Say You Love Me (6 page)

He was right—she was hiding something. But would she hide a killer?

“I'm not leaving now. Not until a crime-scene unit arrives to process your place. In fact, you shouldn't stay here tonight,” he said. “Do you have a friend you can call? A family member?”

She shook her head. “No. No family.”

“I hope you didn't lose them in the hurricane?”

She averted her gaze, picked at an invisible piece of dust on the end table. “No. It was a long time ago.”

A note of sadness tinged her voice. “Where were you living before you came here?”

Panic slashed across her face. “In one of the small towns that got wiped out. I had nothing there and decided to move on.”

“Have you always worked in journalism?”

Irritation flared on her face. “You certainly ask a lot of questions, Detective.”

“I'm a cop. That's my job.” He leaned forward again, this time so close he inhaled her citrusy scent. “What did you do before you came to work for
Naked Desires?
”

“Odd jobs,” she said, meeting his gaze head-on. “Now, I'm tired of this inquisition. You're supposed to be trying to find this madman, not dissecting my life.”

He'd pushed enough for the night. She looked exhausted and had had a harrowing day. “Let me drive you to a hotel. We'll get your locks changed in the morning and add a deadbolt.”

“With Mardi Gras in town, there won't be any empty hotel rooms,” she said, pointing out the obvious. “And if this man wants to kill me, another lock won't keep him out.”

“Maybe not, but we sure as hell aren't going to make it easy for him.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “If you're afraid to stay alone, I'll arrange for a guard tonight.”

Wariness flashed in her expression, but she jutted up her chin. “No, I'm not afraid. New locks will do just fine.”

Why did the mere thought of having the police around frighten her so? And why would having the police dust for prints bother her? Unless she didn't want them to pick up her own prints…. Which meant she might have a record.

Was she more afraid of the cops than a ruthless cold-blooded killer?

* * *

B
RITTA STRUGGLED
to maintain her composure while Detective Dubois conferred with the CSI team. He'd also called a friend who did locksmith work for the police department to change her locks and add a deadbolt.

“Come with me while they finish up,” Detective Dubois suggested.

“I'm all right here.”

“It'll do you good to get out for a while. Besides, I haven't had dinner and there's a quaint Cajun café near here. We can discuss the magazine.”

“I've already told you everything I know,” she said defiantly. “And I've eaten dinner.”

Detective Dubois touched her arm gently. “Come on. They have great desserts at this restaurant. You can have coffee and tell me more about yourself.”

Exactly what she didn't want to do.

“I don't need a babysitter, Detective. I'll be fine alone.”

He angled his head toward her. “What's wrong? You aren't afraid of me, are you, Britta?”

She stiffened. “No, don't be ridiculous.” Hadn't she learned long ago not to draw attention to herself?

His dark eyes pierced her, probing.

Unnerved, she nodded, knowing the only way to quiet his suspicions was to appease him. He couldn't seduce information out of her—not if she didn't let him. “All right. But I intended to search those letters tonight to see if this guy might have written to me before.”

“You can review the letters tomorrow.” His voice softened. “It's been a long day already.”

He instructed the others that he would return within an hour and pressed a hand to her waist, guiding her outside. The gesture triggered another round of nerves. He was so strong that she felt safe by his side, yet not safe at all. She couldn't allow herself to depend on any man, much less Jean-Paul Dubois. He might stir desires and hungers that could never be sated. Might awaken a sexual beast within her….

Not something she could allow to happen with a cop.

The sultry evening air aroused another longing inside her, one that conjured images of a real date, of strolling hand in hand with a lover, listening to the sexy blues and jazz music wafting around them while the Mississippi lapped softly against the bank.

“We're here.” He stopped at a small café that had cropped up after the hurricane and gestured for her to enter.
Dubois Diner.
Wonderful heady odors wafted toward them. Hot, spicy Cajun sausages and gumbo, jambalaya, shrimp po'boys….

“Do you own this?”

“No, my father does. It's a family business.”

A tall, broad-shouldered, older man with wavy, gray hair and a slight limp met them at the door. One glance into his eyes and she recognized him as a Dubois.

