“You know more than you’re telling.”

Suddenly Riley was backing her against the wall. The heat from his body scorched Devra’s skin right through the stiff cotton fabric of her dress. His dark eyes filled her vision and clouded her mind.

“What are you hiding?” he said softly, the rich timbre of his voice stroking sensitive nerve endings.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you hiding?” he whispered, and speared his fingers through her hair, lifting, and letting it tumble across her shoulders.

Devra couldn’t get enough air. Her skin burned and a yearning deep in the pit of her stomach made her want to scream.

“Leave me alone,” she pleaded, knowing full well she wanted him to pull her up against him and smother her lips with a kiss so passionate it could rip the fabric of her being.

I can’t afford to let anyone get too close. Especially this man….

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

Spring is in the air and we have a month of fabulous books for you to curl up with as the March winds howl outside:

• Familiar is back on the prowl, in Caroline Burnes’s Familiar Texas. And Rocky Mountain Maneuvers marks the conclusion of Cassie Miles’s COLORADO CRIME CONSULTANTS trilogy.

• Jessica Andersen brings us an exciting medical thriller, Covert M.D.

• Don’t miss the next ECLIPSE title, Lisa Childs’s The Substitute Sister.

• Definitely check out our April lineup. Debra Webb is starting THE ENFORCERS, an exciting new miniseries you won’t want to miss. Also look for a special 3-in-1 story from Rebecca York, Ann Voss Peterson and Patricia Rosemoor called Desert Sons.

Each month, Harlequin Intrigue brings you a variety of heart-stopping romantic suspense and chilling mystery. Don’t miss a single book!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Shiver
Cynthia Cooke

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my editor, Kim Nadelson, for seeing the gem buried

within the rock. To my critique partners, you’re the best!

And, as always, to my family—I love you!!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ten years ago, Cynthia Cooke lived a quiet, idyllic life caring for her beautiful eighteen-month-old daughter. Then peace gave way to chaos with the birth of her boy/girl twins. Hip-deep in diapers and baby food and living in a world of sleep deprivation, she kept her sanity by reading romance novels and dreaming of someday writing one. She counts her blessings every day as she fulfills her dreams with the love and support of good friends, her very own hunky hero and three boisterous children who constantly keep her laughing and her world spinning. Cynthia loves to hear from her readers. Visit her online at www.cynthiacooke.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Riley MacIntyre—A detective determined to discover who murdered his sister-in-law, even if that means getting really close to his number one suspect, Devra Morgan. As the case deepens and the mystery evolves, he will have to decide if she belongs in prison or in his arms.

Devra Morgan—She watched her childhood friend, Tommy Marshall, die in a horrible act of violence. Wherever she goes, death follows her as women who look like her fall prey to a killer. And she sees it all—in her dreams.

Michelle MacIntyre—A cop working undercover to flush out the night stalker runs into a new monster and loses her life.

Tommy Marshall—Devra’s first crush, first kiss—then he was dead.

Mac MacIntyre—Is he a grieving husband or a man bent on an elaborate plot to kill his wife?

Mr. MacIntyre—The head of the MacIntyre clan—whose strings does he pull?

Chief Marshall—A small-town police chief whose only child was murdered fifteen years earlier by Devra—or so he believes. He will stop at nothing to bring her to justice.

William and Lydia Miller—Best-kept secrets can be fatal. What exactly do they know? And why are they so anxious for Devra to leave her childhood home?

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter One

Thunder boomed overhead and electricity crackled through the air, prickling the hair on the nape of Detective Riley MacIntyre’s neck. The large drops of rain wetting his shoulders didn’t relieve the stickiness of the hot August night as he approached the crime scene. Someone yelled for a cover and umbrellas were quickly opened above the body. Then a tarp was stretched over the area.

Sweat, partly from the heat and partly in expectation of what he’d find, ran down Riley’s back, further dampening his shirt as pulsing red and blue lights flashed on and off centuries-old brick in a strange melodic symphony. He stepped over the yellow caution tape encircling the crime scene and made his way toward the group of people congregating in front of the Village Carré Hotel.

Mike Parker, a young officer from the Eighth District, approached him, his footsteps matching beat for beat the music echoing down Bourbon Street. “We have everything under control, Detective MacIntyre.” A hint of wariness creased his eyes. “We can handle this. You don’t need to be here.”

