KILLING ME SOFTLY (16 page)

Alec swayed on his feet, lifted the gun. "Be careful what you ask for,
partenaire
."

"Why?" Cain pushed. Two and two were not adding to four, and he didn't like it one damn bit. "If you really wanted me dead we both know I'd be that way by now."

Wincing against a pain in his ribs, he stepped closer. "You're playing vigilante, aren't you? That's what's going on. Tell me. Let me help."

The lines of Alec's face tightened. "Didn't you learn anything two years ago? Didn't you learn what happens when you quit minding your own business?"

"You know me," Cain said on a deliberately glib shrug. "I've always been a slow learner."

Alec's eyes flashed. "
Merde
, Cain, he knows what you're doing! He knows you're on to him!"

Oncle
. "Damn it, Alec, you don't have to do this alone—"

Alec was on him before he could finish, the butt of his gun slamming against Cain's temple. Pain blasted him, but it was nothing compared to the shock. He felt himself sway, felt himself fall, felt his head smack against the cold concrete. As the edges of his vision went black, he saw Alec move to stand over him, saw the barrel of the gun pointed at his temple, but couldn't do a damn thing to stop him.

"And he has ways to make you stop," Alec vowed, and the world went dark.

The Quarter welcomed her like an old friend. Renee walked along Royal Street, the warmth growing inside her with each step she took, despite the breeze blowing off the river. So much had changed since she'd been gone—people, relationships, hopes and dreams. And desires. Just outside town there were roads where wetlands had sprawled, shops and fast-food restaurants where she'd once gone on a photo shoot with Cain. But in the Quarter, life ambled on as it had two years before, two decades before. The more the world at large expanded, the more technology invaded everyday life, the more stubbornly the Vieux Carré clung to the old ways.

Lost in the blur of past and present, it took a moment for the sound to register. She stopped abruptly and fumbled for the .22. Then she spun. And laughed.

The street was deserted, devoid even of window shoppers or tourists reeling back to their hotels, college kids roaming from bar to bar. The sound had come from memory, the night two years before when Cain had sneaked up on her.

Cain
. She'd stayed at the casino for over two hours, but he'd never returned. Neither had Gabe. She'd tried to convince Val not to worry, but with each second that passed the other woman had grown more agitated. Renee had tried to soothe her, but she was supposed to be a stranger, and there'd been little she could do.

Finally Gabe had reached Val on her mobile phone and she'd left, telling Renee Gabe didn't know what had become of Cain.

That's why he was on her mind. That's why she imagined the noise behind her. It would be so like him to wait outside the casino, to follow her and—

The attack came without warning. Renee thrashed as the man caught her from behind and dragged her toward a darkened courtyard. "This is getting old!" she hissed, realizing she'd been right after all. "You can't just sneak up on—"

The blade to her throat stunned her. "Shut up," the man snapped, slapping his free hand to her mouth. The voice was—wrong. Not low and drugging. Not hoarse and thick and seductive. Not … Cain.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

New Orleans

Twenty months earlier

"
Y
ou reporter types don't learn, do you? You juz keep sticking your pretty little neck where it don't belong."

I hate being backed into corners. I hate being trapped. But as I scan the sunny courtyard, with its inoperable fountain and clay pots spilling over with colorful impatiens, I realize my options are limited.
Oncle's
man is too big. Too strong. And he has a knife. "Look, I didn't think—"

"That's your problem," he says, tracking me deeper into the courtyard.

The step back is automatic. So is the glance at my purse, lying next to a statue of the Virgin Mary near the iron fence that separates the patio from Toulouse Street. My gun is inside my purse. If I can reach it…

I dart to the side and run toward the statue, but the man grabs my hair and yanks me toward him. My head snaps back and my eyes burn. "You don't want to do this!" I warn.

He laughs. "Speak for yourself," he snarls as he shoves me into the disabled patio fountain.

I go down hard, slamming first against concrete, then into cold stagnant water.

"Words don't work with people like you," he says, and then he's diving in after me, straddling my body with his own.