He clapped Jean-Paul on the shoulders. “Ahh, Jean-Paul, so good to see you tonight, son. And here, you've brought a beautiful woman on your arm. Finally! Welcome,
chere.
”

Britta froze, aware the detective shifted uncomfortably. “Papa, this is Miss Britta Berger. She's helping me with a
case.
”

His father pinched his fingers together and slapped them to his forehead, then lapsed into a round of French Cajun dialogue. Detective Dubois's mouth tightened but he didn't argue.

Finally he angled his head her way. “My papa and
maman
think I work too much. But my job is my life.”

“Those who do not take time to love will never find it,” Mr. Dubois spouted. “Take heed of what the song of New Orleans says.”

Britta smiled, remembering the strange verse. Then a pudgy woman with a bun swooped toward them.

“Maybe this was a bad idea. Maman is great, just very old-fashioned.” Dubois shot her an apologetic look just before his mother pulled him into a bear hug.

A sharp pang slammed into Britta's gut as her own mother's face materialized in her mind. It had been so long since she'd seen her that her image was foggy. Her mother had never hugged her like that. She'd been too doped up. Her eyes hollow, not laughing. Her smile strained, her face gaunt.

And then Britta had lost her forever.

* * *

T
HE MOON BEAMED
bright and full above the swampland as he made his way to his father's grave in Black Bayou. Only the land had shifted since the last big hurricane and the patch of dirt he recognized was no longer there. His father's remains had been swept into the tidal wave of the hurricane disaster, lost forever like so many others.

Just as his father had been lost to him the day Adrianna had destroyed him. Behind him, miles away, stood the city. New Orleans—the Big Easy. The town of sinners.

The city of the dead.

There the graves remained, at least the ones that stood above ground. An ominous reminder that the city could be lost again in a second.

No wonder Britta Berger had decided to hide in town. After all, technically, she was dead. Her new name stolen from one of those very graves just as he'd stolen a new name for himself.

Muttering a prayer to his father, he renewed his vow for vengeance as he made his way through the backwoods to the new meeting place of his people. As he approached the circle of light created by the bonfire, the dark memories dragged him back to his childhood and the reason he'd returned.

Yet, here he stood as an adult, trembling from fear, knowing he didn't belong—that he'd never earned his manhood in the clan's eyes. Hidden away among the backwater folks who worshipped Sobek, who feared the devil's wrath, who still believed in the ancient ways, they fought the battle between good and evil.

God would punish the sinners. But the devil was always working. Sometimes he walked among them, stealing souls and casting spells on innocents to convert them to do his service.

The clan had to pull together. Pray. Offer the gods a sacrifice so they could live among the bayou safe from the crocodiles and vermin the devil used as traps for the weaker.

The low hum of gospel singing echoed in the air, beginning the ceremony. The passage of boy to man, girl to woman.

One was always taken.

Adrianna's face remained etched in his mind as the young girls dressed in virginal white stepped before the altar. Their mothers shivered with fear, knowing that any one of their daughters might be the chosen one.

Only the girls knew nothing.

But Adrianna had known. The devil must have whispered in her ear. And she had chosen him.

Then the clan had cast
him
aside as if he was a leper.

He fisted his hands at his sides. He had to destroy all those wicked women who defied their religion. The cheap whores. Satan's messengers. Then the curse would be removed from him and he could once again walk among his people.

Fury twisted his insides as time spun backward.

He was back in Black Bayou on that fatal day.

Blood soaked his hands, his face, his clothing where he leaned over his daddy's body. Shouts and screams of terror and shock rocked through the clan. Suddenly someone yelled for them to hunt Adrianna.

Torches were lit, tempers fired and men dispersed. He had gone with them. Hours had dragged as they'd relentlessly fought through the bayou. Crocodiles had threatened. Attacked. Another brother had fallen prey to the swamp, his limbs ripped away one by one by a gator's sharp teeth.

Then one had shot out of the water toward him. His stomach rolled as he recalled the gator's teeth ruthlessly sinking into his arm, his torso, his ear. Fear had nearly crippled him.

