into his slacks before zipping them shut. He tucked his shirt in, avoiding her mouth when she crawled her hands up his chest. “No kisses, darlin’.” “I can make you forget her.” Nick snapped. “We’re through here,” he said, gripping her by the shoulders. “Tell Junior—” “Tell me yourself, goddamnit.” A feral voice came from behind the line of coffee cans. Junior, the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound bookie and human tree trunk, lunged forward. And all hell broke loose. Nick shoved the waitress out of Junior’s path. Arms flailing, she struck the stainless steel shelving, upsetting canisters of coffee and flour, projecting the whole mess in a chocolate and white rainbow arc through the air. Nick ducked beneath the wave and braced himself for a brawl. A half a second later, Junior slammed into him. The force of the blow knocked Nick through the flimsy back door, sending him sprawling into the café’s courtyard beyond. A courtyard currently occupied by ten to fifteen tourists enjoying a morning latté. Nick staggered backward. “Welcome back to New Orleans.” Junior rounded on him, growling, his black hair dusted with flour. “Miss me?” “Desperately.” Nick punched Junior in the nose, grunting in satisfaction as his large head snapped back. It bounced forward a second later like one of the little bobble-head toys Nick’s godchild was so fond of. Damn. The stubborn man just wouldn’t go down. Junior spat out a teaspoon of blood, stumbling into a skeletal steel café chair, grinning through stained teeth. He hooked his meaty hands through the chair’s spine, tossing it into a knot of onlookers who’d gathered around this little back street drama. “I need that information on Boudreaux, Junior. I’m through asking nicely.” Circling Nick, the big man breathed heavily. His T-shirt-covered belly jiggled with one too many po’boy sandwiches and maybe two too many bowls of gumbo. His penchant for rich food would kill him, if the other small-time hoods in the Quarter didn’t beat the food to it. 6

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“You’re just through period, Ricco. Everyone knows you’ve gone crazy since your woman got taken out.” Junior wheezed, his eyes teeming with contempt, slick hair falling into their bottomless depths. “I got a message from the boss. Stay away from court today or it’ll be something else you live to regret.” Nick blinked and a concrete block masquerading as a fist connected with his chin, sending him flying into an eighty-year-old storefront. The multi-paned window, announcing “Antiques!” in gold and black lettering, shimmied in protest but didn’t break. Must be my lucky day, Nick thought wryly, playing possum as Junior revved up for another hit. Avoiding a second introduction to Junior’s fist, Nick executed a quick duck and roll, delivering his own strike to the beefy man’s rib cage. Junior lurched backwards, eyes wild. He stole his right hand behind his lower back. Knife or gun? A six-inch serrated blade glinted in the muted sunlight. The beefy man experimented, jabbing the tool toward Nick’s chest. Damn. That’s going to hurt. “Your boss is probably right,” Nick said, stepping forward and swinging his fist around with the controlled force his academy instructor had taught him. Nick struck the bull’s-eye on Junior’s square jaw just as the blade sank three inches into Nick’s right thigh. Toppling like timber, Junior dropped to the cobblestone sidewalk. “And I’ve got a message for him.” Nick knelt over the fallen man and checked his pulse. He’d live. “Never threaten a man with nothing left to lose.” Nick’s hand wrapped around the hand-carved handle still protruding from his slacks, feeling the tip scratch the bone. He slid the blade free. Blood flowed around his gloved hand, dripping on the cobblestones. Hell. When was the last time he’d had a tetanus shot? Staggering to his feet, Nick let his head fall forward, one hand on his hip, his other maintaining pressure on the wound. His adrenaline rush receded, draining him of the violent need for justice, leaving only a feeling of futility in its wake. Junior would soon be replaced with another two-bit felon with an uglier face and a better aim. Wiping the sweat off his forehead with his free arm, Nick cursed again. It couldn’t possibly get any hotter. A young officer emerged from the crowd. “Detective?” “Let’s clean up this mess, Émile.” “Need a ride to the hospital?” The uniform moved forward, hoisting the suspect to a standing position as he listed his rights. “Later.” Nick scowled. Junior was right. Boudreaux was going to get off. And Nick had only one person to thank for that. 7

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A muffled baritone chime echoed from inside the antiques store window. A mantel clock stood center stage in the display. A fault-line-sized crack marred the clock’s face, bisecting the glass. Nick was surprised it still worked. Hell. He would be even more surprised if anyone would still want it. Narrowing his gaze at the correct hour beneath the layers of fractured glass, Nick turned on his heel. He needed to thank the psychologist personally for screwing up his case, and he was going to miss his last chance to get to her, if only for a moment. “Émile, I’m late for an appointment.” “Sure thing, detective.” Nick strode toward the street, ripping at his shirt buttons, ignoring the razor-sharp pain in his right leg. He had a few hours before medical attention became a necessity. Yesterday’s dry cleaning was still in the car along with an emergency first-aid kit. It would take minutes to change, maybe longer to patch himself up. Twelve minutes later, leaning on the horn of his ‘66 Mustang GT, Nick sped through the yellow light on the corner of Chartres and Toulouse, making a right on his way to the Orleans Parish Criminal Courthouse. His hair ruffled in the hot, sticky wind, still redolent with a late September rain. The second light caught him. “Aw, hell.” Gritting his teeth and tasting the coppery flavor of blood, Nick slammed his gloved hand against the steering wheel. He needed to get to the psychologist before she left court and fled back to San Francisco. A curl tugged at the corner of his mouth. Cold. The description was befitting to the city and to the psychologist. Well, they could have each other. He preferred New Orleans to anywhere in the world. Like a woman with a sordid past, New Orleans was hot, wet and willing. Nick’s gaze roved over the wide street populated with tourists and locals. The personality of Crescent City was three-dimensional—old-world architecture, flamboyant inhabitants and sultry weather. Her temperamental atmosphere clogged the lungs, as if the emotions spent by its earlier residents still filtered through the air. Taking a breath here was sometimes an effort. It made you remember that you were alive, even when you didn’t want to be. Nick breathed, letting the viscous air fill his lungs, casting his gaze skyward. Lightning pierced the northern sky as thunderclouds closed curtain on the morning sun’s earlier exhibition. Thunder rumbled seconds later. The storm was close. Nick looked forward to it. No city was like New Orleans after the rain. And no place was like the French Quarter. Rainstorms washed away the tourist trash, revealing the true beauty of the

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Quarter. Blacktop streets glistened beneath lacy iron balconies dripping with ferns. Each avenue formed a narrow lamp-lined channel for visitors to flow through. The more colorful tourists migrated upstream toward Bourbon Street to revel in the city, letting their immediate desires control their actions. At home they could safely negate responsibility for their actions and claim it was the liquor or the night or the city that prompted their reckless debauchery. Bourbon Street was New Orleans with her legs wide open. Nick had certainly witnessed more than a few tourists in the most public displays of intimacy. The darkened alleys of the French Quarter were notorious for sexual escapades that would shame the uninitiated. Sedate tourists flowed downstream toward Jackson Square to experience the city from a safe distance, people-watching from the Café du Monde or river-watching from the wharf. Like any exotic locale, however, New Orleans had another side, one the tourists, if they were lucky, didn’t often see. Decadence always had a price. And New Orleans paid its fair share in robberies and murder. The light changed. Nick abandoned his thoughts at the street corner, letting the storm inside him rage like the one on the horizon. Angling sharply into a parking space, he alighted from the car and leapt up the alabaster steps of the Greek Revival courthouse. At any other time Nick would have appreciated the imposing architecture. Lately, he didn’t appreciate much. Fat drops of new rain burst on his head and shoulders, the wind insistently tugged at his suit jacket as he crossed the high columned entry. Shaking the few errant drops from his hair, Nick cursed under his breath at the sight before him. A nest of alligators, also known as the press, was out in feeding formation, circling under the portico. Cameras flashed and whined as sharply dressed mannequins stood before them, regaling the audience with sordid details of the trial. Snippets of their monologues fueled his anger. “Catherine Boudreaux was strangled two years ago in what is now known as the Extreme Sex Killing. Her husband claims it was an accident due to erotic asphyxiation during sex play. The prosecution calls it murder. “Not since the Caplan murder twenty-two years ago has a Garden District homicide garnered so much notoriety.” To Nick’s far left, a tall beauty with café au lait skin spoke earnestly to the camera. “Thanks, John, I am standing on the courthouse steps. Inside, Forensic Psychologist Eden Chapman is again providing controversial testimony regarding the ability of the murder defendant to be responsible for his actions the night of his wife’s death. The first trial ended in a hung jury last year. As you know, Boudreaux, a notorious bon vivant and man about town—” Don’t forget cold-blooded murderer, Nick provided silently, striding forward.

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Three quarters of the way through the den of reporters, Nick wrenched to a stop as a weighty beam of light burned into his retinas. Most reporters had learned long ago not to pursue this lead detective. All except one. He scowled for the camera as a familiar saccharine voice drifted toward him. “Just arriving to the courthouse is Lead Detective Nicholas Ricco.” Ashley Wilder’s porcelain face broke through the blinding white, a large microphone gripped in her pink-tipped fingers. “Detective, is it true that you have been suspended again for your tactics in another investigation?” Nick was always mildly surprised at the venom that dripped from her flawless lips. Eyeing him, she sauntered closer, as if they were still in that roach-infested hotel room they’d shared five years before, tangled in the once-white sheets, as if she wouldn’t broadcast whatever he said across the state of Louisiana the minute he finished dumping his guts. She’d been an exceptional lay. But her devious ambition had been enough for him to avoid her since then. Hell, every man had one of those times— you knew what you were doing was damn wrong but your cock had a mind of its own. They’d invented regret for those thoughtless moments of lust-filled release. He should have known that a woman that good in bed would be equally bad out of it. Ashley was venomous. He buried his emotions beneath an impassive face, struggling with the desire to grab the camera and break it in half. “No comment.” Her voice lowered. “Come now, detective, here is your chance to give us your side of the story.” It was the same tone she’d used when she’d raised her black skirt, revealed her bare cunt and breathlessly asked him to fuck her in the coat closet during his fiancée’s funeral. He’d showed her the door instead. She’d taken the rejection personally. The first journalist to report on the details of his fiancée’s death, Ashley Wilder had not been kind. He crooked a finger at her. Wilder licked her lips, her luminous eyes growing wide with anticipation. “Ashley, I wouldn’t give you my side of anything if you were the last woman on Earth, I was chained to the bed and I’d just choked down a truckload of Viagra.” She blinked. “Get her the hell out of here,” he growled to the rangy man just visible behind the camera. “We’re here for Boudreaux,” the tall redhead snapped, wrenching Wilder aside. “Not a personal vendetta.” “Speak for yourself.” Angling toward Nick and dropping her eyes to his crotch, she purred, “Just remember, detective, I can be discreet,” she paused, “or not.” 10

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Then she and the cameraman were gone. A short elevator ride later, Nick propped himself against the cool wall of the fourth floor, ignoring the ratty blanket of lawyers, criminals and other, unclassifiable people milling about. He crossed his arms, waiting for the psychologist, his thoughts grinding together. Pushy reporters and defense psychologists. They were enough to drive a man to drink or to smoke. Nick unfolded his arms and patted his pocket for his Marlboros. He had to fish for a moment, cursing the glove that prevented his freedom of movement. Even after a year, he sometimes forgot it. Sometimes. He jerked the package out, tapping out a cigarette. He knew he should quit. Marie’s soft voice echoed in his head. “Mon coeur, the cigarette, she will kill you too, soon.” Nick thumbed the lighter, watching the dancing blue-yellow flame for a moment. He lit the cigarette, pulled and exhaled, regarding the pale gray smoke that curled upwards before fading into the atmosphere. The irony of Marie’s words burned a hole in his heart. Her remains were now turning to dust and he still breathed easily. He flicked his eyes toward the courtroom door. Hell. He had no idea what he hoped to accomplish by stalking and confronting this woman. He just couldn’t abide having another murderer get off on some cockamamie theory. The Doc was defending one of the bad guys. If she didn’t know it already, he was about to tell her. Up close and personal. A click to his right cut through his thoughts. A mass of people exited the courtroom. Nick had eyes for only one. Dr. Eden Chapman emerged from behind the heavy, paneled doors, unaware of his scrutiny. Nick’s eyes sliced over the defense witness as she wove in and out of the crowd in his direction. He usually did his best character judgment within thirty seconds of seeing a person. The Doc took less than ten. He was going to enjoy regretting this little conversation. She looked every bit the uptight, professional researcher, complete with blackrimmed glasses and mummified hair—as if any suggestion of femininity would discredit her on the stand. She held her briefcase in front of her like a chastity belt. She probably didn’t want anyone getting too close. No problem. He didn’t need to touch her to make his point. She moved toward him, her stride long despite her height, her shoulders back. She was no one’s shrinking violet. So much the better. Nick enjoyed a good sparring partner up until the moment he decided to finish them off. The sharp click-click of her heels met the marble floor decisively. His gaze followed the creamy line of her calves upwards. Each step she took molded the navy material to her, outlining her surprisingly shapely thighs. His gaze lingered there for a moment

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before he forced it to glide over her severely cut navy suit jacket—nothing to see there— and ended at her face. He knew the moment she spied him in her path. Her icy blue-gray gaze flicked to him for a split second before skittering off again as if she felt the power of his antipathy ripple across space. Stretching his legs, he snubbed out the cigarette in the wooden receptacle, trying to extinguish the odd sensation in his gut just as easily. He could almost hear her sigh of relief when he allowed her to pass by. He gave her a few seconds to relish her escape. Then he followed. She made her way toward the north elevators, hips swaying with each determined step. The hypnotic motion of her heart-shaped ass drew his attention before his gaze shot up to her face. A flash of something registered in her eyes as she looked back at him. Fear? Nick’s mouth hardened. How could she fear him and not the monster she’d just defended in the courtroom? A young lawyer wearing a tweed jacket and her denim-clad client crossed his path, halting his progress. Nick growled in frustration as the Doc got away. By the time he’d skirted around them, he had to jog to catch her, wincing at the tug in his leg. “Dr. Chapman?” he called to her retreating back. A mass of hair escaped from her ponytail to unfurl down her back, hair as black as a midnight on the bayou. Like moonlit water, it shimmered beneath the fluorescent light. Nick slammed the door on the wayward thought. Dark pools of water were for drowning. She stopped abruptly, turning to face him head on as she regarded him beneath her lashes. “What can I do for you, Detective Ricco?” Nick’s gaze riveted to her mouth. Her voice was neither as practiced nor as smooth as the reporter’s, but its breathlessness was a damn sight more sexy—a voice that could plead for a man to stop a second before she begged him for more. But it was her lips that held his attention. They were plump and pouty and pink with just enough gloss to let a man’s cock slid right in. A woman’s bare lips were soft, vulnerable and as inviting to his dick as any between her legs. A man could come in a mouth like that. Nick blinked, trying to dismiss the raw lust that shot through his body like a slug from a .22. His slumbering cock woke with a start, blood rushing into the thick organ. Aw, hell. He wanted to fuck her.

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He’d known his body would eventually wake from its somnambulism since Marie’s death. He was a man. He accepted his need for physical release. A mutual lay ‘em and leave ‘em just might take the edge off. But he wasn’t about to get his head shrunk, literally or figuratively, by this woman. “I’d like a word with you,” he barked out, his tone harsh. He didn’t want to find her desirable. He sure as hell didn’t like it. “I don’t think that’s wise.” “A brief consultation?” he said, motioning his hand toward the open doors of an empty courtroom. “I have a nasty little case that I’m working on, one involving bondage and murder. I’d like a professional opinion.” He leaned in, violating her personal space. She crossed her arms, tipping her head back. She didn’t trust him. He admired her instincts. She should follow them. Most people didn’t. Unfortunately, that was good for the bad guys and, in this case, good for Nick. He was almost disappointed when she moved toward the courtroom. Almost. Nick urged her forward with a hand on the small of her back. The scratchy material of her blue suit contrasted the sleek hair teasing his thumb. He slid his hand lower, away from its seductive feel. As he moved forward to push the door open, the scent of her hair wafted up to him. The smell of red roses, rich and pungent, shocked his senses. A smell that made him want to bury his face into the thick waves, to bury himself between her sleek thighs. Damn, anything but roses. Years ago, as a young hoodlum in training, he’d escaped a cop by ducking into a dense, rose-filled courtyard. Wine-colored buds, almost black in the glow of the moonlight, had clung to the grape wood fence, infusing the tight space with their dark fragrance. In the center of the courtyard fat cabbage roses weighed down their stems, spilling their crimson petals on the rich dirt. Panting, Nick had just crouched beneath the cottage window when a large shadow undulating on the ceiling of the room above him drew his attention. Just visible beyond the dust-smeared glass, yellowed sheets draped over a small worn mattress. Weeping candles overflowed a side table, casting larger than life shadows on the plaster walls and bathing two naked bodies in a golden glow. The double-paned glass had prevented Nick from hearing anything, making the vision before him even more surreal. The woman knelt on rumpled sheets, her knees sinking into the thin mattress, her hand wrapped into the brass headboard. It took a few moments of stunned silence before Nick saw the bindings. A strip of muslin or linen held her arms bound to the brass bed railings, her fingers wound between the flimsy rails with a white-knuckled grip. The buttery light caressed the sheen of perspiration on her skin from her taut thighs and buttocks to her smooth back. Her small brown-tipped breasts thrust forward, their nipples tight and long like acorns. Her black hair, tangled and unmistakably wet, 13

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draped over her shoulder and clung to her in thick black ribbons. Her neck arched, swanlike, as she kissed the man pumping into her from behind. The man’s face contorted in passion, his tongue took turns licking and thrusting into her mouth as he bucked into her body. She dropped her head forward and his fingers gripped her waist as he pulled back, revealing the base of his cock, glazed with her juices. He left the head nestled inside of her swollen lips before spearing her again. And again. The muscles in his buttocks and thighs clenched with the force of each penetration, sending waves of rolling vibrations through the woman’s body. The man’s head jerked up, mouth open. He barked a command—or an order? Nick had struggled to hear the exchange but couldn’t. He hadn’t needed to. Stomach trembling, she arched her back, impaling herself on him. Her breasts jiggled beneath the onslaught before he grabbed at them, his fingers greedily pinching the small, tight buds. He grabbed her thigh and lifted her leg up and back, thrusting himself deeper within her. Candlelight tickled her inner thighs and danced along her bare pussy, glistening with evidence of her desire. Nick had never seen a woman completely shaven before. As drunk on the lust that permeated the room as the lovers, his own shaft had grown impossibly heavy with the sight of a woman’s ultimate vulnerability exposed. His breathing had deepened. This was nothing like the fumbling backseat encounters he’d had up until then. The desire to take possession of a woman so completely, to see that look of complete abandon, to actually cause it, had wrenched through him, shocking him with the power of his need. He’d wanted to possess a woman like that, to have her completely vulnerable to him. The man stiffened and cried out silently. Sweat dripped from his body, mingling with hers. In slow motion, he reached forward, loosening the strips of cloth. The two lovers collapsed in each other’s arms, his head falling to her breast. Stunned, Nick had watched as the man’s face softened as he nuzzled her, now as vulnerable as she had been beneath him. The woman stroked her fingers through his hair, cradling his head to her breast. He didn’t see her pluck a roll of worn bills from the table, looking at the money with the same passion that she had looked at him. What Nick had thought had been the real thing had been nothing more than a business arrangement. Heat had flashed through Nick as he rejected the man’s weakness and the woman’s duplicity. Weakness to a woman was what had left Nick’s father a broken-down drunk at the age of thirty-four. In that moment Nick had vowed never to mistake lust for love. Beyond the dirty glass the woman counted the money and looked directly at Nick. He’d fallen back into a bush, soft rose petals raining down on him, his arousal quickly replaced by pain from the sword-like thorns.

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It had taken weeks for the scars to heal. He’d hated the smell of roses ever since. Nick had learned since then that not all women were liars in bed and out. Too bad the exceptions didn’t last long. Scanning the empty courtroom, he took a deep breath of stale wood, purging the doctor’s fragrance and the triggered memory. He scoffed at what lay before him— judge’s bench, two simple desks up front, rows of viewing seats toward the back. As much lying and cheating occurred here under the cloak of justice and formality in the courtroom as in any back alley in the Quarter. He eyed her, turning his back on the figure of justice. “Look, detective,” she said. “It’s not appropriate for us to talk privately at this time. Perhaps after the trial?” Shoulders tense, she looked everywhere but at him. Was she looking for an escape route? She needed to run from her own principles or lack thereof, not from him. “No time like the present.” He flipped the lock behind him. Her mouth froze in an “O”, as if she couldn’t believe she had been duped. A flurry of emotions flashed across her features—surprise, disbelief and outrage. Nick was enjoying the show when she settled on outrage. “Does the term ‘witness tampering’ mean anything to you?” “Do you know who the hell you’re defending up there?” “I’m not defending anyone,” she said, lowering the briefcase and stepping forward, blue eyes sparking. “I’m offering a professional opinion on the mind-set of the defendant at the time of the crime. An objective opinion, detective.” “You can’t be objective when you’re getting paid. You’re on the wrong side, Doc.” “My job is to speak about Mr. Boudreaux’s ability to recall the events of that night. Nothing else. My theory speaks to—” “To the stupidity of the jury, that’s what it speaks to.” Nick tried to leash his fury. And failed. “That a man could become so emotionally, so sexually overwhelmed that he could engage in activity without recalling said activity. We all do things we wish we’d forget, Doc.” He stepped into her personal space, letting her feel his anger and his desire. He couldn’t stop his sexual reaction to her, he might as well use it. He ground out, “Dirty, secret things in the midst of passion, no, in the midst of that one mind-blowing fuck that we can’t forget in the light of day.” She backed up against the panel, her eyes luminous with fear and the unmistakable spark of sexual awareness. What the hell. His sexual misery craved some company. He let his breath fan her lips, wrestling with the urge to lean into her and press her against the wood in a fullfrontal assault. Not bothering to shield the lust in his eyes, he let his gaze drop to the apex of her thighs. “Have you ever done anything like that, Doc? A little homework to back up your research?” He let the question linger, ignoring the sweat beginning to

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collect at the base of his spine. “Did you remember it the next morning when you slipped your wet panties back on?” Her breathing stilled, her lips parted. Shock or desire? Damn if he didn’t want to lean in and… Aw, hell. He dropped his arms and his voice. “We all wish we could forget sometimes. That doesn’t mean that we do.” She blinked and stuck her nose in the air. “Tell me, detective, am I one of the lucky ones or do you always use sexual intimidation during your interrogations of women?” Whatever it takes. He let the moment draw out before whispering, “At least I don’t kill ‘em.” “Need I remind you that he passed the lie detector test regarding his memory of that night? Even if you don’t believe my findings at least you can believe your own department’s. I’m good at what I do.” Her hand inched toward the door handle. “I wouldn’t be on that stand if I believed that Courtland Boudreaux could recall the events of that night.” He stopped her, encircling her wrist with his gloved hand. His mind registered how easily he could snap it in two—how easily he could capture both wrists in one hand above her head and have her at his mercy. He shut down the thought. “And I am good at what I do. I would stake my life on the fact that Boudreaux killed his wife and he remembers every damn second of it.” He was surprised she didn’t cringe at his touch. Most people did. “Perhaps you’re too emotionally involved.” “Perhaps you’re not emotionally involved enough.” She yanked her arm free. He’d struck a nerve. “Is this your best bad cop routine? You’re nothing but a bad cliché, a rogue cop with a chip on his shoulder.” “And you’re just another gun for hire. God help you, lady, if you meet one of your clients in a dark alley.” “I already have.” Eyes haunted, her arms slipped down to wrap around her waist, instantly changing her posture from defensive to self-protective. Nick looked into her pain-filled crystal eyes. If she had been a victim, why on Earth was she a defense witness? A fat ribbon of hair slid along the nape of her neck. Damn if he didn’t want to lick the skin it teased just to see if it tasted as creamy as it looked. She brushed at it as if it annoyed her. “Are we done here?” A firm knock followed by a jiggle of the doorknob nearly sent the psychologist out of her skin. Her eyes widened as if they’d been caught in a conspiracy. She certainly was skittish. Where was the ice princess façade she’d worn on the witness stand last year?

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A gravelly voice emanated from outside the door. “Weather’s taken a turn for the worse. The courthouse has been closed for the day.” Nick reached around the doctor, heard her sharp intake of breath and opened the door. Judge Phenius Cooper surveyed him beneath bushy brows, his large watery eyes darting between the two of them. Nick knew that sexual tension radiated between he and the Doc. Sometimes the chemistry between two people was as visible as the fog that wafted over the bayou at dusk, and just as elusive. “Detective Ricco,” the judge drawled, “I trust you are not threatening your job security?” “Just having a chat with the psychologist here.” Nick shifted his gaze to her. “Maybe she can cure me. I hear she specializes in saving lost causes—or is it rescuing lost souls?” “You’re beyond rescue,” she muttered, staring him down with narrowed eyes. Nodding briefly to the judge, she turned her back in dismissal and headed toward the elevators. Her retreating backside dragged his gaze with it. “Excuse me, judge,” Nick said. “Tread lightly, detective.” “Sure thing,” Nick threw over his shoulder, jogging after her. He had no idea why he wanted to continue a conversation that would lead nowhere. He only knew that they weren’t done yet. He ambled after the psychologist, pausing two feet behind her in front of the banks of elevators. The hallways were eerily empty. A small yellow light and short chime signaled the elevator’s arrival, the gleaming doors slid open with a quiet swoosh. He followed her into the elevator. She did an about face as soon as she knew they were alone. “Really. I don’t think…” “It’s a short ride, Doc.” “Hold the elevator!” Richard Martin, Esq. jogged toward them, ten steps from the door. Martin’s looks were deceiving. Although heavyset and balding, his eyes open in a perpetual look of surprise, he was the best damn lawyer money could buy. Nick felt a rush of unfamiliar pleasure seeing those eyes bulge even more than usual as he looked from his star witness to the lead detective alone together in the elevator. Nick pushed the close button. The steel doors slid shut, sealing them in the small space. “That was rude.” Dr. Chapman stood in the center of the elevator, regarding him beneath a furrowed brow, nose in the air. Nick stared into eyes both the color and temperature of ice chips.

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A thin smile cut across his face. “Now there’s Dr. Cool, Calm and Calculating.” He vaguely noted the pull of his scar as he smiled. Another reminder of his many failings. She navigated a wide path around him, stepping to the control panel. “A continuation of this discussion will serve little purpose,” she paused, hand hovering above the emergency stop. What was she up to? “However, since you started it, I’ll finish,” she said, her index finger punching the emergency button. The elevator shuddered to a stop. “If I was testifying for your sister, whose husband died under similar circumstances, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?” She looked pointedly at him. “Don’t look now, detective, but your double standard is showing.” Nick bristled. “You’re either very brave or very stupid.” “Neither. You don’t intimidate me. Say what you have to say and we’ll be finished here.” She tried staring him down, until her eye twitched. She was a terrible liar. He intimidated her all right. That was the second time she’d denied it. If he’d learned anything in his eleven years on the force, he knew that a vehement denial was often as good as an admission. “At any rate, my testimony has been postponed until Monday.” “Monday is a long way away,” he managed to snarl, “I hope you come to your senses by then.” “I’m not changing my testimony, for any reason, certainly not for you.” “Mark my words, Doc, you’re going to regret this case come Monday.” “I already do.” Nick reached out to release the emergency button, pausing as his hand moved toward the panel. Eyes challenging hers, he jerked his head toward the button. She nodded. He punched. The elevator began a smooth descent, the numbers above the doors illuminating each floor. Nick rolled his head to the side, easing a hand to the back of his neck. A knot had taken up residence there about two hours ago and showed no sign of vacating. That’s what he got for listening to his own bad advice. He couldn’t stop a sideways glance at her when he suddenly lost his stomach. The elevator lurched upwards and jerked to a stop, jarring his injured leg. Blood flowed from the wound again. He looked into the Doc’s sharp gaze through his own, glazed with pain. Then the lights blinked out. Aw, hell.

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Chapter Two Eden gasped, dropping her portfolio as she and the detective were plunged into darkness. The hollow thud of the red leather case mingled with the echo of metal scraping against metal. “Aw, hell.” He voiced into the pitch. Thrusting her hands outward, she braced herself against the reality of the steel wall. Although the cold steel offered little relief from the sudden vertigo, it certainly beat falling into the arms of the detective. Taking a breath, she took a rational assessment of the situation. Electrical storm. Power outage. Any moment the elevator would continue its descent. Remain calm. “Can we call for help?” she said, her voice sounding breathy, not at all like herself in the dark. “Yeah.” The switch to the intercom clicked. And clicked again. “It’s dead.” Icy fear and hot fury radiated from her stomach through her limbs, the dual emotions rendering her speechless. A small red glow from the upper left blinked on, encircling them in an intimate light. The light did little to ease her mind. The detective’s unshaven face was even more intimidating in the glow. The light illuminated his profile, casting the rest in shadow. How appropriate. He was as mean as a devil, now he could look like one. His pelt of thick blond hair looked longer than the last time she had seen him, but still just as wavy. His features were sharp and angled, except for his square chin. His predatory gaze, now thankfully turned away from her, was a mixture of light brown, gold and emerald, although hazel didn’t quite describe it. Hazel was only a color. His eyes blazed like a wildfire. He was dangerously sexy, despite the scar. A pale, razor-thin scar trailed down the right side of his face from ear to mid-cheek. A burn? No. Perhaps a knife wound? Whatever it was, it didn’t detract from his magnetism—it enhanced it. With the imitation dueling scar, he only needed the ripped white shirt and saber to complete the picture of a nineteenth-century pirate. Her gaze slid along his face before returning to his eyes. Eyes that now burned into hers. Her breath caught.

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She wanted to look away—wanted to, but wouldn’t. Averting her gaze would indicate weakness and she refused to be weak in front of him, in front of anyone, ever again. She stared into his smoldering eyes for an endless moment, until a frisson of awareness skittered down her spine. Was it fear, attraction or both? The elevator jerked a second time, sending her stumbling directly into his solid chest. His pectoral muscles flexed under her hands. Her fingers curled into the crisp cotton of his shirt, the hair beneath tickling her palms. The warmth of his body and his scent enveloped her as his large hands seized her shoulders. He smelled wild and woodsy, like pine and sweet tobacco and something indescribable. She held her breath. “Steady,” he growled. His breath, provocative in its sweet cleanness, fanned her cheek and lips. Her body leaned closer instead of away, trapped in his powerful magnetism. It took an endless moment before her limbs followed her conscious demand to move the other way. The intercom sputtered, white noise filling the space before a droll female voice flooded the car, “Security.” Setting her away from him slowly, he turned toward the intercom. Eden staggered back, shocked at the spark of raw desire that flared through her at his touch. Damn him for orchestrating that little sexual scare tactic back in the empty courtroom. Damn her for being so affected by it. Her body hadn’t reacted to such blatant sexuality in years. If ever. She still trembled. Her nipples were tight and a heaviness remained in her lower belly. She squeezed her legs together. No. He was big and callous. Men like that could do whatever they wanted to you. And sometimes did. “This is Detective Ricco of the NOPD. My companion, Dr. Chapman, and I are stalled in the elevator.” “Yes, sir. There is a shortage in the electrical circuit. Did you try the emergency button from inside the cab?” “Yes, yes we did.” Eden reached past him, her arm brushing his. Using her index finger, she punched the first-floor button again and again. She had to get out of there. His large hand, encased in warm supple leather, covered hers, exerting only enough pressure to still her action. His fingers entwined with hers, pulling her hand away from the panel. “I’ll contact an emergency crew right away.” “We sure would appreciate the help, ma’am,” he said calmly. “Yes, sir,” came the muffled response. Eden unwittingly focused on his hand, still covering hers in the scarlet light, heat tracing up her arm where his forearm brushed hers. She had heard that senses were heightened in the dark but this was ridiculous. Disengaging her fingers from his, she lowered her hand. 20

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A second later the intercom came back on. “Detective? Did you push the emergency button prior to the electrical shortage?” “Yes.” Eden’s words rushed out. “We were having a discussion and…we needed more time…” her voice trailed off. How could she explain? Silence. Then a smiling voice said, “I see.” She frowned at the panel. What did the operator see? Eden’s eyes widened suddenly, her back snapping straight. “I beg your pardon, you’re not trying to insinuate that we…” “No, ma’am.” “Well, we weren’t…” She half-turned to Detective Ricco, trying to keep an eye on him. Her bravery quickly deflated when she saw how close he stood. He grunted above and behind her, “That’s for damn sure,” confirming her Neanderthal assessment. A frustrated groan escaped her. “Making sounds like that is not helping our case any.” His husky voice slid into her ear. She could imagine the smirk plastered on his face. She took a calming breath and immediately regretted it. His scent was truly disturbing. He hustled her aside, speaking into the panel. “Do we have a time frame here?” “No, sir, I’ll keep you posted.” There was a click. Then silence. They were alone. “We could be stuck in here for hours.” Struggling to control the spark of panic in her voice, Eden skirted from under his arm, retreating to the far corner of the small space. Unfortunately, that meant that she stepped away from the meager light as well. Fine. She studied the numbers above the door in the dim light, trying desperately to ignore his existence. It was a waste of time. His energy, hot and sexual, swirled throughout the small space. Closing her eyes, she tried to grab a mental anchor in her storm of emotion, coaxing her anxiety to go away. She couldn’t get out of this cage or out of New Orleans fast enough. The postponement of her testimony could be disastrous for her. She just needed to stay as much out of the limelight as possible. Although she didn’t think anyone would recognize her, not after all these years, it was foolish to take chances. She set down the briefcase and ran her hands over her hair, rubbing her temples with the heels of her hands, willing the elevator to start. Tense silence continued as waves of heat rolled through the small compartment. A trickle of sweat nestled between her breasts. With one hand on the cold steel, Eden kicked off her shoes and unbuttoned her suit jacket. Pulling her shoulders out of the sleeves, she let the garment slide down her bare arms. The soft rustle of clothing echoed through the tight space. She’d had no idea how

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thankful she would be for the silk shell and wispy bra when she had put them on this morning. Movement pulled her gaze to the detective. Loosening his tie with two quick jerks of his gloved hand, he undid the top button of his shirt with equal ferocity. He shrugged out of his suit coat, revealing expansive shoulders. He must have felt her stare as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He stopped mid-motion to glare at her, the full force of his gaze slamming into hers. She had never met anyone who could convey so much intensity with a single look. She began to say something, anything, when his gaze dropped to her lips. Her heart faltered and then kicked into high gear. Had she imagined that? He turned toward the panel, slapping his hand against the steel. “What the fuck is taking so long?” “We…working…” The disembodied voice sputtered and went dead. Followed closely by the unmistakable sound of a fire alarm from the bowels of the building. Good lord, the whole world was collapsing. Eden swallowed a gasp of panic. They knew they were in there. They would come. They would come. Wouldn’t they? Eden inched back toward the panel, irrationally feeling more secure next to the intercom. The detective dropped his forehead against the steel before pushing off the panel and whirling around to face the back of the elevator. Anger emanated from him in waves as he began to pace the length of the floor like a lion at the zoo, compelling and dangerous. Only she felt sympathy for the caged animals. “Feeling claustrophobic, detective?” she said, surprised both at the dig and her calm voice. A bitter smile sliced across his features. “A little, but I know my weaknesses.” This time his gaze dropped to her breasts. He stretched his arms above his head, letting out a long low groan. Her gaze slid across his chest. “I also know how to follow my instincts, and right now they’re telling me to get the hell out of here.” Hooking his hands on his hips, he stepped to the opposite corner of the elevator, beckoning her to him with a crook of his gloved hand. She hesitated, looking to him and then at the controls before stepping to him warily. Grasping her upper arms, he pulled her toward his chest until she was faced with the sight of his throat and open collar. She tried not to brush against him, every sense on high alert. He leaned down, his breath feathering along her neck and ruffling her hair. “Are you with me?” he said, glancing at the ceiling. She followed his line of sight to the trapdoor. “You can’t reach that.” Looking anywhere but his eyes, her gaze latched on to his mouth and straight white teeth. His

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lower lip appeared swollen, as if he had recently been in a brawl. She shook herself. Don’t be ridiculous. “I couldn’t. We could.” “I’m a psychologist, not a trapeze artist,” she said, voice rising. He slashed a finger across his lips, jerking his head toward the intercom. “Like it or not, we’re stuck in this thing together. We can do this. Neither of us has to enjoy it.” “But the emergency crew…” “Take matters into your own hands, Doc.” The unmistakable sound of electrical current sizzled through the cab, followed quickly by the smell of burning wire. A thin trail of smoke wafted from the panel. “Oh no.” “Time’s up.” Stalking across the elevator, he ripped off his shirt, stuffing it into the panel. Muscles flexed beneath the taut skin of his bronzed shoulders and back beneath the white sleeveless T-shirt. She squeezed her eyes shut, turning away from the sight. Granted, he was sexually explosive, but if they weren’t stuck in the elevator, and if her heart wasn’t already racing from fear, she wouldn’t be salivating over him like some Pavlovian dog. Thank God that he didn’t list mind reading among his talents. He was so involved in his hatred of her he wouldn’t look close enough to see the desire behind the fear in her eyes. “Ready now?” His velvet voice tugged her gaze to his as he stepped closer. His chest rose with a ragged intake of breath. What could she do? She could be stuck here, fighting the smoke and a losing battle with her illogical desire for him, or she could join him in an effort to free herself. But that meant she had to touch him. “Yes.” She said to his throat, stepping into his embrace. Her breasts brushed against his lower chest. His hand splayed across her back. “I’ll give you a boost. We’re probably between floors. If you could open the trapdoor, I might be able to jump up there and pry open the doors of the floor above us and we’re out.” “Detective— Doctor—” A male voice was interrupted by a stream of white noise flooding the cab. “Is—” Disengaging herself from his grip, she scampered toward the panel, using the opportunity to take a deep breath. Instantly regretting it when she choked and coughed from the acrid smoke. She ripped the shirt away from the panel, punching the talk button, pleading, “Help us.” No answer. Hitting the panel with increasing urgency, she choked on the smoke that drifted into her mouth. “Hello? Hello?”

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She looked back at the detective standing motionless in the shadow before crossing the space that separated them on weak legs. “Fine. Let’s do this.” Her voice cut through the air. She reached up and snapped off her glasses, exhaling a breath. A light sheen of perspiration covered his chest. Her heart skipped as awareness seared through her. Now she knew what he smelled like. He smelled like warm slow sex after a shower…of clean sweat and hot passion. Smoothing her hand along his shoulders, she tried to get a better grip. Her fingers trembled as she sensed the unleashed energy beneath the taut muscles. “It should slide open.” At least she thought that’s what he said. She was having a hard time concentrating as his palms slid securely around her waist. She was sweating too. The feel of his hands gliding across her skin was almost unbearable. His hands spanned her hips, his warm fingers branding her beneath the short blouse. “Can you reach it?” “Umm…” Her right hand slipped under his T-shirt at the shoulder, feeling the thick muscle bunch beneath his skin as he boosted her higher. Glancing down to meet his gaze as his chin nestled between her breasts, Eden’s blood froze. Her nipples had pebbled provocatively against the flimsy layers of silk and lace, their dark tips blatantly outlined beneath the fabric. Thank God he hadn’t noticed, he hadn’t… Oh God. The detective took a long unsteady breath, his exhalation fanning over her areola. It grew impossibly tighter, swelling beneath his gaze as if straining toward his mouth. Afraid he might actually take the blatant offering, Eden twisted away, arching her back and effectively stabbing her nipple into his cheek. His mouth was an inch away. All he had to do was turn and… She couldn’t stop the low whimper in her throat, could only hope to God that he didn’t acknowledge it. He tightened his grip on her waist, squeezing the breath out of her. Or perhaps she just forgot to breathe. Any gentleman would ignore their blatant situation. Her eyes slipped closed. A tense moment passed, a moment when Eden could feel the primal sexuality radiate from him. A moment where she could swear he was going to pull her forward, latch his mouth on her distended nipple and slide his hand under her skirt. A rush of desire pooled between her legs. He boosted her up and away. She clenched her legs together, listing to the right, prompting his hand to slip under her rear. One more inch and he would be touching her intimately. His shallow breathing echoed through the tiny compartment—or was that hers? “Uh, sorry.” His voice sounded labored as he hoisted her higher.