Riley cocked a smile but couldn’t quite soften the edge of annoyance in his voice. “The last time I checked, this was my case.”

“We haven’t established if this is part of the night stalker case. This one is, uh…different.” Parker looked down, fidgeting.

Riley frowned. “You obviously need some time off, ’cause you’re not making any sense. All homicides are handled downtown. You know that. It doesn’t matter if it’s related to the night stalker case or not.” He patted Parker’s shoulder, then strode off, annoyed that his routine crime-scene approach had been thwarted. He liked to walk a scene to get a sense of the perimeter—the sounds, sights, smells—before approaching the victim. Sometimes the brutality of murder deadened his perceptions. Then all was lost, his case compromised.

He tried once again to recapture the scene, absorbing the music, the scent of onions and garlic and simmering jambalaya, a constant yet comforting smell in the French Quarter. As he approached the building, a roach popped out of a broken stone tile in the sidewalk, then scurried into a cracked grate.

In the crevice between the structure’s brick wall and the steep cement steps leading into a doorway, a body leaned haphazardly, the face hidden beneath a thick mass of blond curls. Blue-jean-clad long legs stretched out on the sidewalk. His gaze lingered over turquoise spiked heels adorning perfectly shaped feet. His gut twisted; sweat dampened his palms.

He took a step closer, though for the first time in his career something urged him to turn away—some gut instinct that was his strongest, most prized possession as a detective in the New Orleans Police Department. He looked back at Parker, who was still watching him, shifting from one foot to the other.

Something wasn’t right.

He took another step. Tony Tortorici, his friend and partner, stood from his examination of the victim. Suddenly, Riley could see her clearly—her deep purple shirt, loops of bright beads hanging from her neck. Pulse racing, he saw how two strands of gold-and-green plastic dice were entwined tightly around her neck, pushing into her delicate skin.

His breathing went shallow as he took in the ugly purple-red bruises beneath the beads and the gold locket lying snug between her breasts. Tony walked toward him, his arms hanging limp at his sides, his eyes filled with sympathy. Riley couldn’t move, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t draw enough of the thick, foul air into his lungs.

He focused on the thick mass of blond hair, hair that he remembered could look like silk billowing in the wind. A sharp twinge shot through him. In her lap, her hands, crossed one over the other, rested against the light blue fabric of her shirt, her pinkies interlaced. The position was strange, but before he could think on it further, his eyes locked on the contrasting colors between the top and the bottom of her shirt.

Pain surged through him, slicing his heart as surely as the killer had sliced her throat, turning the blue fabric dark purple with her blood. Blood that had pumped from a heart he’d known since childhood.

“I’m so sorry, man,” Tony said as he reached him.

The compassion on Tony’s face hit Riley like a blow to the stomach. Anguish loosened his neck muscles and his head rolled back. He stared into the night sky. Drops of rain pelted his face as agony welled up inside him and broke free in a heart-wrenching roar.

Michelle.

DEVRA MORGAN dreamed of death again—another blue-eyed blonde. She sat up with a start, her heart beating against her chest, her breath coming fast and hard. She brought two shaking fingers to the soft skin of her throat almost expecting to feel a deep gash and the sticky warmth of blood.

Her cat, Felix, meowed in protest as she threw the covers over him and stumbled to the bathroom. Cold sweat chilled her. The distinct scent of the Quarter, with its heavy air and heady taste of the Mississippi, still lingered in her mind. She stood under the hot spray of the shower, scrubbing until her skin ached.

Why now?

Pulling on a plush white robe, she trudged to the kitchen, put the teakettle on to boil and closed her eyes as an onslaught of chills shook her. She couldn’t go through this again. Not now. Not after she’d actually convinced herself they were over—the horrible dreams that had destroyed so much of her life.

She picked up Felix and squeezed him against her chest, burying her chin in his soft fur. “Why is this happening now?” She set him down and opened a can of cat food. “I’ll have to move again,” she muttered. If she didn’t, it wouldn’t be long before the police came calling and her world came crashing down around her. Again.

She sighed, added a spoonful of honey to her tea and strode toward her office. The quicker she got down on paper what she’d seen in her dream, the sooner she could purge it from her mind. Her writing had become an amazing catharsis over the years. Her only means of escape from her nightmarish reality had turned into her salvation and allowed her the freedom and the anonymity she needed to survive. She sat behind the large white desk, turned on her computer and began to type.