But Satan had decided to let him live that night. Death would have been too easy.

Finally at daybreak they'd returned to the camp. Exhausted. He was half-dead.

They hadn't found Adrianna.

Then his next realm of punishments had begun. He'd bowed his head before the snake pit, the blinding pain swirling him into a vortex of eternal darkness. The clan chanted and prayed for the demons to be exorcised from his body. They'd thought him weak. A traitor. That he had warned Adrianna….

In their eyes, he was a failure. An outcast. He had not survived the trial by ordeal without looking guilty.

Then they had banned him from their presence forever.

Thunder clapped above, drawing him back to the present. He stood on the edge of another clan now, the work of the great Ezra Cortain in progress. The pounding drums echoed around him and the chants began, praising Sobek. Although forced to remain on the periphery, he clasped his hands and silently joined their prayer.

Adrianna might be able to run, but she couldn't hide.

And she had changed her name, but he knew it, as well as her real one. The Christian one her mother had given her.

The one he would call her when he finally offered her to the spirits.

J
EAN
-P
AUL SILENTLY CURSED
his decision to bring Britta Berger to his family's restaurant. He should have called it a night. Left her at her apartment. Gone back to the precinct.

But once he'd ignored his family's welfare for his job and his wife had died. He'd never forgive himself. Lucinda's family hadn't forgiven him, either.

He had to warn his sisters and mother now that there was a killer preying on women.

A low jazz tune wailed in the background of the diner, wrapping tendrils of nostalgia around him—and a longing for what he'd lost. The comfort of a companion. The feel of a woman's touch.

Only Lucinda had never been a comfort about his job. She'd hated it and begged him to leave police work.

God, why was he thinking about her tonight?

Because another woman had died and you couldn't stop it.

“This is the rest of our family!” His
maman
gestured toward the wall of family photographs above the table, forcing Jean-Paul back to the present as she rattled on. “Jean-Paul is the oldest and of course, always the responsible one, taking care of everyone.”

“Mother—” he growled.

“It's true.” His mother batted her hand at him, then continued, oblivious to the fact that she was embarrassing him. “See all the pictures of him after the hurricane? He worked day and night, saved women and children. My boy is a local hero.”

Jean-Paul gritted his teeth as she waved past the photo of him and Lucinda. Britta narrowed her eyes, obviously curious about the woman, but she didn't ask and he didn't offer the information.

How many times had he questioned his decision? Some men had lost their jobs because they'd left their posts to save their families. He'd saved strangers, kept his job, but lost his wife.

“And here's Damon, my next-to-the-oldest son,” his mother continued. “Damon works for the FBI. Always the serious one, tough like Jean-Paul, but reserved, a methodical thinker.” Her face beamed with pride. “And this is Antwaun, my youngest boy. He's hot-headed, temperamental like his papa, unpredictable.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “He's too quick to jump into things sometimes, but ahh, a good boy at heart, he is.”

“You have a beautiful family,” Britta said quietly.

Her tone sounded so sad that Jean-Paul squeezed her hand beneath the table. A gesture of silent thanks for being so tolerant? The realization that he was sorry for whoever had hurt her?

“Now please, Britta, try some of my famous white-bread pudding.” His mother pushed a dish toward Britta and she accepted it graciously.

“It's delicious.” Britta sipped her latte. “In fact, everything looks wonderful. And the smells…I'm sure customers are drawn in from the streets because of the tantalizing aromas.”

“Oh, thank you,” his mother gushed. “You must come by for lunch. I work so hard to get the freshest ingredients and Catherine here, Jean-Paul's youngest sister, she helps me create the desserts.”

“My daughter, Chrissy, likes to bake, too,” Catherine said with a grin. “I think she might grow up to be a pastry chef herself.”

“Yeah, but she usually wears more flour than goes into the dough.” Jean-Paul ruffled his five-year-old niece's hair and smiled as she popped part of an éclair into her mouth and the cream oozed down her chin.

“So how long have you known my big brother?” Catherine asked.

Britta squirmed in her seat. “Actually we just met.”