On a low growl I slam my head forward and smash it against his nose. He yowls in pain and jerks away, backhands me across my cheek. "You little bitch!"

Pain explodes through me, but I keep twisting, thrashing.

Snarling, he reveals the blood between his teeth and comes at me again. I ram a knee into his gut and try to lever myself out of the water, but he's like one of those movie creatures that just keeps coming. He grabs my wrists and yanks them over my head, wedges me against the side of the fountain and rips at my shirt.

"You so don't want to do that."

The voice is low and steely, one-hundred-percent lethal. My hair is wet and falling into my face, but I don't need to look to know who's just entered the courtyard.

The sound of a gunshot brings the man on top of me rearing back.

"Next time it will be at the base of your skull," the newcomer promises, and with a vicious oath,
Oncle's
man rolls from my body and runs.

Alec Prejean charges after him, but just as quickly he's back, helping me out of the water and kneeling beside me, running his hands along my arms. "Jesus, God, Vannah. Are you…? Did he…?"

Cain's partner has seen the worst life has to offer, just like Cain has. He's witnessed depravity. He's knelt beside fallen officers and cradled victims of gang shootings, embraced grieving parents. I know that. I've seen it, heard about it. Alec is legendary for his calm. He has this rare ability to shut off every ounce of emotion and do what needs to be done.

That's why the stammer in his voice, the hesitation in his touch, surprises me. "I'm okay," I manage, but the wince gives me away.

"The hell you are—where does it hurt?"

I start to say nowhere, but then I breathe. And the stabbing pain in the right side of my rib cage make me wince.

"Christ." Dark spots push against the edges of my vision as he takes my hand and squeezes. "Help's on the way."

"But how…?"

"Your brother got worried when you didn't show up."

"I wasn't that late," I manage. Alec shrugs out of his big leather jacket and drapes it over my damp blouse. "You know your brother." I do, but— "And Cain," he adds.

The longing is sharp, deep. The realization stuns. I do know Cain, better with each passing day. And despite the dangerous game we can't stop playing, it's him I want kneeling beside me, holding my hand. Because I know. I know the games are just a smoke screen, a protective device.
A prelude
. We keep dancing around each other, because the second we stop, we'll be left confronting a truth, a passion, that could destroy us both.

I'm supposed to be investigating him, for God's sake. My boss has warned me—

But then Cain is there, barging into the courtyard and stopping abruptly, swearing viciously and running toward me. I have no idea how much time has passed. Ten seconds. Ten minutes. I only know he's here, dropping to my side and leaning over me, scooping me into his arms and murmuring desperate words that feed some vulnerable place deep inside.

"Cain…"

"I'm here," he whispers, running his hands over my body. The juxtaposition between the gentleness in his voice and the ferocity in his eyes devastates me. "I'm here."

For the moment, that's all that matters.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

New Orleans, present day

"
O
h,
monDieu
, are you okay?"

Standing in a puddle of yellow porch light, Renee brought a hand to her throat and felt the sticky warmth of blood against her fingertips. "I—I need to see Cain."

The pretty blonde peering from behind a partially open door wearing a soft pink chenille robe and fuzzy slippers eyed Renee. A small sign proclaimed the old Victorian to be a bed-and-breakfast, but the innkeeper's stare inspired neither welcome nor refuge.

It was the cool, assessing look of a cop.

"Mon Dieu,"
the woman muttered again, then stunned Renee by fumbling with the chain and opening the door, practically dragging her inside. "You're that
True Crime
producer right?" she asked, shutting the door and turning the dead bolt, sliding the chain in place. "Renee…"

"Fox," she supplied. "How do you know—"

"Let's get a look at this." Briskly, the innkeeper urged Renee's fingers from her neck and made a soft clucking sound. "
Mon Dieu
, who did this to you? Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Renee shook her head. "I need to talk to Cain."

Need. There was that word again.

"Of course you do," the woman said, gently inspecting Renee's neck. "But he's not here yet. I swear, I never know when he's going to show up. I've given up trying to figure him out."