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“No problem,” she lied, straining her body upwards, focusing on the hatch above her and not the man with his hand under her skirt. Her fingers grazed the knob. The elevator shimmied, upsetting their makeshift pyramid. “No.” She slid down his body. The unmistakable evidence of his arousal burrowed into her belly. She instinctively tightened her grip on his shoulders, vaguely aware of their breathing becoming synchronized, her shallow breaths in concert with his deeper ones. His hand cupped her chin, tipping her head back. She looked into his eyes—the sensation of falling into them was so vivid it left her dizzy. “Let’s try it again, Doc. You almost had it there.” Eden stood paralyzed, fighting her wild heartbeat. She could easily explain her condition. Her mind was simply playing tricks. Her physical symptoms caused by the claustrophobia were masquerading as sexual attraction. Her heart beat faster because she was nervous, not because he was so striking. Her breathing was shallow because she couldn’t stand the tightness of the space, not because he was the most magnetic man she had come across in ages. He hoisted her back up. This time she released the latch and slid the heavy upper panel aside to reveal the dark cavernous shaft. Cool stale air wafted to her. She breathed deeply of the promise of freedom in the metallic, oily smell. He brought her down, setting her on her feet. Turning, he jumped, latching on to the sides of the hatch. He pulled himself up, arm muscles straining, Eden’s eyes drank him in inch by tantalizing inch as his body disappeared into the cavern above. She blinked before checking out the controls again. The smoke was visible, beginning to billow underneath the white shirt. “Please hurry,” she whispered. After an eternity, the detective poked his head over the side of the opening, holding out a gloved hand covered in oil. “It’s open. The floor is deserted. You’ll have to come up.” She looked up at him, uncertain. “Just get help.” “I’m not leaving you.” The elevator groaned. His head disappeared. She had a brief moment of panic before his feet dangled in front of her. He jumped down, landing in a crouch, his thigh muscles straining against his suit pants. His face contorted as he cursed.

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“Listen, we don’t have much time here,” he ground out, rising to his full height and stalking toward her. He was a mixture of sophistication and raw animal magnetism in his suit pants and muscle T-shirt. “Meet me halfway, Doc. Let’s get out of this coffin.” She really didn’t want his arms around her again. “You’re big.” “Hell, lady, that’s the first time I’ve heard that as an insult.” He stalked closer. “I don’t bite,” he said, reading her mind. Looking into his eyes as his hands encircled her waist, pulling her flush against him, she said, “I think you do.” He chuckled. “Well, maybe a little,” he drawled, a slow smile warming his features. “Damn. I never would have thought.” “Thought what?” she asked, pushing down on his shoulders. “That there would be a personality under that ugly suit.” “This is not my personality. Trying situations sometimes make us who we are not.” “Hell, Doc, trying situations just reveal who we really are,” he said, his voice gruff. Her thigh brushed hers as he moved closer and she looked down quickly…there was something odd… “Oh my God, you’re hurt.” The unmistakable bulge of a bandage was evident under his right pants leg. A dark stain—blood?—formed across the bottom portion. “Yeah, you’re killing me.” She tried to reply but he was hoisting her up, throwing her toward the opening. Her outstretched hands grabbed at the ledge, found it, and she pulled herself up. The sound of ripping cloth and a sharp stab of pain accompanied her ascent. Oh God. The shaft felt even smaller than the elevator itself. She’d cut her leg but managed to lift herself up on all fours. A wave of panic threatened to assault her as she knelt there. Then he was beside her. “Let’s go.” He offered her his hand and she took it. The next few minutes passed in a blur. They scrambled through the opening, down the hallway to the stairwell—to find it empty. The unmistakable smell of burning wood permeated the building. There were no visual signs of smoke here but Eden’s eyes watered and her throat itched. She scampered in front of him down a single flight of stairs only to be met by a wave of dry heat. There was a fire on the lower floors. “The roof,” Ricco barked, grabbing her arm and reversing direction. “The news helicopters will spot us.” She tripped rounding the next corner and toppled forward, slamming her knee into the concrete step. “Let me help you.”

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He moved to pick her up. Her leg twisted beneath her and she jerked forward. She knew the moment her shoulder struck his injury. He grimaced in pain just before sinking to his knees. Eden grabbed his biceps, trying to hold him up. Her efforts didn’t slow his descent. “No.” She stumbled down as he sank, jarring her elbow on the concrete stair. He broke his fall with an outstretched hand and rolled onto his back. “Give me a minute.” Then he grew unnaturally silent, his chiseled features still. Her heart stopped. He’d lost too much blood. She cupped his face in her hands. “Don’t die, damn you.” No response. She closed her eyes and prayed. “Please,” she gasped, smoothing her open palms down his chest, ridiculously trying to transfer some of her strength to him. “Don’t leave me.” Her trembling fingers found his pulse at the side of his throat. Yes. There was something. She took a second shaky breath before leaning over him, trying to feel his breath on her cheek. “Doc?” His husky whisper fanned her ear. “Didn’t know you cared.” Mortified, she pushed off of him, scrambling to her knees. “I…I don’t.” Perhaps it would have been more convincing without the evidence of her tears wetting his T-shirt. “Good.” He groaned, draping a heavy arm over her shoulder, “Help me up.” She wrapped her arm around his waist, inviting him to lean into her. A new adrenaline rush gave her the strength to support him somewhat. One step at a time, Eden helped him the remaining five flights to the rooftop. Instead of weakening, he seemed to gain strength as they neared the top. She didn’t stop the tears as they streamed down her face when they finally staggered through the stairway door. It felt as if they had come a million miles in a little over an hour. And even though they were far from rescued, she felt momentarily safe. They fled onto the courthouse roof, a vast black sticky expanse surrounded by a two-foot red brick wall and capped with rough cement. Beyond that, muted multicolored rooftops of other buildings were just visible through the downpour. “Wait here.” Detective Ricco dropped his arm from her shoulder and limped toward the edge of the roof, seemingly unaffected as the wind whipped his hair around his head and water sealed his clothes to his skin. Who was this man of contradiction? Furious at her for her testimony and joking with her when battling for their lives, hurt one moment and able to take on the world the next. The psychologist in her was fascinated—the woman in her was scared to death of that fascination. Rain dripped from her eyelashes, spilled down her back beneath her blouse and pooled between her toes as Eden ran after the detective past a small battered shed to the edge of the building. She had never been afraid of heights but vertigo swept over her here. Below the two of them a throng of fire engines and police cars were parked 27

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haphazardly in the narrow street. Emergency lights splashed a surreal kaleidoscope of color on the wet pavement and a nearby glass and cement structure. Hypnotic sirens, distorted by the water, heightened the sense of illusion. Firemen moved about swiftly but unhurried. The flames must be under control. Of course it was impossible to know the extent of the damage from their vantage, but she and the detective just might survive this ordeal. He motioned to the crowd below with a long swing of his arm, cupping a hand to his mouth. A few faces tilted up at his call. “They see us!” Relief swept over Eden. Her shoulders sagged, her eyes slipped closed. She could feel her heart in her throat. Safe. They were going to live. He grabbed her around the shoulder, squeezing her against his chest. “We did it, Doc.” His eyes, soft with pleasure, crinkled at the edges. “Now it’s just a matter of time. Let’s find some shelter.” The deafening sound of the wind whipped away his last words as he turned. He loped back toward the shed. Not bothering with the doorknob, he slammed his shoulder against the peeling green door. It gave way with little protest. Eden peeked around his shoulder. The meager gray light filtered in, exposing brooms, tools and cans of cleaner spilling from old wooden shelves. A damp, moldy smell permeated the space. A relatively clean tarp covered the four-foot-square floor. The shed gave only a measure of shelter against the elements but right now it felt like the Taj Mahal. “Home sweet home.” He made a sweeping gesture for her to enter but he couldn’t disguise his flinch of pain. Grasping his thick biceps, she said, “Lie down so I can look at you.” “Thought you’d never ask.” He dropped to the ground, finally leaning against the stone wall and wincing as he grinned at her. She managed a shocked “oh” when he reached up and tugged her down on top of him. She sank to the ground on her knees, forced to straddle him or fall on her face. A bubble of laughter lodged in her throat. “What kind of a man thinks about sex at a time like this?” she whispered, unable to censor the rush of words. Her smile died when she looked at the lust-filled determination in his eyes. Her gaze followed his as it traveled her body. Water molded her clothing to her like that on a lewd Greek statue, her damp skin luminous in the light. Her shell gaped open, revealing her breasts, spilling out of the plain black bra. Her torn skirt, smudged with oil, plastered itself to her upper thighs, exposing her lace-covered hip. She no longer looked like the reserved psychologist she took such pains to portray in her professional life. She no longer felt like one either. He grabbed a handful of lace and flesh, his fingers slipping under the material and urging her hips closer to the thick steel of his erection tenting his slacks. He forced her

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thighs wider but the sodden material of her skirt protested, preventing full contact. He spared a look into her eyes. A new fire reflected in the depths of his. “Any man,” he replied. Her breath lodged in her throat as he rocked against her upper thigh. She should be offended. She should be screaming at the top of her lungs. She should do anything but melt into him. Her body tingled with the internal battle—until the part of her that wanted to deny the feelings that stole into her veins surrendered to the part that reveled in them. He was arrogant, stubborn…and irresistible. A deliciously forbidden feeling slid down her spine. She nestled herself against him before jerking up, remembering. “Your leg!” He dragged her back down. “To hell with my leg.” A small part of her rationality remained. “I’m not here to feed your ego,” she protested, but she couldn’t prevent her gasp at the length of him nestled intimately between her thighs. “It’s not my ego that’s starving.” He punctuated his statement with a roll of his hips, the long, thick line of him nearly touching her there. Her sex contracted violently. Her vulva felt swollen, achy. He looked haggard, his unshaven face hard. His T-shirt, smudged with oil, clung to his upper body. His slacks were smeared with blood. And she had never wanted a man inside of her more desperately in her life. Her mind intruded. “There is a perfectly logical explanation for this behavior,” she said. “We have taken our…our…physical reactions from the fear of the situation and transferred them into some sort of sexual interest in each other. There’s even a term for it.” “Yeah?” His gaze riveted to the point where their bodies were glued together as he moved against her. Her eyes drifted closed. Oh please don’t do that. “It’s nothing personal.” “I have an undeniable urge, Doc,” his gloved hand stole down the outside of her thigh to the edge of her skirt, fingers teasing, stroking the sensitive skin behind her knee, “that feels damn personal. Is that insane?” “Not clinically,” she whispered. His fingers speared into her hair, filling his fist with it and tugging her head to the side until her neck was exposed. He grazed her cheek with his, his stubble scratchy against her skin. She rubbed her face against his roughness, reveling in the contrast, plunging her hand into the thick silken strands at the nape of his neck and pulling him closer, her decision made. He lowered his mouth to the hollow of her throat, striking an especially sensitive spot right below her jawline. 29

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Her voice lodged beneath the pressure of his kiss. She drew in a desperate breath as his mouth descended to hers. He tasted her lower lip, tugging, licking, testing her response. “I want your mouth,” he commanded. The stroke of his other hand painted a trail of fire along her throat to cup her breast, his thumb teased the pebbled tip, once, twice. His lips barely left hers to whisper, “First.” She swallowed a moan but couldn’t stop the tremble of her mouth against his. And then he took her mouth in a kiss so full of carnal possession and power she could do nothing but whimper beneath the force of it. The kiss quickly grew fervent, open mouthed. He filled her senses with his smell, his taste, the texture of his tongue as it rasped against hers. Sensations bombarded her, rushing through her veins, infusing her with desire in its purest form—lust for a man she barely knew. He bit her lip, sucked on her tongue, entered her mouth before she was ready. There was no tenderness in his kiss, only passion. He kissed her like she belonged to him, as if he had already been inside her, as if he knew the depth and rhythm of penetration to send her over the edge again and again. He varied the stroke of his tongue in her mouth, mimicking what he would do once he was buried deep within her body. He shoved her skirt up another three inches with his gloved hand, until she was almost completely exposed. She squirmed against him, pressing herself even closer. Oh. Yes. There. She cried silently, moaning from the shocking hardness of him there, the hugeness of him there. She tried to speak but only managed a soft sound. A helpless, yearning sound of wonder and surprise and lust. She hated herself for it but there it was. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she hoisted herself closer, kissing him with a frenzy she hadn’t known she possessed. Her head spun. Her heart beat out the desperate pounding rhythm of the hard line in a rock song, the frantic beat rising to a crescendo and then skipping, leaving her breathless. He surged against her again, a dark sound of desire rumbling in his chest. And then she felt him, thick and hard, pressing urgently against the thin scrap of her panties. She would have cried out again if she could have found the breath to do so. He felt so good it hurt. Covering her hand with his, he dragged her fingers down over his belt before forcing the buckle down to reveal the head of his cock. It looked sleek, powerful and mouthwatering. It jerked against her palm as she thumbed the velvet flesh. He pulled back, his hot gaze locking with hers. “Hell, woman, this doesn’t feel like fear.” He shifted beneath her. “I want to be inside of you right now.”

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Then he nuzzled her breast and her thoughts tumbled away. His mouth latched onto her nipple over its silk and lace covering. His teeth played over the hypersensitive bud, lightly biting through the material. The rough silk and the warm, wet texture of his mouth combined sent shards of sensation through her breast directly to the core of her desire. God the things he could do with his mouth, with his hands. Between her legs, he hooked a finger around the thin veil of lace and tugged downward before, palm flat, he slid his hand over her mons. She gasped into his mouth, parting her thighs, rolling her hips, inviting him deeper. The long length of his finger slid along her labia. A second finger joined it, slipping easily through her cream, along her slick folds. His rough thumb circled her clit in a tight figure eight. The sensitive nub swelled, flowering beneath his touch. She arched her back, tilting her hips forward. More. She needed to feel his mouth on her. She clawed her hands into the folds of cloth at her shoulder, peeling the wet material down and revealing her entire breast to him. Her nipples tingled, tightening even more. He made an appreciative sound in the back of his throat. His eyes burned into hers for an endless moment before he dropped his gaze to her exposed nipple, lowering his head. His grip fisted painfully in her hair, jerking her head back. She resisted. She couldn’t see. She wanted to see. And then his mouth was on her, licking her, nipping her, memorizing the shape of her. She could only stare at a rusty nail embedded in splintered wood as he mouthed the other breast. Her eyes closed. Oh yes. A shaky sigh of exquisite pleasure reverberated through her body and caught in her throat before finally escaping her open mouth. She felt the sensations gather, knotting around and within each other, coiling tighter and tighter until she felt her consciousness slip, her control slip. The other side of pleasure he was taking her to was deep and wide and she would surely lose herself in it, to it, more than she’d lost herself already. Wait. Heaven help her, she was going to have the most staggering orgasm in her life right here, on the rooftop, getting felt up by local law enforcement. She tried to yank his head back. Any gentleman would let go. He sucked harder. Oh please… And then, through her passion-soaked senses, she felt his mouth release her breast noisily. His hand pushed her weak ones aside, pulling the material up to cover her nudity. He forced his erection into his slacks before he tugged her to him, pressing their chests together as if he couldn’t get close enough, as if… He whispered urgently into her ear.

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“Wait,” she panted, too overwhelmed to hear clearly over the rush of blood, trying to pull back from the precipice of her orgasm. She closed her eyes, digging her nails into his wet T-shirt, wanting to rip the stubborn material up and off, aching to roll herself shamelessly against his fingers. His voice rose. “Company. Doc, we’ve got company.” The deafening sound of a hovering helicopter grew louder, breaking through her haze of sensation. Her body still pulsed as he slipped his fingers free. Eden blinked against the harsh light. She squinted and shielded her eyes before finally making out the unmistakable logo of “KTTB News” emblazoned on the side. A blur of blonde hair waved in the jump seat. A gruff whisper below her broke through the noise. “Does your theory apply to kissing as well as killing?” “Excuse me?” she whispered through swollen lips as she desperately tried to pull the shredded remnants of her skirt together. Loud banging on the stairway door came from behind her. Firemen yelled her name and his before crashing through the thick wood. A large dark coat was draped over her shoulders. It smelled of smoke and the fireman who wore it. She wanted to throw it off. The owner wrapped sturdy hands around her shoulders, tugging her back. She jerked free, her eyes still trained on the hardened gaze of the stranger beneath her. The detective leaned forward, his voice tired. “You got your wish, Doc, ‘cause in this case I want to believe in your theory. Call it Temporary Insanity, Emotional Dissociative Sex, whatever. I damn sure want to forget this ever happened.” His gaze dropped to her breasts, still revealed through the opening of the fireman’s jacket. “But I don’t think I will.” Warmth rushed to her cheeks. “Was this some kind of sick demonstration?” The gruff fireman shot questions at her but the sound of helicopters drowned out any words but the detective’s. He looked at her, eyes unfathomable, face smeared with dirt. Her eyes stung from wanting to follow the line of his chest down to where his pants hung low across his hips. Her head burst with the need to slug him. “You bastard.” She couldn’t get away fast enough as she pushed back, but her legs still shook from her near orgasm. “This man needs help,” she directed to the bulky fireman at her elbow. After being deposited at the building’s entrance, Eden limped alone from the chaos. Smoke permeated the air, although the structure itself looked largely untouched. According to the fireman, the blaze had begun in records in the two lower basement floors. The smoke and heat had quickly filled the building through to the ventilation system.

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A number of reporters crowded the entrance to the courthouse, interviewing other victims as they were attended to by emergency crew personnel. A beacon of light momentarily blinded her. “Dr. Chapman! Were you injured?” “No,” Eden whispered, turning her face away from the camera, her voice breaking. “Not physically.”

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Chapter Three “This is the wrong decision, man.” Etienne Falcon sputtered, following Nick as he wove his way through the Detective Division of the Seventh District Police Station. Desks were scattered in disarray throughout the room, covered in mounds of blackinked forms. Nick flexed his hand. His palm still stung from when he’d slammed his badge on the commander’s desk. He was through as a detective. He’d been through as a man a long time ago. The old general had initially refused his resignation. He had gruffly indicated his respect for Nick as an officer. Perhaps at another time Nick would have felt satisfaction from his words. Nick respected the man, respected what he had done with the department over the past six years. But Nick couldn’t stay on the force. Not if he wanted to get Boudreaux. He wanted nothing to do with casting any additional aspersions on the New Orleans Police Department. Even he didn’t know what he was capable of anymore. Nick stopped in front of a chipped oak desk snuggled under a litany of wanted posters before glaring at his ex-partner. Although a seasoned detective, Etienne was still filled with bright-faced innocence. He believed in the triumph of good over evil, that the good guys always got the bad guys, and the girl. It wasn’t a bad dream, as dreams go. Nick’s own head had been filled with similar ideals once upon a time. But the job had taught him that innocents are killed and evil sometimes prevails. Experience as a cop had a way of peeling away that look of idealism to reveal something harder, deeper, angrier. “Stay out of it, T.” Nick scanned his desk, confirming that there was no paperwork left. The little frog knick-knacks that Marie had always decorated his desk with were long gone. Nick allowed himself a brief smile, remembering. There had been green ceramic frogs, black plastic frogs, purple porcelain frogs and yellow frogs made of some slippery material. She had been quite a collector. Nick recalled growling every time she had placed a new one on his desk. The day after her death he’d thrown them all away. It had been too painful to see them. Now he wished that he’d kept just one. His smile faded. “Hey, Ricco, what happened between you and that shrink on the Boudreaux case?” The chipper voice of Jazz “Deuce” Doucette, a junior detective from Robbery, swiveled Nick’s head around.

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Doucette stood with a goofy smile on his face, tapping a copy of the daily paper, The Times Picayune, against his chin. A grainy photograph of two individuals blurred as it swung back and forth. “Read the paper this morning, saw the picture. Maybe I need to get my head shrunk.” Doucette jiggled his eyebrows up and down. “She’s hotter than an August night on Bourbon Street, and just as sticky too. No?” Wanting to punch Doucette in the nose, Nick reached for the paper instead. There on the second page was a grainy black and white photograph of him and the damn sexy psychologist. “She’s also as poisonous as a cottonmouth, don’t even think about it,” Nick drawled, taking the picture in. Hell. “Besides, Deuce, I didn’t know you could read.” The photo was so blatantly sexual it should have had a brown paper cover. He and the Doc looked as if they had just fallen out of bed, which wasn’t too far from the truth. The photo captured them minutes after they’d been rescued. She was bent over, her face in shadows, her hair tangled. The fireman’s jacket draped over her shoulders was unable to hide her slim upper body or her perfect breasts above the smudged bra. The black greasy handprints along her back and waist weren’t evident in the frame. His own desire was. He looked at her like a man possessed. This was going to destroy her tenuous reputation. Hell. That was what he wanted, right? The entire City of New Orleans would assume that he had taken advantage of her. He ignored the twinge of conscience, slapping the paper against his thigh. If this would take Boudreaux down so be it. The Doc would recover soon enough. He wasn’t so sure about himself. It hadn’t been the firemen alone that had made him push her away. He had pushed her away because of the burning desire spreading outward from his gut as he’d foolishly kissed her like a drowning man going down for the third time. Desire was a feeling more dangerous to him than lust. Fucking was nothing. For a few precarious moments, he’d wanted more from her. He hadn’t ever felt such raw need for a woman. With her sweet breath on his lips, he hadn’t just wanted to sheathe himself in her. He’d wanted to run his hands over her, to feel her hands on him, to taste her lips and be warmed by her essence, to bury himself in the clean smell of her throat. He hadn’t kissed a woman since— Swallowing the urge to curse again, Nick turned the paper facedown. He’d been out of line, claiming to have kissed her to prove a point. He only wished that had been the case, a simple explanation for his behavior. He had no explanation for the urge to take her on the rooftop of a burning building. Nick ran a hand over his face. Maybe they both did go a little crazy up there. The young officer backed up, apparently clueing in on the ferocity beneath Nick’s stony expression. He might be a solid detective someday.

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“Hey, am I interrupting something here?” Deuce’s eyes bounced between Nick and T. “Yeah, man,” T growled, sparing a quick look at Deuce. Deuce backed up, raising his hands palms forward like he was under arrest, “Hey, no offense…” His voice trailed off, as neither man seemed to be paying any attention to him. “Catch ya later.” Nick watched Deuce walk away. His eyes swung back to his partner. Ex-partner. “We’re done here.” Striding through the detectives’ desks, Nick angled toward the locker room to gather the rest of his belongings. He stalked through the middle aisle of gunmetal gray lockers. Halting at locker one fifty-five, he jerked up the latch with his gloved hand and pulled out the gym bag. T’s presence loomed behind him. “Move,” Nick ground out. “And let you destroy yourself?” T slammed the door to the locker. Its harsh tin sound echoed his brittle tone. He continued to glare while Nick opened the locker again, grabbing his extra holster, his sweats and an errant blue tie. He shoved them into the bag. Pulling his personal Glock from the shelf above, he checked the back of the casing and released the cartridges. It joined the other items as he tried to ignore the man standing in disapproval. “Turning in your badge is the last way to get the man,” T insisted. “Marie…” “Leave her out of this.” “She is the motivation behind this crazy stunt! You can’t avenge her death this way. Boudreaux was cleared of any wrongdoing surrounding her death. But I need your help catching bad guys. I need you back.” Nick zipped up the bag, facing T directly, hoping T wouldn’t push his luck. He didn’t budge. “Marie was my sister. I grieve for her every day. But I have Melody and the two girls, I need to keep going, I need to trust in the justice system that I’m trying to uphold, that we’re trying to uphold.” “Speak for yourself.” “I’ve watched you wallow in grief too long. It’s time to let her go, Nick, let go of the rage.” T slapped his hand on Nick’s shoulder. Nick remained motionless. “Let go of the guilt.” Nick stared into T’s eyes. As Marie’s brother, he knew the pain that Nick had gone through immediately after her death. Yet as her friends and family began to heal, Nick felt mired in quicksand, unable to move on, unable to find closure in a death that was so senseless, a death that he felt responsible for. Guilt had a nasty way of prolonging grief.

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T continued, “You were coming around before the trial, man, you were starting to laugh again.” He paused, looking down at Nick’s jeans and T-shirt. “Marie wouldn’t like the man you’ve become.” “That’s the problem, T, I was starting to laugh again. I haven’t done justice by her, not yet.” Nick shrugged off T’s touch and moved around him, his bag clutched firmly in one fist. “Your anger has as much to do with yourself as it has to do with Boudreaux and you know it. Nick, you didn’t know she was going into the house alone! Don’t you think I was just as guilty? I was a uniform then. I should have followed her or responded more quickly. Revenge is not justice.” “It’s a hell of a lot better than the system.” “There’s nothing you can do now. Boudreaux might walk on the murder charge.” Nick exploded. He lunged at T, slamming him against the locker, a forearm beneath his throat. “He won’t walk,” Nick growled softly. “Even if I have to cripple him myself.” T slammed Nick against the opposite locker. “Can’t let you do that, bro.” A figure broke through the pack of uniformed policemen and detectives that had begun to gather at the end of the row. Grant Hogan, the oldest cop still on the beat, walked forward. “Hey, Nick,” Grant’s scratchy voice broke the silence. “Listen to the boy, eh? You didn’t set that fire that killed your girl and a fine police officer. We all lose loved ones throughout our lives. We have to move on, live on.” “And let a murderer walk the streets?” Nick dropped his forearm from under T’s neck. What the hell was he about to do, beat the kid to a pulp? In front of half the detectives and uniforms of the department? Jezzus, he was a loose cannon. He needed to be alone. It was best for everyone. Grant continued, “Criminals walk a thousand times a day. But I tell you what, nine times out of ten even the best ones make a mistake down the road, and that’s when we get ‘em. Patience, my boy, patience.” Grant punctuated each statement with a slap on Nick’s back. “You’re letting him take out two fine officers, one by his hand and you, from your own.” A part of Nick knew it was a reasonable rationalization, but his gut still churned. He said nothing to the senior policeman, stepped up to face T. Six years his junior, T was shorter than Nick but stockier. If there were a fight, it would be an even match. “I wont let you go down, Nick,” T snarled, puffing up his chest. Nick dropped the gym bag. So be it. Grant placed a beefy paw on T’s biceps. “Too late. Let him go. You can’t save him, he has to save himself.” “Listen to the old man.”

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T looked from the older officer back to Nick. Anger drained from his face, leaving a parched look of resignation. Drawing a hand through his thick black hair, hair the same color as his sister’s had been, he closed his eyes for a moment, then stepped aside. Nick took the opportunity and brushed by the young man. Halfway down the aisle, he noted that the crowd had quickly dissipated in the knowledge that there wasn’t going to be a show. A small hand stroked his right forearm. Startled, Nick looked down. Kate, his ex, stood before him, crisp and pure in her blue suit, her blonde hair knotted at the nape of her neck. “Nick, if you ever need to talk…” she said, eyes worried. “Thanks, Kate,” he mumbled in return, pulling away from her touch. This was the first time she’d spoken to him since their breakup four years ago. “But I’m on my own.” Her face fell. “Sure thing.” “Mark my words, Nick,” T called behind him. With one hand on the door, Nick turned. T looked every bit like a disappointed father with an out-of-control son. Nick twisted away and stalked out of the door. He was no teenager. “Mark mine,” he said, stepping into the foyer for the first time in ten years without a badge to back him up.

***** From the balcony of her hotel room in Le Petit House on Royal Street, Eden watched the last lingering fingers of sunlight peek through the storm clouds, caress the scarred red brick wall of the boarded-up building to her right and trail downward, finally dipping out of sight. Her fingers curled tightly into the thick iron railing. The day was warm, the night promised to be hot. Intimate laughter wafted up to her from the colorful revelers below. The street undulated with early partiers on their way to Bourbon Street, one block over. As the darkness gathered, shorts and T-shirts gave way to tight skirts and high heels. Men and women walked closer to each other, touching more often than earlier in the day, their glances and caresses public foreplay. The air crackled with anticipation and the promise of sin. The perfume of the Mississippi River was just noticeable beneath the bouquet of pungent spices emanating from the restaurants sprinkled up and down the congested avenue. The sharp, sweet aroma called to her. Lifting her nose, she breathed deeply of its heavenly scent. But she didn’t dare sample any of the rich food. She wasn’t sure if her stomach could take it. Still, she was tempted.

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A bead of sweat trailed down beneath her white cotton blouse and nestled between her breasts. She left it. The heavy, sticky atmosphere made her languid. She could very well understand why those native to the city were rumored to do everything slower than most people. It was the weather. A tall man with blond hair sauntered up the alley to the side of the hotel. Eden’s heart jumped. She looked closer. No, the color was all wrong. The detective’s hair was more wheat and his shoulders were slightly broader, although he wasn’t quite that tall and… She let go of the balcony, swallowing a scream of frustration. Why couldn’t she stop this automatic, visceral reaction to the man? He wasn’t even near and her body responded. She slammed her palms together to rid them of the tactile memory of the heat beneath the wet skin of his back, the warm velvet flesh of his erection. She bit her lip. She commended herself on keeping him out of her thoughts during the day. Working on other cases had been temporarily distracting, until restlessness drew her to the balcony, where she could no longer suppress the memories of yesterday’s events. Logically, she knew the reasons for her behavior. She reacted physically to his touch because her mind attributed her rapid pulse and breathlessness to him and not to her fear. Maybe she’d almost used him as much as he’d used her. At the time, she had been crushed at his rejection. Now she was thankful for it. He would never know how deeply those bittersweet moments in his arms had affected her, still affected her. Last night he’d invaded a dream she hadn’t had in ages. She had locked the memory away in a box of confused passion and humiliation years ago. Now, safe on the balcony, she allowed the memory to replay in her mind again, hoping this time to consciously control it. “Damn. Johnny, will you look at this? Good girls do.” Her boyfriend’s tone dripped derision. He lay heavily on top of her, his thick erection pulsating between her legs. Nineteen-year-old Eden jerked her wrists against the red furry handcuffs. She lay open and exposed on top of a large poker table in a dismal room in back of the fraternity house. It was at least three o’clock in the morning. Techno music still blared from the living room. Although many of the party-goers had left hours ago, Eden and her boyfriend remained. The handcuffs had been her request, but they were too tight and he wouldn’t loosen them. She was forced to arch her neck awkwardly as she struggled to see who Troy was talking to, fighting the sickening recognition of betrayal that curdled in her stomach. She knew who “Johnny” was. Jonathan King, captain of the men’s water polo team, gorgeous bad boy and her secret crush.

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She had been duped. She and her boyfriend had confided who their fantasy lovers were on a lark. She had never thought he would use her desire against her or that she would allow it. “Come and get it, Johnny, I think she likes you.” Troy kissed her neck, sweeping his hand down her body, ignoring her breast to squeeze her mound. Her legs were tied to either side of the table, preventing her from stopping him. He dipped his fingers into her. “Oh damn, she really likes you.” Eden bucked upward, trying to dislodge him. He made the decision for her, sliding off her to stand next to her splayed thighs. Immediately she wanted him to cover her again. Yet her nipples tightened and her stomach clenched when Jonathan, the object of her most illicit fantasies, advanced to the side of the table. She appealed one last time to Troy, and to herself. “Don’t do this. Please. This is not part of the game.” She had been flattered by the attention of a graduate student. It had never occurred to her that he had wanted her for other purposes. She had been young, naive and cocky. Yes. Cocky. To think that he would want her for her mind and not for sport. “It’s part of my game, sweetheart. You wanted it and Johnny is going to give it to you. I get to watch.” Slender and powerful as only a twenty-year-old collegiate athlete could be, Jonathan stepped between her spread legs and pulled his brown cotton shirt over his head. The action brought his chest inches from her nose. Chlorine and cheap aftershave emanated from his tanned skin. Her breath caught. Eden didn’t want to be aroused. Even through her alcohol-induced haze she wanted to cry out. She would have never let her guard down, never trusted Troy enough to drink too much, if she hadn’t thought that he loved her. She had been foolishly giddy with the joy when she’d allowed him to tie her up. Jonathan’s black hair was tousled when he raised his head. He looked in her eyes briefly before dropping his gaze to her body. “Relax, Eden, I know you want me. Troy told me all about it.” He dropped a thin, dry kiss to her forehead. “I always thought you were cute.” She was overwhelmed. Naked, spread-eagle on a poker table with Jonathan King kissing her, almost tenderly. Almost as if he’d always wanted her too. He crept a hand along her waist, sweeping his thumb in a small circle, caressing the soft skin there. He didn’t grab her breast or cup her sex as she expected. He kissed her again, leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. It worked. She relaxed in his arms, feeling her warm flesh against his cool, hard chest. He dragged his mouth down her neck, his hands squeezing between their bodies to knead

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her breasts. He leaned back and licked his lips. “Didn’t I tell you, Troy? If you kiss a woman like that’s all you want she’ll give you everything else.” He didn’t give her time to process his words before unceremoniously shoving two fingers inside her. She didn’t want to be turned on, didn’t want to like what his touch did to her but she was. The idea of Jonathan King touching her was just as seductive as his hands. Her legs felt rubbery, her sex hot as she melted around him. “Troy—?” “Just enjoy, baby.” He smoothed a hand down her hair, brushing it over her shoulder to bare the back of her neck. He bit her and she snapped her head back, arching her body into his. And it began. Jonathan’s square fingers pressed into her skin as he palmed her breast as if he needed to make a physical imprint, his tan skin dark against the pale flesh. He reached down and slapped her legs even further apart. The texture of springy hair on his wrist and the scratchy silver watch brushed against her open thighs as he handled her. Troy’s hands were calloused but his touch was gentler, featherlight as it grazed down her back. He took turns touching her with his palm and with the back of his hand, gliding his knuckles up and down her spine. When Jonathan dropped to his knees, his crooked nose nuzzling her entrance, Troy lifted her butt off the table to tilt her pelvis forward, allowing Jonathan better access. The sight of Jonathan’s face between her legs was so shocking she was overcome. She tried focusing on Troy’s hand squeezing her breast gently, but she couldn’t shut off the wet sucking sound of Jonathan lapping at her clit or the murmur of pleasure vibrating within his chest. With one last torturous nip, he staggered to a standing position, leaning over her and thrusting his tongue at her as he fumbled with his jeans, cursing when he couldn’t get them open. She jerked away from his kiss, embarrassed by the taste of herself on his lips. He grunted, his breath heavy against her cheek, as he shoved his long penis into her. She had no time to adjust to his size before he reared back to thrust again, pumping into her, quickening his pace, oblivious to her lack of enjoyment. Troy stood behind her, looking over her shoulder, squeezing her breasts tightly until Jonathan’s chest heaved against them, scraping the class ring Troy wore against her nipple. Jonathan gripped her chin as he knifed into her, bruising her lips with his thumb before penetrating her mouth with the thick appendage. After he’d spilled his last drop of semen, Jonathan jerked out of her body, not bothering to look at her while he buttoned his fly. Patting her thigh absently, he turned to slap Troy on the shoulder with his free hand. The two exchanged a look while Eden lay sticky and spent, still tied to the felt-topped table. An errant poker chip bit into her backside. Her head lolled forward until she heard the door snap shut. “Untie me please.” Troy circled her, running a hand down her hair, dropping light kisses on her lips. “You were great, babe.” 41

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She cried into his mouth, “Why? Why me?” “Oh baby,” he purred. He produced the key, released her wrists and loosened her bindings. He placed her limp arms around his shoulders. “You were the perfect choice this semester. Hold on.” He lifted her and carried her to the ratty brown-yellow couch, falling heavily on top of her as he inserted his own hardness between her legs. This semester? He couldn’t mean that he’d done this before? Of course not. Maybe he just needed her to prove herself. Surely now he would know how much she loved him. She had allowed a complete stranger access to her body because she loved Troy. Maybe, her nineteen-year-old mind rationalized, this is what it took to be a real woman. “Because,” he said, driving into her again. “I love—” Oh, Troy. Oh, yes. Her back bowed as she accepted his thrusts, even though they hurt her used body. Her orgasm sparkled just out of reach. She embraced it and the wonder of giving herself to another human with trust and abandon. He smoothed the damp hair off her forehead. Tilting her chin up with his knuckle, he coaxed her to look at him. His gaze drank in her face, her lips, her eyes. “I love to see the death of innocence in a woman’s eyes.” Her head jerked sideways as if he’d slapped her, and she was unable to stop her gasp of pleasure as her orgasm overtook her. Her vaginal muscles spasmed around his thick, stocky member as it thrust into her again, bitterness invading her heart as surely as he invaded her body. A tear crept down her face. “Yeah, sweetheart, just like that,” Troy murmured. He closed his eyes, his features chiseled perfection as he grunted his own release. “No.” Eden shut down the memory. If only that had been the end of it. Days later Troy and Jonathan had forced her into his green luxury car under the guise of some fraternity prank. Oddly, the amused faces of two students as they witnessed the scene were still frozen in her memory. They thought it had been a joke. Their bemused smiles were the last details she could recall with certainty, but the ride had been far from funny. Eden shuddered at the remaining distorted snippets of recollection, her frantic demands to be let go, Troy’s bruising grip as his dirty fingernails sank into her bare arm, Jonathan’s deep laughter as he sped around a sharp curve. And then the screams. And the blood. Her nose crinkled as she recalled waking up to the sharp clean-sour smell of her pillow at the psychiatric hospital. Bleach couldn’t mask that much sickness and despair. If jail was even remotely like the hospital… Eden buried her face in her hands. 42

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The image switched. And she was in the rooftop shed with the detective, held by the detective. Her fingers wove through a mop of wheat-blond hair, a crooked half-smile and sharp green eyes filled her vision. “Come here,” he whispered, his voice edgy, husky, against her temple. “I’ve got you.” Eden gasped so hard she choked and coughed, her body jerking. The horizon was entirely dark now. Her hand slid down her throat, wiping the beads of perspiration from just above her breasts. Her nipples pebbled against her wrist. She drew her hand away, quickly securing her hair in a scrunchy, trying to tie up the errant threads of her thoughts just as decisively. As devastating as that college experience had been, the experience with the detective had been even more so. With the frat boys, yes, she’d been a willing participant. Yet she’d held a part of herself remote, safely guarded from total surrender. In the fantasy with Ricco, she held him as tightly as he held her. Just like she had on the rooftop. Yesterday her legs had spread because of her own need not just because of his command. She hadn’t just accepted his passion, she had supplied her own, had touched him, kissed him with blatant lust, been addicted to his taste from the moment his lips touched hers. Even now her breath caught with the memory of it. Her whimpers and pleas in the rain had bared her desires as they’d never been bared before. And yet his parting words still lanced through her. At the time he’d seemed as caught up in the moment as she. Had he really planned the seduction or were they both the victims of raging emotion? Thank God she would never know. A soft rapping sounded from inside her room. Eden turned toward the welcome noise, thankful room service had arrived. She didn’t mind the humidity as much as she had expected, and she was looking forward to an evening of people-watching from her balcony. She had a plan. She would get some work done, call her sister in Denver and get a good night’s sleep. Smiling, she took ten steps to door, navigating a wide path around the freshly made bed. Three more knocks sounded. More insistent this time. “Coming!” she laughed, nearly tripping over the copper trash can and upsetting the shredded remains of the day’s paper. Grabbing her wallet from the large mahogany desk, she opened the heavy door, looked up and froze. Six feet three inches of murder suspect filled her doorway, a crocodile grin slashing across his sharp features. Courtland waited a moment, seemingly amused at her shock, and then eased a step forward as he spoke. 43

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“Dr. Chapman, I will disturb you but a moment.” His gaze swept the room as his body invaded her personal space just close enough to make her aware of him but not quite close enough to make her feel threatened. She could close the door in his face or try to finesse her way out of an awkward situation. She stepped back. “I would like to personally thank you for remaining in New Orleans a few extra days in order to testify on my behalf.” Eden cringed, in awe of his audacity. “Mr. Boudreaux. I’m afraid I cannot speak to you outside of a professional forum.” “Come now, Dr. Chapman, Eden, if I may? I’ve just read about you,” he paused, lip curling, “speaking to Detective Ricco at the courthouse. I was concerned that he may have influenced you against me.” “Mr. Boudreaux, you well know I am obligated to testify to the facts based on my assessment of the circumstances surrounding your wife’s death.” She turned, shutting the door, mostly to reassure him. It was a simple gesture of reciprocity. I trust you. You can trust me. She spun back to face him, still keeping one hand behind her. She wasn’t an idiot. “Nothing could sway me from my testimony, Mr. Boudreaux.” Her tight smile fell a mile short of being sincere. “I trust the accuracy of the tests. You have nothing to worry about where I’m concerned.” There, at least that was sincere. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” Two strides of his long legs, encased in black slacks, moved him deeper into the room. His short-sleeved ecru shirt molded perfectly to his slim frame. How could he look so fresh in such heat? There wasn’t a drop of perspiration on him. His gaze momentarily lit on the bed. “I’m not letting the court down. If you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal of work to do.” Ignoring her words, he swiveled away toward the balcony and gazed at the street below. “Eden, I know you are foreign to our fair city and I was wondering if—perhaps after the trial—I might tempt you into sampling a true taste of my New Orleans?” Eden’s lips thinned at his arrogance. His behavior fit perfectly within her diagnosis of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. He had a huge ego. She just didn’t want to meet it in a locked room. The best course of action was firm rejection. “No. Thank you.” Her lips twisted in self-disgust. She would probably tell a mugger please and thank you. “I don’t believe I’ll be returning to your fair city. If you’ll excuse me? And it’s Dr. Chapman.” She pulled the door open. Boudreaux sighed loudly, prowling toward her and the door. He paused as he passed her and his long hand reached out and stopped just short of touching her shoulder.

