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Logic kicked in, along with the guts that had kept her alive. Even if this madman knew where she worked, he didn’t necessarily know where she lived. She’d been meticulous about not listing her number or including her home address on any paperwork.
Anyone experienced with a computer could find her, though. And if he’d watched her office, he could have easily seen her climb the stairs to her apartment.
She could almost hear the killer taunting her in a sing-songy voice. See him sinking the spear into her heart. Feel the cold sharp blade puncture her insides. Then see the blood oozing out. Her nightmares rose again with icy fingers from the grave clawing at her. The years fell away as if it were yesterday. As if she was there again. Except this time she was even younger.
She was five years old. So small, so tiny that if she tried hard enough, she could make herself disappear. Then no one could find her.
And the monsters couldn’t hurt her anymore.
Footsteps sounded outside. Loud voices. A man’s dark booming laughter.
No!!!!!! Not again.
She crawled beneath the bed, closed her eyes and folded one bony arm beneath the other. Then she slid her hands into her armpits, hunched her knees up to her belly and curled into a ball.
Like a fleck of dust that no one could see, she’d stay there for hours. If she didn’t make a sound, they’d think she’d gone. Then she’d be safe.
Free from the man. Free from the hideous monsters in the bayou.
The door screeched open. The scent of whiskey floated toward her. Thunder rumbled. She caught her breath. Tried to hold it.
Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Be invisible and they’ll go away. But the floor creaked. The wooden boards splintered. And she felt his hand on her arm.
He had her….
Britta heaved for air, sweating, disoriented. This memory was only one of many. The beginning. So many more afterward….
She had to banish them.
She stood, trembling, then moved to stare out the window into the starless night. It wasn’t possible that this killer knew her. Or knew what had happened years ago. How she’d escaped. How she’d survived. How she’d lived on the streets like an animal.
No one knew but her.
More panic yanked at her and she rushed back to her bedroom and dug under the mattress for her journal. Inside it, she wrote all her private thoughts. Her own secret desires and confessions.
Her fingers finally connected with the thick velvet binding, and she tugged it out, flipping through the pages to make certain it was intact. She nearly collapsed on the bed when she realized nothing was missing. Her thoughts were still private.
A voice sounded through the intercom. “Britta? Are you in there?”
Jean-Paul Dubois. He was the last person she’d tell. He’d show her no mercy. He’d take her to jail, lock her up and throw away the key. No, he could never know her secret desires or get near her heart.
She’d die before she’d let that happen.
THERE HAD ALREADY been one woman’s body found today. Jean-Paul held his breath as he waited on Britta to answer the intercom at her door. He hoped to hell there wasn’t going to be another.
Dammit, why wasn’t she answering? He’d raced over after her call. St. Charles Street had been unusually calm for Mardi Gras season. Various flags of kings and queens of Carnival waved from the palatial mansions, all symbols of the royalty: the professional businessmen and politicians who resided in the city, ones who funded the celebrations, rebuilt the city and revitalized the traditions in the Big Easy after the last hurricane. Although some businesses and people had given up and moved on, others had rallied to resurrect the historical district and the culture.
But here on Bourbon Street, the decorations boasted of sex, voodoo, black magic and the live-and-let-live attitude of the tourists seeking a good time, a stiff drink and a good lay—anonymously of course. Which only added to the crime.
Anger mounted inside him. Bon Dieu. Why the hell had Britta Berger chosen to live on Bourbon Street? Why not in one of the sleek condos on Decatur? Just working at the raunchy magazine set her up for trouble. But to live in the heart of it…She might as well hang a damn sign on her body flagging her as an open target.
Did she enjoy living on the edge?
He didn’t. He wanted the town back to normal, back to the New Orleans he loved.
The image of her tied to a bed, naked, with a lancet embedded in her heart, flashed in his head and he grimaced as he punched the buzzer again.
“If you don’t answer, Miss Berger, I’m going to break down this damn door.”
“I’m sorry,” she finally said in a trembling voice. “Come on up.”
A click sounded and he opened the wrought-iron gate in front of the door, then entered. Her office lay to the right, a dark staircase ahead. He took the steps two at a time. When he reached Britta’s apartment door, he gave three quick raps. Seconds later, she opened the door, the chain still intact.
He arched a brow. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, just shaken.” She unlocked the door and stepped back, clutching a long robe to her throat.
“You said someone broke in?” He examined the door, but didn’t notice any damage. “I don’t see evidence of forced entry.”
“He was here.” She folded her arms across her waist, the movement making her look shaken and vulnerable. “In my bedroom.”
He scanned the living room. Simple furnishings. Contemporary. A butter-yellow leather sofa accessorized by a few red and green throw pillows. A TV. Desk. Her laptop.
Perhaps the man climbed to her balcony and sneaked in through the patio window or the French doors. “Did he disturb anything?”
She inhaled, fiddling with her hands. “The bedroom. He went through my drawers. Then he left me something.”