The laissez-faire tone struck Renee as odd. Clearly the woman expected Cain, but there was no possession or jealousy in her voice, nothing remotely close to the way a woman feels when her lover is late and another woman comes looking for him.

"But you do expect him…" She let her voice trickle off and flashed a tentative smile. "I'm sorry. I've barged into your home in the middle of the night, but I don't even know your name."

The woman pulled back and lifted a hand to her face, left a smear of blood against her cheek. "Oh, I just assumed since you're here…" Her eyes warmed. "I'm Tara. Cain and my husb—ex-husband were partners." She reached for Renee's wrist. "Now let's get this cleaned up."

Tara
. Surprise came hard and fast. Trying to hide it, Renee let the woman she'd heard so much about lead her into a spacious room with rich jade walls. They passed a formal dining table and moved through a butler's pantry before entering the kitchen. A flick of a switch bathed the room in light.

Tara directed her to a bulky farmhouse table. "Go ahead and have a seat while I get a bandage from my bathroom." All business, she bustled out of the kitchen, leaving Renee sitting alone in the big kitchen that looked cold, but wasn't.

Slowly she lifted a hand to her neck and traced her fingers along the shallow cut.

Tara. She'd heard so much about her, from Alec, from Cain, but the two women had never met. Tara had been working as a consultant back then, spending weeks on assignment in Scotland. Alec had missed her desperately, talked about her incessantly. They were trying to start a family. Had been for a while. Alec joked about how tough all the practice was, but the anguish in his eyes, his voice, had been impossible to miss. Only toward the end had he mentioned his concern for his wife, the worry that their inability to conceive was taking a toll on her.

Renee closed her eyes and brought her hands to her face, felt the ache tighten through her chest. So much had changed. Alec had seemed deeply in love with his wife, that love evident in every word he spoke. But time had moved on for them, too. Moved on for Alec. He wasn't the man she remembered.

Maybe he never had been. It was hard to know anymore, hard to separate the lies from the truth, the sins from the penance.

"I'm glad you came here," Tara said when she returned. Going down on a knee, she lifted a piece of damp gauze to Renee's neck. "Thank God you weren't hurt worse."

Antiseptic came next, and it stung. "It was a warning." Just like so many others she'd received during her career as an investigative reporter. "Someone's scared of what I might find out."

"And rightfully so." Tara pressed a clean gauze to Renee's throat. "But there's got to be more to it than that. Mercy is not his calling card. If he left you alive, my bet is he wants something he thinks only you can provide."

Renee tensed. Maybe Alec had moved out, but clearly his wife still had her ear to the ground. "You sound like you know who did this to me."

Tara's eyes met hers. "Don't you?"

The question hung there between them, wicked in its simplicity. Like a bright, glaring searchlight, it exposed the shattering uncertainty Renee had been living with every day and night for the past eighteen months.

The answer should have been easy. Yes. She knew who was responsible for the attack. Tonight—and before.
Oncle
.
Oncle
was responsible.
Oncle
was the one who'd tried to silence her.
Oncle
was the one who'd ordered a knife to her throat.

But
Oncle
was a shadowy figure. No one knew who he was or where to find him, only that his payroll was extensive. There were cops on that payroll. Cops who carried out his bidding.

And that's where everything tangled. Because while that dark, wounded place within her refused to believe Cain could be involved, the facts said otherwise. So she'd walled that place off, tacked up every scrap of brick and concrete and plywood she could find, done whatever she could, whatever she had to, to drown out the chorus that refused to die.

"I'm not sure what I know anymore," she whispered, and God help her, it was the truth.

Tara frowned. "It's a crazy, mixed-up world—"

They saw it at the same time, the shadow moving across the bay window. Tara reeled back and Renee's heart kicked hard, but before either woman could move, the back door slammed open and he burst into the kitchen.

"Where the hell is she—" He stopped abruptly, as though he'd run smack into an invisible wall, and murder exploded in his eyes.

For a moment Cain couldn't move. Couldn't think. Could barely breathe. Like a deaf, dumb, mute paraplegic, he could only stand and drink in the sight of her sitting at the table, alive.