“Hey, lady, looking good tonight. Want me to read your fortune?”

The woman glanced at the tarot card readers and threw the cute one a wave. “No, thanks. Tonight I make my own fortune.”

Devra’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she slipped into her “zone” where each story overcame her. She typed steadily reliving her dream careful to get down every detail, hoping somehow, some way, her dream would help. Not that they ever had before. Town after town, she had to watch women die and yet was never able to stop it from happening or help find their killers. The dreams always came too late.

He took something gold and shiny and slipped it around her neck. A gold heart with a rose etched across the front dangled between her breasts, nestling amidst the rivulets of blood seeping from her throat.

Devra stopped typing and stared at the words on her screen, her heart pounding anew. She closed her eyes and pictured the locket in her mind. Her locket? Her stomach muscles clenched with fear. The one she’d lost last week, the one her parents had given her on her thirteenth birthday. The one with her name inscribed on the back.

Her vision swam as she stared at the screen. How had this monster gotten her locket? And why had he left it on that poor girl? Was it a message for her? The realization hit her hard. He stole her locket!

He knew who she was.

THE NEXT MORNING, Riley and his partner sat parked outside a well-kept, small yellow house in the Garden District. Through the plastic bag, he read the word etched on the back of the locket. Devra. He turned to his closest friend and partner, Tony Tortorici. “I can’t believe you found her so fast.”

“Hey, with a name like Devra, tracking her was as easy as slicing into one of Mama’s homemade pecan pies.”

“What do we know about Miss Morgan?” Riley asked, letting his gaze wander over the manicured lawn and abundant flowers. There was nothing unusual or even rundown about the house, and yet a prickle of anxiety ate away at him.

“Not much. She’s clean.” Tony inspected her file. “Just moves around a lot.”

“For her sake, she’d better be clean.” Riley tried to squeeze a character type from the place she lived, but it was nondescript, a typical modest home in the lush Garden District a few blocks down from the opulent mansions that saw a steady stream of tourist traffic.

Concern filled Tony’s large Italian eyes. “You shouldn’t go in there. You shouldn’t even be here now. Go home and be with your family. With Mac.”

Riley fought the guilt and weariness that threatened to overcome him at the mention of his brother’s name. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image of his sister-in-law propped against the wall, her throat slit from ear to ear, was painfully etched in his mind. “I can’t.”

Tony’s dark eyes intensified. “You can’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it? Michelle was taking this case too personally.”

“You couldn’t know she’d go undercover and try to flush the night stalker out alone.”

“I knew some sicko was slicing up prostitutes in the Quarter. I should have watched her better. I should have been more—” inwardly, he cringed as he said the word “—protective.”

“She would have been insulted, and she would have thought you doubted her abilities as a cop. You know that. You also know if you go in there and confront Miss Morgan, you could blow this investigation.”

“You’re right. But Tony, Michelle was family.” A lump the size of a crawdad caught in his throat. “I should have done something. If only—”

“Michelle was a strong-willed cop. She did what she wanted and damn the consequences. You knew that about her, and so did Mac.”

Riley scraped a thumb across his unshaven jaw. “I’m going to track this guy down. I won’t let him get by with this. And I won’t blow this case.” His gaze drifted over the roses, blooming in a riot of color lining the walk. “I’ll turn on ‘Mr. Charm.’ I’ll be on my best behavior. I just need to see for myself how she responds when I show her the locket.”

Tony closed the file and slid it between the seats. “All right,” he relented. “Two of us will spook her. I’ve been up all night tracking down Miss Morgan and I’m in desperate need of some caffeine. You’re on your own. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Don’t blow it!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Riley opened the car door. “I’ll find out exactly what she knows about Michelle’s death. Whatever it takes.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Tony muttered, and pulled away from the curb.

Although it was only 9:00 a.m., the hot August heat was already intolerable. Riley walked toward the front door, pulling at his shirt collar, lifting the fabric from his skin. He rapped on the door, waited a minute, then rapped again.

He stood on the front stoop listening to the incessant buzz of bees surrounding a gardenia bush, growing hotter and more impatient with each passing second. As he started to knock again, a shape moved behind the front door’s frosted glass.

“Finally,” he muttered under his breath.