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He pushed the door closed, an eagle-like glint in his eyes. “Chere, I feel as if we have a connection, you and I.” “You’re mistaken,” she countered, “you simply see me as a way to save you from prison.” She was amazed at how level her voice was, with the taste of fear in her mouth. “What we have is so much more than that, I can feel it. I have been…how can I say it? Unlucky in love. Perhaps I have wanted a woman too much my opposite, too fiery.” He edged closer. “Ah, but with you, I feel that we are the same.” His hands lowered, hovering over hers. “Almost destined.” Every bit of her went on high alert. The last thing that she’d expected was a declaration of lust and destiny in the same breath. He must hate with the same level of unjustified intensity. “You are so passionless,” he continued. “It makes a man want to awaken the woman beneath the façade.” His nostrils flared and he breathed deeply, as if trying to catch her scent. “Ah, don’t be offended, chere.” His hand snaked into hers, twining their fingers together. His skin was paper dry, lifeless. He kissed the back of her hand, dropping it down so that the back of her hand grazed his upper thigh. Eden struggled to maintain her composure. “There is no façade, Mr. Boudreaux. I am here to present my opinion of your state of mind at the time of the crime, not to dance at Mardi Gras.” “You would be surprised at what people will do under the guise of Carnival. We all have our secret natures, our true selves that we long to share with another person.” He smiled. “Or persons.” “Do you want to tell me your secret nature, Mr. Boudreaux?” She bit her lip. She was never this rash or provoking in her interviews. He continued for her, “You want me to say cold-blooded murderer?” His hissing chuckle sent goose bumps down her spine. “Now that would not be so secret, eh? Ah, but you sound as if you have turned against me already. Perhaps Detective Ricco was able to,” he paused and blatantly looked at her mouth, her breasts and lower, “convince you to side with him.” “Please stop the suggestive statements, Mr. Boudreaux.” “Do not trust him, chere. Detective Ricco and I have a history that prevents him from being completely objective to my plight.” His eyes narrowed. “After the trial then, yes?” No. “Perhaps then you will let me show you around. I too have stood alone watching people pass by, waiting, wanting. Perhaps I waited for you.” The cloying scent of his expensive cologne filled her nostrils. Individual bits of brown and green dappled in his eyes, like rotten leaves on the swamp’s surface. “If you don’t leave, I’m afraid I’ll have to call the police.”

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“I am not afraid of the police, perhaps you should be.” He eased closer, his breathing deepened. “I have something for you.” Boudreaux reached into his breast pocket, revealing a crisp manila envelope. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? The triangular edge of a grainy black and white photograph peeked out. He slapped the package on the bed. She paused. To look at the photos would be to give in to his power. No matter. What could he possibly show her new in his defense? She should acknowledge it for what it was—an attempt to sway her back to his side. He didn’t need to concern himself. The last thing she recalled from her encounter with Detective Ricco was their discussion of the case. “Is this something new?” She reached to retrieve the envelope. Facing the bed, she slipped the photos out and stopped breathing. “Something old,” Boudreaux crooned into her ear, his heavy breath fanning her neck. The photo showed a car mangled in a tragic accident. The original green paint was barely recognizable in the wreckage. She was surprised anyone survived. She could still taste the gas, still choked on the fumes of the crash. “The police still want to talk to the only survivor. A woman who disappeared soon after the accident.” Eden grew still. He had her. “I too would like to talk with her, among other things.” A hand beneath her chin yanked her head around. His mouth swooped down on hers, taking advantage of her shock. A strangled scream bubbled up from her throat as she curled her hand around his wrist. He grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her fully to him, thrusting his tongue down her throat and deepening the kiss. His hand moved to the front of her throat and Eden’s heart stopped. He squeezed gently once, and again. “Forgive the actions of a desperate man,” he whispered against her lips. “But I need to know I can trust you. That you will do as I say. Anything I say. It is only fair that I control you as you control my future, correct?” He loosened his hold slightly. Sweet air filled her lungs. Say something, anything! “I didn’t think the esteemed Courtland Boudreaux would resort to rape.” Surely, he wouldn’t. This was pure intimidation. To exhibit his power over her. For his type, intimidation was much more satisfying than physically overpowering her. As long as it worked. “Beauty, rape, murder—all are in the eye of the beholder, chere.” “Are you admitting—?” “Ah, you won’t testify for me if I do admit such a thing. Suffice it to say that I can and will ruin your life. So will you run to the police with your knowledge or save yourself just as you have in the past? And testify for me.” 46

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He shoved her to the floor and unzipped his pants. “Pacts are all meant to be sealed. Consider this another way of signing on the dotted line.” Eden shuddered, wrestling with the instinct to scream. His fingers trailed an icy path along her jawline. His caress continued to his own erection, tracing the line of his sex. “But, of course, it is too early. Anticipation is as potent as bourbon when whetting one’s appetite.” He pulled up his zipper and petted her head. “Then, ma petite, we will finish what we have begun.” Boudreaux paused, looking sideways, a smile teasing his thin lips. Eden followed his line of vision. A busboy in a scarlet jacket stood with his mouth gaping open. Her chicken salad and glass of iced tea had splattered to the floor, the remains soaking into the crimson carpet. She didn’t raise her eyes from the floor as Boudreaux’s shiny brown loafers stepped over the mess and meandered down the hallway, followed closely by the hesitant step of the busboy’s worn black service shoes. She was crawling toward the door when a small object caught her eye. Surrounded by the fallen ice, an amethyst bag no more than two by three inches in size rested in the middle of her doorway. Eden reached out to the lumpy sachet. A few feathers and—small bones?—were trapped in string around the closure. For you, announced the white tag. It looked like a voodoo charm. Boudreaux? She pulled her hand back before reaching out again, mysteriously compelled to pick the object up. A small tremor tripped down her spine. She shook it off. Cradling the velvet bag in her hand, she backed into the room still on her knees. She took no comfort in the final click of the door latch. Boudreaux wouldn’t let a locked vault deter him if he wanted to get to her again. And he would. She knelt on the floor, momentarily too weak to toss the bag in the trash as she’d intended. Her tears stung as they fell from her eyes to darken the red carpet and wet the tiny bag. How could she do it? How could she testify for a man who had come close to admitting that he murdered his wife? For a man blackmailing her for her testimony? The accident had occurred three days after she’d allowed the men to use her desires against her. Both had been killed. Boudreaux thought she had no morals, that she would save herself. He was wrong. Her professional shell hid a turbulent heart full of grief and fear. Regardless of how ethically she lived her life, the accident and her flight afterwards haunted her, a bloodstain on a white surface. The lonely sound of the air conditioner turning on filled her ears. She shivered at the blast of cold air.

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She was tired of running, tired of the constant fear of exposure. It ended now. She would turn herself in. Today. After her brush with death, she finally had the courage to take matters into her own hands. To hell with Boudreaux and with the trial. No. Not yet. She had a debt to pay to his wife. Her testimony had contributed to his release after the first trial. She needed to right that wrong. Before she could take care of her own demons she had to take care of a snake. Eden stood up. She hoped Boudreaux was enjoying his victory. It would be shortlived. She needed to find out if he murdered his wife and to testify to that in court. But she also required help. Someone with no moral conscience. Someone who could and would nail Boudreaux to the wall. Ricco. She lifted her chin. Yes. She needed to find him. But first, she wanted some answers. Eden reached for her handbag when there was a hesitant knock at the door.

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Chapter Four “You missing her?” The burly bartender of the Café du Fifolet leaned over the dark, spotted bar, endlessly circling the wet surface with a damp rag. “Yeah.” Nick slumped in his seat, staring at the black and red bug crawling up the dull steel leg of his table. The Fifolet was a stone’s throw away from the more popular Café du Monde and much less lively than the more touristy spot. The Fifolet was for the locals to come and to disappear. Its claret interior, complete with hooded drapes and steel tables, bestowed a more shadowy atmosphere than the verdant green and white of the du Monde. Nick felt at home. The unsuspecting insect ambled across the table toward Nick’s scarred fist. Here the local patrons accepted his marked skin as a matter of course. He knew they all thought of him as a broken man. Maybe he was. But they accepted him for what he was. Nick unfurled his fingers, luring the bug in, before fisting them again, intending to crush the insect, just as he intended to crush Boudreaux. He had no barriers now. There was no one to stop him from taking his own course of justice to the man who was responsible for the death of his own wife and of Marie. Nick and Marie had been partners and lovers for ten months before he popped the question. Glorious months of chasing bad guys and making love, until the night of October 21st. The night his world fell apart. Sent to investigate a string of antique coin robberies at the Boudreaux mansion in the Garden District, both he and Marie had taken the initial report. Marie knew coins—her father owned a small coin shop along the Riverwalk. She had grown up in the store, playing pirates with the sparkling treasures. Because of her background, the commander had assigned her as the lead detective on the case. Mrs. Boudreaux had reported two rare coins stolen from the safe on a Thursday and one gold piece sometime Friday. The third, final call came on Monday evening. Nick had assumed it was to report another coin missing. Knowing Nick did not want to endure another bout of crying and accusations of shoddy detective work, Marie had insisted on going to the Boudreaux home alone. He had just been leaving a tawdry pawn shop when he heard the call of a possible robbery in progress. Marie’s voice. She had seen a suspicious light in the otherwise darkened house and had decided to enter. Nick had driven his standard-issue car to the scene like a madman, a litany of curses tapering off to determined silence as he drove,

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siren screaming, through the serene streets. She was a good detective, he’d told himself. She would make it. She didn’t. The tickle of the bug’s movements trailed inside his palm. Nick squeezed the bug until it began to bounce around, finally realizing it was trapped. He squeezed his eyes shut as the memory slammed into him. Flames had jumped out of the back of the house. Nick had leapt from the car at full speed, vaguely hearing the sirens in the background over the crackle of burning wood. He’d yelled to Marie, his voice ringing through the night, but there had been no answer. A sudden, certain knowledge that she was gone had lanced through him, causing him to stumble on the beautifully manicured lawn of the one-hundred-and-eighteenyear-old mansion. A wall of fire had come from inside, the red and yellow flames ravaging the meticulous white wood. Below the window, blue and pink hydrangea flowers, big balls of delicate beauty, had wilted and singed from the intensity of the heat. After that, nothing. Nick’s mind hit a wall every time he tried to force it to recall what he saw and did after turning the corner. “‘Nother round?” Nick nodded, watching the amber liquid splash against the edge of the glass. The little bug was frantic now, bumping up against his hand with increasing speed. Nick unlocked his fist. The bug stood a moment, transfixed, perhaps surprised at its sudden freedom, before taking flight. Transferred to Homicide upon his return to work, Nick kept in touch with Robbery about the Boudreaux case. Boudreaux’s excuse was flimsy. He and his wife explained that when Marie did not arrive at the appointed hour they had left to attend a local charity auction. Their alibi had checked out. Forty people testified to seeing both Boudreauxs at the auction. Nick could still smell the stench from their alibi across the Mississippi. He didn’t believe in coincidence, not when it came to mysterious deaths. No, there was not enough dumb luck in the world to place Marie in the kitchen of a home when it exploded by accident. Investigations into Boudreaux’s finances and possible insurance fraud had again turned up nothing. He was clean. Nick had wanted to quit right then to pursue Boudreaux on his own. T had convinced him to stay, insisting that Boudreaux would be caught one way or another within the boundaries of the law. At the time, the law was all Nick had had to sustain his faith in the world. The stolen coins had been recovered four months later. Case closed. Nick had tried to heal his heart in his own time, had even been coming to terms with his anger, until he had seen a perfectly coiffed Mrs. Boudreaux at the station five

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days before her murder. She had approached him nervously, asking in a papery voice if he was still in Robbery. At the time Nick had wanted nothing to do with the woman, had directed her to the detective in charge. He still remembered her eyes, brown pools of desperation. In real time, Nick shook his head as he fished in his pocket for a few bucks to pay for the drink. He heard a feminine laugh as three female tourists passed by the glass window. The bartender noted the direction of Nick’s attention. “Someone’s gonna have a good time tonight.” “Someone has a good time every night in the Quarter, Charles,” Nick said, scanning the women through half-hooded eyes. Three beautiful tourists on their way to Bourbon Street and some serious debauchery. And still he felt nothing. Damn, he really needed to get laid. “Hell.” Nick slammed his fist and the money against the dull table. He didn’t need comforting and he sure didn’t need it from the head shrink. Crying in his drink was not bringing him any closer to Boudreaux. Although as self-destructive behaviors went, he couldn’t think of a better way to drown. He couldn’t get to him tonight. He’d already driven by the rebuilt mansion and found it brightly lit, the strains of Bach drifting on the perfumed air and the shadows of several bodyguards reflected in the windows. Turning toward the door, his attention was caught by a midnight blue dress draped over luscious curves sauntering by the open café window. Now she looked promising. “Don’t you worry, Nick, that Boudreaux? He gonna get his.” Charles shouted above the din, wrestling through the side opening of the bar. Frowning, Nick reluctantly glanced back to the stout man with the grizzled beard. “We’ll see.” Charles leaned toward Nick, picking up the ten and slapping a paw on Nick’s shoulder. “Maybe you’re not the one to give it to him though, huh? Maybe someone else is meant to bring him to task?” Nicks gaze drifted back to the street and the woman. “Too late. I’ve already appointed myself to the job.” Nick prowled toward the door of the café. He paused, enjoying the view. Nick appreciated a woman’s physique from head to toe. He loved the soft joint where a woman’s legs and hips met, loved a violin-shaped back, especially loved the curve just before the swell of buttocks and the soft spot behind her knees. The door to the café jingled slightly as he pushed it with his shoulder, throwing a quick hand to the proprietor. “Ain’t you got no umbrella? Gonna storm again.”

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“I can handle a little rain.” Nick stepped onto the paved sidewalk. The garish atmosphere of Jackson Square washed over him in a rush of music and color. The flash storm had left the streets wet. People were once again hurrying about, enjoying the short reprieve. Artists set up their wares in front of the cathedral. Fortunetellers spun tales to enraptured tourists. Faces painted, a father and his two sons were setting up a mannequin display, dressed in black and white silk costumes, ruffled at the neck. The father positioned the two boys on a gray plastic milk carton, and then froze himself. They would stay that way for some time. Nick took his last twenty and stuffed it in the coffee can. It took a great deal of strength to remain motionless when the world erupted around you. Focused on the indigo dress amid other, more open displays of skin, he allowed himself the anticipation of a little evening’s distraction. Blue seemed to be looking for something. Had to be a tourist. Although that walk seemed oddly familiar. She took a left on Chartres, trying to sneak a peek at a scrap of paper she held in her hand. An address? Was she lost? Looking for her husband, boyfriend, hotel room? He followed her as she glided beneath the imposing façade of the St. Louis Cathedral, the dark dress a striking contrast to the whitewashed building. Continuing past the Arsenal, she turned right again down a darkened Toulouse Street. Where was she going? He fell back a step, surprised at how naïve she was not to notice him following her so openly. After a moment he found himself following her for completely different reasons. Whoever she was, she needed someone to watch over her. This was the French Quarter, a place that reveled in its uncivilized nature. Her movement molded the smooth material of her dress to her. Disbelief surged through his body. It couldn’t be. She halted at an address, turning toward the brick building. The soft light shining from inside the shop caressed her profile, and Nick got his first glimpse of her face. Damn. It was. The Doc. As a blonde. What the hell was she up to? She should be in her hotel room preparing to set a guilty man free instead of masquerading in the Quarter. She stood looking up at the shop’s window. Nick followed her gaze. The storefront featured a black and white sign proclaiming “Voudoun”. A tall figure stole out of the dark alley to her right. She uttered an exclamation before the assailant grabbed her arm. “Hey,” Nick shouted, taking five long strides to reach the couple. The masked figure looked up, startled. The Doc delivered blows to his solar plexus and groin that would stop a Mack Truck. The assailant turned victim doubled over in pain. What the hell? A psychologist with a black belt?

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Nick grabbed the attacker by his blue T-shirt as he crumpled at the knees, redirecting his forward motion to introduce him to a particularly jagged brick wall. His clean-shaven chin pressed against the stone. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Brown eyes glazed with pain and liquor stared back at him. He was just a kid. His body flopped against the wall, offering no resistance. “Thought the lady wanted some company.” Nick wasn’t sure if the kid’s voice was slurred from the rum on his fetid breath or because his face was distorted around the brown brick. “You picked the wrong woman. If I wasn’t a cop I’d filet you right here in the gutter.” “Naw, dude…just being friendly.” “A real man doesn’t force himself on a lady, dude. Name?” “Tom…Thomas.” “ID, Thomas, and it better not be fake.” Nick backed up an inch to give the kid a chance to retrieve his wallet. Nick looked at the North Carolina license, committing it to memory. “Where are your friends?” These kids always traveled in groups. “Bourbon Street.” “Hotel?” Thomas gave Nick the information. “Prove it.” The kid pulled out a key card. Nick folded up the wallet and handed it back to him, leveling a serious look. “All right, Tom Thomas Reed. If I hear of any woman being hurt tonight I’m coming after you first, got that? Get lost and learn some manners before I decide to become Emily Post.” The boy put his hands up. “No problem, sir.” Nick watched the boy scamper down the street. He turned back toward the Doc. She gazed up at him, eyes sparking blue flames of anger and fear. He wanted to hold her and yell at her at the same time. As soon as he realized his body’s intentions he barked, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Damn, he sounded like a broken record. She was lighter fluid. He blew out of control any time she was close. “Detective Ricco.” Her voice was deceptively calm, but her shuddery breath betrayed her true feelings. “Just the man I was looking for,” she paused. Then, “Are you stalking me?”

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That did it. He gave into his baser instincts and grabbed her elbow. “Maybe. But walking around Bourbon Street alone is an invitation to a party you don’t want to attend.” Her muscles flexed and relaxed under his hand. And damn if he didn’t feel that same energy that he had in the elevator. If he treated all near-assaults this way the women in the department would have stoned him long ago. He eased his hand to her shoulder. “Are you all right?” His thumb grazed the soft skin stretched over her collarbone. It was as pale gold as the skin of her upper thigh. His cock stirred, remembering all too well the slippery length of leg along his thigh, the welcome weight of her pressing against him. His mouth watered, remembering the taste and shape of her nipples rolling along his tongue and teeth. Deuce was right. She was damn hot. She took a step away from him, her posture broadcasting every intention of entering the voodoo shop. “What are you playing at?” he said, looking back inside the shop. He didn’t see anyone. Hopefully no one had seen them. “Voodoo is not some quick tourist thrill. It is a serious religion with consequences not to be taken lightly.” She looked at him squarely. “Since you seem to be an expert on the subject,” she said, reaching into her tiny, brightly colored purse and pulling out a small purple bag decorated with string and bone, “maybe you could help me with this.” His heart stopped. Gris-gris. The hell with taking his own advice. “In here.” He gripped her arm and pulled her three feet down the street, ducking into a small, gated enclave. The branches of a fragrant crepe myrtle tree scratched his forearms as he hustled her deeper, reaching the sheltering branches of an ancient oak. The iron gate clanged shut behind them. The leaves of the oak, draped low on two sides, secluded them, providing protection from prying eyes. He maneuvered her backwards until they stood within a small circle of light that dappled through the branches from an upstairs balcony. The light bounced off her honey-colored wig, sending shards of gold into the surrounding darkness. She looked goddamn angelic. He crowded her against the white brick wall. A jagged fissure ran upwards along the bricks inches from her ear. He splayed a gloved hand over the crack, using his other hand to snag the wig from her hair and drop it to the ground. “What the hell are you doing?” She parroted him from earlier. Reminding myself who you are. “You look ridiculous.” Nick looked back toward the street. He knew this alley was fairly private, but he still didn’t want anyone who glanced between the two buildings to see what she was holding.

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“The alleyway is private, we can talk here.” Her body arched off the wall. “That ruse went out with the stone ages.” “Doc, you are far from a cheap back alley thrill.” Her feathers were still ruffled from his reckless insinuation yesterday. Can’t blame her. Time to face facts. “You assumed that was a planned demonstration. I never used those words. I regret my actions at the top of the courthouse as much as you do, with no excuses. I don’t know who touched who first, but we kissed. No stars aligned to make it happen, no misattribution of arousal.” He nodded at her surprised look. “Yeah. I looked it up. But that wasn’t it.” He allowed his gaze to skim her body. “Hell, woman, you turned me on.” It took all he had not to latch his mouth onto her bottom lip. He bet he could get her just as slick as she had been yesterday. It would take no time to pull up her skirt and nudge her legs apart. And then, because he couldn’t resist, “Damned if I know why.” Antipathy returned to her eyes. And if I had had my way I would have fucked you at least six different ways until I’d had my fill and then I would have started all over again. You wouldn’t have known that building was burning until you felt the flames lick your sweet, sweet ass. “I won’t lie. I detest you but my dick doesn’t.” “Are you always this charming?” “I’m man enough to admit my baser urges and man enough to overcome them. I won’t take advantage of you.” That was a tough statement to make with a raging hardon inches from the soft indention of her belly. He only hoped she didn’t look down. She’d see what a liar he really was. His whole body would take great pleasure in taking advantage of her. More than once. He closed his eyes. Damn, this woman was in trouble and all he could think of was pinning her against the building. He was a bottom feeder. Then again, he shouldn’t give a damn if she was in trouble. A sharp laugh shot his attention to the front of the alley. Two kids entangled in each other fell against the trunk of the crepe myrtle. The young man’s hand was already up the girl’s short skirt. Apparently Nick wasn’t the only one who knew the secluded alley was custom-made for midnight assignations. The woman’s white lace panties dropped around her ankles. Her legs splayed open. The man ripped at his fly, grunting. By the looks of things they should be done quickly. Nick turned his back. The Doc stiffened. “Aren’t you going to say something?” she whispered. “I don’t think they care we’re here.” “I care.” She peeked around his shoulder, a rosy flush branding her skin just above the neckline. “Afraid of a little sexuality? I thought you were an expert on deviant sexual practices. This is New Orleans. Sex happens.”

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Her narrowed eyes skittered back to his as she puffed herself up for a retort. He didn’t give her the chance. “Don’t look.” “Fine.” The heated demands of the lovers echoed off the narrow walls. “I want you now.” A command, “Harder.” Then an agonized groan of pure pleasure. “Oh, yeah. You like that, sweet thing.” It was getting difficult for Nick not to look. “Where did you get this?” He drew his hand beneath hers, applying pressure on her fingers with his gloved hand. Speaking in a modulated voice he usually only used with the timid cats that liked to come to his back door for a bite to eat, he said, “Open up, angel, let me see.” Unfolding her hand, she revealed the gris-gris. He didn’t know how much he wanted her trust until he let out a breath. Her eyes rose to his, inches away. Gone was the bravado she’d shown in front of the shop. Here, in the shadows beneath the trees, her almond-shaped eyes were naked and vulnerable. “I found it at my door.” A cold knot of dread formed in his gut. She continued, “The hotel manager confirmed it was voodoo right before he kicked me out.” “This is why he kicked you out?” “Umm.” She bit her lower lip so hard he could see the mark once she released it. He fought the desire to run his tongue over the wound to soothe it right before he bit it himself. The conversation of the two lovers was now reduced to interspersed moans. Doc’s eyes shuttered closed. When she looked at him again they were guarded once more. The man climaxed behind Nick in a series of short, forceful grunts. The woman’s whimpers increased their breathless tempo. Doc’s eyes drifted behind him before careening back. Her pulse tripped in her throat. “Courtland Boudreaux visited me tonight.” Rage washed through Nick’s body, his hand tightened on hers. “Don’t let that monster come near you.” She shook off his grip. “What is it with the caveman tactics down here?” “He touched you?” “No,” she paused, “yes, but he let go.” “Listen here and listen good, Doc. I want you to go back to your hotel room and lock the door until you testify, then I want you to get out of New Orleans.”

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“Perhaps you didn’t hear me?” She clutched her purse closer. “I was just kicked out of my hotel. I wasn’t sure if it was the visit from Courtland or this,” she held up the gris-gris, “that angered the manager more. In any case, I’m looking for a new hotel just as soon as I find the origin of my little gift.” She dangled the offending object with two fingers, as if she were afraid to wrap her hand around it completely. She should be afraid. “I think it was Courtland.” “You’re here to testify for the defense. Why would he want to hurt you?” “He visited me, and I…” Her breathing deepened. “You turned him down?” “Yes. Men like Boudreaux don’t take rejection well. His concern is with controlling me for sport, not with the trial. He’s already won that.” She looked up at him. “Just stay out of sight until your testimony is over.” “No.” Wet, lapping sounds came from the two lovers. Nick had forgotten their presence, but at least the man seemed to be making up for his shortcomings. Nick formed a bitter smile. “I won’t be responsible for what happens to you if you don’t. I’m not about to handcuff you to a bed, angel, and I can’t baby-sit.” “I’m an experienced psychologist sworn to tell the truth of my assessments. Even if it means that I change my testimony. If Boudreaux left the gris-gris that means that he’s a practitioner. He claimed not to be one during my interviews. He said the voodoo paraphernalia used to strangle his wife was used because it was handy, available, that it had no significance. If he lied about that, and there is a symbolic or ritualistic reason for the material, it may speak to the conscious desire to kill her and not an accident during sex play. What is used is as significant as how it is used. I need to find out.” Why was she so quick to pin this on the man? “Anyone had access to your door.” “No one else was seen.” “Why are you here? Didn’t you report this to the police?” “There are leaks in police departments.” Her eyes shifted down and to the left. He was being played. “And I don’t want the media to get a hold of this. My credibility has taken a big enough hit today. Maybe you can help me.” There was an unspoken undercurrent here. Doc would never come within twenty feet of him unless she had an agenda. Unfortunately, he was just sick enough to be curious to see where this was leading. “Come with me.” “Excuse me?” Her voice raised an octave. “I’m not walking by those people they’re…they’re not done.”

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“Sex isn’t contagious, Doc. If they didn’t want an audience they should have gotten a room. Where are your things?” “In the rental car.” “You can show me on the way.” He gestured toward the street, his hand hovering above the small of her back. He couldn’t explain his constant need to touch her. Her feet stayed rooted to the floor. “Where are we going? What’s in this bag that has you so spooked?” “Working and living in New Orleans, I know about voodoo. You’ve had a hex placed on you.” Her eyes searched his, “Is this some kind of joke? I thought only witches put hexes on people.” “I’ve got some contacts. I’ll ask around, see if anyone knows about this. Let’s go.” “To what hotel?” Her shaky hands pulled a brightly colored tourist map out of her purse and unfolded it as they drew abreast of the two lovers at the entrance. The man knelt at the woman’s feet, apparently worshiping her with his tongue. Doc tried to cover her face with the map. The wind tore at it, crinkling the thin paper. “I’ll follow you.” The map took flight in the wind, twisting against it before falling to the ground and skidding into the woman’s black heels. Doc stood paralyzed, hair swirling around her face, clutching her purse. Nick pulled her into him and made a stupid decision. “No hotel. I’m taking you home.” The sky opened up and released a torrent of rain, drenching them both. Caught in the rain. Again. Hell.

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Chapter Five “Come in.” Eden stood uneasily within the foyer of the detective’s antebellum home, waiting for him to retrieve her suitcase from the car. She smoothed her fingers over her damp hair, tucking errant strands behind her ear, and let her gaze wander around the brightly lit rose-papered room wavering in the shadow of the rain. The room could only be described as a parlor, with its three-inch fleur-de-lis crown molding and miniature chandelier. An antique Steinway, lid open, stood center stage, its gold-embossed curlicue letters gleaming in the crystal light. She never would have suspected the detective would be sensitive enough to play piano. She dismissed the thought. No, not him, a girlfriend maybe. Her gaze bounced away from the instrument. Perhaps it was prominent because it was the only piece of furniture that was uncovered. Several chairs, a settee and a side table were draped with heavy white cloth. The parlor got little use. Considering his virulent disposition, she could very well understand why the detective didn’t receive many visitors, at least not those that were entertained downstairs. Embarrassment flushed her cheeks, her thoughts skidding back to the lovers in the Quarter. She had never witnessed such guttural sex in person. Their passion had been a palpable, living thing, invading the previously drafty alley with warm heavy air. The man’s dark shirt had absorbed the balcony light as his broad hands had held one leg against the woman’s chest while the other had spread furry blonde nether lips, exposing the pinkish-brown genitals. The head of his shaft had jutted from his zipper as he pumped into her. Her vagina had greedily swallowed him, again and again, as he reared back and plunged again, grinding at the top of his stroke. The two lovers had kissed and kissed and kissed, drinking each others’ passion, becoming intoxicated with the act of give and take. When they had broken apart the woman had said, “Fuck me”, her voice so raw and carnal it reached Eden somewhere so deep she felt her nipples pearl and her sex swell and quiver. The woman’s climax had ripped from her, blonde hair cascaded over her shoulder as her head fell back, tremors shaking her body, abandoning herself in a dirty alley with tourists and locals all around. What could possess people to do that? Perhaps the atmosphere. Eden had to get out of this sensuous city where sexual desire permeated the air. It must be in the water. Muffled sounds of rain and thunder barely filtered through the ceiling-to-floor multi-paned windows, masked by heavy drapery.

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Outside, four strong Greek columns supported the second-floor balcony and shielded the tall, delicate windows, creating an enchanting private veranda. The veranda hugged the side of the house before disappearing into shadow. It had been the first thing that she had noticed on their arrival. Once they’d retrieved her suitcase from the rental car, it had been a relatively quick trip to his house. They were still in the Quarter. But she couldn’t say how they had arrived at their destination. Her mind had been too focused on the detective’s disturbing monologue. He had filled her in on the significance of gris-gris and the threat it entailed. Someone wanted to scare her. Maybe not Boudreaux, but someone. Eden still vacillated between anger and fear. She cocked her head at a sound toward the back of the house, the creak of a floorboard? Her eyes strained to see down the dark hall. Well, the fear part certainly worked. She was jumpy. The house was vastly larger than a hotel room yet ten times more intimate. She’d asked for the detective’s help. But she hadn’t expected him to virtually kidnap her based on her story. Boudreaux had nearly admitted to killing his wife. He had nearly strangled her. Did it matter who brought the murderer to justice? If Ricco was the catalyst for his conviction, Boudreaux wouldn’t hunt her down and destroy her. But he couldn’t find out she was helping Ricco. She had to somehow convince him that she detested the detective. But how? A private meeting wouldn’t end in conversation. Her skin crawled. No. She had fallen into a snake pit of a dilemma, with a python on one side and a cobra on the other. The only choice she had was whether she wanted to go down from a quick bite or a long agonizing squeeze. The front screen door opened with a long protesting squeal as Ricco entered the foyer behind her. With her bulky bag slung easily over one broad shoulder, his large male presence filled the diminutive space. She was momentarily taken aback by the familiarity of the situation, as if she had just returned home from a long trip. Suddenly conscious of his damp jacket draped across her shoulders, she removed it, hanging it on a convenient coat peg. She was still chilled, but being wrapped in his woodsy smell, combined with the intimate surroundings, was too compelling, making her crave the heat of his desire far more than the warmth of his coat. Drifting further into the parlor, Eden walked around the piano, wanting to caress its smooth surface. Instead, her fingertips caressed the coarse-textured cover of a side chair. Ricco dropped her bag from his shoulder, determination in his eyes as he too circled the piano, walking directly toward her. She stood rooted to the spot, her heart doing a triple flip in her throat before diving back down into her stomach. She wouldn’t tear her eyes away from his golden thick-lashed gaze. She was afraid if she did her eyes would broadcast her thoughts by straying to his lips.

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Involuntarily, she mimicked her desire by licking her own bottom lip, drawing it through her teeth. He stopped a foot away from her and paused for a moment before curling his fingers next to hers into the rough cotton cover. The cloth slid slowly through her fingers as he drew his hand and the cloth away, pulling the cover off the chair. His gaze fell to her mouth before he blinked and looked away. “I wasn’t expecting guests,” he said gruffly, turning his back. Ricco’s rough velvet voice slashed into her thoughts, his mind obviously on the same track. Eden dropped her gaze to the chair, trying to focus on the intricately woven back and seat now swimming in her vision. Too overwhelmed to see clearly, she struggled not to gasp for air like a drowning victim. For a moment there it had felt like he was undressing her, pulling the cloth from her body as easily as he had pulled it from the chair’s back. Exposing her slowly to him. Her breasts would flush, rising above her chest as waves of deep breaths displayed them for him. He would suck them, distracting her from what his hands were doing, baring the rest of her heated body. He would rise above her then, overwhelming her with his size, and sink into her long and slow. Her nipples tingled. Enough. Sex with the detective would be quick and selfish. He just wanted a quick fuck. Any old port in a storm. He prowled through the room, revealing the four remaining pieces of furniture one by one, each more beautiful than the last, until the room was completely uncovered. Now that the mystery of the room was gone, Eden’s thoughts strayed back to the small bag of powder in her possession. A voodoo curse. Who could have wanted to scare her? Any number of people in the courtroom didn’t care for her testimony, but this seemed a little drastic even in a town known for its excesses. He brushed past her on the way to the entryway, reaching down and lifting her heavy suitcase as if it weighed nothing. “Let me show you your room.” “I didn’t say that I was staying.” Eden followed after him, bristling. He kept surprising her. She just wanted to write him off, place him in a nice little evil detective pigeonhole and leave him there, but he kept crawling out. “Then why did you come?” His voice faded as he ambled up the stairs into the short hallway. She found her foot on the first step then the second, rejecting her actions even as she performed them. Why was she giving this man so much control? “You’re staying until the trial is over or at least until you testify. Then you are going back to San Francisco where you belong.” He pushed open a door on the right and disappeared inside.

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“Look, I appreciate your concern…” Her voice trailed off. The sweet smell of the rain outside permeated the room she entered, but it made the space, a mixture of muted greens and blues, no less entrancing. A large, worn brass bed took up three-quarters of the room. A trail of ivy and fluffy cabbage roses wound through the thick coverlet. A rug similar in color but with a more dramatic pattern of lines and angles dissected another flurry of roses peeking out from under the bed. Other than the bed, a small fruitwood dresser nested under the window, sprinkled with several bud vases and pictures. Eden stopped herself from going directly to the frames. He walked in further, placing the suitcase next to the bed. “I’m leaving.” Standing to his full height, Ricco faced her from the opposite side of the bed. “I don’t live here,” he paused, “this was my mother’s home.” Her eyes strayed along the welcoming expansive plane, soft and smooth, and up to the headboard. From either side, the brass swooped and curved before meeting in the center to circle in a wreath pattern. Its color was slightly dull with age, but it was all the more beautiful for it. She had always been fascinated with antiques—furniture with a history. The furniture in her high-rise apartment had been provided in the rental agreement. It was sparse and modern, beautiful and functional. Simply not her preferred style. She had put off purchasing her own furniture until she purchased a home. She knew she would then fill it with a truckload of antiques just like these. His presence near the bed was disconcerting. Big and bold as you please, so like her dream of last night. Shuttering her eyes, she refused to let him see the look of desire that must be reflected after that little mental detour. She walked past the bed, pretending to be interested in the dresser. Who were those people in the frame? “As I was saying, detective…” “Nick,” he interjected firmly. “I no longer work for the NOPD.” He quit? Or was he fired? No matter. His career should be no concern of hers. “All right, Nick.” She turned and faced him. “I’m sure you read today’s paper? Being here with you places my professional integrity on the line.” “Your life is on the line, angel. Whoever sent this gris-gris to your door doesn’t care about professional integrity. They only care about hurting you, badly. And after tonight’s little fiasco in the Quarter, I’m of the mind that you need protection.” “Tonight was just a good example of poor judgment.” Ricco smirked. “As far as the voodoo is concerned, didn’t you say that I have to believe in it for it to work?” “Some practitioners believe that. Others believe in the power of suggestion. You fell right into it, so curious that you investigated on your own.”

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Thankful that he didn’t refer to what curiosity did to the cat, she interjected, “I don’t exactly have intimate friends here in New Orleans to ask, and I wasn’t about to ignore it.” “You ignore what you want to ignore,” He looked at her from across the bed, which now seemed even larger. Finally, throwing his hands out, he said, “I’m offering you a place to stay while you’re in New Orleans. No one needs to know that it’s my home.” His voice grew more challenging, “Unless you think that I’ll influence your testimony?” “Not a chance.” He nodded. “Good. We won’t influence each other.” Eden stood frustrated, indecisive. She was out of her element here. She was used to controlling her professional and her personal lives. Now it seemed as if both had spun wildly out of control in the course of twenty-four hours. She crossed her arms and rubbed her hands up and down the bare flesh. She didn’t believe in voodoo. But if the detective was right about the spell placed on her, someone didn’t want her testifying. To what lengths would they go to prevent it? She should have gone to the police first but they just might have laughed her out of the station, right before they called the news station. After all, it was just a small bag of powder. Maybe she should have thrown it away. The detective was right, curiosity had gotten the best of her. “I need to think.” Eden perched on the edge of the vanity chair and regarded him in the hazy glass. She studied her own reflection. Boudreaux’s comment came back to her. Façades. Was hers that obvious? Had her life become as synthetic as the wig she picked up in the Quarter, so two-dimensional that even a layperson could analyze her? The detective had certainly recognized her beneath the wig. Boudreaux had certainly seen something stirring in her eyes beneath her professionalism. A restless need that she’d successfully caged for years now threatened to break free. Eden needed that desire to stay put, sheltered. Emotions were dangerous. They led to disastrous consequences. Experience had taught her that well enough. Her gaze rose to the detective, or ex-detective, in the mirror’s reflection. In his presence, feelings bubbled near the surface, threatening to spill forth. She was playing with fire, and even if her body didn’t know it, her mind certainly did. Emotions made you vulnerable. To give in to her baser needs with him would be disastrous. She would be reduced to ashes until there was nothing left, only dust to blow away. Up until now he had been consistently bad-tempered. She didn’t know if she could resist him if he ever became charming. She regarded his brooding, dark face and sighed in relief. Thank God there was no chance of that. She swiveled around in the chair.

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“Detective, I need to find out if Boudreaux is practicing voodoo. It’s vital to my testimony.” Help me nail this guy to the wall. “The people you need to talk to don’t trust outsiders and they sure as hell won’t trust you. I’ll make some calls tonight. In the meantime, you stay put.” His eyes held a challenge. Her stomach growled. “Hungry?” “It’s too late to eat.” Eden glanced at her watch. 10:09 p.m. “I’m starving,” he said, turning to stalk out of the bedroom door and missing the startled look on her face. Fine. She grabbed her purse at the entryway table and followed him to the car. She would let him escort her for take-out, maybe use the opportunity to pump him for some more information. Then she would come back here and close the door on him and on her rampant desire.

