KILLING ME SOFTLY (11 page)

"Looks like Ms. Fox just packed up and left in the middle of the night, ran out on her bill."

"I don't like it." It was one thing having Renee Fox around and knowing where she was. But having her unaccounted for disturbed him in ways he understood only too well. "Let me know the second something changes. If anyone sees her, hears from her—"

"Don't you worry about Bayou de Foi. I've got everything covered. You just take care of finding Alec."

Cain wound down the call and took a quick shower, dressed and picked up his Glock, headed out the door. To find Alec. Before whatever game he was playing backfired on them both.

No one had talked to his former partner in almost three months, not even the wife he'd supposedly adored. He'd turned in his badge and dropped his wedding ring on the bathroom counter, walked out the door and into the shadows. Since then the rumor mill had been in overdrive, implicating Alec for everything from obstruction of justice, extortion to selling information to the highest bidder, scare tactics, excessive force—and murder.

Of Savannah.

Slamming the door behind him, Cain took the stairs two at a time. Rumor had it that Alec would be at the race track in less than an hour. That something big was going down.

His former partner would be there to greet him. Guilty or innocent. One way or another, Cain would find out for sure.

Revulsion swept through Renee, but she refused to let it show. Angel's revelation was consistent with police speculation, a sordid claim that had run in all the local papers and a few of the cable networks. It was what her own brother had believed.

Despite all of that—the warnings and the evidence, the cold hard logic—there was still a place deep inside Renee that rebelled at the allegation.

How did a woman accept that the man she'd been falling in love with was a pathological liar?

"You think their relationship was just a tactic?" she asked with a detached calm she didn't come close to feeling.

Angel flicked away the maple leaf. "What man in love leaves his woman's bed to come to mine?" Her mouth curved into a cynical smile. "Not a satisfied one, that's for sure."

Despite the fair skin and blond hair she'd been born with, Cajun blood ran through Renee's veins. Her father's mother and mother's father were both full-blooded. She'd grown up adoring them, enchanted by the rich cadence of their voices and the hot passion that guided their actions. As a child, she hadn't known the flashes of temper and bursts of happiness were passion, she'd just known her grandparents were bright, vibrant people.

Knowledge of passion had come later, when she'd discovered she'd inherited that same intensity. When things were good, she could ride the wave and savor every moment.

When things were bad… It was hard to explain to anyone who didn't share her blood, hard to make them understand urges that were dark and punishing, capable of frightening even herself.

And Cain. She could still see him at the plantation ruins, standing in the incessant drizzle, begging her to abandon her investigation into her brother's death.

Calm down,
cher
. You're scaring me.

A big bad police detective like you? Aren't you the one who told me fear wasn't in your vocabulary?

That was before,
belle amie
. Before I met you.

He'd kissed her then, hard, deep, and by the time he was done, she'd believed every word he told her.

Now, sitting in the French Quarter on a chilly fall morning, pretending to be a palm reader while listening to skanky details of her ex-lover's secret life, Renee's heart pounded so fast she could barely breathe. Her blood thrummed in perfect, erratic rhythm, just as it had that sticky night when the rookie cop had revealed her brother's dying words.

"Why should I believe you?" It took effort, but she feigned fascination with the young prostitute's palm, when all she really wanted to do was shove away from the table and get out of town as fast as she could, go back to Nova Scotia and never come back, start over again and forget about justice. "Do you have proof?"

Angel's hand twitched. "Nothing concrete."

Renee didn't know whether she felt disappointment—or relief. "Then why did you call me?"

Angel lifted her eyes. "Because history has a habit of repeating itself, over and over again."

Sunlight glinted through the tunnel of old oaks that lined St. Charles Avenue. Renee sat in her rental car, across the street from the bed-and-breakfast whose address Angel had given her, watching and waiting. Even in the dredges of fall, the house looked vibrant, with red mums lining the walkway and bougainvillea dripping from the wrought-iron porch, huge baskets of bushy ferns swaying in the breeze.