The door opened. His wide “Mr. Charm” smile froze on his face and his heart stopped at the sight of the woman in the white terry robe. A mass of golden curls framed her face, falling in reckless abandon around her shoulders. Blue eyes, tired and disoriented, held a dim sparkle deep within their depths.

Michelle.

“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked, clutching the opening of her robe.

Her sultry voice held no hint of Michelle’s Southern accent. Otherwise, she looked enough like Michelle to halt the blood in his veins. “Devra Morgan?” he asked and wasn’t at all surprised by the catch in his voice.

“Yes?”

He couldn’t help staring. She clutched the robe tighter. “I’m Detective MacIntyre with the NOPD. Is this yours?” He held up the plastic bag containing the golden locket in one hand, and his badge in the other.

Her eyes widened, turning a deep cobalt blue and becoming even more beautiful than he’d previously thought. “Wh-where did you find it?” she asked.

“May I come in?”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Come in.” She stood back, allowing him to step into the entryway. He followed her into a darkened living room. The furniture was sparse with no plants, no pictures, not much of anything personal or otherwise.

“Please, have a seat,” she offered, and gestured toward a small table in front of the window. As he sat, she reached behind him and pulled the cord that lifted thick wooden blinds. Sunshine filtered through the slats, setting fire to the gold in her hair.

She smelled faintly of vanilla and he caught himself inhaling deeper. He couldn’t stop staring at her hair falling in long lazy curls down the middle of her back. He was sorely tempted to touch it, to run his fingers through the delicate strands.

She looked down at him, catching his gaze. Her eyes flickered with a myriad of colors and emotions. There was a longing in her expression—something she wanted or needed—but it quickly disappeared and her expression turned wary. She ran a hand through her hair. “Would you excuse me for a minute, please?”

He nodded and watched the soft sway of her hips as she turned the corner. While at first glance her resemblance to Michelle was overwhelming, she was different in many ways—her walk, her height, the flawless texture of her skin and her lips. Michelle’s lips had been thin and expressive, but this woman’s were wide and luscious. Lips made for devouring.

He stood, annoyed at his thoughts, and pushed them from his mind. Obviously, he was tired and not thinking too clearly. He began a preliminary search of the room, just to get a handle on the woman and what she was about. Opening an old cabinet in the corner, he found a television, TV program guide and a remote control. No bills, coupons, cassette tapes, film canisters—nothing like the clutter in his house.

The mantel above the fireplace held only an old clock, the kind in a glass dome that chimed on the hour. He passed through a doorway into the kitchen and found the same bold emptiness. Had she just moved in? He pulled open a few drawers, but found only bare-essential kitchen items.

“Looking for something?” she asked, her voice low and sultry with an edge of what? Irritation? Fear?

He shut the drawer and turned ready to give her his best “hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar” excuse, but his words died on his lips. Her glorious mane of hair had been twisted severely back across her head, and large glasses covered her eyes and half her face.

The white robe was gone, too, replaced by a dull, gray sleeveless smock. She’d transformed herself into someone no one would ever notice. As he stared at her, he was finding it hard to believe she was the same sexy woman who’d just left the room. What was with the getup? Why was a beautiful woman hiding beneath such an ugly facade?

“I’m sorry, Miss Morgan. I’m afraid I’ve let my curiosity overcome my good manners,” he drawled, letting his accent roll heavily off his tongue.

She raised a skeptical brow.

“I know it must be hard to believe someone you just caught snooping in your drawers has good manners, but my mama would’ve been remiss if she didn’t pound those Southern manners into me every day of my rebellious life.” He gave her that famous MacIntyre grin, known to melt butter in frying pans and sizzle any lady’s heart. Well, except maybe this one. She wasn’t biting any more than a gator in December.

“What can I do for you, Mr…?”

“Detective MacIntyre,” he repeated.

She nodded, her eyes turning frostier by the moment.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked.

“What does that have to do with my locket?”

“First things first, all right?”

“I don’t understand,” she hedged.

“Please answer the question.”

“Three years.”

He looked around, disbelieving. “In this house?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t believe in too many possessions, do you, Miss Morgan?”

“May I have my locket?”

“I’m afraid not.” He propped himself against the wall and crossed his arms against his chest.

“And why’s that?”

Was that a quiver in her voice? “Evidence.”

Her gaze shifted down and her small white fingers fluttered like a butterfly as she played with the top button on her dress. “When, then, may I have it?”