***** “Try it, Doc, it’s just a little spicy.” Eden looked up at the detective’s impassive features. Why did her mind keep hearing suggestive statements in everything he said? It was driving her crazy. Especially since he seemed to be completely oblivious to the double entendres. She looked deeper into his eyes. They gave away nothing. Maybe she was just reading too much into the situation. He had surprised her by taking her to this brightly lit diner. She would have pegged him for more of a dark, brooding-atmosphere type. They were seated at a cramped table tucked under a wall of mirrors in a back corner. Ricco had to fold his legs underneath him and their knees kept accidentally bumping together. Every table was full with colorful patrons. A wide range of socio-economic status was reflected in the clientele. Attire varied from the woman in the little black dress and three-inch heels at the table next to theirs, to the woman with flip-flops and torn jean shorts at the oyster bar. Everyone looked at home. In fact, everyone looked as if they were having a great time. Waitresses dressed in white T-shirts emblazoned with the yellow restaurant logo threaded their way through the maze of filled tables. The place smelled wonderful, a mixture of heady spices and seafood. It was the smell that had won over her initial reluctance. “Can’t take the heat?” She looked directly into his challenging gaze. “As well as anyone else.” Eden leaned forward, immersing her spoon into the thick brown soup. Laden with rice, chicken and

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seafood, the gumbo smelled heavenly. Her eyes closed as the warm flavor blossomed in her mouth. She purred in satisfaction. A tiny bit of the amber juice nestled in the corner of her mouth. She licked it with the tip of her tongue. She had never tasted something so absolutely decadent in her life. “I’ve never tasted anything quite like it.” It was good, very satisfying. Maybe too good. She probably would have heartburn in the morning. The detective bent forward, his eyes locked on her mouth. She caught the deep movement of his chest as he watched her lips move. She sat back. A thick vein of sexual attraction pulsed between them. “There are a lot of things you should taste before you leave New Orleans, angel.” That one was on purpose. “Perhaps not. And stop calling me ‘angel’, I don’t like it.” His gaze skimmed across her collarbone. “I’ll try to control my impulses in the future,” he said gruffly. Move to safer ground. “Why don’t you have an accent?” “I’m a long way from being native.” He looked at her as if judging how much to reveal. “Although my mother was Cajun and I was born here in the city, I was raised by my father in Manhattan until I was fifteen.” “Oh.” Eden tilted her head and tried and failed to envision this man as a gangly fifteen-year-old. She looked at him closely. This was beginning to feel like a date, exchanging backgrounds over a hot spicy meal. The strange thing was that she felt comfortable. That wasn’t right. Time to tip the world back on its axis. Before she became even more enamored with the detective than her body already was. She hated to admit it, but as he had said, not a single person was paying attention to them. She let out a small sigh of relief but still kept her voice low for her next statement, leaning forward. “Can you give me forty-eight hours to find out if Boudreaux is practicing voodoo?” He opened his mouth to speak, his eyes assessing her. “Glad to see you’re starting to see things my way, Doc. Why the quick turnaround?” “Why do you care?” She swallowed wrong and her eyes watered from the effort not to choke. “I shouldn’t.” She sat back, forcing herself to take another bite of her own savory dish, giving herself a moment to think. This was the worst course of action she could possibly take. Becoming involved with him had too many potentially negative consequences. But right now she didn’t see that she had a choice. If she could find a witness who could tell

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her that Boudreaux was still engaging in voodoo, that would speak against his veracity in other areas as well. She didn’t like the detective’s “he may not have done this” attitude. She had thought he would be fairly easy to convince. But she didn’t have a choice. Her testimony was scheduled for Monday and if she didn’t find out anything pertaining to Boudreaux by then, she would have to testify to the facts thus far. Eden shifted in her seat uneasily. “But we can’t be seen together after tonight. Here’s my cell phone number.” She handed him her business card. “If you find out anything, please call me.” “No problem, Doc.” He eyed the card for a moment before he smiled slowly, revealing his straight teeth. Bending forward, he raised his hand, motioning her closer and then closer still. She leaned across the table, stopping when their lips were inches apart. Another inch and she could bat her eyelashes against his cheek. She fell into his intense gaze, into his flashing emerald and topaz eyes. “You got yourself a deal.”

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Chapter Six Nick deliberated his decision to help the psychologist as he drove her home through the Quarter, suspecting that she was lying through her teeth. She was a complication. The last thing he wanted was to be shackled to someone who needed to be taken care of, but he was certain of two things. The Doc wandering around the city unprotected was dangerous. And since Boudreaux had formed some sort of sick attachment to her, she may be his best chance to get to the murderer yet. Did Boudreaux leave the gris-gris? It was a classic taunt. Having outsmarted the law once, he could be challenging them. The question for Nick was, could he do it? Could he use the Doc to prove his case? Could he be that much of a cold-hearted bastard? Nick rubbed his pounding temple. Clearly he could. He’d brought her back to his home knowing the other man would be back for her before Monday. Agreed to help her find the origin of the voodoo charm knowing that she would be in his debt as a result. He wanted her close. In his bed? Obviously. But primarily so he could get Boudreaux. Nick would dangle her like live bait. He glanced at her. He understood too well the other man’s fascination. She was fire and ice with just enough lush sexuality beneath her glacier surface to be intriguing. On several occasions Nick had witnessed flames of emotion smoldering behind her blue eyes. Most recently when she’d stood in the parlor looking every bit as lost as a doe in a lion’s den. The shot of lust to his gut had rendered him motionless. That and the desire to run his hands down her back and press her into his embrace, to soothe her fears. Until he had reminded himself of who she was and why she was there. But even in his head, his objections were weakening. He wasn’t stupid enough to get emotionally involved with the Doc. But if he were smart, he wouldn’t have brought her home thinking that his repulsion for what she did would transfer to a repulsion for who she was and enable him to shut down his primitive responses. He was far from repulsed. She seemed to have dozed off during the drive. It didn’t seem part of her makeup to let her guard down enough to sleep in front of anyone, especially not him. Maybe she was just faking. She was a psychologist trained in the art of manipulation. She could be faking her responses to him as well, letting him think that she desired him while truly being disgusted by his appearance. He looked closer. Her head rested against the thick white stripe of the dark green pony interior. At least her sleeping looked like the real thing. 67

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With her eyes closed, her face was smoother, softer without the razor-sharp intellect. Her nose was a little tilted, as if waiting for an insult so she could point it in the air. Her lips were slightly parted, revealing a flash of white teeth and pink tongue. She slept, blissfully unaware of what he wanted to do with that mouth. Hands gripping the dark wooden wheel, he pulled up to the house, admonishing himself. Get her in, get her settled and get out. “Get up,” he said, using his gloved hand to shake her awake. Her eyes flew open, their crystal gaze piercing his defenses, holding him captive, before shifting to the house. Nick didn’t miss the look of want that flickered across her features, quick as a lightning bug, bright for a moment and then gone. As a child visiting New Orleans, he had captured lightning bugs for fun and put them in jars. He would walk around just after nightfall using them to light his way through the dark before releasing them. He wasn’t so sure that he would let her go if he ever caught her. “Are we here?” she asked, no trace of sleepiness in her voice. He cleared his throat. “Yeah.” In one economical move, he removed the keys from the ignition and pushed open the car door. By the time he walked around to her side of the car she was already standing awkwardly in the shimmering moonlight. Her face in profile, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, she gazed at the house next door. The home was ablaze in lights. Male and female laughter and the soft sounds of a Cajun melody filled the night air, still heavy with humidity. The other homes up and down the small street, sprinkled with light, were quiet, as if they too listened. “I’ll see you inside.” His voice sounded husky even to himself. “Okay.” As they walked across the small manicured lawn, still damp from the storm, the melody changed to a low, melancholy tune. A warm, soft breeze caressed Nick’s cheek and rustled the grand oak trees above. Nick jogged up the steps, determined not to allow the atmosphere of the night to kindle the wrong emotions. He swung open the screen and shoved the key into the lock of the heavy, paneled black door, standing momentarily trapped between outside and in. He watched her reluctantly navigate the five short steps. She seemed hypnotized by the music next door. With one hand on the screen, she paused, head tilted. “What a beautiful song,” she murmured, eyes dreamy, perhaps thinking of a lost love or a lover at home. His gut clenched. He shouldn’t care. He openly studied her composed expression. No. A woman with a lover would not have reacted to him so strongly. But if she kept looking that way she would have a lover. Sooner than she expected. “It sounds so…so mournful. What is he saying?”

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Nick cocked his head, regarding her even as he listened to the song, translating the French in his head. “I haven’t heard this one before.” His eyes drifted shut as he let the music wash over him, immersing him in feeling. He was always seduced by old Cajun tunes. He took a deep breath and automatically began relaying the lyrics. “A man has lost his love to the swamp, she went out to pick wildflowers for their anniversary and never returned. I have lost her. Je l’ai perdu. I have lost her, he says. He searches for her every day for ten years, calling her name.” Nick opened his eyes, unable to shield his raw pain. She opened her mouth, her eyes apprehensive. Silencing her with an open palm, he forced himself to continue. “Until one day he hears her call to him from the murky water. He becomes lost in the bayou as he follows her voice.” He paused, listening. “At the time of the song he rejoices because he will soon be with the one he loves, the one that he could never forget. I have found myself again. Je me suis retrouve. He repeats. Je me suis retrouve.” Unwittingly, Nick’s eyes fell to hers, soft with compassion. It cut through him. “I’m sorry,” she said, laying a gentle hand on his forearm. He shook off her touch, wanting to stalk back down the stairs to the nearest bar. He sure as hell didn’t want her pity, but he couldn’t leave her in the doorway of a dark house. “It’s just a song.” He turned his back, leaving her on the veranda, and entered the house to the sound of the protesting screen door. Get her in, get her settled and get out. “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it…” “Don’t try to analyze me, Doc,” he threw over his shoulder as he walked through the foyer. He quickly checked the house. He had no reason to believe that anyone was there, even his instincts told him that it was empty, but he was nothing if not thorough. He was firmly closing the bedroom window, the soft strands of music still floating through the panes, when he felt her presence behind him. He turned, taking a step to leave and coming up short as she hovered in the doorway. “Maybe I can help.” She stood there, strong and sympathetic, vital and beautiful. He gripped the bed railing to stop himself from grabbing her. “You don’t want to know what makes me tick, what motivates me. You don’t want me to lie down on a couch and reveal my sordid past. The only thing that makes my heart beat faster is getting Boudreaux. I don’t have any moral obligations to you or to anyone else.” Her eyes flickered to his hand and back to his face, an unguarded look of understanding passing over her features. He had to extinguish that look before he fell for it, before he fell down on his knees and asked her to save him from himself. “And right now, I couldn’t care less who or what you are.” He forced his eyes to sweep over her, lingering on her breasts. “I just

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want you stripped naked, lying across the bed, your hands around these,” he jiggled the bedposts, “as I take you every way possible.” Her eyes widened, body trembling. There, that ought to scare her enough to stay away from me until Monday. Even if his control faltered, she would surely push him away. He brushed by her, stalking into the hallway. The slam of the bedroom door reverberated through the house. The lock clicked. He puffed out a breath and slammed his fist into the plaster wall, not sure why he wasn’t happy that the stunt worked. He twisted around to stare at the still-vibrating door, imagining her inside, curled tightly in a ball on that big bed, wondering how she managed to find herself captured by the big bad wolf. At least they were both safe for the moment—she from whoever wanted her hurt, and he from his raging need to lose himself within her. He let anger, his new partner, crash into him, trying to wash away his raw desire for this woman. It surged through him on cue but this time it flowed out just as quickly, leaving him parched and empty. Against his will his gloved hand reached out to caress the hard wood of the door, even as he fought the compulsion to smash through the wood. He sweat from the effort. He gripped the doorframe instead, staring down at the silent, tarnished brass knob. Growling in frustration, he loosened his grip. A timid click focused his gaze on the turning doorknob. His mind screamed at her not to open it, while his body tensed. The handle turned again and then she was there filling his eyes with all that he desired and all that he knew he could never have. “Nick,” she said softly. Her eyes searched his for an eternity. She reached out to him until her palm rested against his chest, over his heart. His pectoral muscles jumped in reaction to her hesitant touch. He looked down at the delicate hand, so small and fragile against him. Unexpected and unwelcome warmth blossomed beneath her fingers. His stomach clenched. Standing motionless, Nick tried to halt the wave of feeling as she hesitantly stepped forward, as if she was afraid of him and drawn to him at the same time, powerless to stop herself. He had to tell her the truth even if it made her scamper back inside the sanctuary of the bedroom. “You don’t want to do this. I’ll bring you down.” “Maybe I want you to bring me down,” she whispered, watching her hand smooth the fabric of his shirt diagonally across his chest and along his shoulder. “I can’t think for wanting to touch you, for needing you to touch me.”

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“I don’t care if you use me. I’ll use you right back.” He stilled her hand with his gloved one, reminding her and himself that this could never be more. “But a quickie won’t change anything come morning.” Her hand slid from under his down to his stomach. Her gaze followed its course, as entranced by the contact as he was. He waited, poised. She looked up, eyes filled with naked longing. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Her hand reached his good hand, as it gripped the doorframe. He let her take control of it. It was his turn to be hypnotized as she drew his palm to her lips. She skimmed her mouth down the central line etched in his palm and sucked gently on the fleshy pad beneath his thumb before licking the tip of his index finger. Goddamn. She slid his calloused fingers down her neck to the slope of her breast, stepping into him as his hand reflexively closed around the offering. “I don’t want to think tonight. I want to feel everything. Just this…” Her voice caught as her eyes drifted shut, “Just this once.” Nick grazed her nipple with his thumb through the layers of cloth. Her eyes flashed open, inches away, blatant desire reflected in their brilliance. “Kiss me,” she whispered, palming the side of his face, drawing him closer. Her soft touch on his scar squeezed his heart for an instant, splintering the brittle wall surrounding it until it burst free, sending torrents of blood rushing to his head. Her sweet sigh was his undoing. He blindly took her mouth with his, diving into her, snapping her head back. His tongue sought hers, found it and fought with it for control of the kiss. She might think this was her idea but he would be damned if he would let her control him. He wanted to kiss her senseless, until she melted in his arms, helpless to his whim. A primeval gut-wrenching need to bury himself in her to the hilt jerked against the chain of his control. He tried to tame it because he also wanted to stroke her skin until she cried out for mercy, until he took her to a place she had never been before. He fell back against the plaster wall of the darkened hallway, pulling her with him, away from the lighted bedroom. The small still-life picture hanging near his head bounced precariously against the wall from the impact. He ignored it. Let it fall. Slashing his mouth across hers, his tongue delved in to taste her, a wave of need washing over him, heating his skin. He couldn’t stop sampling her sweet essence, a rhapsody of sugary rum, spicy gumbo and her own intoxicating flavor. Trailing kisses to the corner of her mouth, he licked the ghost of the drop of gumbo from dinner. He took a deep breath to clear his mind, but instead he was awash in the smell of her skin, her hair—sesame and red roses. He wanted to feel her cool silken skin turn hot and sweaty as it slid over his body, under his body, to feel her hair trailing 71

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down his chest. He wanted to pump into her for all he was worth. He wanted to savor the flavor of her clit on his tongue. He wanted to howl at the moon. His hands roved over her, mapping her curves, her waist and her hips. She reached for his shirt, making short work of the heavy buttons, quickly revealing his chest to her hungry gaze. She rubbed his muscled pectorals, her fingers raking through the crisp hair to push the gaping material away from his shoulders and down his arms. A low, hungry sound reverberated in the back of her throat. Trapped as she pulled the material down both arms simultaneously, he let her go and finished the job. Fabric ripped as he tugged his arms out and threw the shirt to the floor. She arched into him and he could feel her nipples pebble through the gauzy blue folds of her dress. He squeezed her breast possessively, testing the limits of her flesh. MINE. Hell. Where had that come from? He gentled his hand, pulling back mentally. He had to remain in control. It had been so long since he’d unleashed his desire he might hurt her. He had to slow things down before he lost it right here. Breaking the kiss, he dragged his mouth from hers, twisting them both around until her back pressed against the wall. He rocked his forehead back and forth against hers. His heavy exhalations and her shallow pants intermingled. “Doc,” he breathed, “this ain’t gonna be pretty.” That was her first and last warning. She dropped her head back against the wall, watching him through slitted eyes. Lowering her gaze to his chest, she reached out to tangle her hands through the scratchy hair, used it to draw him back to her. “I don’t want pretty, detective.” She looked into his eyes, conveying with her gaze what she didn’t want to say, craning her neck to follow his lips with her hot mouth. Her lips glistened. He didn’t move. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her. He wanted to hear it. Moist air, heavy with the smell of rain, sizzled between them. Her tongue snaked over her lower lip. “I want you.” He huffed out a breath. Finally. He bent and seized her thigh, hiking her dress up as he brought her hard against him. Startled by his move, she scratched his chest. He winced. Let it be painful. Physical pain he could deal with. A far greater pain awaited him in the morning light. Thoughts scattered as he nestled into the vee of her thighs and felt her luscious cunt, protected by only a slip of silk, graze against his erection. He thrust hard against

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her and felt her gasp against his mouth. Her nails dug into the firm flesh of his shoulders. His stubble rasped over the satin skin of her neck as he kissed and bit his way across her collarbone, trying to find a way to ignore the warmth blossoming inside of him at her touch and concentrate only on his physical need to ram into her, hoping he could turn his back on her in the morning. God help her if tonight wasn’t enough to slake his appetite. God help him if it was. Eden was caught in the moment, captive to his kisses. And she reveled in it. Solid shoulders had her pinned up against the wall, her legs shamelessly wrapped around his waist. He jerked her dress higher, caressing her upper thigh. She undulated against his perfect cock, nestling her vulnerability against him, creaming at the memory of the sheer size of the broad-tipped penis, its texture like forged steel beneath hot molten flesh. So much in contrast to her softness. There was truth in his erection—the blatant display held no promises, only crude need. She wanted to map every vein with her tongue. “You’re playing with fire, Doc.” “So burn me,” Eden gasped, and let the flames of need flicker across her skin down to where their bodies throbbed. He was so hard all over, the plane of his chest fascinated her. She couldn’t get enough of touching it, of running her hands along his brick shoulders, over his flat cinnamon-colored nipples, down his rippled stomach. His thick pelt of chest hair felt glorious against her palm, unexpectedly soft and scratchy. Her hand snaked down to his waist. Even his bellybutton was sexy, shallow and disk-shaped. Her hand caught on his heavy belt and then continued around his lower back, relishing in the knowledge of his skin, pressing him closer. Drawn to the sensation, hypnotized by the man, she wanted to feel. She had been empty for so long. She wanted to be filled with emotion, filled with him, to sink herself in the luxury of her senses—taste, touch, smell—to sink herself into his strength. To let him sink himself into her. She refused to analyze this, for once. She didn’t know why this man pushed every button she had, but right now she was going to let him. Burrowing beneath her dress, his gloved hand closed over her right breast, molding it. She felt the warm leather through the silk of her bra. She had never felt anything so erotic before. The warmth of his skin burned through the layer of cloth, she wanted him to touch her with his bare hands. She wanted to feel how hot he really was flesh against flesh. The lace of her panties cut into her bottom before they were ripped from her thighs. A hot rush infused her body. The zipper of her dress jerked down her back, the cool air meeting her feverish skin. Large hands stripped the cloth from her body, down her arms, revealing her breasts, bound underneath by her lace bra, the nipples unashamed, flushed with desire. He took 73

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pity on them and unclasped the front. Her breasts sprang free, eager for his suckling. He cupped his hand to her side, drawing her away from the wall and into him. His rough thumb pushed upward, presenting her breast to his mouth. He rewarded their eager flush with a long, slow suckle. His mouth fastened itself to her, pulling not just the nipple but much of her breast into his mouth. My God, he was going to eat her alive. His gloved hand kneaded her other breast, pinching the nipple just short of pain. And then he pinched it harder and her knees buckled. A hairy forearm rose to press against her abdomen, steadying her, imprisoning her. Then he dragged her dress down and over her hips. She shimmied to help him, her movement tugging his grip on her nipple tighter. She gasped and panted. “It’s too much.” His mouth released her breast with an audible slurp. “The hell it is.” He took her hands from his shoulders and slapped them against the wall. He dropped to his knees, cocking his head and sliding his open mouth, teeth bared, down her lower abdomen. His knee nudged her right foot outward. He wanted her to open her legs more. Oh God, what was she doing? She had to stop this. And then he licked her just above her pubis and, spellbound, she jerked her legs wider. He kissed the inside of her thigh, his gaze on the prize between her legs. One hand caressed her thigh like he was gentling her, as if he could feel the fight or flight response. His palm circled down her calf and massaged her arch before lifting her foot to his shoulder. She straightened her leg, kicking at a mountain of a shoulder, testing his will. Unmoved, he sent an unwavering gaze into her eyes. Stand off. She couldn’t breathe. He was too big, too angry, too male. He could break her in two. He could fuck her. But he couldn’t use her—not if she was using him more. Her thighs trembled as she hooked her toe around his ear, bent her knee and drew him closer, into the juncture of her thighs. A deep, resonant growl filled the hall. The sound of pure male aggression. She clamped down hard on another shot of fear. His hand smacked against her thigh, lifting her leg even wider, up and out. He held her open to his mouth, spreading her nether lips with his fingers. She was so wet two fingers slipped inside. And then his tongue, wet and soft, licked her labia as if he tasted a rare, forbidden delicacy. Her knees buckled again. This time she fell forward, slapping her hands on the opposite wall, bracing her legs until she was displayed, open to his hunger. He continued to sip at her, his mouth making soft moist sounds as it teased the fleshy lips

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shielding her clit. His hair tickled her inner thigh. Her fingers ached to stroke the thick coils but she couldn’t find the strength to lower her hand. Fear and desire lanced down her spine. She could smell herself, musky and sweet. Her pussy was so slick her lust ran in rivulets down her inner thighs, smeared his fingers, glazed his tongue with its milky whiteness. His stiff tongue replaced his finger, exploring her aching passage. Varied pressure, feather soft and then hard and insistent, rocketed her to the edge of climax. She twisted her head against the wall, fighting the wicked torture. His tongue was everywhere but where she needed it the most. A litany of pleas rang in her head. A guttural demand escaped her and she was shocked at the raw intensity of it. Her supporting arm trembled as she dropped her other hand to his head. She twined her fingers in his beautifully tousled hair, trying to direct his kiss to the center of her desire, wanting more. He turned his face with the tug and nipped her thigh, shocking her into stillness. He laved the bite with his warm tongue. He turned his head again. Lost in the feeling of the length of his nose along her nub she barely heard his command, “Don’t fight me.” His sopping fingers discovered her exposed buttocks, kneading the firm flesh before sneaking between her cheeks, stroking the tight anal opening with her own juices. She moaned at his gentle touch and then he pushed further, shoving one finger inexorably inside of her. Shocked at the invasion, her muscles convulsed, jerking her forward into his mouth. He latched onto her clit, sucking it fiercely. He twisted his hand palm upward and danced his finger against the swollen, eager tissue inside of her. Sensation rolled over her as she came, biting her lip and swallowing crude, choppy breaths. He licked again and released a new bout of sensation. Her climax stretched longer than she thought possible. She controlled it, determined to ride it out silently as the sensations abated. Until he growled, “More,” and nuzzled into her impossibly deeper, sucking harder, shoving two fingers inside her hole. A more shocking climax ripped through her, crashing into the first, pulling her under. Her neck snapped back. Her mouth flew open, releasing a torrent of weak, needy cries, begging for mercy. She trembled there for an eternity, helpless, boneless, mindless, as he sucked every drop from her tender flesh. His arm muscles strained, preventing her collapse. His skilled tongue gentled against the sensitive flesh as her sobs softened. He stood, bringing his mouth against hers before she could open her eyes. She tasted herself on his lips and opened her mouth wider, greedy for the taste of her climax on his lips. Tongues collided, twisting languidly around each other. Their intertwined hands struck the beautiful framed still-life. It bumped against the wall in time with her heartbeat, bump-thump, bump-thump, before it crashed to the floor, frame shattering upon impact.

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Just as she would shatter when he was through with her. Without the excuse of immediate danger, there was only one explanation for her wanton behavior. It was the man, not the moment. The man who made her dizzy, breathless, helpless. His powerful sexuality would burn through every barrier of restraint left within her. If she lost control with this man, she would never recover. Helpless to his whim, addicted to his touch, she might sacrifice everything to be in his arms, victim to the same type of mindless passion that she’d fought against her entire adult life. She wrenched her mouth from his. “Wait…” she said, pushing him away with the same hands that had been frantically tugging him forward. “We can’t…” His body stiffened, warm breath fanned her neck. “Nick?” “Fuck.” Gently, he pressed his length against her once more, but she could feel the thick tension coiled in his muscles. He bent, grabbing his ruined shirt and her dress from the floor. Her gaze greedily roamed over his back muscles. Oh God, how she wanted this man. Suddenly cold, she took the dress he shoved at her, shielding the nakedness of her body, powerless to shield the naked desire she knew must be in her eyes. The music outside had also stopped. Shadows caressed his face as he turned toward her. His haunted eyes met hers as a desolate smile crossed his features. “It was just a matter of time before one of us sobered up.” He leaned into her again, pressing his mouth against hers softly. Lips barely touching, she drew in his warm breath. She tipped her head back, helplessly wanting more. His hand lingered on her waist and his fingers tightened for an extra second. She felt his inward battle, not knowing which side she wanted to win. Her lips trembled with the need to open beneath his. If he pushed the issue, she would give in. He knew it. She knew it. “Sex would…would…complicate things.” The light from the bedroom behind him cast his face in shadow. “Apparently you have enough conscience for both of us. The courts don’t care who’s fucking who at the end of the day, only who gives the best performance on the witness stand.” “The reporters…” “Ashley Wilder and her cronies don’t give a damn about us. They’re off chasing another scandal as you stand here fighting this.” “This—” “Because you think it will jeopardize your ability to set a guilty man free.” 76

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“No.” “Is there another reason? Is it the scar?” He turned the right side of his face to her, not knowing the scar was invisible in this light. “Is that it? You don’t want to be turned on by a monster?” “No—” Eden looked up at him. He was so wrong. Yes, his injury had intrigued her when she first saw it a year ago, but now it was simply a part of him. He caught her gaze with his. “Boudreaux wants you. I can understand why. I won’t let him get you. But I won’t let you help him walk either.” Eden bristled at his words. “I can’t stay.” “If you know what’s good for you, you will.” “If I knew what was good for me I wouldn’t be here.” “So,” he snarled, “tonight’s lesson is that neither of us wants this. I’m not going to stand here and say that wanting to screw each others’ brains out is bigger than the both of us, but damned if I know how to stop it. So…” Voice dropping, he reached down, sliding his gloved hand down her arm, entwining his hand in hers, lifting it toward his mouth. He stopped halfway up and looked into her eyes, his expression intense. Slowly, his hand forced hers into a fist. “You hold on to that conscience real tight. ‘Cause I can’t promise that this won’t happen again.” He paused, his eyes taking on a new brilliance. “But I can promise you that nothing’s changed. I still want Boudreaux’s head on a platter.” “And if you can’t find any evidence against him?” His smile was bitter as he tapped her fist with his index finger, “Angel, that’s when you need to listen to that conscience of yours.” He turned his back to her and disappeared down the hall. Eden reached her hand to the door, not surprised when she couldn’t get her trembling fingers to obey her will. Her whole body shook from the effort it took to deny herself what she wanted. So badly. A sound from the dark caused her to jump into the room, locking the door behind her with finality. If only she could lock out her desire as easily. He was so wrong. Everything had changed. She had changed. She had almost sacrificed years of study and struggle for one night of oblivion. She had never done something so reckless before—sex with no strings attached. Not even the pretense of caring. Just raw physical connection. Some part of her, a deep and forbidden part, had thrilled at his roughness, at the depth of his passion for her body. She had wanted to be taken. The feel and the smell of him were so elemental that everything female within her craved the irreplaceable touch of his maleness, his solid cock pulsing, driving deep within her. Never before had she begged a man to fuck her. She hastily dressed for bed, willing her heartbeat to slow and her skin not to feel every caress of the silk nightgown. Her fingers trailed over the flushed skin to the small

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red mark on her thigh. It was certainly a day for firsts. No man had ever marked her before. She collapsed into the shelter of the bed, pulling cool sheets over her hot skin. She was way over her head here, in more ways than one.

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Chapter Seven At two o’clock Saturday afternoon, Eden strolled down Decatur, her eyes squinting from the afternoon sun. Rays of sunlight caressed her head, filtering through her hair and touching her face and shoulders. She tipped her chin up to relish in it before, thinking of the spectacle she must be making of herself, she blinked and continued on her walk. The sidewalks were as crowded as the street today, many of the tourists venturing out to enjoy the sultry afternoon. Eden moved through the throng of hot, sticky, smiling people. Only a few lingering signs of the previous night’s storm remained. The smell of moist foliage and fresh flowers ebbed and flowed as she walked, the seductive scents strongest as Eden wandered beneath balconies heavily laden with flowers, only to be replaced by the equally decadent smell of fresh pastry as she meandered past bakeries, glancing into the shop windows. Compelled to stop in front of a charming display of antique books, complete with worn bindings and brittle pages, Eden spied a weathered copy of A Street Car Named Desire. She leaned closer to the glass, curious, until her hazy reflection bounced back to her. The vibrant world behind her faded as she studied the woman before her. This afternoon she looked like she always did, little makeup, cotton blouse, linen skirt. Nothing about her appearance indicated a woman who had feverishly begged a perfect stranger to take her against the wall in a darkened hallway the night before. But looks could be deceiving. She still felt the physical and mental effects of her near debacle. Her heart skipped when she recalled his calloused hand beneath her blouse, his harsh breath ruffling through her hair, his illicit promises whispered against her thigh. Her face flushed from the memory of her behavior, from her heated, whispered entreaties, his name on her lips as she shamelessly pleaded for him to burn her with his passion. She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head, trying to loosen the memory of what had happened and the certainty of what would have happened if that picture hadn’t fallen. They would have made love with a feverish passion beyond her most erotic dreams. She’d had no idea that she was capable of such feelings, had no idea of what else she was capable of with him. She turned from her reflection, needing to dismiss the frightening truth—if he touched her again she would be incapable of stopping.

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Pushing through a glass and wood door with peeling black paint, Eden paused at the bell’s welcoming tinkle. She closed her eyes briefly, thankful for the wave of air that blew across her face and cooled her heated skin, bringing with it the light musty smell of old books. She breathed deeply, finding solace in the intoxicating scent. There was nothing like the safe haven of a bookstore. The proprietor, an elderly lady with a cloud of silver hair and dangly emerald earrings, beamed at her from behind the counter. Finding a smile beneath her anxiety, Eden returned it before moving into the stacks. Okay, she mused, she needed to come to terms with the current circumstances. Such as they were. She revisited last night’s revelation, hoping to come to a different conclusion this afternoon, trying to fight the knowledge that Nick Ricco spurred so much out-of-control behavior. Maybe it was her, maybe she had been without romance for so long that any man, given the right circumstances, would have stirred up those responses. Maybe she was just desperate. She had been on a few romantic dates with a well-respected psychiatrist sailing on the bay. Once, sparkling city lights and a ship’s mournful call had painted an irresistible backdrop, ripe for romance. And she had felt nothing but affection for the handsome man kissing her neck. She’d even thought that she had felt passion before, but it had only been a pinprick of feeling compared to the need that had knifed through her last night. No, it wasn’t desperation. She sighed in resignation. Okay. Not the situation, not inexperience, it was the detective, or ex-detective, who triggered her reaction. He was handsome, brooding and reckless, with just enough principle behind his questionable tactics for them to be understandable. Sleek and muscular, raw animal magnetism practically seeped from his pores. He didn’t walk, he prowled. He didn’t just jump that kid last night, he pounced on him. She could accept that the pure feminine side of her responded to that potent force. She wanted him physically. A lack of proximity to him would control that, certainly. She wouldn’t be here long. It should be simple enough to avoid close, intimate contact with him for the remaining forty-eight hours. Her emotional responses to the ex-detective were of greater concern and more difficult to control. His display of vulnerability last night was even more compelling than his charm. She was as drawn to him as she would be to a lion licking his wounds. To allow feelings to develop alongside her reckless physical desire was a Molotov cocktail of trouble in search of a spark to ignite it. She had to leash her emotions before she was drawn in too far, before she began to seek him out, began to depend on him until he turned on her. When he found out who she was, if he found out who she was, Nick would have her for an appetizer before he had Boudreaux for lunch. Uneasy, she looked back over her shoulder.

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She was deep in the stacks now. The dust from the older volumes tickled her nose. Eden smoothed her hand down the back of an especially worn book, its thick redleather binding scratched and gouged from misuse. Tugging it from the shelf, she was initially surprised at its weight. She brought it closer to her, palming the cover, coaxing it to open. The book fell open easily beneath her hand, the crackling pages protesting before revealing a vibrant illustration of a gold, green and orange dragon. Eden closed the book with finality. She needed to slay her own dragons before Monday. A tickle on her neck caused her to startle and spin around, her heart in her throat. She nearly dropped the book, expecting to see his face, expecting to feel his thumb over the pulse of her neck, before he leaned down and took her breath away with a long, lingering, illicit kiss. “Can I help you?” Eden surfaced, blinking at the sales lady, clutching the book of fairytales to her chest. She cleared her throat. “Yes. Do you have any books on voodoo?” Resuming her walk ten minutes later, Eden felt better, newly equipped with information to help her in her quest for answers. She had come to a few prudent decisions. Replace his coffee and eggs, limit contact with him by moving to a new hotel and do some solo investigating. Finding herself in front of the voodoo shop from the night before, she ducked in. The aroma of spices and unknown potions tickled her nose. An air of awe and forbidding surrounded the cramped store. The hushed atmosphere in the store was in complete contrast with the bustling street outside, as if unseen occupants within the building held a collective breath. She passed a large altar strewn with pictures and thick with candles, their lambent flames flickering and waving. Exotic objects covered in brightly colored beads hung from the ceiling, sending shards of light piercing through the dark room. Haunting dolls in glass vases stared with unseeing eyes, jars of multicolor powders littered the shelves. Eden picked her way toward the back of the shop where a young woman waited behind the cloth-swathed counter. She had shocking red hair and a gold ring glinting in her small nose. Beautiful tattoos scaled her arms. Eden placed the gris-gris on the counter. “Someone dropped this little gift in front of my hotel room door yesterday.” The young woman jerked backwards, her eyes glassy. “It’s a death wish.” “Are you sure?” “Mais Oui.” She looked down the corridor, lowering her voice. “You got forty-eight hours from the time you touched it.” “I don’t believe in voodoo.”

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“It don’t matter. Unless you see the priestess tonight, you gonna be dead soon.” She turned away and quickly scribbled an address and phone number on a notepad. Careful not to touch the bag, she shoved the paper at Eden. “Come back after nightfall. The priestess will help you.” Eden left the shop, the echoing whispers of the woman and another patron chasing her out. Boudreaux couldn’t possibly want her dead. But there was no one else. The scent of vanilla assailed her an instant before Ashley Wilder, her small frame bound in a small amethyst blouse and ivory shorts, stepped into her line of vision, blocking her path. “Dr. Chapman, what a surprise.” Eden automatically glanced behind Wilder, searching for the jean-jacketed cameraman always attached to her at the courthouse, before her eyes returned to the smirking reporter. As usual, the reporter’s makeup was impeccable, her cheeks and lips tinted, her eyebrows arched. Her hair fell in short blonde ringlets around her face, a few wisps caressing the flawless skin. She held a black and white paper bag that matched Eden’s from the market. “I have nothing to say to you.” Eden stiffly detoured around the reporter, trying to infuse as much of a dismissive tone as she could into her voice, hoping that Wilder hadn’t just witnessed her exit the voodoo shop. Undaunted, Wilder pranced alongside her. “Dr. Chapman, please, I’m not following you, I was out at the market.” She held up the small bag—it swayed with her quick stride. “And noticed you.” Eden sighed inwardly. So much for anonymity. She gave up, stopping in midstride. “Why can’t I seem to reach any one destination without being accosted?” Wilder’s eyes lit up. “You were accosted? When? Where?” “I realize this is a public street, Ms. Wilder, however, given your disgraceful reporting of Thursday’s incident, how can you stand here and expect that I’ll talk to you?” Eden looked away, trying to see the myriad faces streaming by through her seething anger. A young man covered in black clothing and safety pins jostled Wilder, mumbling an excuse. She ignored him, eyes focused solely on Eden. “I only report the truth, Dr. Chapman. Don’t be afraid of it.” “The truth is that little happened between Detective Ricco and myself in that elevator. He took his shirt off because—” Eden cut herself off. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.” “You’re not explaining it to me, you’re explaining it to the people of this city. And nowhere in my article did I misreport the facts. The detective’s shirt was removed. And according to the elevator operator, you admittedly stopped the elevator prior to the electrical shortage caused by the storm.” Wilder’s eyes opened a fraction wider in feigned innocence before she winked.

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Eden felt her hackles rise so she spoke softly. She had displayed enough emotion last night. “You deliberately misrepresented the truth to make it appear as if the detective and I were having a sexual liaison.” Why was she offering a denial? The reporter was trying to draw her in to a confrontation. It was solely up to Eden if she fell for it. Regarding the reporter with a blank face, she readjusted the grocery bag. “Aren’t you?” The reporter arched a brow, her silky voice measured, knowing. Eden remained silent. Wilder angled her head to the side. “I wouldn’t get caught up with him, Dr. Chapman.” “How do my actions concern you again?” A well-groomed, elderly man jammed a long package into Eden’s rib as he walked by. She stumbled to the side. He looked back, a frown on his face, and said nothing. “The public has a right to know about the machinations of the legal system, doctor.” Wilder stepped closer, a curl forming at the corner of her lips. “I don’t mean to implicate you of course. I believe Detective Ricco has manipulated you. Men have a tendency to do that.” Wilder looked sideways. “I’ve been manipulated myself a time or two.” Her eyes flashed back to Eden’s, anger glowing in their depths. “You shouldn’t trust him.” Taking three steps up the street, hoping to end the conversation, Eden finally shot back. “Why should I trust you?” “You shouldn’t.” Wilder stood still, calling after her. “But then again, I don’t have any hidden agendas.” Eden’s step faltered. Obviously the reporter had some information to disclose. Fine. She would let her reveal it and then move on. She couldn’t exactly lead her to the detective’s home. “Hidden agendas?” The reporter looked down the street. First left, then right, as if they were conspirators. It would have been comical if Eden didn’t want to know what Nick was hiding. She cautioned herself to tread lightly. Wilder wouldn’t reveal anything to her about Nick for free and Eden needed to keep any questions about herself to a minimum. The reporter gestured toward an open café. “Let’s grab a cup of coffee and I’ll fill you in.” Ten minutes later, Eden faced the reporter across a rickety wooden table belonging to a small open-air café. After trying several times to place the too-full cup down on the inlaid wood, and failing—the cup kept slipping toward the edge—Eden held the sapphire porcelain cup, waiting for the reporter to begin. Wilder appeared relaxed, legs crossed, as she watched the vista of tourists, perhaps relishing Eden’s discomfort. Finally she angled toward her, a glint in her eyes.