He followed her to her bedroom. Although the paint had faded in the hall, colorful artwork from the locals decorated the wall: scenes of a historic church, the bayou at sunset, the river. A collection of macabre Mardi Gras masks shaped like alligators and sea monsters occupied a decorative shelf, while gris-gris and beads she’d probably bought from the market dangled from hooks to create an eye-catching corner. Oddly, there were no personal photos in sight.
The bedroom appeared the same. A contemporary iron bed. A dark crimson comforter. A gray velvet lounging chair that looked decadent by the window. A few copies of Naked Desires were displayed on a bookshelf along with some self-help books. Slaying Personal Demons. Overcoming Phobias and Fears. Black Magic. The Crocodile Myths.
Another collection of Mardi Gras masks covered the walls. Some were beautiful, exotic, while others displayed the dark side of New Orleans—the voodoo priestess, the devil, a swamp creature.
It was almost as if everything in her apartment had been purchased in the city. As if she’d left any hint of a past behind. Or did the collection of masks symbolize her life? Was she a woman in disguise? Perhaps she had an assortment of wigs in her closet to change her appearance.
“He pawed through my lingerie,” she said.
Jean-Paul spied the opened drawers, the sheer fabrics—all sexy, risquе. A pair of black and red thongs hung from one corner while a hot-pink camisole dangled from the edge of the dresser.
She walked over to the bed and leaned against the corner. “And he left me this.”
A crimson red lace teddy lay in the center of her bed. His pulse clamored. It was almost identical to the one left at the murder scene that morning.
She recognized the similarity, too.
“This one didn’t belong to you?” he asked.
She shook her head no.
Jesus. She had a right to be rattled. Leaving a note at work raised a red flag, but invading her home and leaving the same type of underwear he’d left with his victim was way more personal.
“He also left me this note.” Her hand trembled as she lifted it toward him.
He read it in silence. I always have one eye on you. You can’t run forever.
Instincts warned him Britta Berger was in danger. And that they might be dealing with a serial killer who was only getting started. “Did you notice anyone watching you today? A stranger who seemed suspicious?”
She hesitated, then cleared her throat. “While I was eating dinner at a cafе in the Market, I noticed a man with a camera taking pictures of me from the square.”
His fingers tightened on the note. “Did you recognize him?”
“No, I’ve never seen him before.”
“You’re sure he was photographing you?”
“Yes. He paused when I caught him and waved to me. But his smile seemed sinister.” She hesitated.
“Sinister?”
She glanced at the mask of the monster on her wall. “I suppose that sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
He shook his head. “You should trust your instincts. Especially after a day like today.”
She nodded and he continued. “Can you describe the photographer?”
“He was tall.” She swept her eyes over him, and their gazes locked. “But not as tall as you. Maybe five-ten. Thin, sort of wiry.”
“Dark hair or light?”
“Bald. I got up to run after him,” she added in a low voice. “But he disappeared in the crowd.”
Christ. “Chasing a potential stalker is dangerous, Miss Berger. You should have called the police then.”
“Are you serious?” Nerves made her voice high-pitched. “The cops would have thought I was being paranoid. Artists are always taking pictures, drawing sketches, painting the scenery and people in the streets.”
True. But under the circumstances…
“I’ll have forensics examine the note and lingerie. Maybe we can find out where he purchased the teddy.” He cleared his throat. “And we should dust your place for prints.”
She nodded, although turmoil filled her dark brown eyes. Eyes that bled with distrust. Eyes that were so hypnotic, the need to hold her tugged at his chest.
But he ignored the pressure. It was his nature, his job, to protect the innocent. And the only way he could protect her was to find the maniac threatening her.
To do that, he needed a clear head. Not one complicated by images of her wearing a teddy for him or whispering her secret confessions into his ear while he took her to bed.
Which only planted more doubts and questions in his mind. “Miss Berger, have you considered the fact that the killer might be someone you know?” She paled, but he forged ahead. “Maybe an old boyfriend? A lover?”
“No…that’s not possible.”
He ignored her protest. She was a heartbreaker if he’d ever seen one. “Are you sure? Do you have a current boyfriend? Or maybe someone you just broke up with?”
“No, Detective, I’m not dating anyone.” Her voice dropped a decibel. “I haven’t in a long time.”
“How about an acquaintance? Maybe a man who asked you out? One you turned down?”
A faraway look settled in her eyes, but she shook her head. “No one that I can think of. Like everyone else after the hurricane, I’ve been trying to survive the past year and a half. There hasn’t been time for personal relationships.”
He nodded, unable to argue that point, yet something about her tone indicated that her lack of a social life was more of a preference, not a result of time restraints. And that she’d lied about no one asking.
“Not even since you started at Naked Desires?” he asked. “Your boss?”
“No.” She shifted as if she’d lost her patience. “Now, I’m really tired, Detective. You can see your way out.”
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?
BRITTA 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.