Stephanie, his dark-haired sister and the bookkeeper for the café, raised a brow. “Papa said you're helping Jean-Paul with a case?”

Britta nodded, but refrained from elaborating.

“What is it you do?” Catherine asked. “Are you a detective?”

“Or one of those psychic investigators?” Stephanie asked.

Jean-Paul rolled his eyes. “The festival has everyone's imagination running on overload, doesn't it?”

Stephanie shrugged. “I know you don't believe in anything supernatural, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist.”

Catherine cleared her throat. “That's right. Just like love. Just because it's not a tangible thing, doesn't mean it's not real.”

Jean-Paul glared at them to stop the matchmaking. They both knew he'd vowed never to marry again, that he had no desire to get involved with another woman.

Britta cleared her throat. “Actually, I'm not gifted or a detective. I'm an editor for a magazine.”

Stephanie's dark eyes lit up as recognition dawned. “Britta Berger. That's right. You edit that Secret Confessions column, don't you?” She stirred sweetener into her coffee. “I love that column. It's exciting to see the diversity of confessions. Do you have a difficult time choosing which ones to print?”

Britta shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“I met the owner, R.J. Justice,” Stephanie continued. “He's handsome. I bet he's interesting to work for.”

Jean-Paul frowned at his sister as he finished his last bite of gumbo. He didn't want Stephanie anywhere near Justice, but if he told her so, she'd probably make it a point to see the man.

“The magazine, that's one reason we stopped by,” Jean-Paul said. “We had a murder-rape case today, and the killer sent Britta a photograph of the crime.”

“Oh my gosh, that's horrible,” Catherine whispered.

“Why did he send it to you?” Stephanie asked.

“I think he wanted me to print it.”

“But we're not playing his game,” Jean-Paul declared.

His
maman
looked appalled. “Who did this awful thing?”

“We have no idea who the killer is yet. That means you all have to be careful.” Jean-Paul fixed his sisters with a look that had intimidated cut-throat killers but didn't faze them. “Absolutely no going out alone at night. Hell, not even during the day.”

“Have you talked to your brothers?” his mother asked.

“Not yet, but I will.”

Catherine tapped her nails on her chin. “We can take care of ourselves, Jean-Paul.”

Stephanie slicked her long dark hair behind one ear and angled her head toward Britta in a conspiratorial tone. “Honestly, our brothers can be so protective it's nauseating.”

His
maman
waved a napkin, swatting at her daughters. “You girls listen to Jean-Paul. He knows the streets and works hard to keep us safe.” She turned to Britta. “Your family would say the same thing to you, wouldn't they?”

Britta nearly choked on her coffee.

His mother patted her on the back. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Fine, thank you.” Her eyes caught Jean-Paul's for a moment, and he detected a wariness that made him more curious about her past and what she wasn't saying.

He lowered his voice, aware of the restaurant patrons. “Don't take this lightly, ladies. Trust me, this guy is one sicko. You don't want to wind up like the young woman we found.” A shudder nearly tore through him at the very thought.

Catherine and Stephanie exchanged a silent sisterly look as if they were preparing to gang up on him. He didn't give a damn. Better they be mad at him and alive than the contrary. Tonight, he'd call Catherine's husband, explain the situation. Not that he'd have to force the man to protect her. In spite of Cat's protests, Shawn guarded her and their daughter like a watchdog. And he'd sic his other brothers on Miss Independent Stephanie. At least Steph carried a gun.

“Tell us more,” Stephanie said over the rattle of silverware and dishes at the neighboring table. “The only thing the news reported was that a woman had been killed in the bayou.”

“We haven't identified her yet or released any information, so I can't talk about it.” Jean-Paul threw some money on the table, then did the usual dance with his mother about not paying.

“Maman, we've been over this before. I won't eat here free.”

She huffed but kissed her pinched fingers, then placed her fingers on his cheek. “We will go to church Sunday and pray for the girl and her family,
oui?
”

“I'll try to make it, Maman.”

“Bring Britta, too.” She slanted Britta a sideways wink. “We always have room for one more at our table.”