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Tearing a small corner off her heavily sugared baguette, she drawled, “I just thought you should know about the man you’re sleeping with.” Wilder popped the confection in her mouth, watching Eden with a gaze far hungrier for information. “Really, Ms. Wilder,” Eden said flatly, trying to suppress any expression of the anger infusing her body. “I didn’t join you to be baited. Detective Ricco and I are not sleeping together.” So far. Eden forced herself to return the reporter’s look. Against her will, Eden’s eyelids fluttered. Attempting to cover the faux pas, she took a sip of the hot, bitter coffee. It burned her tongue. She swallowed, feeling the burn trail down her throat. “My intuition says you’re a liar, Dr. Chapman. But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. The detective is hot, isn’t he? So much edgy testosterone, all wound up with no place to go. It makes a girl want to…well…” Wilder sat back with an exhalation of air somewhere between a sigh and a purr, licking the powdered sugar off her index finger. “Unfortunately, I prefer my men a little more civilized. Anyway, it is good that you’re not involved with him. I’m afraid Detective Ricco is still,” the reporter paused, shaking her head from side to side twice for effect, “tormented over the death of his fiancée two years ago. A death he holds the defendant responsible for.” Eden willed her gaze to remain steady. Inwardly, she gaped. “The fire that killed her is the cause of his injuries that he wears like a badge of honor. He could have had them fixed through plastic surgery, but he refuses.” Wilder continued her tale, providing more details of the detective’s past. All the while her eyes scanned Eden’s features, seeking a response. Eden tried to remain motionless, willed her face to mask the tide of emotion sweeping through her at Nick’s deceit and her stupidity. This information explained much of his behavior. She’d suspected a lost love by his actions last night. But she never would have guessed the depth of his grief or his need for revenge. Even knowing that she shouldn’t listen to a woman who may have sabotaged her career, Eden gave in to the need to know more. She seemed to be on a roll for giving in to ill-advised temptation this week. “How do you know all this?” she asked. “It’s my business to know.” Winking, Wilder flipped her head to the side, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “So Detective Ricco has a past with the defendant. Are you telling me that he railroaded the man? That he manufactured evidence? I’m sure he acted within the law.” Eden knew the moment that she said the words that Wilder would misinterpret them. She shouldn’t be defending him. She knew very little about the man. He may be capable of doing any of those things. “I wouldn’t know that of course, but I do know that the police focused solely on Courtland. Any evidence they found was used to implicate him. They searched for financial motivation, infidelities, anything they could find. They never looked for another killer. No, I don’t think Ricco was the best man to investigate the murder, 84

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although he came to the right conclusion. Courtland Boudreaux is guilty, Ms. Chapman.” Wilder set the cup down with a click. “Do you have sources that the DA is not privy to? Or is this another example of your ‘reporter’s intuition’?” Eden masked a look of disgust behind another sip of coffee. The reporter leaned forward, resting her crossed arms on the rickety table. “No. I’ve been on the beat for six years now covering murder in New Orleans, and so far I have been able to pick out the guilty and the not so guilty with amazing accuracy.” “You either are or you’re not.” “Not according to the legal system. There are degrees of guilt and within those degrees there are even more gray areas. The public is addicted to the gray areas.” Wilder glanced around at the throng of people walking by before her gaze swung back to Eden. “It gives them something to argue about over lunchtime, something to talk about during dinner. And I have the privilege,” Wilder placed a hand over her heart, “no,” she said, “the responsibility, to give them their fix every morning. It keeps me employed. I’m certain Courtland did the killing, doctor, just as I am certain your testimony will convince just enough jurors to get him off.” Eden stared at the cynical woman before her, immediately drawing comparisons to herself. Was she as bad as Wilder? Had she become as neutral to guilt or innocence? She shuddered at the thought. After all, the debate also kept her employed, but she had always comforted herself with the knowledge that in doing the most complete forensic assessment she was providing insight to the defendant’s mind at the time of the crime— providing a service, not an excuse. Yet she had never been faced with the thought that her testimony alone could set someone free, someone whose innocence was as questionable as the motives of the woman before her. The reporter continued, “Still, it is curious how the original lead detective suddenly left and Ricco was selected as his replacement.” She sighed dramatically. “I do wish I had my inside source back. It is always good to have someone in the enemy’s camp. It can provide you with all sorts of juicy, privileged information.” Eden forced herself to ignore the dig, but she couldn’t stop herself from gaping at the surprising disclosure. “There was another detective on the case?” The waiter came by to refill their cups. Some of the brown liquid sloshed over the side of Eden’s cup. Dabbing at the drops that fell to her lap, Eden continued to stare at the reporter. “Yes,” Wilder replied. “He quit and is rumored to be enjoying his retirement somewhere in the south of France.” “Are you suggesting that he was bribed?” “Boudreaux and Ricco are men who get what they want. It will be an interesting showdown, doctor, when it happens.” “Not if?”

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“When, Dr. Chapman. When.” Wilder’s face grew solemn as she looked away. “May the best man win.” Her gaze veered back to Eden’s, all gravity disappeared. Lip curling up on one side, eyes bright with mischief, Wilder crooned, “I can’t help but wonder whose side you’re on?” She tapped a pink-tipped nail against her chin, rolling her eyes skyward before dropping her chin into her palm and reestablishing eye contact. “Better yet, whose side will you be on come Monday, the defendant’s?” she said, pausing. Eden didn’t give her the pleasure of a response. “Or your lover’s?” “Thank you, Ms. Wilder,” Eden said, rising stiffly. “You’ve been quite informative.” Wilder brushed the powdered sugar from her baguette down her shorts. “Watch your step, doctor. A lot can happen between now and Monday. Enjoy our fair city while you are here but don’t get too caught up in the festivities. New Orleans is like an island of debauchery. People say and do things that they wouldn’t normally. They try to return to their normal lives afterward, but behaviors have a tendency to haunt us. You can’t run away from the memory.” Wilder’s crystalline eyes regarded her. “It’s like a tattoo. You can hide it but you always know that it’s there. Your body, and maybe your heart, are forever marked. But I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that, right?” “Excuse me?” “There are people like me, who have tattoos and proudly reveal them.” She turned, lifting her shirt to reveal two tattoos. Two small broken hearts pierced by arrows sat side by side at the base of her spine. She winced when her fingers grazed the site. “It’s still a little sore,” she murmured to herself, eyes downcast. Several shocked faces watched from a nearby table. Wilder was making quite a display of herself in the crowded café. She seemed to be enjoying it, lifting the shirt a little higher. Wilder took an audible breath and glanced at Eden over her shoulder. The reporter’s eyes swept Eden from head to toe. “And there are people like you. The idea of a tattoo is tempting, but they are far too fearful of the needle.” The reporter pulled down her blouse, turning to face Eden once again. The blaze of daylight in her swinging hair made her appear almost ethereal. “While we’re on the discussion of dirty little secrets,” she bent at the waist, peeking into Eden’s bags, “do ask Nick about his mother.” Eden sat nonplussed. Detective Ricco had suddenly become Nick. Digging into her own grocery bag, Wilder drew out a burnt orange and nut brown can. “I see you like coffee. You should try our New Orleans chicory blend. It’s Nick’s favorite. In fact, I think it tastes just like him, dark, provocative and a little wicked. Sometimes I have a cup to unwind in the evening. Take mine as a souvenir.” She dropped the paper-wrapped cylinder into Eden’s shopping bag. “I can always get more. You’ll be leaving soon.”

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Wilder straightened, giving Eden a sharp sideways look. “See ya around, sugar.” Then she was gone, swallowed up by the tide of tourists flowing over the potholed street. “What about your own agenda, Ms. Wilder?” Eden whispered to her retreating shadow. “What exactly do you get out of this?” Eden sank into the hard chair, her thoughts turning to what she’d learned about Nick. She would confront him, of course, but to what end? How could she have been so naïve? And what other mistakes would she make before this was all over?

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Chapter Eight “She’s expecting you.” At six o’clock Saturday night, Nick stood in front of the Temple of the Crescent Moon, a popular voodoo temple on the outskirts of town. The bland façade of the three story gray-shuttered building gave no indication of the vibrant voodoo ceremonies held within. The beautiful brunette standing before him was draped in ivory cloth. Another heavy wrap encircled her head. She indicated that the initiation ceremony was not yet complete, but he was welcome to watch for a few minutes. She turned, gliding in front of him. Beyond her small frame, a courtyard glowed in the distance, rhythmic drums and chanting filling the space. Within the central courtyard, several initiates stood, two tall, apparently male, and one shorter, perhaps female. Their heads and upper bodies were covered in large, plain cloths as they stood within the center of the courtyard in front of three small terracotta pots. The glow from the three small fires burning beneath the pots caused the unearthly shadows of the initiates to play along the walls. It was the trial by fire ceremony. Nick stepped through the darkened hallway into the square, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. Voodoo ceremonies had always made him edgy and he’d seen his fair share. Anxious to be done with the interview, Nick scanned the mixture of serious worshipers and curious onlookers invited to attend. The last person he expected to see in the thick of things was the runaway psychologist. Eden stood slightly apart from the others, her face radiant as the flickering light danced across her features. “Aw, hell,” he muttered. Immediately abandoning his objective, Nick eased his way around the worshipers, briefly noticing the eyes of the priestess following him. She would know who he was, Nick realized, giving a slight nod of respectful recognition. The priestess inclined her head and glanced toward Eden. A flicker of concern showed in her eyes before she resumed her duties, opening her arms wide, welcoming the gods and the initiates. Nick’s gaze careened back to Eden. Almost imperceptibly, she swayed to the right and then to the left with the rhythm of the drums. She had disappeared sometime after eating breakfast. Nick knew because he had slept in the car, keeping an eye on her. Once daylight began sneaking over the horizon

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he’d felt safe enough to return home to shower. His bare hand roamed over his shaved skin. He was three for three with stupid mistakes involving her. She was gone by the time he’d returned an hour later, the spare key left next to a short note of thanks on the sparkling tiled counter. The note was unsigned, as if she wanted to leave no evidence of her stay. He’d tracked her down to her new hotel, but no one there had seen her since she’d checked in. The French Quarter was a tight community. Nick had known he would eventually catch up to her, but he hadn’t imagined that it would be this way. Finally reaching her side, Nick inched closer until his body nudged hers as he feigned interest in the ceremony. He glanced down. She blinked at him, eyes unfocused, face flushed. “Detective,” she said slowly, as if not at all surprised at his presence. Something was going on here, something beyond fascination with the ceremony. The hair rose on the back of his neck. “Doc, you shouldn’t be here.” He slid his hand down the small of her back, testing her stability. She laughed, taking a jerky step away from his touch. It was the same mezzosoprano he’d heard in the elevator. Only this time there was a hollow ring to it. “Ever the rescuer, aren’t you? Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t need one at the moment. I am here to speak with the priestess after the ceremony, alone. Maybe then I can hear some truth from a neutral party.” “No one in life is neutral, you should know that.” “Ha. I’m Switzerland compared to you.” Nick took a breath. If she was lucid enough to argue, either the drugs hadn’t yet fully taken effect or she hadn’t ingested that much, either way he needed to convince her to leave with him. Nick drew closer, his fingers tightening around her upper arms. He leaned down and tried to speak calmly into her ear, “I’m here to meet the priestess too, why don’t we meet her together, later.” Eden peeled his hand away with hers, her palms clammy. “No, I don’t think so, I don’t trust you anymore.” She flashed him an icy look of hurt and anger. Nick blinked, surprised at the implication that she had ever trusted him, even more irritated at himself that he felt the loss of it. “Angel,” Nick cupped her chin in his gloved hand, turning her head to face him. “I don’t know what you took but, dammit, you’ve been drugged.” She tipped her chin back, easily slipping out of his grasp. “You think I’ve been drugged just because I don’t want you to touch me?” Her voice slightly slurred, “Any woman would have to be drugged to refuse your advances, correct?”

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“Other way around.” Nick scanned the courtyard, assessing his choices, trying to figure out how he could drag her out of here with the least amount of ruckus. The ceremony continued. One particularly tall initiate stared at them openly beneath the draped cloth as he dipped his hand into the boiling oil to prove his faith. Nick squinted, trying to see what was familiar about the individual. Trying to understand why his attention was locked on to them at such a time. He could swear he knew who was under that cloth—and whoever was under there knew either him or Eden, or both. The sudden suspicion that Courtland Boudreaux was under that cover speared through Nick. He shook his head. Now he was sounding overly paranoid to himself. But he still itched to pull off that sheet. Eden inched further away. Nick’s hand shot out to grab her arm. Making his choice, he growled at her, “Let’s get out of here before we make a scene.” She laughed. “Big bad Nick Ricco worried about making a scene?” She sobered for a moment. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t know how to make a scene if my life depended on it.” She stepped away from him, her knees buckling for an instant before she straightened them. The hell with diplomacy. Nick reached around her waist and pulled her flush against him. He didn’t care if he was a little rough. She would thank him in the morning. “Doc, we’re leaving right now. We can do it the hard way, where I forcibly drag your butt out of here or we can do it the easy way, where you walk on your own free will. Either way we are going to do it.” She screwed up her face. “May I ask why you keep doing that?” “Doing what?” he said, his eyes scanning the place, waiting for an opportunity to hoist her over his shoulders and get out of there. “You have five seconds to make your decision.” “You don’t get it, do you?” she said harshly, pushing against his chest, turning into him. “I’m through being led around by the nose by you, by Boudreaux and by Ashley Wilder.” Nick gawked at her. How had Wilder gotten to her today? Damn, he should have never let her out of his sight. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Maybe handcuffing her to the bed wasn’t such a bad idea. She hit him in the chest. Damn. She was a lot stronger than she looked. “I’m done with being spoon-fed little tidbits of slanted information that’s most beneficial to whoever is doling it out. Between the three of you I can’t see straight.” She struck him again. Ouch. That one hurt. He grabbed her shoulders, stilling her arms, and lifted her until she was about two inches from his face. “You can’t see straight because you’ve got an unknown substance doing backstrokes through your bloodstream. My guess is someone slipped you a roofy. I need to get you to a hospital. Now.”

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She tried to jerk away, her hands slashing through the air. He didn’t let her go this time. “That’s it,” she sputtered, voice rising, eyes sparkling with patent fury. “I will no longer be a victim.” Then she fainted into his arms. “Aw, hell.”

***** With his arms crossed and his thoughts tangled, Nick paced back and forth under the glaring fluorescent light of New Orleans Hospital’s emergency room. His nose wrinkled as he tried to ignore the sterile smell while focusing on the closed blue-gray door to Room Six. Eden was inside being assessed by the doctor. His suspicions had been confirmed. She had been drugged. He just needed the details in order to know who to kill first. Boudreaux? Naw. It would be too simple to blame him and it didn’t make much sense. But she couldn’t be that damn accident-prone either. Nobody was. She was one mishap short of becoming a professional victim. The door squeaked open and the on-call physician emerged. A tall frowning redhead with pale skin and an equally pale voice, he regarded Nick suspiciously. “Your girlfriend was a victim of a drug called GHB. Are you familiar with it?” “Yeah.” GHB was the new rave drug, the new date rape drug. Nick wasn’t surprised. GHB was a close cousin in usage to Rohypnol. The doctor continued, his frown deepening the lines in his brow, thinning his mouth. “The effects are wearing off now, but you should keep her under observation for another twenty-four hours. Look for dissociation, memory loss.” He eyed Nick over the chart. “At low doses the drug has a fairly quick recovery rate.” He snapped the nondescript chart closed, dropping it to his side. “Ms. Chapman could have been killed tonight. Your girlfriend is very lucky. She doesn’t do drugs, does she?” Nick shrugged inwardly. How did he know? “No. She doesn’t do drugs.” The physician slowly shook his head. “Well, she got close enough to someone who does to get it slipped to her. I’m afraid I’ll have to contact the police regarding this matter.” “No need.” A curt voice countered. T materialized from the open archway to Nick’s right, a solid row of candy machines as his backdrop, and circled around the nurses’ station, striding toward Nick and the doctor. He looked rumpled and tired as he flashed his credentials. “I’m Detective Falcon, I’ve just come from the ceremony where Detective Ricco found the victim.” The doctor’s suspicious gaze bounced to Nick. Nick hadn’t told him about his connection to the police department. He had been too concerned with getting Eden seen in the chaos that followed their arrival to the hospital. Nick’s mouth twisted at the irony

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of the situation. He hadn’t thought that he’d regret quitting the job so soon. He’d thought the absence of the badge would give him the power to do as he pleased. Instead, he’d lost his power to help her, relegated to the role of assumed boyfriend. Yeah, that would be the day. T continued briskly, pocketing his credentials, “I’ll take a statement from Dr. Chapman now.” “This way.” The doctor led the way to the room, knocked twice and entered, T on his heels. Nick’s ears zeroed in to the sound of Eden’s greeting, a little tired but lucid. He turned his back on the door, suppressing the urge to look in. Standing in the center of the barren hall, an empty gurney to his right, the low murmur of machinery from the nurses’ station behind him, Nick considered the situation. The Doc was in deep now. Had his actions somehow forced her into this? He’d told her to stay put at the house. But he’d also acted like a real jerk last night. Maybe she didn’t feel that he would follow up on his promise. Maybe that’s why she had gone to the ceremony alone. That, coupled with whatever Wilder told her. He could understand her mistrust. He just couldn’t understand why such an intelligent person would place herself in such dangerous situations without backup. Everybody needed backup. The physician exited the room, leveling a long look of mistrust at Nick before continuing down the hall. Nick edged toward the door. Doc may not appreciate his presence but damn if he wasn’t beginning to feel responsible for her. Through the two-inch crack in the doorway, Nick saw her perched on the edge of the bed. She looked genuinely fragile, not just scared but truly vulnerable. Damn, he could have lost her before he knew her. He stopped short. They weren’t playing for keeps. Right? She was just playing with the idea of having an affair with him. He was playing for what? He’d thought that it was just to lure Boudreaux, but now? Now he wasn’t so sure. T crouched at her knee, holding her hand and gazing into her eyes. It looked like he was proposing. He whispered something to her and she laughed. The sound of her laughter touched Nick deep within, a feeling quickly followed by a sudden flash of jealousy, then guilt. T was a married man. He certainly didn’t have any designs on the Doc. He was just trying to comfort her. Protect her. As Nick should have done. Nick slapped the door open. Eden turned her face toward him, unguarded for a moment, her expression vulnerable. He froze, caught between the desire to get out of there as fast as he could and the craving to cover her face with kisses. Shuttering her eyes, she glanced away. He forced his body to move forward, legs stiff. T rose to his full height, shielding the Doc. Now why would T think she needed protection from him? That’s right,

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because he was a loose cannon. T grabbed Nick’s arm before he could get within five feet of the Doc. “Let’s talk,” he said, jerking his head to the side, toward the doorway. Sparing Eden another glance, Nick took the few steps to the door, crossing his arms. “Who’s going down?” he ground out. “Don’t know yet. I have the name of the restaurant where she had dinner. I’ll start there,” T said flatly, scrawling in his small notebook. “She couldn’t tell me much about what happened. This drug does funny things to the brain. Along with the euphoric effects, it wipes out large blocks of time. Any pieces to the puzzle that she may have been able to provide are missing.” Nick digested the information. “It sounds like her damn theory,” he said, shaking his head. Wait a sec. Could Boudreaux have been drugged while he committed the murder? It would certainly account for the lie detector test results. Naw. For that he would have needed an accomplice. He continued, “GHB is not part of any voodoo that I know of.” “No. She may have been drugged before she arrived at the ceremony. On the other hand, not everyone who attends these events is checked out. It could have happened there.” T sniffed. “It’s a discreet society, Nick. Open when they want to be and as tight as a cheap shoe when they need to be. I couldn’t get anything out of them.” Nick felt the blood rush to his head, his fists clenched in frustration. He needed to calm down. He was no good to either of them if he let his anger take control. He closed his eyes and willed his body and mind to stay focused. “Motive?” “Only the perp knows that now. We’ll know soon enough. You take care of the Doc tonight, partner. “I’m not anyone’s partner anymore, T.” “You’re still mine whether you like it or not. The sergeant tore up your resignation as soon as it hit his desk.” T put his hand on Nick’s shoulder. “I’ll finish my report and brief you at the station in the morning.” He dropped his hand, looking back at Eden as if he wanted to say more. Nick followed his gaze. The Doc was getting her composure back. She was on the phone. Who was she calling? A cab? Fat chance. He wasn’t letting her out of his sight. “Thanks, T, I appreciate you coming out on this one.” “Remember you can’t do it alone, Nick. Nobody can.” He looked at his watch. “I better get back to work.” He turned, addressing Eden as she concluded her call. “Nice meeting you, Dr. Chapman. Take care of yourself.” T glanced back at Nick and a slight smile curved the corner of his mouth. “Take care of her,” he said under his breath before shutting the door. Alone at last, Nick thought as he swiveled toward Eden. She was fidgeting on the bed, making quite a sight with her eyes flashing sparks and the split on her skirt showing off just enough leg to be distracting.

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“Do you detectives make it a habit of speaking behind people’s back? I have a right to know what that little powwow was about,” she said. Oblivious to his lascivious thoughts, she picked her cell phone up from the bed, dropping it into her purse. Nick fought the wave of relief at her sarcasm. Good as new. Guilt knifed through him. No thanks to him. “How do you feel?” “Terrific.” She grabbed her purse, the dark hair draped over her face catching the light. He wanted to run his hands through it, grab a fistful and kiss her senseless. She tucked the curtain of hair behind her ear and regarded him with clear blue eyes. “Like I’ve just been drawn and quartered.” He edged closer, reaching out to stroke her cheek, touching her warmth. He tried to stop his eyes from following the creamy line of her throat. “Do you remember drinking anything?” he said. His voice was harsher than he meant it to be, but she felt so good. She shifted her gaze and slung her purse over her shoulder, breaking their contact. “I told Detective Falcon everything I remember.” “Fine,” he said, dropping his hand, not sure if he bristled more at her physical or verbal evasiveness. He took a step toward the door. A loud knock halted his progress. Eden heaved an exasperated sigh behind him. What now? “Dr. Chapman?” A deep male voice filtered through the door. “You called for a bodyguard?” “A what?” Nick’s gaze careened into hers. She hopped off the elevated bed, her legs buckling beneath her. She could find her own footing. She did. “You heard the man. Did you think that I would just endure these threats on my life without eventually getting some help?” Nose tilted, she tried to skirt two steps around him. “No,” he said. She stopped at his tone. “Excuse me?” “You heard me. Where did you get his name from?” he questioned, stepping into her path. “The phone book?” “No.” She crossed her arms, her gaze scaling his body as if she was trying to see if she could take him. “I called information.” “You’re with me.” She was such a tiny little thing. His eyes strayed to her breasts, swelling with her deep intake of breath. He was half hard just imagining what she looked like under that blouse, remembering what she tasted like under that skirt, at a time that was completely inappropriate. His body just had an immediate reaction to her. But he was a man, right? He could look. He slammed his eyes shut. Who was he kidding? If he looked he was going to want to touch.

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It was that simple. And that complicated. She made him want things that he couldn’t have. She cleared her throat, her gaze capturing his. “What is this, some ancient Italian-Cajun tradition? You save me three times and then I belong to you?” Nick blinked. He was sexually attracted to the woman he kissed on the rooftop. Damn. If he wasn’t beginning to like this one. He held up his hand. “Naw,” he drawled, “it’s four times, Doc. If I save you four times then you belong to me.” He ticked off his fingers. She leaned back, emotions flickering across her features. She couldn’t figure out if he was joking or not. Hell. Neither could he. “Get rid of Cro-Magnon man out there. You and I need to talk.” “Do you have any new information for me?” “No.” “No?” He jerked his head toward the door. “He can’t protect you, angel.” “And you can?” “In case you weren’t listening last night—” She avoided his eyes. Bull’s-eye. “I was listening.” “If you need a bodyguard,” he held his arms akimbo, his posture deliberately provoking. Her eyes fell to his chest before they careened back into his. “I’m your man.” His words hung in the air. A challenge and a promise. The jarring sound of more banging was deafening in the taut silence. The door rattled again from the force of the pounding. “Dr. Chapman? Dr. Chapman, are you okay in there?” Nick stepped back deliberately, giving her the illusion of control. “I would have broken the door down by now,” he said softly. With a sharp glance and a determined expression, she passed out of his eyesight. He stood, staring at the chart on the wall proclaiming the three easy steps to reduce a fever. Unfortunately, a cure for the fever he felt at the moment was not listed. He focused on her movement, listening to her soft footsteps as she moved toward the door. Nick didn’t realize that he held his breath until he let it out at the sound of her excusing the hired gun. Score one for the Doc. He would have bet that she would run out of the door as fast as her long legs would carry her. Maybe it would have been better if she had. Nick turned his head to glimpse the man dwarfing the Doc in the doorway. Hulk-like, looking just shy of twenty-five, he probably would have done a decent job guarding her. Too bad. This one’s mine.

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Concluding the short dismissal, she shut the door, her head falling forward. “This isn’t happening,” she whispered. She lifted her head, looking at him over her shoulder. “You bring out the worst in me.” “Or maybe it’s the drugs.” His hand swept toward her. “Or maybe this is you behind the pretense.” He took two determined steps forward, reaching out to open the door. His arm brushed her shoulder as he reached around her. She recoiled at his touch. He could hear her sharp intake of breath as her back snapped straight. He felt the rejection straight to his gut, like he’d been sucker punched. She couldn’t stand for him to touch her. Sure they had a wealth of sexual chemistry in the low light of the shed or the dark hallway. She even admitted that. But when she actually could see him, when she could anticipate the touch of his hand, she couldn’t stomach it. What scared her more, the face or the hand? Did it matter? He repulsed her. “By the way, Doc?” he whispered in her ear, sliding closer to her stiff body, unable to resist goading her, not wanting to admit that she’d hurt him. “You got yourself all wrong in other ways too,” he said, recalling the commotion at the ceremony when he had walked through the attendees with her draped in his arms. “You know how to cause a scene just fine.”

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Chapter Nine Eden sat rigid and silent in the leather passenger seat of the Mustang as Nick pulled up to the curb in front of the darkened cottage. It was late, dusk a distant memory. In the night sky, a brilliant half-moon shone behind transparent clouds rapidly moving toward the east. Concentrating on the silvery, sensuous motion, Eden tried to tap into their cool serenity, wrapping herself in an icy cloak of anger and betrayal. Yes. She was using him for information, but she’d thought this uncontrollable desire—this raging need for one another—had been spontaneous, not manufactured. Nick Ricco only wanted to fuck her to get back at Boudreaux. Nothing more. She hadn’t said more than six words since exiting the hospital room, through the fast food chicken dinner, through the short drive home. She couldn’t restrain her brittle fury. Even knowing the hypocrisy of her feelings, having kept her own past a secret. It was an unfamiliar gut reaction. She was hurt far too much by his duplicity, given their association, or lack thereof. She needed to get some distance and fast. “Enough,” he said, killing the ignition. Twisting to face her directly as the car rumbled to a stop, he hooked his arm over the steering wheel. “Cards on the table, Doc.” She could almost taste his anger pulsating beneath his expressionless features. “Not out here,” she said, snapping open the heavy car door. “I want to tear you apart limb from limb in the comfort of your own home.” Arguing at close range could be a fatal mistake. Their energies would only feed off of each other. No. She wanted the safety of an open room, where she could escape if she needed to. Her fury gave her the strength to look at him then, immediately regretting her action as her heart skipped at the closeness of his chiseled features, at the power of his eyes. Nick jerked the keys out of the ignition. “After you.” Eden slipped out of the car, slammed the door and stalked up the stairs, taking deep, cleansing breaths in the balmy air. Her entire body switched on full alert as she heard him lope up behind her. His large frame brushed beside her as he bent forward to thrust the key into the lock, his forearm grazing her breast. She sucked in a breath and leaned away, almost falling in her haste to avoid his touch. Too late. Sensation spiraled outward, infusing her body. She stiffened, closing her eyes. Even though she was furious, her traitorous body still reacted to him. He froze, his eyes narrowing at her reaction.

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Nick turned the key roughly, shoving the door open. She entered the living room and circled the piano. She didn’t care if it was cowardice or prudence that prompted her action, if she got too close to him she would most certainly be pulled into his orbit. She had acknowledged his magnetism earlier. It would be foolish to discount its power. She needed to keep her distance, make her point and leave. She would rather face a thousand reporters pounding on her hotel door than spend the night under his roof with the silent currents of sexual tension eroding her resistance. She knew exactly where this argument would lead if she didn’t tread carefully. She comforted herself with the knowledge that she was too smart for that. She wasn’t usually a victim of mindless emotion and she wasn’t about to get into the habit. A sudden memory of her behavior last night flashed before her. She shrugged it off. Now that she was armed with the knowledge of what he did to her, it wouldn’t happen again. Watching him beneath her lashes for a moment, she crossed her arms, gathering her nerve before she dove into the argument. “Why didn’t you tell me about your fiancée and Boudreaux?” “It was none of your business,” he said. The chill of his tone reached her from across the room, his intense gaze piercing hers, his body rigid except for the gloved hand flexing at his side. “Even when you were seducing me?” The words tumbled from her lips before she could bite them back. She eased behind the tapestry settee, gripping the wooden back, needing a lifeline for her floundering emotions. “The seduction was mutual, angel,” he drawled, stepping into the room. “Your memory is as fickle as your client’s.” Breaking eye contact, he stalked toward the sidebar. “Revenge was not my motive to sleep with you.” “I’m still trying to figure out what was,” he said, his words bitter as he stopped in front of a crystal decanter half filled with amber liquid. He poured himself three fingers of whiskey. “I’m supposed to ask you about your mother?” He jerked the glass to his mouth and downed the whiskey, his Adam’s apple working as he swallowed. Slamming the empty shot glass down, he stared at the budding-rose wallpaper. “My mother is dead.” She shuddered at his cold voice, folding her arms in front of her and roving her hands up and down her bare arms. She ached to comfort him. “I’m sorry,” she said, before looking away from the defeated vision that he made. Tonight was for confrontation, not comfort. “Ashley Wilder seems to think she might be relevant.” “The past is always relevant. But my mother is not up for discussion.”

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“What is up for discussion, detective? How about your need for revenge? Let’s discuss that.” He regarded her silently, lips pressed together. “How dare you question me?” she hissed, surprised at her vehemence, taking a step into the center of the room. “You don’t give a damn about what Boudreaux did to his wife.” “That’s where you’re wrong, Doc. I knew Catherine Boudreaux. She didn’t deserve to die.” He stalked two steps closer, his body taut. “Yes, I despise Courtland Boudreaux for what happened to Marie and that may have motivated me to work harder to build a case against him.” Stopping less than a foot away, within arm’s reach, he hooked his fists on his hips. She stayed rooted to the spot in the middle of the room. Too late, she thought, like a deer in the clearing. “But don’t fall for Wilder’s bluff. Everything I found was on the up and up. Courtland Boudreaux deliberately killed his wife. I always knew what I was fighting for and against.” “So do I. Revenge won’t bring Marie back. It won’t get my life back. Was that it? Were you just using me as a scapegoat? As a pawn to play with? I’m no pawn and you, Nick Ricco, are no knight.” “I never claimed to be.” He spread his arms wide. “I’m just a man, angel. And a broken one at that. If Wilder warned you against me on that account, she was right.” He took another sure step forward. Less than six inches separated them now. “But let’s get one thing straight.” He leaned in, impossibly close. Her heart skipped. “I didn’t use you any more than you used me.” “Touché, detective.” The truth of his words cut through her. She crossed her arms tighter, feeling the insult to her toes, still refusing to back down. “Then it’s a good thing I came to my senses last night so you didn’t have to fuck me for the cause.” “Wrong again, Doc,” his voice rasped, eyes dropping to her mouth. “Some things a man can’t fake.” She retreated then, a half step away from his raw, volatile expression, desperately needing to derail this conversation. She shot back defensively, “What else are you hiding?” “You have enough information now to draw your own conclusions. What about you? What are your deep, dark secrets?” “You’ll never know.” She turned her back on him, frantically searching the room. She needed to escape. “I know a few already.”

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She gasped at his words and spun back around, catching his gaze as it swept her body. “It’s just a matter of time before I discover the rest.” The sexual undercurrents of his voice threatened to draw her under. “This conversation is over.” She pivoted toward the door. He circled around in one fluid motion, blocking her path, powerful need rolling off him in waves. She kept her eyes locked to his throat. Do not look up. “Let me go.” “Not a chance. Someone drugged you at or before the ceremony. You sure as hell aren’t going anywhere tonight, so get comfortable.” “Get real. You can’t keep me here.” She backed up, panicking, her heart in her throat. Maybe she had pushed him too far this time. “Watch me.” His voice hardened, his temple throbbed visibly. “Why? I’m of no use to you.” He shuttered his gaze. “Boudreaux wants you now more than ever. I swear he was there tonight. He will come after you again and I’ll have him.” “Like you had him tonight?” “I made a choice. I’ll get him next time.” “To do what? Kill him?” She recoiled from his feral look. “I refuse to be your bait.” “You set yourself up as bait. I’m just reeling him in.” “I don’t need you.” He barked a laugh. “You can’t fire me, Doc.” His face clouded. “I won’t allow you to come close to that maniac. We do this on my terms now. You had your little fun dabbling in hoodoo, but the boogey man doesn’t live down here in the French Quarter. He’s sleeping under a two-hundred-year-old canopy in the Garden District.” Nick stepped closer, his eyes filled with an inner flame, greener in this light. The outline of his collarbone and the hollow of his throat stood in stark relief as his chest rose and fell beneath his silky black T-shirt. Red-hot desire eclipsed her icy fury. “What if he comes for you in the dead of night?” he said, sliding his gloved hand up her bare arm. “When you’re all alone tucked in between the cool sheets? What then? Will you call out my name as he wraps his hands around your throat?” His hand paused, his thumb caressing her collarbone. “Or will you let him touch you like I have?” She felt his touch all the way to her center. His hand swirled over her shoulder, wrapping around the back of her neck, raking through her hair. “Let him taste you?” He cradled her head, drawing her face to his until she stood on tiptoe, a puppet to his gentle pressure and to her fierce desire.

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She drifted closer, stumbling forward, her open hands splaying over his muscular chest, feeling his pounding heart beneath her palms. Her heart fluttered in response as she melted into him, lost in the tide of need too strong to deny. “Until he forgets why he’s there,” he said, his blazing gaze riveted to her mouth. His head swooped down, angling to the side, until his mouth hovered an inch above hers. The scar along the side of his face came into vivid focus for a second until her vision blurred as her eyes slid closed. Her teeth sank into her lip in a last-ditch effort to spur herself back to sanity. “Until he thinks that you’re his salvation?” His tongue snaked out, licking the tender bite mark before he gently captured her lower lip between his teeth and pulled. Her breath caught. He softened the kiss, brushing his lips across hers once, twice. Her stomach clenched in anticipation. The fresh scent of pine and the darker, sweeter scent of the whiskey emanated from him. She craved a stronger connection, wanted him to deepen the kiss. She didn’t want to hear what he was saying any longer. Her fingers clawed into the fabric of his shirt. He moved his mouth to the shell of her ear. “Can you save him, Eden?” She stiffened at the question, at the accusation, in his hoarse words. He drew his head back and waited, giving her a chance to run, to scream, to do anything to stop him. Tipping her chin up, she raised her eyes until they were caught in the vortex of his. His free hand skimmed down her spine, urging her forward until she was pressed flush against him, his thighs brushing hers. Eden’s eyes slipped closed at the same time a soft cry slipped from her parted lips. Her breath shuddered as she arched her back, craning closer. “Please—” “Can you save me?” he demanded, cutting her off, his mouth covering hers in a salacious open-mouth kiss. The hard rasp of his tongue felt glorious sliding against hers as she let him in completely, helplessly. Angling his head in the other direction, he deepened the kiss as if he needed to taste all of her at once, kissing her with a desperation she didn’t think him capable of. Her mind feebly protested. She didn’t need to be a psychologist to predict the disastrous results of this liaison. She couldn’t be Nick’s salvation. One night couldn’t erase the pain of the loss of his fiancée. There wasn’t enough passion in the world to do that. Or if there was, it was foreign to her. She didn’t have enough depth of emotion within her to give him what he needed. He needed love and loyalty from a woman strong enough to weather the storm. She was a woman who ran away from conflict, from emotion, like she was running away from her own shadow. The scars from her past were just as deep as his. They just weren’t visible. 101

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She was no one’s salvation. Not even her own. But she could not deny that she wanted him, craved his touch, regardless of the reasons why she shouldn’t. Returning his kiss, she opened for him, as hungry as he was for this mindless foray. Her breasts crushed against the back of her hands. She crawled her hands upward, glorifying in his strength, molding herself to him, stealing the warmth from his body. She buried her fingers into the thick, wavy hair at the back of his neck and drew a hand along his smooth jawline, holding his mouth against hers, demanding that he not break the kiss, telling him without words that she wanted this as much as he did. The primitive beat of the voodoo drums had nothing on the pounding of her heart beneath her breast. The rush of fear and excitement that she had felt at the ceremony paled against the overwhelming, mind-numbing feeling she had right now. Ashley had been wrong. New Orleans wasn’t a tattoo. It was a treasure chest as tempting as it was forbidden. Like Nick, beautiful and damaged, yet rich, with irresistible secrets locked inside. Secrets you were right to be afraid of. Secrets too compelling to ignore. Once, when she was a child, she drank a cup of hot chocolate even though her mother had warned her against it. It had burned her throat as it went down, causing her to gasp aloud. But the blossoming warmth she had felt in the aftermath had been worth every second of pain. She would give herself to Nick and she would live through the pain of leaving. In time her heart would mend and her body would forget his touch, but she would always have the memories to keep her warm when she looked out of her window at the silent, chilling fog rolling in. If she ever made it home. She tore her mouth from his, gasping for breath. She was drowning in him. “No,” he rasped, “not yet,” and he covered her mouth again. His tongue teased and tormented until she dissolved, delirious, yielding to the pleasure that rushed through her body, leaving her boneless in its wake. He dragged her down with him to the floor, their bodies fused together from chest to hip, her knees sinking deeply into the wine-colored Persian rug. She tumbled backward, pulling him with her until he was on his knees above her. He slid his hand down her leg and along her foot, sliding off her shoes, the right, then the left. Never breaking eye contact, he laid her back gently, his powerful thighs on either side of her own, inviting her gaze to his arousal. His jeans were tight across his erection. Her eyes closed and her body cried in surrender. He guided her blouse up over the flat plane of her stomach, raining kisses along her waist. His tongue dove into her bellybutton. He bunched the material in his hand as he pushed it higher and then higher still. His lips roved over her, sliding up until he teased

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the underside of her breasts. She squirmed under his ministrations, hips undulating against him. He pulled back, retaining his grip on her blouse, ripping it over her head. She felt the cool air tease her skin as her hair fanned over her shoulders and covered her face. She pushed the tangles back with one hand, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She took comfort when he sucked air into his lungs as if to steady himself. She could see the naked emotion in his eyes, could feel the tension crackle in the air as his gaze dropped to her breasts, trembling above their lacy confinement. She opened her mouth to speak. He silenced her with an index finger across her moist lips. “Don’t break the spell, Doc. I don’t give a damn what you call this. I know what it is. Lust. Plain and simple.” He threw the wrinkled blouse across the room. “Question is, what are you going to do about it?” His leather glove caressed the top of her breasts, pushed higher by her position. Eden lay with her elbows in the thick carpet, basking beneath his hot gaze. “Let me see who you really are, Nick, scars and all. Take off the glove.” He looked stunned for a moment before his eyes darkened. “The glove stays.” He leaned away from her and in one swift motion jerked his shirt over his head. “Everything else can go.” He edged closer, his rock-solid shoulders and forearms caging her in. “Admit it, angel. Admit that this is not some reaction to conditions. This,” he murmured, brushing the back of his hand across her satin-covered nipples, “is personal, just between the two of us.” She shifted her hips as her nipples hardened in response, feeling his touch in her very core. “You,” he said, pulling the straps of her bra down her shoulders until the lacy pink and purple cups caught on the tips of her breasts. “And me,” he continued, nestling one thigh between her slightly parted legs. His erection lengthened urgently against her beneath his jeans, his belt jabbed her naked belly. “Yes,” she hissed, “I admit it.” She would say anything, do anything to have him kiss her again, to have him inside her just once. But he was right. Although she desperately wished that she could blame this sinking, sliding feeling coursing through her blood on the drugs, on the lurid city, on anything but the two of them—the reality was more frightening. She speared him with her own gaze, craving a display of vulnerability from him. “Can you admit that this is more than lust?” He stilled his hand. “No.”