Sipping on her coffee, Renee smiled when the streetcar rumbled by and momentarily obscured her view. When it was gone, Cain was there—holding another woman.

After what seemed like forever he pulled back and took her hand and kissed the back of it, a foolishly gallant gesture that unsettled Renee in ways she didn't want to analyze too closely.

Then he turned and walked away.

Renee watched him slip inside a black Mercedes convertible—the car he'd always talked about purchasing—and merge with traffic. She could feel the woman's sadness from across the boulevard, and though part of her wanted to cross the street and find answers to the questions twisting through her, she pulled into the stream of traffic.

Four cars ahead, at the next intersection, she saw the Mercedes turn right, and gunned her engine in pursuit.

The fabled Fair Grounds came into view twenty minutes later. In the springtime, the sprawling park hosted the world-renowned New Orleans Jazz and Heritage festival, a raucous outdoor party featuring the best of both music and food. She and Cain had attended just weeks before their world came crashing down. Vividly she remembered how it had felt to stand in the curve of his arm as they listened to a New Orleans favorite sing the blues.

Now, she followed him into the half-full parking lot and maneuvered her car into a spot two rows from his.

During the winter months the Fair Grounds hosted a party of a different kind—horse racing. People from all over south Louisiana congregated on a daily basis to wager on the horses, eat, drink and escape. She doubted Cain had any of those pleasures in mind.

Sliding from the car, she sank deeper into her jacket and hurried against the wind, merging with a group of what looked to be college kids as she made her way toward the entrance.

Inside, the throng of racing fans swallowed her. She'd never understood how a man of Cain's height could blend in with a crowd, but it was a skill he'd honed through years of undercover work. She squeezed through the crowd and made her way toward the betting windows, but it was as though the man had simply vanished.

"Me, I'm thinking you look lost, little lady," came a heavily accented Cajun voice from behind her. Turning, she found an elderly man in a worn, rust-colored suit and tie smiling at her. "Can I help you?"

She smiled, gave him a quick nod. "Thanks, but I don't think so. I'm looking for someone."

"My loss," he said, then gestured toward a closed door. "If you smile purty enough, you might be able to get Rusty to make an announcement over the big system."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, feigning interest in the door. "Thanks—" Out of the corner of her eye a movement caught her attention, and her heart thrummed hard in recognition. "I think I see him now," she said, then pivoted and worked her way toward the side of the concession stand.

Cain stood with his back to her, his tall, dark form looming like a specter against a dirty white wall. He had an arm lifted to his face, and as she approached, she saw the phone clenched in his hand. The drone of the crowd prevented her from making out words, but the tension in his body told her all she needed to know.

The red pinhole made her blink. It was just a small spot, a little red dot against his left shoulder blade.

But her heart flat out stopped.

She spun around but immediately realized the crowd was too thick. Then she found the stairwell and looked up.

Through a blur of movement she saw first the high-powered rifle, then the man. Recognition horrified.

She didn't stop to think. She didn't stop to plan. She simply reacted. On a violent rush of adrenaline she lunged forward and shouted Cain's name.

He turned as she neared him.

Vaguely she was aware of his arms reaching for her, but she kept right on going, launching herself at him and knocking him backward. Together, they slammed against the concrete wall, his big body absorbing the shock of impact.

"What the hell—" he started, but at the same moment she looked up. And their eyes met.

Everything around them blurred. She was aware of the people swarming around them and cutting off the shooter's line of shot, but she could put no faces to the curious throng of men and women. A voice boomed over the public-address system, but she couldn't make out the words. There was only sensation, the feel of Cain's body pressed to hers, his hands against her back.

Just as quickly the moment crystallized, leaving her staring up at Cain, a man with dangerously hypnotic eyes and a mouth capable of sin—and salvation. Standing in the circle of his arms, with the heat of his body soaking into hers, her mind screamed caution, but her heart mourned. And her body craved.