Britta shook her head. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Dubois, but I couldn't impose.”

“Impose?” His
maman
waved the napkin again, this time at Jean-Paul. “You tell her she could never impose. We love company. Now, you bring her, Jean-Paul.”

“We'll see,” he said softly. He lay his hand over his
maman's
for a moment and squeezed, his gaze catching the odd look on Britta's face. Did she think it was strange that he and his family showed their affection in public? Or did the family scene make her uncomfortable?

Why did he care what she thought? When the hurricane had stolen his parents' home and business, they'd banded together to rebuild their lives.

The tragedies had taught him about what was most important. Material things could be replaced, but loved ones couldn't. But he didn't want his family getting the wrong idea about their relationship.

Besides, a madman might be after Britta. He'd protect her with his life but he refused to lead the killer back to his own family's door.

His cell phone jangled and he pressed the phone to his ear to hear over the din of laughter and voices. “Detective Dubois.”

“Dubois, it's Carson. Listen, there's a bartender down here at the House of Love who recognizes our victim.”

A break they needed. “I'll be right there.” He stood and gestured toward Britta. “We need to go.”

“Always working,” his mother hissed.

Stephanie punched his arm. “Stay safe, brother.”

Catherine hugged him. “Yeah, watch your back. You're not invincible either, you know.”

He nodded, then slid his hand to Britta's waist as they left the restaurant. It was out of the way to walk her home, but the House of Love was a divey bar with nasty floors, cheap strippers and raunchy patrons.

“What's wrong?” she asked as they stepped into the cloying humidity.

“My partner found someone who recognizes our victim. I'll take you home, then I'll go talk to him.”

She lifted her hair off her neck to cool herself, drawing his gaze to a tiny scar beneath her right earlobe. “That's right around the corner.”

“I know, but it's not the kind of place I usually take a woman.”

Emotions flickered in her eyes…relief, surprise. Then she shrugged nonchalantly. “I've seen worse,” she said. “Besides I'm not the sweet, domestic type like your little sisters. This is about the case. It's not personal.”

He shook his head, but his body hardened at the way her eyes darkened in the moonlight. “No, not personal at all.”

And he would keep reminding himself of that, even if she decided to turn her seductive powers on him.

After all, she
wasn't
shy or the wholesome girl next door like his sisters. She didn't seem to like the family scene, either. And she had refused his mother's invitation to dinner as if a homey gathering would bore her.

Worse, she printed erotic confessions in a magazine. Watching a performer take money for stripping probably wouldn't even faze her.

* * *

T
HE NIGHT FELT
as if it would never end.

Britta entered the wall-to-wall packed House of Love, fighting the memories that rose from the depths of the forgotten to haunt her. Thick smoke, sweat, beer and the stench of tawdry sex filled the air; the hint of drunken lust added a layer of tension over the sea of anonymous faces.

Nausea filled her. She'd grown up in places just like this. Had watched her mother entertain night after night. Then seen her duck into the curtained-off areas to perform private lap dances….

“It's not a bad way to make a living,” her mother had told her one night when she'd caught Britta staring through the curtain. “It's just sex, nothing more.”

No emotions. Just the simple exchange of bodily fluids and money.

Disgust gnawed at Britta's throat as she banished the images. She'd hated seeing her mother degrade herself. Hated even more the strange men's grunts and groans at night, watching her mother delve into booze and drugs, knowing filthy hands touched her….

“Come on,” Jean-Paul mumbled, “I see the bartender over there.”

The strobe light blinked to the beat of the contemporary rock music, the center stage occupied with two busty half-naked women gyrating and dancing around poles. A slender black girl tossed off her spangled top and double-Ds swayed as she rode the pole, tassels of silver and bright yellow twirling as she bounced her breasts. Beside her a brunette with three-inch red nails—and red stilettos to match—tossed her gold top into the groping milieu of men. Catcalls erupted as her pasties followed. Playing to the audience's excitement, she crawled across the stage on hands and knees, slithering her ass upward. The black girl shimmied, then began to slowly peel away her G-string, inch by inch, teasing the men thrusting dollar bills toward her.