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What did she expect? Hearts and flowers? He wasn’t the type. But she did expect a little lie to further his objective. For the first time in her life she wanted a little lie. “Lust has to be enough.” He didn’t wait for her to answer this time, pulling her bra cups down and freeing her breasts. Ignoring them, he leaned forward to give her a long, drugging kiss, convincing her with his lips, his tongue, his ardor. “I don’t have anything else to give.” He circled his hand around her waist and along her spine, splaying his open palm between her shoulder blades as he bent over her, lifting her toward him, bowing her back. She urged him downward, sliding her palm over his shoulder and weaving her hand in his hair. Her head fell back as he bent to kiss her left breast, laving it with his tongue, beginning with the underside, circling around the plump middle and ending with a long deep pull on her nipple. His tongue slowly, languorously, swirled around the pebbled tip. A deep sound reverberated in the back of his throat, as if he tasted the sweetest confection. Her sanity slipping, her heart breaking, she stilled his movement. “Lust is not enough,” she said. “You deserve more.” And so do I. He stopped in mid-motion. She heard the rustle of clothing, felt the air replace his mouth on her wet nipple as he slowly sat back on his heels. “Who are you, Eden Chapman?” he demanded, raking a gloved hand through his tousled hair. Covering herself with her arm and hand, she replied, “You don’t want to know.” His body grew still. He looked into her eyes and waited. There was no time like the present. She rolled over, disengaging herself from his warmth, not sure if she could take him thrusting her away physically after she told him the truth. Twisting beneath him, she strained to reach her blouse. He straightened his elbows, lifting up. Grabbing the rumpled fabric and clutching it to her chest, she scrambled to her feet, facing him. “My given name is Angela.” She let that shocking irony sink in before she took a deep shuddery breath and continued, “Angela Eve Caplan.” He stared up at her from his position on the floor, brows furrowed, processing the information—until he jerked his head back as if he’d been shot, lunging to his feet. Obviously he was familiar with the story. “I attended school here at the university as a freshman. My ex-boyfriend and a classmate were killed in a car accident. I was also in the car. Before my ex-boyfriend died, he accused me of driving the car off the side of the road. A girlfriend found me back at my apartment, half-dressed and delirious. The story was all over the news. 104

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Physically, I wasn’t too bad off. I was the only one wearing a seat belt, but mentally… I suffered an emotional breakdown. My girlfriend checked me into a psychiatric hospital using her name and background information. For days, I couldn’t recall the accident or my part in it. I didn’t even know what day it was. As soon the doctors began asking questions I ran away. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but by the time I was healthy mentally, it seemed easier to just stay away. Days drifted into months, then into years. I’m sorry. I was young and afraid. I’m no longer either.” She pivoted away from him then, pulling her bra straps up to shield herself, clutching her blouse tighter against her until her nails cut into her palms. She put a fist to her mouth, covering her lips that still tingled from his kiss, trying to swallow the torrent of tears that threatened. She didn’t want to embarrass herself by losing it in front of him or worse, chasing after him as he walked out the door. She’d expected to hear him curse and rage over her deception, condemning her of all the things that she’d accused him of, hidden agendas, underlying motives, you name it. Right before he slammed the door behind him. She’d expected anything but the touch of his warm hands on her shoulders. “That’s another thing you’ve got going for you,” he said, pulling her back, offering the strength of his body, sliding his hands down and around her bare waist, enfolding her against him. “You’re full of surprises.” His touch was her undoing. She curled into the security and the danger of his embrace, placing her cheek against his chest. Gripping the firm flesh of his arm, holding on for dear life, she pressed into Nick. A man as infuriating as he was irresistible. A small sound escaped from her lips, too close to whimper for her to acknowledge. He did. “That’s it, open up, angel.” The deep timber of his voice reverberated through her soul. She sobbed in his arms. An eternity later, Eden found herself cradled in his lap on the couch. Eyes stinging, she sniffled and brushed at the last trickle of tears furiously with her free hand. “You’re the only one to see me like this,” she whispered through a watery smile. She relaxed until the warmth of his body and the hard evidence of his arousal beneath her bottom penetrated her fogged senses. She scrambled off his lap, scooting backward until her back struck the arm of the couch. Thankfully, she still clutched her blouse to her chest. She gave a half sigh of relief until she realized her legs still sprawled across his lap, brushing his erection. “I think we’ve said enough,” she said, swinging her shaky legs away and down to the floor, embarrassed at her state and his. “Not hardly, Doc.” He gathered her legs back across his muscular thighs. One hand splayed along her calf. His eyes met hers across her body before he stood, pulling her with him to the bar.

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His sturdy hands grabbed a decanter of golden liquid and tossed the contents into a shot glass with a splash of cola. “Drink this.” He pressed the drink into her hand. The liquid sloshed in the tiny glass with a little jackass on the front as she brought it to her lips. The gaiety of the little donkey mocked her. She’d never told anyone else her story. Never. Why this man? Her stupidity burned in her throat more than the rum. “Doc? Listen to me.” He caught her eye. “I know about that cold case. Jonathan King was Courtland Boudreaux’s son.” “That’s impossible,” she stammered. “No. He still condemns the department for shoddy police work. If Boudreaux ever found out who you are he would scramble you for breakfast.” Nick’s gloved hand cupped her face as he leaned closer, pressing her back against the wood. “You may be a fugitive but you’re no murderer. After the crash we found enough amphetamine in King’s system to kill a small army. The other male survived.” “No.” She closed her eyes and a vision of both men filled the darkness. He couldn’t have survived. “The last newspaper article I read said that his heart stopped on the way to the hospital…that he lapsed into a coma…there was a slim chance of survival.” “He survived. And after he came to, he confessed how he and King had forced you into the car. Boudreaux refuses to attribute any responsibility to his son. He still partially blames you for the accident.” A tremor reverberated through her body. “I’m so sorry. My actions were cowardly.” He pulled her close and held her. “Trying situations sometimes make us who we are not.” Again sexual tension coiled around them. His breathing deepened. “Let me take care of you tonight.” Her thigh brushed the steel of his erection. A small, wounded sound escaped her, her nipples tightening. Still captivated by Nick’s raw sexuality, she wanted him to make to love her. Still needed him to make the heartache go away, even for a few stolen moments. “Damn if I care who you were then,” he said, his voice thick. “I want to be inside you now.” He bent, gathering her dress up, sliding his bare hand under her skirt, over her knee, between her thighs until it stopped three inches from her quivering center. He parted her thighs, rocked her into him and lifted her up. His glance strayed back to the bar and she knew what he was about to do. He deposited her on the hard wood. Decanters jostled against each other as he shoved them aside, the noise as jarring as his words. “I want you as much as I did three minutes ago, three hours ago…hell, even before that.”

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A rough finger hooked around the moist veil of lace between her legs and tugged downward. He jerked her skirt down too, tugging her arms out of their protective position. And then she was naked to him, her body arched and ready. Her eyes searched his, desperate to find a morsel of truth. Desperate for comfort, even if it was only physical. Panic, surrender and desire all melded together as she reached for the promise of oblivion in his arms. He whispered hotly, “I only know that I’ve never—” his lips touched hers, his bittersweet kiss mingling with the salty flavor of her tears. “Ah, angel, I’ve never—” He bent at the waist to shuck his jeans. Never what? His beautiful cock sprang free to her hungry gaze. It looked big. And ravenous. The top of his penis was impossibly wide, bigger than the rest of his shaft. The skin across the mushroom tip stretched smooth. And she wanted it moving deeply within her. He tongued her breasts, blocking her view of his body with a powerful shoulder. He reached around her and she anticipated the feel of his hands on her back. They never came. When he caught her eye again he held a bottle of rum. She gasped. He wouldn’t. “I’ve been drunk on whiskey and bourbon. Hell, I’ve even been drunk on champagne. But I’ve never been drunk on the taste of a woman before.” He placed the tip against her nipple, drawing a circle slowly with the open bottle around the pearl-hard tip. The smell of the alcohol rose to her. He spoke over the sound of her rapid heartbeat. “When I roll you on my mouth you’re as sweet as the oldest rum and I want another taste as soon as you’re in my sights.” The bottle tipped, dribbling alcohol between her breasts. She jerked from the shocking wetness spilling down her body. He dropped his head, his mouth following the trail of rum over her trembling stomach, quickly licking up the potent liquor. She shifted her body to the edge of the bar, eager for his mouth on her, until her bottom rocked precariously there. “Tell me you don’t want this.” His nose rubbed along hers as he spoke against her mouth. A storm cloud of dark desire gathered in his eyes. His erection nudged at her, hot and weighty. “I don’t want this,” she said, sliding her leg around his waist, opening herself further. “I need this. Right now. I need you.” With a shaky hand, she touched his face, slid her palm down his body to grasp his erection. Her other hand used her fingers to open her labia. She rubbed his penis along her crease, rolling against him, craving the length of him within her as she had craved nothing before. His chest heaved as he gripped the edge of the bar, but he said nothing.

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Her fingers grew slippery trying again. She scooted closer, thighs trembling. And then the knob of his penis popped in. She writhed on the cold wood. Each movement impaled her further, torturing her with pleasure. “More.” She whimpered into the curve of his neck, tasting the salty flavor of his skin, delirious with the trembling anticipation of having him fully inside of her. He kissed her temple, pausing to let her grow accustomed to his width before sliding a finger alongside his shaft, over the hood of her clitoris, readying her. She creamed and her walls stretched further. “That’s it, angel, give it to me.” He reared his upper body back and she looked into the glazed passion in his eyes. The desire to give herself, all of herself, was so great she arched further, her body accepting his, and the remaining length of him pushed impossibly forward until his warm sac nestled against her perineum. She cradled him within her body. He felt so perfect inside of her. Big and overwhelming and male and perfect. For an instant, bitterness and anger were wiped from his face and she glimpsed his soul behind the veil of color in his eyes. “Oh.” Delicious shivers formed at the based of her spine and engulfed her body. Her vaginal walls fluttered around his penis. He grunted, gripping her waist tighter, grinding into her for an endless radiant moment and then cruelly pulled out. “Oh!” Rough hands flipped her over onto her stomach, draping her across the bar and yanking her hips backward. She arched backward. No. Not like this. The shocking feel of liquid stunned her senses as he dribbled more rum down her back to the top of her rear. Fingers kneaded her bottom, spread her cheeks, and his warm, moist tongue sampled her there, leaving a hot tingle from the liquor. He licked and kissed up her back and then she felt him behind her, heavy and urgent, his nose nuzzling into the hair at the base of her neck, his moist erection poised at her entry. He paused for a moment, a hand barely touching her back, letting her know he had control, demanding her surrender, her acquiescence, without force. She sobbed her frustration and anger into her fist, but lust had her firmly in its grip and for the moment she would sacrifice anything to have him inside of her once more. Even let him take her from behind because she was the wrong woman. She rotated her hips in the air wanting, waiting. Desire yawned inside of her, impossibly deep and wide. “It’s been so long, angel. I’m going to fuck you until you are dripping with me. Until I spoil you for any. Other. Man.”

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He filled her, feeding her rapacious desire, punctuating each word with a hard thrust, driving her forward on the sticky wood. Liquors sloshed in their crystal decanters, threatening to tumble and break as her elbow jostled against them. She couldn’t save them. She grabbed the opposite edge of the bar and held on as he rammed into her, bumping against her cervix, blending the passion and the torment. The fragrance of rum and sweat and sex permeated the air. The wet, slippery sound of skilled stroke and tortuous exit echoed again and again in her ears. She couldn’t stop her clit from reacting to the handling, but she wanted more from him. She wanted, needed, him to know who he was fucking. She pushed herself up on her elbows, twisting, leveling her leg in the air until she was halfway turned around, her thigh fused with his abdomen, her leg draped over his shoulder. She looked into his controlled expression. She reached behind him to grab his buttocks, grinding against him, milking him with her vaginal walls and relishing his surprise grunt. With her fist no longer containing them, she couldn’t stop the little greedy yelps of surprise issuing from her lips. She didn’t care. She wanted him to come hard and long inside of her, with her, for her. He threw his head back. No. She turned again until she faced him directly and hoisted herself upwards, her hands crawled up his smoothly corded spine until they reached his shoulders. She pulled him closer. Look at me. His gaze slammed into hers and held. “I know who you are, Doc.” He ground out, his teeth clenched. His hips danced against hers impossibly harder. His balls, wet with her juice, slapped against her. “Do you know what this is?” Reaching between them, he pulled back the skin protecting her clit and stroked the nub directly. He leaned forward and nuzzled the hair away from her neck, sinking his teeth into the sensitive spot. The combination was too much. “Yes. Yes, I know.” She couldn’t fight it anymore. Not his body, not his sexual domination of her. “Say it.” His fingers skillfully stroked the bundle of nerves at the center of her pleasure. “It’s…lust. Nothing more…” She choked into his ear, her hand cradling the back of his neck, her face relishing the texture of his cheek. Pressure built and she exploded again, drenching him with her cream, filling the room with her cries of completion mixed with the sound of lost hope. The sound of crashing glass broke through the deafening sound of her heartbeat. A sharp pain sliced just below her hairline. “Don’t move,” Nick choked. 109

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She turned her head to see what had come flying through the window near them. “Don’t,” he growled, a second before she screamed.

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Chapter Ten Nick cradled the black and gray marbled rock in the palm of his hand before tossing it skyward. The rock spiraled, reached its peak and fell. He caught it again, trying valiantly to ignore the sounds of the Doc struggling into her clothes. While they had been going at it like animals in heat, someone had been watching them. His eyes took in the living room. One of the opaque windows was slightly open, not more than an inch, but enough for a front row seat. Next to it, a gaping hole was centered in the window’s twin. Broken glass littered the floor like neglected confetti after a Carnival parade. Damn. He dragged his hand through his hair. He couldn’t even muster enough finesse to take her to the bedroom. He snorted. He never claimed to be Hercules in the bedroom, but he knew how to treat woman. Not ravage them on a bar or beg them for salvation. Why did he keep losing it with this woman? What had he been about to say with her splayed beneath him? I’ve never felt this way before? I’ve never wanted to be inside a woman so badly that I would walk over hot coals, take a bullet, endure any torture just to feel her touch? No. Let it be about sex, nothing more. He couldn’t hide his physical desire anymore. But his other, undefined feelings were much better left buried, before they became anything more. He said things when he was with her that he wouldn’t say to anyone else, that he’d never said before. He wanted to do things to her body that he’d never wanted to do with anyone else. There would be a time in the not-so-distant future when they would not be interrupted, when he couldn’t pull back from the edge of insanity. Then what would he do? Fuck her and then confess his undying love? Or confess his undying love and then fuck her? Hell. His love for Marie had been comfortable, like wrapping himself in his grandmother’s quilt. His feelings for Doc were unsettling because of their explosive intensity and their shocking instability. One minute he wanted to throttle her and the next minute he was kissing her senseless. He would hazard a guess that she felt the same way. This passion, feeling, whatever it was, had a life of its own. Like running from a wildfire, he had to dodge the errant embers not to get burned. Nick knew better than to get caught up in the flames. Even the hottest blazes ran out of fuel, leaving the survivors the dirty job of cleaning up the devastation. Question was—who else knew about the fire that burned between them?

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Boudreaux wasn’t the type to go skulking around the Quarter at night, but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t hire someone to do it for him. By their reckless actions, they had provided the stalker ample opportunity to strike. He wouldn’t have heard a crocodile roll through the house until it was on top of them. At least he knew that this assailant didn’t want either of them killed. If they had, he and Eden would be lying naked and dead on the sticky wood bar. The calling card smacked against his open palm a third time, focusing his attention on the offensive piece. A woman reclined in the large stone. She lay in the center of what? Knives? Arrows? This wasn’t part of any voodoo or hoodoo he was familiar with. Was the voodoo threat fabricated? Possibly. But the earlier gris-gris had been the real thing. Connected or two separate acts? He amended his earlier conclusion—her life may still be in danger from the earlier threat. At any rate, one, possibly two, entities wanted her scared enough to leave New Orleans. He looked back at the Doc, who was trying unsuccessfully to appear calm. Her eyes looked everywhere but at him. He’d bet it wasn’t every day that she received a shot to her head during mind-blowing sex. A shaky hand dabbed a handkerchief to the cut on her forehead. He ran a hand down his face. This was Eve Caplan? What were her motivations for being here? What was he thinking saying that he didn’t give a damn? He’d better give a damn. He set down the calling card and drew near her as she sat on the couch. Squatting slowly, he brushed back the tangled hair from her face, his hand cupping hers and lifting her chin. She looked like she had just been ravaged, she smelled like sex. At least the bleeding to her head had stopped. “Better?” “Yes.” Her blue-gray gaze collided with his, caught, and then slid down his naked chest to his unzipped jeans. But she didn’t recoil at his touch this time. That didn’t mean anything. “Great,” he said, standing. “We’re going out.” “I’ve had enough excitement for one night.” Her body brushed his as she stood. The same body that had gripped his shaft tighter than an angry fist. “You’re welcome to go do your detecting,” she said, gesturing toward the door, her gaze skittering around the room. He searched her eyes for a spark of fight left in her and found it. “Doc. I’ve come to the conclusion that we need help on this, since I can’t be objective. I know of only one person that I trust who can provide it.” He pocketed the rock, turned and grabbed his wallet and keys off the piano, walking through the arched doorway. “I hadn’t wanted to disturb her. But she’ll know who left your calling card earlier and if this recent gift is a sham.” He paused at the entryway, waiting to see if she would follow.

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He felt her inches behind him. “Who?” “My grandmother.” He faced her. Shoulders drooping, head down, she looked tired and defeated. He wanted to hold her again. His body wanted her back on the table to finish what he had started. He didn’t think he could ever be grateful for a rock being thrown at his head but he was. She was more of a threat than a hundred-pound boulder. “I thought she was dead.” “My biological mother is dead,” he said, jiggling his keys. “Her mother is alive, although she has been dead to me for a long time.” She scooped up her purse. “How would she know about voodoo curses?” “She’s a priestess.” “Oh,” she said, freezing in the doorway. “I need new clothes,” she gestured downward, “I’m all wrinkled.” Nick had the decency to avoid her eyes, noticing his own appearance. “We both could use a change,” he said.

***** An eternity later, the stars peeked through the dense, overhanging trees as Nick stood on the porch of a rotting pink and green Victorian. The condition of the house appalled him. What had she done with all of the money he had sent over the years? He thought that a voodoo priestess would have done a little better for herself. He and Eden had navigated the back roads in the dark. Old feelings had been resurrected during the journey there. He hadn’t seen his grandmother for ten years. When he’d lived with her as a teen he’d known these back roads inside and out. He’d played in the swamp until dark while a cacophony of bayou sounds—birds, reptiles and insects—drifted through the willow trees. The peeling burgundy door creaked open, the sweet smell of freshly baked lemon pound cake wafting through the air. “Son.” His grandmother’s voice was thin and delicate, her depthless brown eyes regarded him beneath raised brows. The classic bone structure of her face was still evident beneath the softening signs of maturity. She had once been breathtakingly beautiful, a belle of her time. She still commanded an ethereal presence even in her worn clothes. Her once-vibrant floral dress was now milky with age, her slippers grayed and ancient. She looked as neglected as the house. “Grandmère,” he said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. It didn’t work. This was the only mother he’d ever known and he’d abandoned her. Not agreeing with her choice of lifestyle, he’d turned his back on her long ago. He’d thought it was the right decision at

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the time. Make a clean break from something he fundamentally disagreed with. He cleared his throat. “Come in,” she said. Her small hands reached out to him, halting six inches from his face and falling to her side. Smiling, she moved backward, running an appraising gaze over Eden. Nick was certain a truckload of questions ran through her head. He wasn’t sure if she followed the papers or if the news of the actions of her only grandson were of interest to her. “I’m sorry, Grandmère.” What was he apologizing for? For disturbing her? Or for the past ten years? “We can’t stay. I need to ask you about the origin of this.” He pulled the gris-gris from his pocket. His grandmother made a slight clucking sound in the back of her throat, plucking the small packet from his grip and fingering it. “What have you done to make someone so angry, ma petite?” she said, looking to Eden. “How do you know it was meant for me?” She didn’t answer, shuffling forward, bisecting the two of them as she moved toward the far end of the porch. The wooden planks creaked beneath her weight. Nick turned to follow her movement, catching Eden’s eye. She glanced up to him, uncertainty etched in her face. His grandmother perched on the edge of the rickety wooden swing, patting the spot next to her. Eden sat, her dark slacks making her long legs go on forever. Her long-sleeved white blouse was open just enough to reveal the creamy line of her throat. She looked delicious. He shook his head and gripped the wooden posts of the screened-in porch, looking across the expanse of lawn that faded into the darkness, listening to the sounds of the bayou. He squinted his eyes, cocking his head as he heard a rustle of movement beyond the line of trees. Croc? Maybe. Nick turned his head. He was no better than the predator out there, callously using the Doc to catch a murderer. Eden’s soft laughter caught his attention. He shot a look at the two women, their heads together on the rickety swing. She caught his glance and smiled at him, eyes full of mischief, as if his grandmother had just told her an embarrassing teenage secret. Nick felt like he’d just been sucker punched. Damn. How could she be so alluring? He wanted to laugh with her and kiss her on the forehead. He had completely lost his focus. She may still testify for Boudreaux. He should keep his hands off. The slam of the door jolted him back to reality. His grandmother had entered the house. 114

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Nick ran a hand down his face. He hadn’t listened to a word they’d said. Eden smoothed both hands down her pant leg, glancing at him beneath her lashes. Her eyes spoke volumes—she was fuming. Pushing off the railing, Nick eased down next to her, feet splayed, elbows resting on the swing’s low back, two inches from her head. He knew immediately the effect of her nearness. His cock still remembered how wet and tight she was, how luscious her body felt writhing beneath his. He nudged the creaky swing in motion. She stiffened, crossing her arms and ankles together, grabbing the swing’s support chain and taking a fortifying breath. The same one she always took before berating him. She flashed him a look the color of a summer storm, her voice pouring out in a rush. “Is this why Wilder wanted me to ask you about your mother? How do I know that you didn’t put the gris-gris on my front door and then follow me that night, to gain my confidence, drug me and save me at the voodoo ceremony? You could be lying about everything, including Jonathan King’s relationship to Boudreaux.” “I might be ugly, Doc, but that’s a lot of work to get laid.” He let his thigh brush hers. Sliding his finger down the line of her chin, he pulled her gaze back to him. “Maybe you’re still under the influence,” he said gruffly. “I haven’t done a helluva lot of talking.” Inching her thigh away, she tipped her head back, leaving his finger dangling in midair. “Perhaps you think seducing me will allow you to control me.” Nick smiled. He hadn’t missed that tiny shudder the second he touched her. “It won’t,” she said, tightening her arms and inadvertently displaying her breasts. “Once again, angel, that’s your moral dilemma. I don’t have one.” He spread his arms wide, settling his forearm behind her head, winding his index finger in a ribbon of her hair until the silken strand tightened. “I do have an agenda though. If Boudreaux left the gris-gris, Grandmère might shed some light on it.” He lowered his voice, shifting closer and settling his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t give a damn who you are. Didn’t I make that clear?” “Crystal,” she murmured, avoiding his gaze. “It’s what you’re doing and what’s being done to you that’s my concern.” “Someone is trying to intimidate me into not testifying. How is this attack any different than what you did at the courthouse?” “At the time I thought you’d completed your testimony. But I was wrong, Doc. At least I’ll admit that much. I’ll make sure that you’re in one piece for the trial. I’ll look for other ways to get him.” She fell quiet for a moment and then, “Your grandmother doesn’t seem like a voodoo priestess.”

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He unwound her hair, allowing them both to breathe. “You were expecting headless chickens littering the yard?” he said, counting the number of cracks on the peeling porch rail. He rocked the swing forward. “No. Yes,” she said, her body swaying with the swing’s steady motion. “I don’t know what to expect anymore.” “The fact that you’re testifying for and hunted by the same man is enough fly in my ointment. Don’t always expect surprises, Doc. Some things should be taken at face value, like our attraction to each other.” He bent his head to hers. “There’s no hidden motive, no tricks and no tomorrows.” She faced him fully, her features unreadable. She was either going to curse him for touching her or nuzzle into his hand. He was both disappointed and grateful for the squeal of the front door, reminding him of their purpose for being there. His grandmother exited the house, her slippers shuffling against the bare wood. She held her favorite ruby Depression glass tray piled high with thick slabs of pound cake. Ice clinked like wind chimes against the three glasses of lemonade surrounding the sweet dessert. Nick stood, taking the tray from her. She settled herself on the swing, handing Eden a photograph of Nick as a teenager. Taken only a few weeks after he’d arrived, he leaned on the ancient oak still standing in the center of the lawn in an old pair of jeans and a torn shirt. While Eden looked closely at the sulking boy, his grandmother turned the gris-gris over in her veined hands, fingering the bits of feather and bone attached. Setting a yellowed envelope on the bench, she pulled the string, opening it slowly and examining the contents. Her gaze shifted from Eden to Nick. “Are you certain this was left by a man? This is a death spell to stay away from another woman’s lover. It’s unusual for a man to give.” What? “Are you saying a woman left that?” “No. I’m saying that it is unusual for a male to give this. Let me see the other piece.” Nick set the tray aside and handed over the rock. “This is a talisman meant for protection.” Two separate acts, two different sources. One wanted her dead and the other? Nick squatted in front of his grandmother. “Who sent the gris-gris, Grandmère? Don’t these things have signatures?” “Sometimes, son,” she said, plucking a soft red and black feather. “Unfortunately, this is not the work of anyone that I know. I haven’t been a part of the voudoun community for quite a few years now.” Nick’s heart dropped. She hadn’t practiced openly since he left? How had she made a living? He found it hard to believe that his disapproval had prompted her giving up the practice. All of this wasted time. His stubborn behavior had cost him a valuable relationship.

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She turned to Eden. “I am sorry I could not provide a complete answer for you, my child. But I could make something to protect you from the evil pursuing you. Make no mistake. The stone is the weak work of an amateur, but whoever sent you the grisgris…the hatred she feels for you is quite real.” “He.” Nick interrupted. She looked puzzled for a moment. “Yes. Well.” Eden grasped his grandmother’s hand. “Thank you for the offer. But I cannot accept. I prefer to defend myself on my own terms, not my assailant’s terms.” “Very well then.” His grandmother reached into her left pocket. “I do have something else for you,” she said, revealing a gold ring with a small opal set in an ornate circle in her palm. Nick recognized the ring. It had been his mother’s. Eden looked startled for a moment, then jerked her hand back. “I can’t take that.” Grandmère slid the stone onto Eden’s finger. “There is no spell on the ring. It is only for strength, my child, nothing more.” She patted Eden’s hand with a self-satisfied smile. “Follow your convictions. They are strong and so are you.” Nick turned away. The morning light had begun to fade the sky a shade lighter over the tall willow trees in the distance. Dawn. Sunday. Only twenty-four hours left. He reached out, pulling Eden to her feet. She still stared at the ring on her finger. “We have to go.” “Au revoir, mon coeur.” He looked again at the broken porch and wondered what the inside of the house looked like. Well. Maybe he could come out on the weekends and do a few projects. “I’ll be back to fix the swing.” “You are always welcome.” Grandmère pulled the yellowed envelope that she’d brought out with the cake from the bench. His name was scrawled across the front of the paper. “I don’t need your money, son.” Thousands of dollars spilled from the opening. “I never did, I just need you.” Nick shot his hand out and gently squeezed hers, feeling the bones beneath her velvety skin. She stood, an elderly woman with young eyes. They faced each other for a moment before she wrapped him in her arms. She still smelled of baby powder and hyacinth. He’d made a mistake. What had been frightening and exotic to a teenage boy was not so to a grown man. His grandmother wasn’t evil. He could still love her and not agree with her practice of voodoo. “I’m sorry for misjudging you, Grandmère,” Nick said, closing her hand around the money. “For misjudging Mama.” “Your mama was certain of your love before her death. The lines between good and evil are not as clearly drawn as we want, son.” Her eyes drifted to Eden. “Especially in

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people. Do not judge others only by what they do. What’s in their heart matters as well.” Nick couldn’t meet her eyes. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to hear her words. “Find it within you to forgive others for their flaws and to forgive yourself for your own.” “Yes, ma’am.”

***** “I need to interview him,” Eden said, bracing herself for his reaction. She stood holding an open bag of tomatoes, a parcel of oysters and parsley. It appeared that only the locals got up to shop at the French Market at five o’clock in the morning. People with a varied array of skin colors milled among the rows of produce, chatting and laughing in the morning rays. Their Cajun accents added to the romantic atmosphere. A kaleidoscope of fruits, vegetables and nuts overflowed from stands composed of painted wood and cardboard boxes. Streamers of fragrant garlic draped from the ceiling of the open-air market. Nick was debating with a vendor over the freshness of the tomatoes when Eden made her proclamation. He looked at her, green eyes unfathomable. They’d spoken little about their situation since leaving his grandmother’s home. Eden was fine with that, needing some time to think through her surrender to him last night and the implication of their visit. She wished that she hadn’t witnessed his interaction with his grandmother, wished she hadn’t seen a softer side of him. He hadn’t seen his grandmother in ten years and yet he went to her when Eden needed help. Trying not to become affected by his actions, she focused on his irritating stubborn side, which still far outweighed any softer personality trait. That stubbornness was sure to stop her from seeing Boudreaux alone. Unless she convinced him otherwise. She had to get to Boudreaux. Eyes darkening, Nick added a tomato to the bag she held, his chest brushing against her shoulder and upper arm. She prepared her argument as he opened his mouth to speak. “I agree.” “Excuse me?” she choked. “I’ve used decoys before, Doc,” he said, brushing by her shoulder, past a stand overflowing with plantains and headed God knew where. She took a steadying breath before spinning after him, catching up to him in front of a stand of succulent red and orange mangoes.

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His breath tickled her ear as he bent his head to speak, “I’ve got some other plans in the works. I hope they pan out but if they don’t—” Leaning over her shoulder, he took the bags. “Then I’ll need you.” She shook her head. “No. Not like that. Anything I learn from this interview is privileged information.” By unspoken agreement they headed to the car parked up the block. She continued, “You won’t be a part of it, no wires, no observation. It would be unethical.” “What he did was unethical,” he said flatly. His gaze searched the faces around them as he opened her door. “You’ll never win this game if you’re the only one playing by the rules, Doc.” She slid into the low-slung vehicle. When he had folded himself in the driver’s seat, she continued more vehemently. “I will meet with him alone because I need to testify in less than twenty-four hours. You need to back off, detective.” He snorted. “What makes you think he’ll give you any more information than he revealed in the initial interview?” he said, starting the car and sliding out into traffic. “He’s arrogant. And because of that, he underestimates people, especially women. He may reveal something by mistake.” Sighing, she watched the streets pass by in a flash of color. “Truthfully, I don’t know if he will or won’t reveal anything new. But I have to see him. Without you.” He fell silent. She almost preferred his arguing. At least then she knew what was going on in his head. She shook herself. Why was she so concerned with what he thought instead of what she was going to do? Once they arrived at his place, Nick surprised her by taking over the little yellow and blue kitchen, his presence filling the small space. They didn’t speak of the possible meeting, preferring to ignore their current circumstances as much as possible. They talked about the mundane, chatting about the difference between Creole and Cajun cooking. Nick cracked eggs and sliced tomatoes, creating a traditional Cajun breakfast on the ancient white Magic Chef stove. In a moment of companionable silence, Eden leaned against the warm oven, watching his hands efficiently perform the domestic task of adding the ingredients to the hot pan. Fascinated by the golden hair sprinkled down his arms, her mind flashed to the moment it had tickled her back when he’d been inside of her the night before. Her body swayed closer to his. Her heart tripped over itself before taking off in a gallop. She sucked in a breath, closing her eyes and rubbing her fingers against her temples to purge the memory.

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Nick stopped his explanation mid-sentence, his eyes immediately heated, as if she’d broadcast her thoughts telepathically. Their easy conversation deteriorated after that. She tried to mask her awareness of him, maneuvering around him at arm’s length. Did her best to respond to his looks with brief glances and to his conversation with coherent replies. He evaded her as well. Unfortunately, making a concerted effort not to touch each other physically was an avoidance dance—as seductive and potent as if they’d embraced. Eden was even more intensely aware of him physically. She tried not to stare at his hands as he worked, tried not to breathe when his body nearly touched hers. But it was no use. Sexual tension simmered beneath the surface, fueled by memory and anticipation. They ate opposite one another across the spotted Formica table, speaking haltingly of the weather and the architecture of the city amidst long awkward pauses. Gathering their dirty dishes from the round table, Nick rose and took two steps to the sink. Eden’s gaze feasted on his body as he moved, imagining his wide chest and taut stomach beneath the tight T-shirt. Her gaze dropped down to the heavy silver buckle of the thick black belt on his jeans. Her fingers tingled. She ached to run her hands over every inch of him. Slowly laying down her napkin, she took a fortifying breath. Just a few more minutes, she told herself. She could survive a few more minutes. While taking her place at his side to wash the dishes, her shoulder bumped into his as they both reached for the checkered dishrag, her wrist sliding along his forearm. White-hot energy flowed from their contact and her whole body weakened as if he’d touched her intimately. She stilled her hand, forcing herself to move it back slowly. “I prefer to wash,” she said sharply, allowing herself to look up to his chin but no higher. Dropping the small cloth, he opened a nearby drawer and removed a floral towel. “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll dry.” Beneath the water’s surface, her fingers glided over the only dishes they had been able to find—antique Wedgwood china framed with an intricate lace-edged pattern. She rinsed a teacup carefully, holding it with both hands. Unfortunately, her fingers opened too quickly while handing it to Nick. She gasped, horrified, as the ivory cup careened toward the wooden floor, already hearing the shattering porcelain in her mind. They dropped down simultaneously, somehow saving the cup between the two of them. They stood, hands intertwined around the delicate china, holding onto the piece and to each other.

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Eden’s voice left her in a rush as she looked up at him, smiling. “I thought I’d ruined it.” She tried to concentrate on balancing the cup and not on the warmth of his hands or how her heart had ceased to beat. “It’s just an old cup.” “Oh, no, it’s a piece of your family history,” she said, cradling the cup in her hands, “of your history. You should treasure it.” She raised her eyes to his, her smile fading at the intensity in their depths. “Maybe I should let it go,” he said, his voice husky. The force of their desire radiated between them as if someone had cranked the stove above five hundred degrees. Their bodies were only inches apart, seconds apart. The fragile china teacup remained clutched between them, the only reason they touched and the only thing that kept them from embracing. He worked it from her hands and set it gently on the counter, holding her paralyzed with the force of his gaze. His right hand gripped hers tightly as if he thought she would run if he let her go. He was right. “Nick,” she cautioned, stepping back and tugging her hand free. “I need to prepare.” She had to get out of there. Here she was playing house with a man so tormented by his past that she should be sprinting in the opposite direction, not into his arms. “Yeah.” He stalked over to the kitchen table. Palming the other teacup, he took a sip of coffee. “Don’t tell me anything about the meeting. Where it is—” She ached to sample the coffee on his lips. All she needed to do was stand on her tiptoes… She swayed, gripping the edge of the countertop, the opal ring clicking against the tile. “I hadn’t planned to—” The loud clink of cup against saucer effectively silenced her. “I’ll clear out now,” he said. “Thanks for the coffee.” Her words tumbled out nervously, “I prefer it to the chicory blend the reporter gave me. I don’t know why I even tried it.” Maybe because she said it was your favorite. He stiffened. “Wilder?” She knew what he was thinking. She shook her head. “The coffee was directly from the market. I saw her take it out of her shopping bag.” He eyed the package on the counter before picking it up. “You never know.” He looked at her closely. “You’re exhausted. Get some sleep over the next few hours. But rest assured, I won’t be far. I’ll speak to you on Monday.” “You said yourself there are no tomorrows. I’m turning myself in immediately after my testimony,” she said, staring at the gilded wall clock over his shoulder and straightening her back. It was better to leave things as they were, raw and unfinished. A formal goodbye later would be even more awkward, and more rife with the possibility of making an irreconcilable mistake. 121

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He took a step toward her, halting when she took a quick breath. “I’ll take you to meet with the investigating officer.” “No.” “I’m not asking, Doc. He may not need me to work things out with the DA but I will be there from start to finish. You’ll be getting on a plane home soon enough. But we need to talk first.” His gaze strayed to her lips. “And after Monday we can discuss what this is,” he said, motioning a hand through the silver energy sizzling between them, “without interruption.” “Maybe it’s fate that we keep getting interrupted. Maybe we weren’t meant to finish a conversation that would only lead to disaster.” His body tensed. Oh, please don’t come any nearer. The closer he got, the weaker she became. “I thought you didn’t believe in fate or magic or chemistry,” he said softly. “What are you afraid of?” “Myself.” “Fair enough,” he said, stepping toward the door, “For now.” His hand was on the brass knob before she called after him. “I’m not saying I agree to your being there today, but stay close if you are.” He stopped mid-stride, shoulders taut, but never turned around. “I’m not saying I will be there. But yeah, I’ll be close.” His voice was so low she had to strain to hear it. “Real close.”

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Chapter Eleven “But who are you looking for, mon coeur?” Eden stiffened as a silken voice spilled into her ear. “Your destiny is behind you.” She stood underneath a garish red sign proclaiming the popular restaurant’s logo, her back to the front door, and apparently to her dinner date. Taking a fortifying breath, she tugged down the short black jacket and smoothed her hands down the matching skirt. The suit material was silky but the A-line was modest enough so that it didn’t cling. The last thing Eden needed was for a murderer to get any additional ideas. Turning, she found the handsome defendant only inches away, looking splendid in jet-black slacks and a silky midnight-blue dress shirt. Not a single thick strand of black hair was out of place. His brown eyes, as beautiful and as dangerous as the swamp, sparkled with mischief and something darker. “Mr. Boudreaux,” she said, finding her voice. “Thank you for meeting me at such short notice.” “I was pleased to get your invitation to dinner. I hope you don’t mind that I insisted on such a tourist trap?” He bent down toward her. “It is actually only a trap for a select few,” he purred, his lips stretching in a secret smile. She blinked. He couldn’t possibly know why she was there. “Not at all, our interview can be conducted anywhere we can speak privately,” she said, scanning Royal Street and the balconies above once more. Nick had been true to his word. She hadn’t seen him since breakfast. She wondered if he was even around. She certainly couldn’t feel his presence anywhere. “Of course.” Boudreaux stood patiently, arm extended. She touched her fingers to the bend of his arm, not wanting to offend him. He stepped closer, pulling her hand more securely against his biceps and placing his hand over top hers as they moved through the heavy oak door. Eden glanced over her shoulder one last time. Where was Nick? She found herself being led through the crowded formal dining room to the restaurant’s lush courtyard. Ten intimate tables, all deserted, sat amidst pots overflowing with ferns, devil’s ivy, orchids and numerous tropical plants she couldn’t name. Boudreaux ushered her deep into the secluded space toward a table for two in the back corner. Two scarlet velvet chairs were positioned on either side of the small square. A third green chair had been pulled up haphazardly.

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Bending over her as he pulled out one of the chairs, he crooned, “Ah, but you smell positively appetizing.” “Mr. Boudreaux, please don’t misunderstand the purpose of this meeting,” she said flatly as he eased into the chair opposite her. She fought the urge to wipe away the lingering feeling of his breath on her neck. His mouth curled. “You mean that you have not come to take advantage of me?” “No. I came to ask you about gris-gris that was placed on my door the night you visited my hotel.” She paused at his blank expression. “Before you answer, I must caution you that any information provided to me will be revealed to the court.” He leaned back, his eyes measuring. “So it is true Detective Ricco has managed to sway you to his side.” Shaking his head, he adjusted the silverware next to his plate. “What is it about desire that makes a woman do just about anything?” She put up a hand. “Mr. Boudreaux. Please.” His hand shot out, capturing hers. She fought with him for it as he entwined her fingers in his, bending her body across the white tablecloth until she was pressed uncomfortably against the edge. Reaching into his jacket pocket with his free hand, he revealed a large yellow envelope before pressing it against her palm. “You two have not exactly been discreet.” The triangular edge of a grainy black and white photograph peeked out. Eden’s heart stopped. A purple-vested waiter appeared at their table with the wine list. Boudreaux ordered as Eden sat stiffly. Once the waiter left, Eden dropped the envelope onto the table, her eyes flashing to Boudreaux’s vacant stare. With an index finger against the table and the photo, she eased the picture out. She and Nick stood poised in front of his place in the Quarter, on the evening of their first kiss. Even upside down, the chemistry between them was quite clear. They gazed into each other’s eyes as if they were just about to make love—or had just finished. Eden’s brows drew together. Although their sexual desire for each other was more than evident, the picture wasn’t sordid. Another emotion softened her expression, something more elusive. She looked at Nick as if…as if… “You’re very photogenic.” Her hand slapped down on the photograph. “You’re disgusting.” The waiter reappeared, pouring the wine. “Au contraire, ma petite,” Boudreaux continued, unaffected by the waiter’s presence, “it is your behavior that is disgusting. You and your detective’s.” His long fingers brought the glass of wine to his mouth. “How naïve of you to believe that I would not keep close tabs on my prized possession.” Eden couldn’t stop a quick intake of breath. 124

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“Oh yes, I am quite aware of the liaison you are having with him. These photos are rather mild. There are,” he paused, watching the candlelight reflect off the Merlot, “others.” Nodding his satisfaction to the waiter, he replaced the glass back in the exact spot he’d arranged earlier. Swallowing her desire to rip up the photographs and go running back to her hotel, Eden dropped her shoulders back. “You can’t keep blackmailing me, Boudreaux. If those pictures become public, I’m a liability to you.” He chuckled softly. “So upstanding after your table dance with the detective. You misunderstand, mon couer.” The gravelly tone of his voice scratched the nerves down her spine. “You were always a liability. I have friends in the DA’s office. If you don’t behave on the stand, you’ll rot in prison.” He took a finger to close Eden’s gaping mouth. “You may be his tonight, but tomorrow—I own you.” “Enough.” Nick materialized over Eden’s left shoulder, his eyes blazing with hatred. She was never so happy to see an angry man in her life. Courtland’s cold fingers slid down her neck before he withdrew them, propping his arm across the back of the chair. “Ah, Detective Ricco.” His eyes flicked upwards and then back at Eden. “Join us? I’m quite sure we can all be civilized.” He took another measuring look at Nick. “At least, I can.” Nick straddled the third chair. “Leave the Doc out of this, Courtland. This is between you and me.” “Curious. I thought it was between myself and the State of Louisiana.” Boudreaux’s lewd gaze roamed over Eden. “Tell me, detective, how is she? I did want her for myself. Unfortunately, I don’t deal in my son’s used goods. Or used goods in general.” “Only stolen ones,” Nick interjected. Boudreaux’s eyes glinted in the candlelight. “Are we back to that pitiful line of questioning, detective? I would have thought you would have learned by now. You give new meaning to ‘beating a dead horse’.” Eden scooted to the edge of the chair, preparing to stand, her gaze bouncing back and forth between the two men. She had to get Nick out of there. “Our interview is over.” “Au contraire, we have just begun.” A movement in the corner of her eye caught Eden’s attention. Two very intimidating men appeared from the arched doorway to Boudreaux’s right, flanking Nick. Her eyes skipped back to Nick’s face. His expression tightened but he didn’t move a muscle. He spoke calmly, “Cowards always travel in packs, Doc. Sit down.” Eden sat, too stunned by the circumstances to protest the order.