The ribbon of longing unfurled through her like a spool of shrapnel-lined silk, unbearably soft but devastatingly sharp, seducing and slicing at the same time.

Before she could stop herself, not even sure she wanted to, she pushed up on her toes and lifted her mouth to his.

CHAPTER NINE

New Orleans

Twenty-two months earlier

I
love games. I'm good at them. I enjoy the nuances and the strategy. I adore the cunning. Laying traps and luring my opponent in, smiling as I do so, it's all part of the fun.

Defeat is not an option.

From behind a contorted modern-art sculpture, I watch Detective Cain Robichaud pull his mobile phone from his pocket and bring it to his face. I watch his body tense, his expression darken. I can tell he's protesting. I see him frown. And I smile.

Because in the end he mutters under his breath and walks away, abandoning the rendezvous he'd arranged to coincide with the warehouse district's monthly street festival.

The good detective cuts his way through the crowd of art shoppers and club hoppers, but it's not until he rounds a corner that I lose sight of him. Courtesy of an emergency that does not exist, he's gone. Soon he'll realize the diversion, but I should have enough time to milk his informant.

Tensions are escalating. Another casino owner has gone missing. Some say a Goose has been stolen. That someone is fighting back…

…that someone else is about to be taught a lesson.

I recognize the informant immediately and make my way toward Mimi's, the eclectic art gallery specializing in pink poodles and purple monkeys. He's got a to-go cup in his hand and a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He's nervous. That's what gives him away.

A smile, some small talk, and soon I've got him in my pocket. I suggest we go somewhere more private, and with a nauseating gleam in his eyes, the man who calls himself Manuel agrees.

Once we're alone behind a renovated warehouse, the dark-skinned man with long dreadlocks leans against the brick wall. "He's going to own this town," he brags. "A pretty woman like you, he might enjoying owning you, too."

I grit my teeth. "I'm not for sale."

"That's what they all say," he says, then drags on his cigarette. "But
Oncle
has ways of changing people's minds."

So I've heard. "Why do they call him the Goose?" I ask, pretending ignorance.

Manuel laughs. "The Goose isn't a person,
mais non
. The Goose is
Oncle's
trump card. It's how he's going to own the city."

I know that much. Just two days before, I overheard my brother vowing to gets his hands on one. He said it was the only way to beat them.

Of course, when he saw me, he clammed up.

I want to know why. "I don't understand."

Manuel takes a last drag on his cigarette and drops it. "People think computers are where it's at, that all that modern who-ha makes them better, stronger. But all you gotta do is go to the movies to know computers are going to be the undoing of society. All it takes is something the size of a nickel to—"

I see his eyes go wide and, without turning to look, I know.

"To what, Manuel? Something the size of a nickel can do what?"

The deceptively quiet challenge jump-starts my pulse. I spin toward the voice, not at all prepared for the sight of him standing so close, or the awareness in his eyes. He knows.

"Detective."

He looks over me, toward Manuel. "I thought you'd see things my way."

And by the time I look over my shoulder, the other man has vanished around the corner.

"Well, well," Cain says, as he almost always does. "Why am I not surprised?"

The rush is intense as I lift my eyes to his. Accepting the inevitable, I let a slow smile curve my lips.
"Parce que,"
I say in an oddly hoarse voice, "the two of us are getting very good at playing this game."

He steps closer. "Is that what you think?"

I don't want to step back, but the reaction is instinctive. The second I feel the cool brick wall against my shoulders I realize his intent. "It's what I know."

Dressed in all black, he comes close to blending with the night. "It's what you
think
," he corrects, and his voice is so quiet I have to concentrate to hear him. "And it's also where you're wrong. I'm not playing,
belle
amie
. I'm trying to keep you from making a mistake you will not live to regret."

My throat goes dry. "Is that a threat?"

"Take it any way you will."