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“Yes, listen to your lover, ma petite, because I do want to finish our interview.” Boudreaux angled his body toward Eden, effectively dismissing Nick as a threat. “No. I did not place the gris-gris on your door. I didn’t kill my wife any more than you killed my son. Or is the standard line here ‘I don’t recall’?” “Are you a practitioner? Did you have someone else do it?” “Ah, the twenty-thousand-dollar question. If I say yes then you bring up malingering in court. If I say no…” “Just answer the damn question,” Nick ground out. Boudreaux straightened slowly, as if he was surprised that there was a third person at the table, and turned his attention to Nick. “As testy as ever, detective? It is a shame that you cannot get over the loss of your fiancée, even in the arms of my beautiful Eden here, but she was going to leave, you know?” “She?” Boudreaux’s eyes dropped dramatically to the picture still exposed on the table, his hand toying with the corner. “How soon we forget,” he whispered. “Marie. Your fiancée? She confided to me, before her premature death, that you had become too much of the job,” he waved his hands. “Too concerned with making the transition to Homicide that you were never, ah, available to her anymore.” Eden’s gaze snapped to Nick’s face. Boudreaux and Marie? In a heartbeat, Nick lunged at the calm defendant, grabbing his shirt just below the neck and upsetting the wineglass so that it splashed onto the silken blue material, the stain spread outward in a blood-red arc. The guards reached Nick swiftly. Eden was certain they would snap him in two as soon as Boudreaux gave the order. Instead, Boudreaux gave them a look to back down. He wasn’t done yet. Although he appeared vulnerable to Nick physically, his eyes held the arrogance and contempt of a man in complete control. Eden went on full alert. The third chair. She hadn’t been Nick’s bait to lure Boudreaux. She had been his bait to lure Nick. Nick was a time bomb and Boudreaux had just set the clock. “I no more killed your fiancée than you did with your eager ambition,” Boudreaux rasped. “You sent her out alone.” Nick’s fist tightened. Eden grazed a tentative hand along Nick’s arm. Distracted by her touch, he relaxed his grip slightly, flashing his green eyes toward her until Boudreaux hissed out, “I was there to comfort her.” In the fraction of a second Boudreaux’s head snapped back from the force of Nick’s punch. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

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He left the blood, tsking as he leaned in closer to Nick’s face. “Rest assured, detective, it was my child she carried when she was killed.” He paused, “At least I think so.” His tongue sampled the blood from the corner of his mouth. Eden’s heart stopped waiting for Nick to explode. He didn’t. Boudreaux continued, “All that magnificent beauty,” he said, closing his eyes as if savoring a truly decadent meal. “Ah, but there was so much more to her. I especially loved her little frog collection. Whatever happened to those cute little trinkets? I bought one for her, a little emerald green one with red eyes. I’d like it back.” Nick released Boudreaux and sat back in the chair, shrugging off the two goons. His eyes registered the pain from Boudreaux’s words and something else…curiosity? “I threw them away.” “Pity. How easily we let go of our loved ones.” She needed to stop this. “Mr. Boudreaux…” “Isn’t that touching, she’s trying to protect you. Women can be so,” he paused, a slow smile filling his face. Eden had never seen someone look so handsome and so evil at the same time. “Useful.” He motioned toward the guards as he stood. “So now our interview is over. Feel free to have dinner on me. I will see you in court tomorrow,” he said to Eden. Turning, he threw back over his shoulder, “See you in hell, detective.” “It’s a date,” Nick spat out. He sat, frozen in place, staring at a bountiful flower arrangement next to the table, pink roses and blue hydrangeas bloomed vibrantly. Steepling two hands on the table, Nick rose stiffly, head down. “T is outside,” he said softly, his voice seething anger. “Go home. He’ll watch you tonight.” “You knew about the pregnancy? You do want him dead.” Her tone was accusatory, her eyes pleaded with him. “I didn’t give a damn about who the father was.” Giving a wry smile, he angled his head toward her. “Kiss me goodbye,” he whispered before his mouth swooped down on hers, capturing her lips. Tilting her head back, Eden poured everything she had into the quick feverish kiss. “Nick, no. He’s gotten away with murder once, maybe twice. Don’t let him do it again. I won’t testify…” “I have to go,” he breathed into her mouth. Struggling to hear his words over the rush of blood in her ears, Eden managed a strangled “No,” as he turned and lurched through the same archway the defendant had passed through seconds earlier. She closed her eyes with the knowledge that she wasn’t enough to stop him from destroying Boudreaux and himself. God only knew what he was about to do. Had he become no better than the man he sought revenge against?

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***** The old mansion reeked of wealth. A large porch embraced the lower level of the structure while intricate ironwork fashioned in an ivy pattern wove its way over both levels. Seven of the ten windows in the front façade were shrouded like so many blind eyes. Nick was less interested in the façade, however, and more concerned with the goings-on within. Positioning himself under the arms of the towering oak on the back of the property, he scanned the few lit portals for a sign of the murderer and wondered how long it would take for Boudreaux to realize that his two bodyguards were out of commission. Pulling the nine millimeter Glock from his light jacket, Nick shuffled forward. He was tired of waiting for justice to be served. Tomorrow would be too late. He shook his head, trying to dislodge a vision of Boudreaux and Marie embracing. Marie would never, could never do such a thing. Nick shuddered, remembering. They had argued more those last few weeks. She’d wanted to go out on more calls alone. Was it possible? No. Yes. His knees locked up, legs buckling beneath him. Cursing his weakness, Nick pressed a hand to his injured side, breathing heavily. The two bodyguards hadn’t been as cooperative as he’d expected. Sinking to a crouch, he lowered the gun between his knees. How had his life brought him to this point? Yes, he wanted a confession out of Boudreaux and he wanted to cut him down a peg or two while he got it. But was he willing to kill him? Yes, part of his mind insisted. He shouldn’t mind going down if he could take Boudreaux with him, right? Eden’s face flashed in front of him before he dismissed it. She couldn’t be his salvation if he didn’t want to be saved. He shifted in his position, recalling the final few seconds in her arms. He’d had to reach inside to pull the pain of Marie’s loss forward to make him leave her at the restaurant. If he let her, she could make him forget the past. He shook his head. Not while a murderer walked the earth a free man. So why wouldn’t his body get up and get on with it? His conscience always picked a hell of a time to rear its ugly head. He knelt there for an eternity, contemplating the weapon and inhaling the smell of the freshly cut lawn. Aw, hell. He couldn’t do it. It would be too easy to take Boudreaux out this way. A hollow victory. Boudreaux would become a victim and he, Nick, would become the defendant. He couldn’t

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dishonor his grandmother or Marie this way. His head snapped up with a sudden realization. He wasn’t ready to leave Eden. Not just yet. He silently blew out his disgust with the whole situation while Boudreaux’s taunts from the restaurant waltzed through his brain. Something Boudreaux had said felt significant. But what? He had been slick and cocky as usual, but his demeanor had changed when he had asked about Marie’s collection. What was so important about one little porcelain frog? Something didn’t smell right. A soft click to the right of his head centered Nick’s attention on the here and now. T’s voice reached him from behind the twisted tree trunk, “Drop the gun.” The muzzle of a gun, the only object Nick could see in the shadows, pointed directly at his head. Nick stood slowly, arms akimbo. “Why stop me, T?” he whispered, his words sounding empty even to himself. “He’s the bad guy.” “Put the gun down, man. We can solve this without the blood.” “Too late, my mind is made up.” Nick looked at T for a long while before coming to his final decision. Tossing the gun to his right hand he handed it, butt first, to his partner. T looked surprised for a moment before his body relaxed. “Good thing,” he said, gingerly taking the weapon, “since you look pretty beat up.” “You should see the other guys.” T’s chuckle rolled into Nick. T’d always had a crazy sense of humor. Nick felt winded, like he’d just run a marathon, and he knew only some of it had to do with Boudreaux’s guards. His head jerked up. “Eden.” “Deuce has her.” “Thanks.” He couldn’t stop the weary smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “How did you know I’d be here?” T shook his shoulder. “If I knew you would eventually come here don’t you think Boudreaux does too? That’s what he wants. I can see the headlines now, ‘rabid cop threatens defendant’. Who do you think will come off smelling like a rose and who do you think will come off smelling like three-day-old gumbo?” Etienne drew a hand to Nick’s shoulder. “This won’t bring her back. If the Doc doesn’t let him off he’s as good as dead in jail.” “I can’t let her do that. I can’t let her sacrifice herself for me.” “So what? You came here to kill him in order to let Doc off the hook.” Nick allowed himself to be maneuvered away from the shadows beneath the tree. He almost missed the tall lanky figure materialize at the window to the right of the upstairs balcony. Boudreaux should be the one sneaking around in the shadows. Nick didn’t care where T was taking him. He only cared that he’d failed in his only objective.

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T’s voice broke through his self-pity. “So what’s up with you and the Doc?” “Nothing.” Everything. “Contrary to popular opinion around the station, I do have some instincts. And after seeing you two together at the hospital… Well, I’ll save my diagnosis for another time.” T picked his way over the damp grass in his five-hundred-dollar loafers, cursing as the blades curled around the toes. T was the epitome of a tailored man. He even had manicures and pedicures. The irony was that he was male. He had to swat the ladies off as they swarmed over him. Nick shook his head as he smiled. It was a remarkable sight. Yet T was happily married to his high school sweetheart. Had been for ten years. He paid no more attention to other women than slight amusement at their antics. His wife was pregnant with their second child. When Marie was alive, she and Nick would go to T’s house for barbeques on long Sunday afternoons in the bayou. Nick would watch the boy run through the grass so fast he looked like he was flying. Nick and Marie had shared their unspoken desire for children of their own. He had secretly wished for a little girl with brown curls like her mommy. He’d almost been able to picture her. Nick closed his eyes to recapture the moment. His daughter came running to him, but instead of brown curls, her hair was raven, shining in the light as she stood laughing in the dappled morning sun. The light reflecting off the green grass was so bright she had to squint, but he could still see her eyes. They were the same smoky blue-gray as her mother’s. A hand on his shoulder jerked him back to the present. Nick looked around. Through the car window the tall whitewashed tombs of Cemetery Two glowed in the moonlight. The silent stones lined in makeshift streets stared back at him. He turned to his friend. “I can’t do this tonight.” “You can and you will. You need to see her, let her know that you’re all right. To know that she is too.” T unlocked the doors from the driver’s side. “I would go with you, buddy, but these places give me the creeps.” Reaching to the back seat of the car, he pulled out a small package. “By the way, I found this on the passenger seat of Marie’s car the night she died. I didn’t want you to throw it away with the rest.” T unwrapped the object, the crinkle of the tissue paper a startling sound in the silence of the car. The ruby eyes of an emerald frog stared back at Nick. It had one orange stripe down his back and was otherwise spotted from nose to webbed foot. Boudreaux’s frog. Had to be. Nick was sure it was the representative of a poisonous variety, he just wasn’t sure which. Nick cradled the little frog in his hand. T smiled. “Go on. Tell Marie I said hello and say your goodbyes.” Nick jerked the car door open. To hell with it. If it was a night for revelations so be it. In the morning Boudreaux would walk and Nick would fade into the shadows, maybe sink into the sweet oblivion of whiskey for a year or two. 130

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Nick moved through the tombs. The air was different here, pregnant with peace and unease. He walked back twelve steps and seven tombs to his right. He was surprised that he remembered where she was. There were newly cut yellow roses on her grave. She’d always said yellow roses made her happy. Nick made sure she had them, but this was the first time he’d seen the florist’s standing order. Placing the frog on the top of her tomb, he knelt down on the cold cement, removing his glove before smoothing both hands along her name. “Marie.” The silent stone regarded him. Nick put his head down, unable to face her with his failure. “I can’t do it, Marie. I can’t kill him,” he choked, finding the flood of tears that had refused to fall since the funeral. “Did I somehow send you into his arms?” Silence. “Can you forgive me?” A cool breeze carrying the scent of the yellow roses blew across his face, drying his tears. Nick angled his face into it, his gaze searching the heavens, silently asking for the strength to go on. It was the closest he had come to prayer since her death. Rising, he left the glove where it lay and grabbed for the frog. It slipped through his fingers and then toppled downward. An anguished curse tripped from his lips before he caught the little green creature with his bare hands. That was close. Nick pivoted on one heel and headed home.

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Chapter Twelve A light sound teased the edge of Eden’s slumbering mind. Music? The dulcet strains of a piano solo seduced her senses, beckoning to her. It was a moment before she realized that she wasn’t dreaming. Sighing, she arched her back, stretching her arms above her until her palms flattened against the brass rails. Wait. Her bed wasn’t brass. She had an oak four-poster. Disconcerted, she blinked her eyes open, the events of the past few days rushing back to her. She only slept that deeply at home. She struggled through the cocoon of bed covers, pushing the heavy material to her waist before propping herself up on her elbows. The midnight sky still darkened the lace-covered windows. Groaning softly, she glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Three a.m. Nick should really talk to his neighbors about… There it was again. A haunting piano tune. Not outside. Inside. Nick. Eden plunged out of the warm bed, grabbing for the diaphanous coral robe discarded on the floor and thrusting her arms through the silky material. Nick. Alive. Here. She was stumbling into the bathroom in seconds, the pads of her feet screaming at their contact with the icy floor. Turning on the faucet, she splashed water on her face to wash away the dried tears. She had been in an emotional tug-of-war after he’d left earlier, simultaneously grateful for his absence and painfully longing for his return. Now that her prayers had been answered, she was afraid of what she would find downstairs. Logically she knew she needed to go back to bed. Only six hours remained before her testimony. And yet this may be her last chance to see him alone. She wasn’t going to waste it. Patting her face with a towel, she regarded herself sans makeup. Beneath the tangled waves were puffy eyes, wet spiky lashes and trembling lips. She didn’t care, no longer had the energy to erect another façade. She padded quickly down the hall, the ties to her robe uncoiling, causing the bottom of the gown to dance against her ankles before taking flight behind her as she flew down the stairs. When she reached the doorway to the parlor her eyes drank in the tortured man who sat bent over the piano, bathed in the golden light of the lamp. Nick’s hands flew over the keys, his back to her. He still wore the white dress shirt and black slacks from earlier. He looked beautiful and whole and alive.

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Driven by a force too powerful to deny, she slipped into the room, not wanting to disturb him and yet unable to stop her desire to be closer. She paused outside the circle of light. He continued to play, seemingly compelled to finish the mournful piece. His energy filled the room, a palpable thing, pure and wild, as his hands caressed the keys—hands that played her body just as expertly. Something within her responded to his presence on an elemental level. And he hadn’t even looked at her yet. Then he did, caressing her with his gaze. The gold flecks in his eyes shimmering, his green-eyed stare piercing hers until she felt as if he could see into her soul. She fell into his look, a slow delicious feeling sliding down her spine and buckling her knees. Had he any idea of what he could do to her with just one glance? He turned away, drawn to the music. The hard lines of his face, the finely cast mouth, the scratchy shadow along his cheekbone, stood in profile. This time, however, she saw vulnerability there too, in the soft brush of his eyelashes below the curve of his thick brow, in the smooth hollow of his throat her lips had trembled against. She inched forward, reaching out to touch him, wanting to rake her fingers through his wheat hair, craving some physical contact to confirm he wasn’t just a dream. To what end? To make him look at her again. This time she wanted to see more than passion in his eyes. She wanted to see love there too. No. Her hand froze. No. Not love. She couldn’t possibly… Her breath caught on a gasp. Oh God. She wanted him to love her. Wanted her touch to heal his wounded heart. Everything she was, every emotion that she’d ever felt toward him, crystallized. She wanted him to love her because she loved him with the very essence of her being. Eden closed her eyes, damming up the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. Her hands curled together over her heart, instinctively shielding her budding love, so easily crushed by the weight of her rationalization and his rejection. Her heart shattered even as she tried to protect it. Her realization changed nothing. She was loyal to her career and he was loyal to his grief. She only had him for now. And if tonight had to be enough, a more daunting question plagued her. Could she let him have her body and not tell him that he held her heart as well? His hands stilled, the last strains of the piece flowed through the room, leaving only the charged silence in its wake. Nick held his head down for a moment before lifting his chin and casting his gaze to her. “Come here,” he said, reaching out to her with his hand, palm open. She slid her hand in his, stepping forward to feel the light on her face. He winced, twisting toward her in a halting motion.

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“You’re hurt,” she breathed, falling to her knees, her hand grasping his leg, her eyes searching his body for signs of injury. “Only my ego.” “More than your ego.” Something had happened. Where was that sharp edge of pain constantly present in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders? His presence was still intense and yet…quieter. Only one thing would give him such peace. “Did you kill him?” “No.” “Thank God, Nick.” She dropped her head to his firm thigh, overwhelmed with her revelation and his. “I was so scared.” His weight shifted as his bare hands threaded through her hair. He tilted her head back until she looked up, his face wavering through her tears. How could she love this complicated man? “I can’t,” she whispered aloud. “Shhh…everything will be fine.” His touch urged her to him, pulling her forward until she slid onto the bench opposite him, their hips barely touching. She felt the brush of his crisp shirt against the robe’s fragile lace as she moved closer, inhaling his scent. He leaned forward, encircling her with his energy and placing his mouth against hers. “Stay with me tonight,” he said softly against her lips. His gentle kiss was so potent it stole her breath and her ability to move. So lost was she in the feel of his lips, she barely felt his fingers thread through hers until he brought them to his mouth, coaxing them open to allow him to kiss the center of her palm. “Yes,” she whispered, running her cheek along the back of his hand, welcoming the heat of his touch. How could she deny her heart one night in his arms? He would never be her husband but he would always be her greatest passion. Drawing his hand away from hers, he didn’t kiss her as she expected. Instead he took a thick ribbon of hair and drew it across his cheek, below his nose and over his mouth. He wrapped it around his fist, slowly drawing her toward him. He kissed her temple then slid his mouth down her hairline. Her eyes slipped closed as she felt the slide of his cheek against hers. “You’re so soft,” he rasped against the shell of her ear before he inhaled and nuzzled into the hair at the base of her neck. “I could get lost in you.” Desire thickened the air until the undeniable force swirled around them. “Nick.” His name slipped from her lips, breathless and needy. His hand tangled in her hair as he held the back of her head, guiding her lips to his. He slid his tongue into her mouth in an open act of possession. He splayed his other hand across her stomach. His touch burned through the layers of silk, igniting the need to be closer.

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She turned into him fully, sliding one arm around his shoulder, her fingers burrowing into his hair and releasing the scent of his shampoo. She threw herself into the deep soul-searing kiss, amazed at the heat that flared so quickly. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Kissing him went beyond passion to a deeper connection, a perfect connection, as if she’d been kissing him for a lifetime. A connection that made her believe in fate and destiny and soul mates. Her body had recognized him immediately—it had taken her mind much longer. Feelings like this couldn’t be manufactured. They were as real as the circumstances that doomed them, for fate had a twisted sense of humor to tease them with a love that could never be. Tugging her head back until she leaned against the piano keys, he rained kisses down her throat, pausing at the curve of her shoulder. He nuzzled the robe’s sleeve off the smooth slope, nipping her collarbone and catching the lace in his teeth before drawing back. Hypnotized by the passion in his eyes, her breathing deepened as she watched his gaze follow his hand. It slid, palm flat, between her breasts before cupping her over the silken material. Only his thumb touched her bare skin in the deep vee of the gown. He stroked, coaxing the material away, slowly revealing her completely to his gaze. He made a low sound deep in his chest, eyes darkening. “God, you’re beautiful,” he said, capturing her gaze once more. Then he leaned down to kiss her there and she felt a sensation so sharply sweet she thought she would stop breathing if he didn’t kiss her, and then her heart stopped when he did. A heady rush infused her senses. She had never felt more physically vulnerable or more powerfully feminine. He tasted her softly, once and again, sipping at her nipple. Warmth rushed to her sex, her hips writhed. Tonight. Yes. Tonight. This time there would be no interruptions. No room for second thoughts. She gasped into his ear, yearning for more, tightening her grip on his shoulders and lifting her hips off the bench. Standing, he pulled her with him, sliding his hand across her waist, turning her boneless frame flush against him. She marveled again at his size as he supported her weight and his. He tugged the robe down, the soft silk caressing her arms as it slipped down her back to form a pool of coral at her feet, immediately forgotten. He lifted her in his arms. His warmth permeated the clothing that separated them as he navigated them up the stairs and through the bedroom doorway. The buttery smell of the flowers on the bedside flooded the narrow room. The deep pounding beneath his solid chest and his measured breath ruffling her hair seduced her all the more. She would have never guessed that this passionate man could be in such control. She had erroneously assumed that the cornerstone of his powerful presence was his anger. No. He was more magnetic to her now than he had ever been angry.

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She processed that information as he draped her across the floral coverlet, his body following hers, his hands cradling her head. She felt the strength of his shoulders bunch beneath her palms. When he raised his head from another kiss, his verdant eyes were clear, calm and certain. By contrast, she felt her well-honed control crumble. The butterflies in her stomach stole her breath and migrated to her heart before settling there to beat a soft and urgent rhythm beneath her breast. She willed herself to calm. She was as nervous as a virgin, as if she had never made love before. Perhaps she hadn’t. She closed her eyes. “No. I want to see you, Eden, all of you.” His body lowered on top of hers, the urgent steel of his erection a hot line against her thigh. She drew in a quick breath, her stomach clenching from the pleasure of his weight on top of her, the sound reverberating out from her chest, low and needy. He slid down the length of her, his chest hair tickling her nipples and belly, before straightening to his full height at the edge of the bed. He began unbuttoning the shirt, the widening wedge of tan skin contrasting with the crisp, colorless shirt. She sat up, following him. Kneeling on the precipice of the bed, she curled her legs beneath her, feeling the long nightgown catch beneath her knees and allowing the pastel silk spaghetti straps to drop from her shoulders. She reached across space to peel the shirt from his wide shoulders. As the shirt dropped to the floor, she ran her hands appreciatively down his chest and around his back, warming herself with the heat of his desire. Her hands memorized his textures, the smooth skin of his back, the warm, rough hair on his chest. Forgetting herself, she leaned too far forward off the edge of the bed and fell into him. He caught her around the waist, supporting her. His hand dropped to caress her buttocks, kneading the soft flesh. Kissing her closer, his low sound of appreciation resonated through her. His fingers traced her spine as she grasped his shoulders like a lifeline. He guided the gown down, revealing her breasts and stomach to his hungry gaze. He molded the cloth to her hips until he pulled it down as well, until the thin scrap of lace covering her sex was his only barrier. His eyes lingered there. He took control of her hands, kissing each in turn before placing them on his belt. Her gaze dropped to the fastening and the dress slacks that stretched across his thighs—the bulge at the apex of his legs left her breathless. She fumbled with the belt until his hands covered hers, helping her. And then he was on the bed with her, over her, raising one arm above her head, demanding complete surrender. She gave in, straining upward, arching into him.

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He was heavy, his thighs rock hard. The white bandage covering his injury stood in stark relief against his beautiful golden skin. As his mouth played over her breasts, his cock pressed against her thigh. Her sex swelled and creamed, remembering how well he filled her. Her control dropped another notch. Hand shaking, she stroked her fingers through his hair, sighing as he trailed his hand up her leg along her inner calf to the back of her knee and higher. Oh yes. Her skin jumped in anticipation of his touch. Feeling as if her heart would burst, words slipped from her lips. “I love…” the way you feel. “I love…” you. “…the piece you played.” Nick froze above her. Her heart dropped. He looked at her but his eyes were distant. “It was a friend’s favorite. I haven’t played it in a long time.” Her mind struggled to digest his words even as her body threatened to take over. A friend. She squeezed her eyes shut. No. Please no. Her heart breaking, she whispered, “Marie’s.” “Yes.” Eden’s whole being collapsed. She bowed her back, trying to dislodge him, her fingers tightening in his hair to pull him away. “I’m not Marie.” Her voice caught when he shifted against her, pressing his weight down. “I know who you are,” he said. She was frozen in place, her mind fighting against her physical need to respond, her lips trembling from the effort not to press them against his. She issued a sound that was a mixture of a soft moan of entreaty and a cry of pain, cursing her body’s response to him. Her body wept for more. She just wanted to weep. He didn’t release her, instead moved over her again. His hard thigh nestled between hers, hands forced her to look at him. “You’re the only woman I dream of, Eden.” Her name was a plea on his lips. He brought his mouth to hers as if he wasn’t sure if she would allow it. His lips brushed hers, waiting for her to push him away. Then his thick tongue delved in slowly, deeply and she was too weak to fight anymore. “I hated you for it last year. Now…” “Last year?” He rolled onto his back. She lay stunned on the bed, still smoldering from the promise of pleasure. She turned her head to him, the cool sheet against her cheek, the light smell of fabric softener filling her nose as she watched his profile reflect his internal struggle. “I had just lost my fiancée fourteen months earlier. I mourned for her during the day. And yet, after the trial, when I closed my eyes at night, I could only see you.” He sat up, hooking an arm around his bare knee, looking to the ceiling and beyond, his

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erection still blatant between his thighs. “I woke up hating myself.” His gaze locked with hers. “Hating you.” Easing his body around, his stretched his long legs out, his hand sliding across her stomach and around her to span the small of her back and turn her stiff frame toward him. He lowered himself on one elbow until they faced each other, their thighs, hips and shoulders touching along one side. “Nick…” “Let me finish.” He traced the finger down and along the slope of her breast in languid figure eights, circling the nipple with the bottom of the design. “I couldn’t explain what drew me to you.” Her body shivered at the chill of his words, so at odds with the warmth of his body. Her free hand came up to push him away, only to circle around his shoulder when it touched his warm flesh. The rest of her body melted. “And yet…” The bed creaked as he blanketed her body. Her heart skipped. Her hand slid around his broad back as he lowered himself on top of her. Slowly. As if to give her time to become acclimated to his size, to feel every inch of him, his powerful thighs, his hard abs and rough chest. She was forced back onto the bed, her eyes luminous, as hypnotized by his words as by his actions. She had wanted this, had fantasized that he had noticed her too, so long ago. It was intoxicating to know he had wanted her for all these months, that his anger toward her had as much to do with his own denial of his desire as it had to do with her role in Boudreaux’s release. She ran her mouth along his chest, tasting him. He groaned in response. Her body arched and shifted as he pressed his weight down, her thoughts scattering to center on the heat of his desire, pressing closer. His hand came between them to grasp her panties and she felt the silk slide down her thighs, along her calves and over her bare feet. “And yet,” he said again, his arms on either side of her head, the back of his hand caressing her cheek. His knee nudged her thighs open. His face was so close she could see the texture of his skin, an errant eyebrow. The highlights in his golden hair and the sprinkling of gray in the thick blond and wheat strands blinded her. “You were who I wanted when I closed my eyes at night,” he said, raising his green-gold gaze from where their bodies pressed so closely together, his face filling her vision. He swept his hand to her nipples, alternately pinching and caressing them, his touch branding her. She expected to see the resentment of his words reflected in the depths of his eyes but she only saw depthless passion. For her.

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He kissed her then, his lips slow and deliberate, opening her mouth to him, testing her desire, tasting her love. His hand edged down, fingers slipping through her folds to her inner lips, testing her readiness. Her love poured from her. Her eyes fluttered shut. He shimmied down between her legs. Her hips lifted to meet his mouth. He licked her slowly, following the length of her labia before growling and nipping the plump frame to her clit. She gasped at the pleasure-pain, wanting more, dazed at the precipice of sexual oblivion. He concentrated his efforts there for an eternity, her hips strained upwards. Tentatively she combed her fingers through his hair, remembering his desire to be in control. He laved her again, his pace agonizingly slow, and she knew that he was testing her. She bucked her hips, thrusting her clit against his nose. “Thought you’d never ask,” he growled. His mouth latched on to her swollen button, tormenting the nub, swiftly taking her to the edge of ecstasy. More. She gripped his hair harder, forcing his head down, grinding into his mouth. He reared back. “I want to come in you this time, angel. I want to feel you come when I’m buried deep inside you.” Frustration surged through her, escaping her mouth in a low groan, shocking her with her rapacious greed. “I’ll make it better, I promise,” he whispered against her lips before his mouth met hers, brutally melding his tongue with hers. And then she felt his erection nudge her at the juncture of her thighs. She squirmed beneath him, hips lifting off the bed. He met her halfway. His thrust was sure and deep and tight, carving a place for himself in her body and mind, filling her with his strength. Eden tightened around him, gasping at the iridescent pleasure that surged up from where he drove into her to flood her heart. She could hold him forever, she realized, wanted to be with him forever. For a crazy moment she wondered what a child of theirs would have looked like. She blinked the thought away through unshed tears. Not forever. For now. “Did you think I could want a woman like this in just three days?” He said through gritted teeth as he paused, his thick penis anchored in her, her hips lifted with his as he reached the top of his stroke, her body unwilling and unable to give him up easily. He closed his eyes as he rolled his hips down again until he was snuggled deep within her core. “Oh, Nick.” Soft, broken cries escaped her lips.

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“This has been a long time coming.” He leaned down, capturing her cries in his mouth, giving them back to her in soulful moans and entreaties. It was the most sensual kiss she had ever experienced in her life. Her hand circled back down his damp chest, around his waist, over his firm buttocks to the top juncture of his thigh. Her nails dug into the sensitive spot as she felt the muscle flex as he rolled into her again, his penis impossibly longer and hotter. Groaning, he leveled himself back up onto his hands. One hand molded her hips to his, his thumb pressing into her hipbone. She felt a rush of power as she felt his control snap, his breathing grow ragged. He hesitated, his body taut, looking down at her through passion-drugged eyes. Dropping down to his elbows, he placed a gentle kiss on her lips, brushing the back of his hand along her cheek. “I’m no longer in pain when I’m with you.” She undulated upwards as he lanced into her, her breath catching before she found her voice. “Nor am I.” His thumb strummed her pearl. And she let go, awash in the pleasure. Blood rushed to her face, to her clit and she dug her heels into the soft bedding to buck against him, giving as much as receiving. Her body convulsed with the tremors racking her vaginal walls. She bit her lip. “Let me hear it, angel.” Her cries tore from her chest, increasing in sound and momentum, competing only with the sounds of his grunts and the supple, meaty slap of their bodies colliding. Sinking into oblivion, she gasped, “I love you, Nick, I love you.” “Je me suis retrouve, Eden,” he whispered above her, “Je me suis retrouve.” His semen splashed against her inner walls, drenching her with his cum. And she let the darkness pull her under.

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Chapter Thirteen Nick came awake in slow starts. Eyes closed, his hand searched the rumpled sheets for the sweet curve of her hip. The metallic scrape of the bathroom pipes indicated the start of the shower and the vanity of his search. His eyes snapped opened. Monday. Damn. Flopping onto his stomach, he surveyed the room. It looked the same. Not a flower out of place. Table, shelves and chairs all as they had been before last night. And yet everything had shifted inside of him. He sat up, scratching his chest and choking on a ridiculous rumble of satisfaction. Until he became fully awake. While his body sizzled with energy, his head hadn’t felt this bad since the time in the academy when he’d stayed up all night with a ballistics manual and a bottle of tequila. It had taken five days to get over that experience. Nick knew that it would take a lot longer to get over the aftereffects of last night. His vow to remain emotionally distant was certainly all shot to hell. Sure, he was used to letting loose feelings of anger and hatred. But last night he’d given a completely new meaning to the word “venting”. He’d held nothing back physically and little emotionally. Nick pinched his nose before testing the stubble on his face with the palm of his hand. He rubbed harder, barely resisting the temptation to slap some sense into himself. He had fallen for this woman. Hard. His only consolation was that he hadn’t said the words. Aw, who was he kidding? She was smart enough to read between the lines. He’d bared his soul last night along with his backside. He pulled up his shorts. At least one of the two was covered this morning. Biting back a curse, he twisted sideways and grabbed the phone. Using his abdomen as a nightstand, he dialed T. He completed the call and put the phone back on its cradle, his gaze straying to the bathroom door. He wondered about the unattainable woman only a few steps away. She was the embodiment of all he disliked, a hired gun and a woman too damn feisty for her own good. Yet she was everything he wanted too—vulnerable and strong, distant when she needed to be and passionate when she wanted to be. How fast would his novelty wear off? Was she washing away his touch? Could she have let him do the things he did to her and still be appalled by his looks?

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He’d heard her declaration of love but he knew how it was with some women. They had to convince themselves of a deeper feeling just to give themselves permission to sleep with you. He blinked. Eden wasn’t like that. If he could have undefined feelings for her why couldn’t she have them for him? Fighting through that dangerous sentiment, Nick slung back the covers, stalking to the closed door. He needed to meet T, but he had to see her face first. Had to know. Rapping on the door twice, he counted to ten before pushing it open. He stepped through the escaping steam, shutting the door behind him with a final click. She stood in profile facing the small mirror, one hand curling into the top of a large yellow towel that draped her breasts and hips. The lustrous slope of her shoulders and the upper swell of her breasts glistened moist and dewy. Her wavy hair, heavy with water, spilled down her back. Her other hand wrapped around a small bottle that dribbled gold liquid over her bent knee, her leg was poised on the small pink and green bathroom chair. His gaze dipped to her toes, curling into the plush throw rug, back up her extended leg until it disappeared beneath the towel, mid-thigh. A small sound escaped from her lips, pulling his gaze to hers. She caressed his face and chest with a sleepy-eyed look. Her eyes were filled with longing, maybe even sadness, but also raw desire. She still wanted his body. Good. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the reflection of his dark frame pass by in the mirror as he went to her, skimming his fingers down the damp, slippery line of her shoulder and upper arm. He never knew an arm could be so sexy. Damn. She had a beautiful body. Her skin was the color of ripe, warm peaches. Moles were sprinkled along her back and curve of her shoulder. His hand reached the plastic bottle. Body oil. So that’s why she was always so soft. Dipping his finger into the drops of oil on her leg, he swirled the fragrant liquid into her skin. She swayed into him, knees folding, and dropped the bottle. The hollow thud of the bottle resounded in the tiny space as it struck the black and white tiled floor. Stepping behind her, he drew her against his chest, tugging her hair until her chin lifted, her beautiful mouth parting beneath his. He brushed his lips across hers once before breaking the kiss. Not yet. Willing himself to maintain control, Nick jerked a yellow hand towel from the towel bar, drawing it down her hair. The smell of floral shampoo and sesame body oil mixed with her unique scent, filling his head. Her small sigh melted into a purr as she dropped her head onto his shoulder.

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Savoring her capitulation, he stepped forward to cradle her head against his chest. His eyes caught their movements in the mirror, struck by their contrast. She looked so small within his arms. He knew looks could be deceiving. She was the embodiment of strength. He already knew her mental strength and her strength of character. But she was also beautiful physically. Nick recalled the defined muscles in her legs as they had bent at his command last night, her firm, smooth tummy as his tongue had delved into her bellybutton. What did she do to have such an incredible physique? There was so much about her that he didn’t know. So much that he wanted to. What he did know only tempted him to find out more. He knew she liked it when he bit the instep of her foot, or when he tickled her supersensitive nipples. He knew how to go back and forth between deep and shallow strokes to make her come in a tight, breathless gasp and how to tease her until she came in short, endless cries. Looking into her eyes in the mirror, Nick no longer cared if she could decipher the emotions in his face. Let her analyze him. After the past three days she probably could write a book on his psychological imperfections. He could never completely give her what she needed. He tried to convince himself that he didn’t mind being found lacking as long as he had his arms around her. She wrapped her arms behind him. Her fingers drifted over his neck and shoulders, pulling him closer, giving him complete access to her body. Kissing her shoulder, he tasted the bitter oil that had not yet dried and the sweet fragrant skin underneath. He willed the towel to fall. It stayed secure. His fingers itched to rip it from her and reveal her to his hungry gaze. He stilled them. No. He wanted her to take it off. Nick drew his hand down the front of her body, over the frustratingly thick towel that hid so many delights from his eyes. Her nipples pebbled beneath the fluffy terrycloth as she arched into his palm, her wet hair fanning across his bare chest like a blanket, the silken strands teasing his coarse chest hair. He molded his body to hers from shoulder to thigh, mesmerized by their reflection. Her blue, almond-shaped eyes were still too big for her face, they overshadowed her sharp nose and finely drawn mouth, but they were luminous with untold desire for him. But was it desire regardless of his physical flaws? Nick’s hand journeyed over her curves to the bottom edge of the towel, trailing his knuckles along her upper thigh. The skin there was also slick with oil, softer, silkier than the satin towel edging. Her smile in the mirror was so mysterious his gut clenched. Flattening his palm along her right leg, he drew it upwards. She stopped him, pulling his hand from her leg. He closed his eyes. Of course.

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Winding her perfect hand in his scarred one, she brought his hand to her lips, lips still slightly swollen from last night. She ran them along the damaged skin in a worshipful kiss. Opening her mouth along his index finger, she slowly drew it in, her eyes never leaving his in the mirror. Before his mind shut down, it briefly registered that her lips really were that seductive shade of dusky rose. Her nipples were the same color. Returning his hand to her thigh, she urged it higher. He braced his knees, concentrating on his intake of air. Because of the height of the small mirror, neither of them could see below their shoulders with their gazes locked. Yet the look in her eyes was the most erotic sight he’d seen in his thirty-five years. It was an expression of complete capitulation to his desire and her own. He was struck with the power and the responsibility that went along with her look. Pushing the edge of the towel aside, his hand drew closer to her center. He heard her sharp intake of breath as her crystalline eyes drifted to small slits. She shifted her hips forward, eager for the touch of his hand. Their swinging motion dueled with his flattened palm that pressed her back against his aching cock. “Mmm,” he hummed into the shell of her ear, taking a small bite. She tasted as sweet as she smelled, as sweet as her oiled body felt. Covering his scarred hand with her delicate one, she pressed him into her softness. The curls teased his middle finger as it discovered her moist heat. He groaned as he palmed her, exploring her labia and the treasure beyond. Her hand anchored him there, fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist. A wrenching groan escaped from his lips, her lighter gasp echoing his, the two exhalations mingling in the electrified air. Gritting his teeth, he fought to keep his eyes open. So close. He moved his middle finger a millimeter to the right. There. She made a soft sound of surrender that was sweeter than any musical note he’d ever heard. “Morning.” “Good morning,” she said, nuzzling into his neck. Nick shifted his weight backwards, one hand sliding down his stomach to the edge of his shorts, the other smoothing her silken hair over one shoulder to reveal her back. He bent forward, kissing the small brown mole on her right shoulder and raising the towel to reveal the curve of her hips and waist. Of the two small dimples that marked her lower back, the right one was larger. His hand circled her waist gently, pushing forward, angling her hips even as he memorized the flare of them as they pressed against him. He had to have her again. He had to test that impossible feeling he’d had when he was inside her last night. A feeling beyond sexual. When he was inside her, a transformation had occurred in him. As his heart raced and his body surged into her, a

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deeper part of him had felt an indescribable calm, as if he had finished a long race. Although breathless and winded, he’d felt complete. He craved that feeling again. He had hoped that last night would take the edge off his desire for her. It hadn’t. It had ripened it, had developed it into a sharp need that nestled in his gut. He wanted that feeling again. Just for a moment, he wanted to be caught in her spell once more. Smoothing a hand down her thigh, his fingers passed over the tiny moles, playing connect the dots before skimming back to the front of her body, his thumb delving into her bellybutton, his pinky teasing the curls guarding his own private heaven. He ripped at his shorts, wanting to be inside her so deep that he forgot who he was, what he was. “No.” She straightened her back and turned to face him. Disoriented with passion, he knew her intentions but was powerless to stop her when she dropped to her knees. She pulled his shorts from his legs, over his feet. His penis bobbed slightly with the movement of his legs, curving in the direction of her mouth as if trying to follow the promise of her lips. She anchored one hand at the juncture of his thigh and ass, kissing the length of his hip. The pulse point of her throat throbbed against his rigid organ. Her other hand cupped his balls, torturing him with her light touch, her fingers encircling the base of his penis. His scarred hand caressed the back of her neck, relishing the feel of her silken hair. He dropped his head back, not sure if he could stand the visual and tactile pleasure of her combined. He would come in about two seconds. And then she touched the tip of her tongue to the tip of his erection and his head snapped forward. He swallowed a sharp exhalation. He had to see this. Eyes closed, she took a bolder taste of him, her tongue trailing the nerve beneath the shaft. Her gaze flashed upward when she finally stuffed the red tip in her mouth. “Mmm.” Vibrations thrummed through the crown of his cock down to his balls. His hips jerked, sending his erection deeper into her mouth. She eased back, content to worship the tip before letting it slide out from her lips to concentrate on licking up and down the shaft. It wasn’t enough. She palmed the painfully engorged organ against his stomach with one hand, dropping her head further to explore the base of his cock with languid strokes of her tongue. The sounds from the back of her throat deepened. Her mouth suctioned one of his balls into its wet heat. The ferocity of the movement startled him. She sucked him rhythmically, softly and torturously, instinctively increasing and decreasing the pressure until his knees buckled. He snapped them straight.

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The graze of her teeth surrounded him. He widened his stance, giving her greater access to his Achilles heel. She let his ball pop out of her mouth and dropped even lower, softly licking the underside of his testicles and probing his perineum. He slammed his hand against the wall, the sound reverberating through the room. He couldn’t take much more. A sound of sweet pleasure issued from her. She licked his balls again, this time paying equal attention to both, cramming them into the passionate recess of her mouth. Sensation rocketed through his groin. His hand flexed and fisted tighter, tugging her head back. To hell with this. He wanted inside that sweet pussy. Now. She jerked forward, away from his pull, tightening her grip on his backside. She licked up his scrotum. Twisting her free hand tighter around his cock, increasing the friction, she squeezed upward, shifting the layer of skin covering his solid erection, finally sweeping her palm over the mushroom tip, juicing him, her tongue attending to the underside. His hips twisted forward. “Take it, angel. Oh God, Eden, take it.” She placed her succulent lips on the tip and took him into her tight, tight mouth. He gripped the side of her head, holding her in place with both hands. He pistoned into her mouth as deep as he dared and she whimpered. Pleasure or pain? Nails dug into his ass. Good. Because he couldn’t have stopped if the floor opened up and swallowed them whole. He’d craved her illicit kiss forever. His chest heaved and he couldn’t stop from making hard chuffing sounds. A tiny part of him reined in his passion. His need was too voracious, unquenchable. She took him inches deeper into her mouth. “Fuck. Yes.” His crown bumped the back of her throat. She stiffened and slid backward. He braced himself for her rejection. She spread her knees on the pink rug, strengthening her position. Her eyes reached up to his, love and lust and strength mixed in their depths. “Not. Just. Lust,” he panted, falling off the edge of reason, the edge of control, and came and came and came, jets of semen spurting from him down the back of her throat. Insatiable, she swallowed every drop wrenched out of him, taking everything he couldn’t give, giving him everything she shouldn’t. He slid to his knees, his legs splayed, barely hanging on to consciousness, moaning the sudden loss of her mouth. His hands caressed her hair, so fucking beautiful, like dark pools of water. Water for renewal. “Nick.”

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He placed a finger to her lips. “Shhh.” Kissing her, tasting himself on her lips, he tugged her to a standing position. The fluffy towel caressing his chest and thighs felt scratchy to his newly sensitive member, still near-hard even after that incredible orgasm. Her eyes were glassy with passion. He wanted to fuck her until she was blind with it. She turned around, presenting him with her back, bending forward, draping herself across the sink. The edge of the towel rose, revealing the tender nether lips. Sweet paradise. Instantly he was hard again. He bent toward her, over her, letting his crown nudge its way inside of her inner lips, craving the exquisite feeling of possession only she could give. “Angel, this isn’t going to be soft and easy.” She grasped the edge of the sink, looking back over her shoulder, “I don’t want soft or easy, detective.” The screaming buzz of the clock alarm set his back straight and the world back on its feet. Reality was a heartless bastard. If he could, he would fuck her again and again. And if he had her again he would never let her go. Never. After the events of last night and just now, he knew that he couldn’t get enough. It was cruel to lead her to believe there was any hope of a future. He only hoped she hadn’t heard his confession. He would only hurt her far worse when he left later. Undulating backwards, she brushed against him. “Don’t stop.” He ripped his gaze from her body, desperate to shut down, physically and mentally. It was damn hard to do. Stepping back, he slipped his hand from inside her, letting the towel drop back into place. “Got to, angel, you have a date with the judge, and I have a date with the devil.” She flinched, wrapping her arms around her waist. “Get out.” For the first time in a long time Nick did as he was told.

***** “You’re late.” Alone and pouting, Ashley Wilder perched at the top of the steps of the new court venue. The trial had been moved to the courthouse of a neighboring parish until repairs could be completed on the landmark building. Eden knew, however, some fire damage could never be erased. Ignoring the reporter, Eden breathlessly entered the unfamiliar building, her heels firmly clicking against the stone steps, her mind far away from the business at hand. The poets were wrong. It was not better to have loved and lost. She desperately wished the last three days of her existence had never occurred. Having had a taste of 147

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heaven in his arms, how could she go back as she was? Before him, she had some semblance of life satisfaction. Now she felt only regret. Hesitating in the tall marble foyer, she considered her options—stairs to the right, elevator to the left. Right. Eden vaulted up the stairs, legs straining against the straight skirt. Her briefcase bumped against her hip as she grabbed onto the railing, throwing herself around the first corner. Stumbling on the staircase, her hand jetted out to break her fall. She caught herself and continued, legs lethargic even as she willed them to move faster. Two flights to go. Two flights alone with the memories of last night and this morning burned on her retinas and in her heart. She had stood for an eternity after he’d abandoned her in the bathroom, aching to finish what he’d started. Angry with him, even knowing that he’d done the right thing by stopping. Angry at herself, knowing she had no self-control when it came to him. He looked at her with such smoldering intensity that she was his if he crossed the space between them. Any time. Every time. This morning she had been a half a second from ripping the towel from her body. She ached to spend the morning making love to Nick, not testifying on behalf of a murderer. A second shower had scorched her skin but hadn’t taken away the visceral memory of him. Her skin still felt singed from his touch. She still tasted him in her mouth. Coming to a halt, she swallowed a scream of exasperation, swinging her fist through the air. Her watch hit the railing with a clink, the metal sound echoing in the empty stairwell. Like the city itself, Nick had stolen into her system. She had never been so physically and emotionally affected by anyone before. Her heart actually hurt, as if her body was experiencing withdrawals. She placed her palm over her heart, willing it to stop aching. How could the decision to leave, the right decision, be so painful? She climbed the final two steps to the fourth floor. Taking a fortifying breath, she exited the stairwell into a crowded hallway. Hurrying to Courtroom Five, she greeted the burly bailiff before skirting to the side as the judge called the courtroom to order. She turned off her cell phone and sighed in relief. Court must be starting late today. Her gaze found Boudreaux, sitting tall in the defendant’s chair, costumed in a charcoal gray suit and patterned tie. He swiveled his head around, spearing her with a “cat who swallowed the canary” grin. She looked away. Next to him stood Richard Martin his lawyer. Further to the right sat the jury, their faces a mixture of incredulity and relief.

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Adjusting his black-rimmed glasses, the judge began. “Ladies and gentlemen, these circumstances are most unusual,” he paused, his voice weighty, “However, in light of new evidence, the district attorney has dropped the murder charge against Mr. Boudreaux.” Lowering his chin, the judge shifted his gaze between the defendant and the district attorney with a threatening look. “Mr. Boudreaux, you are a free man. May you never darken my court again. Case dismissed.” The sharp rap of the gavel was deafening in the startled silence. New evidence? As if on cue the courtroom erupted, chaos rippling through the crowd. The surging crowd carried her into the hallway. Bracing herself against the wall, she reached into her portfolio for her cell phone. Her hand stilled. She and Nick had nothing to say to each other. Did they? But she owed him this much. Her fingers grazed the shape when a hand curled around hers. “Congratulate me,” Courtland Boudreaux sneered, inches away. A mass of reporters surrounded him, a cacophony of brilliant light and clashing voices. He ignored them, speaking to her as if they were the only two people in the hall. “What’s going on?” she whispered, more to herself. She immediately regretted her question as the crowd, hungry for a story, now focused on the two of them. “I’m free, chere. My wife’s psychologist admitted that we had experimented with erotic asphyxiation several times before the unfortunate incident.” “There was no proof that your wife was seeing a psychiatrist.” “I discovered some papers in her desk and investigated. The police are not the only ones who can follow a lead. The district attorney had to drop the case with the proof that this whole mess was an unfortunate accident.” His face twisted into a crooked smile as he smoothed a hand down her cheek, whispering in her ear, “Everybody has a price, chere, I’m just trying to ascertain yours.” She tried to inch back but was jostled even closer by the throng of reporters recording a conversation as twisted as Boudreaux’s face. Eden blinked. His cool lips fell on hers. She jerked her head sideways, wiping her hand across her mouth. Boudreaux grinned as camera shutters snapped and questions shot out at them. “How long have you been lovers?” “Dr. Chapman, will you stay in New Orleans?” Eden didn’t answer. She didn’t breathe. Lips thin, hand itching at her side, she used all of her energy to stop herself from slapping him. One composed voice in the discord commanded everyone’s attention. “Mr. Boudreaux,” Wilder’s silken tone floated over to them from two feet away. Her hair and yellow blouse blended in perfect harmony. “How does it feel to be a free man?”

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Eden didn’t wait for his answer. Grateful for the opportunity to escape, she pushed her way through the tight crowd, fleeing into the safety of elevator. Good Lord, what had just happened? Boudreaux was free. Really free this time. He couldn’t be tried again for the murder of his wife. She was released from her obligation to testify for him. Instead of feeling relieved, her stomach churned. She had to find Nick, to relate this information before he did something foolish. She only hoped that she wasn’t too late.

***** “I knew I could trust you, T.” “Yeah? Well, I could get into a hell of a lot trouble if anyone found out about this. You’re suspended from this case.” T adjusted his sunglasses over his stony expression and flopped down on the wooded bench, handing over a half-an-inch-thick manila file clearly marked confidential. “The case file is on top. Test results from the restaurant and the other substance you ordered are beneath that.” A slow grin spread across his features. “By the way, the commander sends his regards.” A squeal of pure delight broke through the buoyant calliope music drifting from the carousel to Nick’s right. He and T sat on a bench in the Carousel Garden of City Park. The air was filled with cries of joy and a low murmur of excitement, an intoxicating mixture of voices and laughter of all ages. The fragrance of the heavy foliage mixed with the smell of hot dogs and freshly popped popcorn from the nearby theme park. The birds also celebrated the day, calling to each other, tumbling through the air and using the moss-covered oak trees and stately magnolias as boundaries to their games. With barely a blemishing cloud showing through the tall trees that framed the Garden, the atmosphere was optimistic, in complete contrast to Nick’s internal melancholy. Damn. What was the cause of this unquenchable thirst he had for that woman? She had to go. What was it she’d said Friday night? She couldn’t think for wanting to touch him? Damn right. He couldn’t think either, especially not now. Now that he had touched her, he wanted her anywhere and everywhere, bathroom, bedroom and kitchen. Hell, he’d probably kiss her senseless in the middle of a street festival at Carnival. Where did this jolt to his gut every time he kissed her come from? The effect was more shocking to his system than the bullet he took in ‘99. Well, he consoled himself, he had survived that too. A mutinous, unwelcome voice spoke up—what if he didn’t need to survive without her? The bullet was metal poison, damaging to his system. Eden’s presence was regenerating, soothing to his spirit. As mute horses frozen in a desperate gallop spun laughing children in a colorful array before him, Nick frowned, deliberating with himself. Could he and Eden have meant something to each other under more conventional circumstances? If they had met at a mundane party given by mutual friends, exchanged phone numbers and dated for an eternity before giving themselves to each other, could they have stood more of a

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chance than in the current situation? Did it matter if the feelings that compelled them together were the same in both instances? Hell, he was a bottom-line, end-justifies-themeans kind of guy. It shouldn’t matter how they connected, only that they did. And yet his fears from this morning returned. Because he was that kind of guy, because he was still a broken man with a lot of healing to do, could she still love him when the passion of the moment had passed? Could she still love him while he lounged in a T-shirt and shorts on a Sunday afternoon, watching the Saints on television? But that was a hazy, unlikely future—what about the razor-sharp present? Could she forgive him for using her? He hadn’t told her about his visit to Boudreaux’s last night or his decision to nail him by the book. Could he forgive her for her testimony today? The carousel glided to a stop and a new batch of children raced through the horses for their ideal mount. A lanky dark-haired father hoisted his toddler, squirming with anticipation, onto a gleaming black pony wrapped in blue ribbon. Nick felt a pang of regret, the futility of his actions for the past two years hitting him in the face with the force of a freight train. Chasing after Boudreaux with such rabid-dog intensity had effectively enabled him to run away from the rest of his existence. He knew one thing with certainty. It was game over after today. Regardless of the outcome of the trial, regardless of the outcome of his investigation, if he couldn’t nail Boudreaux, he would walk away. Start anew. He had no idea if she would give it a shot with him. He smiled. Hell yeah, he could forgive her and himself. He would do whatever it took to convince her that they had a thousand tomorrows. No. Not a thousand. He wanted to love her for a lifetime full of tomorrows. Nick smacked the file on his knee and rifled through the police reports. Looking for something, anything, that would nail the bastard. Marie’s handwriting jumped out at him. In her hand, the block letters still managed to look loopy and artistic. Smoothing his finger along the sheet of paper, he waited for the sharp pain to slice through his gut, for the need to howl, his frustration to hit him. It didn’t come. He only felt a profound sadness for such beauty lost. T’s voice nudged Nick’s thoughts aside. “You look good, man. Healthy. Got some color to you.” “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were coming on to me.” T chuckled, “Naw. I just call ‘em as I see ‘em.” A smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Nick turned the page, his eyes locking on a pointy scrawl in the corner of the final report. Not Marie’s handwriting. His own. He leaned back on the hard bench, the background noise fading as he zeroed in on the words on the paper. “T,” he said softly. “What if Boudreaux’s impressive rare coin collection was primarily counterfeit?” T gave a great myna bird impression, “Counterfeit coins?”

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Nick sat forward, his mind catching on to the theory. “Yeah. What if the coins recovered from the theft were counterfeit?” T paused in his appraisal of the skyline in order to appraise Nick’s sanity. “What happened to the real coins?” “Sold by Boudreaux on the black market.” “Why not just sell the fake coins?” Nick smiled. “Black market appraisers may have a higher motivation for accuracy. If they’re wrong about the authenticity of a smuggled object—” T continued for him, “They could be dead.” “Let’s say Boudreaux needed some extra cash—” “He’s a gambler.” “All right, if he did need more money to support whatever habit, he could sell his rare coin collection off one by one on the black market and no one would be the wiser.” “Except for the wife.” Nick snapped his fingers. “Right. Mrs. Boudreaux was the one who reported the theft. In fact, during the initial interview he was very uncooperative.” “So you’re saying he orchestrated the theft of his own coins to possibly collect the insurance money and sell the real coins on the black market, assuring himself a double profit.” Nick nodded. “Marie was a detective, but she was also a coin buff. She would have been able to spot a fake or at least been suspicious to that angle. If she mistakenly let on that she was investigating him, he would have sufficient motivation to stop her.” “But the coins were recovered. He didn’t get the insurance money.” “Maybe we’d gotten too close. Maybe something went wrong. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe they weren’t in it together. What if the wife found out his scheme and disagreed with it? He would have had to appease her by replacing the coins.” “Only he replaced them with counterfeit ones.” “Then why kill her?” “Let’s say she wanted out of the marriage, that she was going to report him anyway. She did something, said something, to cause him to kill her.”“ “And the voodoo threats against the Doc?” “A ploy to throw us off track,” Nick looked at his watch. Eden was probably testifying right now. “Unfortunately, they were successful. Not only did they throw the Doc off track, they distracted me as well.” Etienne fished in his pocket and flipped open his cell phone. “I need to call the DA while she’s still at court.” Nick stilled his hand. “Not yet. We have time. Eden’s is the only testimony scheduled today. Let’s flesh out the details to this scenario.” T smiled. “Eden? Don’t you mean Dr. Bust-your-balls Chapman?” 152

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Nick smiled. “No, I mean Eden.” “Even with the new motivation, we’ve still got the Doc’s theory to contend with. It may sound cockamamie to you but it holds water with the jury.” For the first time in months Nick felt his mind working properly, having dealt with the grief that was his constant companion before now. His conversation with the doctor in the hospital came back to him. “How about drugs, T? This sounds crazy but what if Boudreaux drugged himself before committing the murder?” “He’d have to have had an accomplice to ensure everything went as planned.” “Who?” T closed the file with finality. “That’s too much crime solving in one morning,” he said. “Let’s work the coin theft angle. If the Doc gets him off the murder charge we’ve got something to nail him with.” “At least she’s at the courthouse. He wouldn’t dare touch her today.” Another joyful scream from the carousel sent an unexpected chill down Nick’s spine. Jeez, he was jittery. Eden was completely safe. “So where did he hide the real coins?” “Somewhere out in the open.” A child, somewhere between the ages of two and three, stopped in front of Nick and regarded him with huge hazel eyes. One buttery-yellow ponytail was higher than the other. She wore a blindingly blue blouse with pink trim. In her small hand she balanced a vanilla ice cream cone, its sticky white runoff dripping down the sides. “What’s his name?” Nick looked confusingly to her mother, not fluent in child speak. “Your frog. She loves them.” “Oh.” Nick looked down at what had become his new worry stone. Boudreaux’s fascination with it had prompted him to keep it with him but he kept waiting for an epiphany to tell him why it was important. He handed it to the little girl, watching as she made little frog noises, jumping the miniature over an imaginary pond. “Careful, you don’t want to break it, sweetheart.” The child’s mother gently extricated the frog from the protesting child, handing it back to Nick. A flash of understanding flashed through Nick. What if—? Nick considered the frog, palming it before raising it up. T sputtered, “What the?” Swinging the small frog in a downward arc, Nick smashed it against a stone. It shattered beneath his palm, sending shards of ceramic into his hands. Ignoring the pain, Nick looked at the evidence glinting in a shaft of pure sunlight beneath the rubble of the frog. Aw, hell. “Let me see those test results.”

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***** Eden entered the empty cottage house with empty hands and an empty heart. Nick had disappeared into thin air. He hadn’t been at his grandmother’s home. Nor had he been at the police station. Detective Falcon wasn’t there either. She looked around the empty parlor, her eyes skittering over the piano. What was she thinking? Nothing in the home suggested where he was going today and, she thought, stopping in her tracks, they hadn’t talked about his plans this morning. They hadn’t exactly talked at all. She paused, startled at a jarring sound from inside the house. The phone. Eden hurried through the short hallway to the kitchen. The green rotary phone crouched on the spotted Formica counter, screaming. She lifted the receiver halfway through the fourth ring. There was a soft click and then, “Nick, Nick?” The voice on the other line was vaguely familiar, out of breath and scared. “I’m sorry…” Eden began. “Dr. Chapman! Help me,” the female voice sobbed. “He came after me like a madman. I think…I think…I’ve just killed him.” Oh my God. “Killed who? Who is this?” “Ashley.” Something rustled in the background. “Courtland. I think I killed Courtland.” Eden’s heart stopped. Coaching herself to remain calm, to ignore the questions assailing her, she took a breath and spoke, “Ashley, listen to me. Hang up the phone and call 911. He may still be alive. Hang up the phone and call 911.” Why were Ashley and Boudreaux together? Had she truly killed him? And why had Ashley called Nick? “No. No. I can’t call the police, not yet. I need Nick. Or you. Please! I can’t call anyone else. If anyone found out that I was having an affair with him my career would be ruined.” An affair! Eden looked around desperately, the small room spinning through her panic. Ashley was having an affair? With whom? Boudreaux or Nick? Was Boudreaux truly dead? “Oh God!” Ashley’s voice reached a desperate pitch through the receiver. “I can’t survive a trial. Jail! I should shoot myself and get it over with now.” “No! Please don’t do anything until I get there. Where are you?”

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Chapter Fourteen “You’re not a very good psychologist.” Eden found it difficult to concentrate on Ashley’s words as she crawled into a sitting position, arms shaking. Fissures of pain radiated across her cheek from the backhanded slap that had knocked her down. Ashley was certainly stronger than she looked. Blinking through the bright spots swimming in her eyes, Eden finally focused on the vision before her. The reporter looked like a college freshman, messy ponytail, T-shirt and jeans—that is until you looked into her tormented eyes and saw the weapon in her hand. Eden stared down the barrel of a delicate pearl-handled gun. It looked like a toy. Yet it probably could and would do the job if necessary. Ashley Wilder did not appear hesitant to use it—and Ashley Wilder was insane. They were below deck on a small cruiser on the lakeshore. The loud, unmistakable call of seagulls echoed through the boat’s upper deck as water lapped just outside the curved wall. A blue-green Vegas-style carpet covered the small floor. The boat’s motor hummed in the background. Was it running for travel or to drown out the sound of gunshots? Smiling as she leveled the gun closer, Ashley continued, “In fact, I don’t believe you read people very well at all. Especially not when some stranger calls and you come running.” Ashley checked her watch before flashing her blue eyes back to Eden, revealing a slice of pearly teeth. “Curiosity didn’t kill the cat. It was naiveté. I knew I was losing you on the phone. All I had to do was inject a little suicide threat and you came running like some Pavlovian dog.” Eden frowned through watery eyes. Ashley used the psychological reference as easily as any major in the field. Ashley Wilder was more than she appeared. Eden doubted that she would get the whole story before she was killed. Ashley sashayed forward, wiggling her finger. “Don’t you know too much sympathy for others is bad for you? You should try to be more objective.” “Ashley?” Eden slurred, raising her hand to her temple and tasting her own blood. She scooted against the wall, her stomach protesting the scent of vanilla surrounding the reporter like a second skin. Ashley bent down into Eden’s line of vision as if she were speaking to a small child, placing her hands on both knees. “But I’m sure you don’t know that at all,” she

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crooned, “seeing as how your sympathy got you into bed with him quicker than I could shake a stick at.” “Nick?” “Courtland, you idiot!” “Courtland? Did you kill him?” Using the wall as leverage, she inched upwards. “Stay down there.” Ashley waved the gun. Eden dropped back down. “Why so concerned?” Ashley said smoothly, backing up. “Isn’t one man enough for you?” She rolled her eyes, tilting her head as if listening for a sound topside. “Don’t lose your pretty little head over it, sugar. Courtland should be here any minute and then I’ll take care of him too,” she said, pacing the small compartment. Eden considered her few options. Talk first. Fight second. Her knees were a little wobbly but…at least she wasn’t tied up. She could still barrel into Ashley and take her chances. They were about the same size. Above all, remain calm. Ashley would only intensify her taunting if she smelled fear. Eden looked toward the small doorway. She had to do something before Boudreaux got here. Ashley’s pacing became more frantic as the seconds ticked by. Her face collapsed as she jerked to a stop, fat tears spilling down her cheeks and dropping from her chin to her green cut-off shirt. “I actually believed he would stay faithful to me!” she whined before taking a shuddery breath. “Now I have to get another tattoo and they hurt.” Tattoo? What was she talking about? “Ashley, why—” “Because he’s mine! And you can’t have him. I’ve invested too much.” Ashley sniffed loudly, wiping her nose on her forearm. “You can’t have him after I’ve done all the work.” “I can understand how you may feel betrayed…” “Don’t try that psychological crap on me! You don’t have to reflect my feelings. I know how I feel and I know what I have to do. It really is simple. One of the most common justifications for murder around, Doc—if I can’t have him, neither can you.” She slapped the tears from her eyes with her free hand. “Hell hath no fury and all that…” she said, concentrating on leveling the gun. “Courtland doesn’t want me—” Ashley barked a laugh, shaking her head. “That’s exactly what she said. Nick really knows how to pick ‘em, doesn’t he?” “Pick who?” “Sit down.” Eyes narrowing, Ashley motioned toward a small chair. “You’re making me nervous.” Eden sat.

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“His women. First Marie and now you. You all want Courtland.” “I don’t—” The gun slashed through the air. “Don’t you know better than to argue with a woman with a gun?” She huffed. “Courtland’s not off the hook two seconds before he’s kissing you.” “He was only trying to undermine me in front of the media.” “Oh,” she groaned. “You make me sick. Always there with some ready explanation.” Ashley stuck her nose in the air, raising her voice an octave. “Courtland doesn’t want me. Nick doesn’t want me.” Her face twisted. “I can’t help it if you can’t see what’s staring you right in the face.” Resuming her tour of the small floor, Ashley regained some composure. “On second thought, though, you’re probably right. Look at you and look at me. Courtland wants to anger Nick more than he wants you. But Nick? Nick is stupid enough to fall for you.” Ashley spun around, making another pass. Her twin broken heart tattoos peeked out from under her blouse and dipped into her jeans. Tattoos? “Ashley, why do you have to get another tattoo?” Passing one hand over the small of her back, Ashley halted, her eyes glazed. “I already have two. One for his bitch of a wife and one for your lover’s fiancée.” Spittle collected at the corner of her mouth as she leaned closer. “Just one more and I’m done. I’m done when you’re done, sugar.” Eden’s heart stopped. “You—” “Do I have to spell it out to you? Yeah, I did it. I did both of them.” She rolled her eyes again. “You sure are slow on the uptake, Doc.” Ashley had killed both women? Oh my God, she was in trouble. No one had any idea that she was here. Nick. Oh Nick. Flashes of moments came back to her from last night. Nick loving her, covering her with the comforter as she slept, pulling her closer in his sleep. She fought the tears that swelled, wishing the feelings she’d shared with Nick last night could have been real, not just for a moment, but for a lifetime. At least she’d said I love you, not realizing that it had been her last chance. At least she would have that. At least he would too. She opened her eyes, facing Ashley’s grimace. “How? Why?” “Does it matter?” Tapping the gun against her chin, Ashley considered her. “Okay, sure. He’s late, so we’ve got a little time to kill.” She paused, “Which one do you want to know about first? They were both quite creative if you ask me. You know most murderers commit the same crime over and over just with different victims. How boring is that? The only thing similar between those two was how pitiful they were at the end.” Ashley closed her eyes. The corner of her mouth drifted upwards as she lowered the gun. Eden’s body tensed. Keep her talking. “Ashley, if he put you up to this—”

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“I can think for myself, thank you.” She turned, impatiently glancing at the doorway. Fists bared, Eden launched herself forward. Ashley’s eyes widened as she spun back around. Cursing, she aimed the weapon. Their bodies collided with an oomph. Eden latched on to the reporter’s arm and swung it up and away. The deafening sound of a gunshot echoed in her right ear as powdery pieces of the ceiling sprinkled down in her eyes. Thrusting her leg out, she elbowed Ashley in the chest, trying to unbalance her. The reporter went down. Eden’s flash of triumph was short-lived as she went down too. They struggled, toppling to the floor. Eden found herself precariously on top. Ashley panted and growled, bucking beneath her, her eyes wild with hatred. Eden concentrated on keeping Ashley’s arm pinned above her head. If she let go, she was dead. Ashley punched her in the stomach. Eden felt the air tear out of her lungs. She gasped, her grip loosening. Ashley grinned beneath her, pulling the gun forward. “You’re dead, bitch!” Two strong arms caught Eden around the waist, dragging her into a solid male chest. Still gasping for breath, Eden watched Ashley’s distorted face relax. Only then did she know who held her. She strained her neck around to see the side of his face. His dark hair, no longer perfect, fell into his right eye. “That’s your problem, chere,” Boudreaux said, twisting Eden’s arms behind her back and hoisting her off her feet, “you’ve done too much thinking for yourself.” He dumped Eden across the chair. Ashley struggled to stand, sweeping her hair away from her face with the hand that still held the gun. She ran her fingers down her face. Her features evened out as if she were slipping on a mask. Clearing her throat, she tipped the gun upwards as if it were a microphone. “How does it feel to be a free man, Mr. Boudreaux?” she crooned into the barrel. Boudreaux ignored Ashley, kneeling before Eden, patting her hand delicately. “I’m sorry that you were caught up in this, mon coeur, but if you had only testified on Thursday as planned none of this would have been necessary.” “Are you apologizing to her?” Ashley said, stunned. “Apologize to me! I’m the one who took care of Marie when she found out you were responsible for the original robbery! I’m the one who took care of your wife when she suspected that the recovered coins were fake! Apologize to me, you bastard.” Ashley flew toward Boudreaux. He raised his arm, easily swatting her back against a gray bunk. She fell against it, sobbing, “Apologize to me…”

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Boudreaux looked at Eden, shaking his head, tsking in the back of his throat. “So possessive…” Eden fought with the revelations coming too fast to follow. He didn’t kill his wife— Ashley did. Boudreaux was innocent? He stepped back toward Ashley, his hand stroking her cheek. She batted his hand away. He crooned to her in French until she snuggled into his caress like a kitten. Kissing the top of her head, he looked at Eden. He didn’t take the gun. No. Not innocent. “Courtland, let me go.” Ignoring her plea, Boudreaux straightened, crossed the small, carpeted space and disappeared into the next compartment. The galley? Eden heard the sound of glass tinkling as she and Ashley watched each other warily. “Now…” he said, his voice drifting through the doorway, “What are we to do with you, chere?” “Please,” Eden begged. She didn’t want to plead for her life, but it was quickly becoming an option. She clamped down on the panic. “You’re free, you have nothing to fear from me. You can’t be retried for the murder of your wife.” She needed to move. Do something. “Perhaps.” Boudreaux reappeared, holding a glass of clear liquid. She cursed her paralyzing fear and her missed opportunity. He may not turn his back on her again. Eden shrank back as he approached, cringed when he placed his cold hands on her shoulders. His long fingers curled into her flesh as they skidded down her arms. “Surely you are thirsty from your ordeal,” he said, wrapping her fingers around the neck of the glass. “Have a drink.” “No.” “Drink or I’ll let her kill you like she wants to.” His hand cupped the back of Eden’s head, bending it backwards while forcing her hand toward her mouth. The liquid, which she knew wasn’t just water, sloshed over her wrist. “Open wide.” He inserted a thumb into her clenched teeth, forced her mouth open and poured the drink down her throat. She choked, “You’ll probably kill me anyway.” “Maybe. We’ll soon see.” The effects of the drug were almost immediate. Eden felt a tingling sensation through her bloodstream and down her spine.

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“But here I have a prominent psychologist at my disposal,” he said, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand, “and I don’t have to pay a consulting fee. How about it, ma petite? Would you like a last chance to dissect my evil criminal mind?” Eden blinked. “Yes? Ashley and I had considered, how does one say it?, doing away with my wife long before I learned of your obscure little theory. My private detective finally tracked you down and showed me an article you wrote. It just happened to be next to an article on GHB in one of Ashley’s psychology journals. And so I thought, what fate? Why not put the two together? Why not have my son’s killer be my salvation? It was so twisted. I loved it. “Ashley drugged me the night of the murder. That is why I was able to pass the police department’s little lie detector test and your petty psychological assessments. Your tests were correct. I really don’t recall my wife’s murder. But Detective Ricco was also correct. I did orchestrate it.” A long, slow grin spread across his face. “I really don’t recall what happened from the time I arrived home to the murder. Ashley may have done it alone.” He looked over his shoulder. “Or did we do it together, chere?” Ashley smiled weakly from her crumpled position. “I forget. But I took pictures. You’ve got a thing for pictures.” “Ah, I so admire your humor. As I said, women have their uses,” he said, addressing Eden again. “You were useful to me in the first trial. I must commend you on a fabulous job on presenting your theory. I studied it extensively before Ashley and I put our plan into effect. I couldn’t have invented a better excuse. So I studied your tests, practiced the test on malingering, and it was done. “Unfortunately, I cannot take responsibility for Marie. Ashley volunteered for that one on her own. And she really did a fine job of it. She should be proud of herself.” “I am.” “But I find that the only problem with murder is that after the first time it becomes too easy. I really do not want to kill you, mon coeur. Not because I want you to live, but because I am afraid that I will see murder as an option in the future and eventually make a mistake. I even tried to save you from Ashley’s voodoo machinations with my own little good luck charm. You and the detective really are quite impressive together…” He slid his open hand over her shoulder. “So here’s my solution. With the drugs that you have just ingested, perhaps you won’t recall what has happened in the past few minutes. If you don’t remember when you wake up, if you wake up, I’ll let you go.” Eden countered. “If I do remember?” “I’ll kill you and make it look like Ashley did it.” There was a croaking sound from Ashley’s direction, but Eden didn’t have the nerve to look away from the menace in his eyes.

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“But I was testifying for the defense.” Her voice was beginning to slur, she didn’t have much time, “Why get rid of me?” “Your little stunt in the elevator ruined your credibility. I do not take chances with my life. I did not know if the jurors in this trial would believe your testimony. Perhaps they would. Perhaps not.” He placed his hands in front of him as if he were being led away to a jail cell. “I thought that if I scared you enough you would run home, but no, you ran straight into the arms of the detective. It was a gamble and I lost, chere.” Boudreaux’s face blurred. Eden shook her head. A vast emptiness lay at the edge of her consciousness, threatening to overtake her. It was the same sensation she’d felt at the ceremony. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping her conscious. She turned to her only salvation. “Ashley, he’ll kill you too.” Stumbling to her feet, Ashley hissed, “Wrong again, Doc. I’ll kill you and Courtland and I can trot off into the sunset.” She raised the gun. The sound of breaking glass shattered the silence just as the wave of darkness pulled her under.

***** Nick watched helplessly as Eden slumped over the chair, fierce rage erupting from within him. He would not lose another woman he loved. “Boudreaux, I do believe we had a date,” he said, making a guttural sound as he lunged at the murderer. Nick didn’t care that he sounded like a madman. To his left, he heard Ashley scream. The gun fired, but Nick didn’t stop to check himself for holes. The force of his first blow sent both he and Boudreaux crashing against the wall. The boat listed to the side. Boudreaux offered little resistance, which almost stopped Nick from beating the living daylights out of him. Almost. He cornered Boudreaux, preparing for a final blow. “Nick, no.” Eden’s light moan stopped him. She wasn’t dead. Arm cocked, he looked down at the beaten man. He still wore that same smug expression, but Nick knew Boudreaux was a coward and a criminal. He had been a fool to waste so much time pursuing him, but now was not the time for worthless regret. “I don’t kiss on the first date. How about I arrest you instead?” Pulling the beaten man up by the collar, Nick sneered, “Courtland Boudreaux you’re under—” “You kiss well enough on the first date, Ricco. The doctor here can attest to that.” Nick turned. The sight before him almost made him lose his stomach. He’d been so intent in his destruction of Boudreaux he’d overlooked the greater threat. Eyes overflowing with contempt, Ashley held the gun to Eden’s temple with bruising force.

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Eden stood, her head tilted awkwardly. She didn’t look frightened though, she looked furious. Before Nick could react, she took matters into her own hands. Jerking her elbow up, she knocked the gun from Ashley’s grasp. It twirled across the room before sliding across the floor. With her other hand she executed a perfect uppercut. Palm open, the heel of her hand struck Ashley’s delicate chin. Ashley staggered backwards. T appeared in the doorway, panting. Taking in the situation in a single glance, he caught Ashley around the waist, caging her arms behind her. “Backup, Nick,” he growled. “Think about using it sometime.” Correctly assessing Ashley as a continued threat, he took the time to handcuff her. “Man, I told you not to go in without me.” “I had backup this time, T,” Nick looked at Eden, beautiful, whole and alive, “and perfect timing.” Boudreaux tugged at Nick’s hold. “Not so fast, Boudreaux, as I was saying…” Nick paused, savoring the moment. “You’re under arrest for insurance fraud.” “So, you found my coins.” The defendant smiled through swollen lips. “No matter. You can’t arrest me. You’re not a badge any longer.” Nick jerked a shiny brass badge from his pocket and shoved it in Boudreaux’s face. “Wrong again. I’m not going to sacrifice my life for revenge. You’re not worth it.” His gaze flashed to Eden. “I have too much to live for. It’s over for you and for Ashley.” “The coins? Where?” Ashley stammered, suddenly looking like a lost child, uncertainty swimming in her eyes. “Courtland?” “In the frog, sweetheart,” T supplied. “That was a pretty good trick, Boudreaux, hiding the real coins in the frog. We’re serving a search warrant at your home as we speak. I’m sure we’ll find the counterfeit coins nicely displayed under lock and key.” Nick pulled Boudreaux toward the door, hoisting him topside. “Take care of Doc, T. I’ll be right back.” Minutes later, after securing Boudreaux and Ashley in two separate squad cars at the water’s edge, Nick stepped below deck. Eden sat on the bunk, her face in her hands as T comforted her, explaining how Nick’s answering machine had picked up the whole conversation between she and Wilder. T and Nick had returned to the cottage for Eden after their visit to the district attorney’s office. Nick recalled his panic when she had not been there packing. He had been almost on his way to the airport when he’d heard the soft reminder beep of the machine. The recorded conversation had sent ice cubes down his back even as the pieces fell into place. Ashley was the perfect accomplice for Boudreaux. She was smart, beautiful and depraved. Nick had known her for years and had had no idea of the depth of her malice. If she hadn’t tipped her own hand she may have gotten away with murder again. He’d been certain that he would be too late for Eden too. He looked at her again. Just to make sure.

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She was a mess, one of her heels had broken off, her cream suit skirt and her white cotton blouse were smudged, her hair was tangled and from what he’d seen earlier, she would probably have quite a shiner for a few days. She had never looked more gorgeous. Nick felt a rush of emotion wash over him. She was all right. He would make sure that she stayed that way, appointing himself to that lifelong job. “I’ve got it from here, T.” “Sure thing, Nick.” T dropped to a crouch next to Eden. “You’ve got spunk. Marie? She would have liked you just fine.” Eden’s smile lit up her face and Nick’s heart. “I hope so.” “So you take care of my brother-in-law.” Her blue gaze locked with Nick’s. “If he’ll let me,” she whispered. Nick didn’t hear T leave. He approached Eden as she rose to glide across the room toward him. They met halfway, in the center of the gaudy carpet. There were certainly prettier settings for declarations of love but Nick knew, regardless of the ugly surroundings, he couldn’t ask for a more beautiful moment. He wrapped his arms around her, letting his eyes slide closed with the pleasure of her nearness. He loved this woman with a passion and depth of emotion like no other. He wanted to start over, date her properly, introduce her to his friends and family, show her that he was more than a man bent on revenge. “That was the fourth time, Doc,” he said. “Excuse me?” she questioned, even as her eyes broadcast the fact that she recalled their conversation in the hospital room. Beaming at him, she wrapped her arms around his waist, gazing into his face, visions of four or five children dancing in her eyes. “What about you?” she said, cuddling closer to his warmth. “How many times do I have to save you before you belong to me?” “Just once.” Her brow furrowed. “Now I have to play catch-up?” “Naw.” Brushing his lips over her bottom one, he said, “You saved me on Saturday.” Her eyes widened. “When?” “The moment you touched me in the hallway. You touched the man I was before Marie’s death. The man that I want to be again. I love you, angel.” Her hands snuck under his shirt to roam over his muscular back. “That means you belong to me now?” Nick bent his head to kiss her deeply. “Body and soul, Doc. Body and soul.” Oddly, Nick thought of the mantel in his mother’s home, soon to be his and Eden’s home. It was badly in need of a clock, and he knew just the one for the empty spot. It certainly wasn’t in mint condition anymore, but it still had a few good years ahead of it.

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Something told him that she would like it too. “I was just thinking, Doc.” “Hmm?” she purred. “After we take care of this mess downtown, we need to go shopping.” She smiled up at him, the light in her eyes took his breath away. “How about tomorrow?” Nick sighed and pulled her tighter in his embrace. “You got yourself a deal.” The End

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About the Author Email: [email protected] Website: www.candiekeane.com Candie welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

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