“Don’t you want to know why it’s being held?”

A shadow passed in front of her eyes. She mouthed something, then dropped her hands to the counter between them.

He stepped closer to her, determined to discover what had her so fidgety. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

“No. I don’t,” she blurted.

“Now I find that mighty strange.” He took another step toward her, placed both hands on either side of hers and leaned in close. Close enough to see the creamy white skin of her throat flutter as she swallowed. “Why wouldn’t you want to know what happened to an obviously cherished possession?”

She took a step back, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Most people would,” he continued. “Why not you?”

She didn’t respond. Just stared at the floor between her toes and wrung those small white fingers. Fingers that could have slit Michelle’s throat? He was finding that difficult to believe, but she was afraid of something.

“Is there some point to all this, Detective MacIntyre?”

Her lower lip quivered, and he felt an urge to reach out his thumb and still it. “What do you do, Miss Morgan?”

“Excuse me?”

“For work?”

“I write.”

“A writer, huh? What do you write?”

“Would you like some coffee? Iced tea?” she asked.

“Tea would be great.” He leaned against the kitchen counter, kicking one boot over the other, and watched as she passed, sorely tempted to blow on the fine hairs that had slipped their bondage to feather against the back of her neck. He forced back the thought and considered how hard he should push for the answers to the questions she was so obviously evading.

She opened the fridge, removed a large pitcher of tea and filled two glasses. She placed a glass in front of him, along with a bowl of sugarcoated pecans.

“Thank you, ma’am. That’s mighty hospitable of you.”

Without looking at him, she picked up a pecan and bit into it. A dab of sugar creased the corner of her sweet little mouth. The tip of her tongue peeked out and licked the sugar away. The movement warmed the chill in his blood. He ignored it and gulped down his tea. Her large luminous eyes watched him, looking vulnerable one moment and calculating the next. This was a woman with a secret. One way or another, he was going to discover what that secret was.

DEVRA TOOK a deep breath to steady herself. She turned her back on the rude detective to return the tea to the fridge. She needed to stay calm, to give nothing away. Her hair tickled the back of her neck, sending an uncomfortable heat racing through her. He was staring at her again, with a look so intense she was sure he could see right through her.

She closed her eyes. Breathe—in and out, in and out. She tried to ignore the intense gleam in his eyes and the hard lines sculpturing his jaw. They made her anxious. They made him look as if he could become unhinged at any moment.

“So, what type of stuff do you write?” he asked, pinning her with another of his dark, primitive stares.

“All types,” she muttered, and dropped her gaze to wide shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist where tight jeans molded thick thighs. With dark blond hair and eyes as brown and rich as a cup of espresso at Emeril’s, the combined effect definitely made the man a risk. She’d have to be extra careful around this one. He could do too much to her senses without even trying.

“Published?”

“Enough to make a living.” She watched under lowered lashes as he popped a few more pralines and drank down his tea in large gulps. He exuded an overabundance of confidence and moved with the grace of a panther. A dangerous mix, and she had a good idea he could be equally ferocious.

A trickle of moisture ran between her shoulder blades. She glanced at the clock. “Look, I’ve got to go soon. Are we about done?”

His gaze, cool and assessing, studied her. “A young woman—twenty-five, blond, beautiful, married and happy—her whole life in front of her, was found dead in the Quarter with this around her neck.” He held up the plastic baggie containing Devra’s locket.

But she couldn’t look at the necklace; she was too focused on the man’s eyes, the deep brown of them melting in pain. He’d known this woman well. “I’m sorry,” she offered, though she understood it wasn’t enough.

It never was.

His eyes narrowed and his pretense of charm and suaveness disappeared, replaced by something uglier, something desperate and frustrated. “I want to know how this necklace wound up around her neck.” He slammed his glass onto the counter. She jumped, refusing to meet his eyes. There was nothing she could offer that would help him or that woman.

“When was the last time you saw your necklace?” He was close—too close—stealing her energy, her breath, her feeble hold on her senses.

She stared at the locket through the plastic, focusing on the small rose etched on its face, on anything but him. “Last Saturday, at the Children’s Hospital.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I mean…I think I am.”

“Can you think of any reason why your necklace would have been found on a murder victim?”

Because I’m next? “No,” she whispered. She looked up at him, her gaze colliding with his. Big mistake. His doubt, his anger, riding so close to the surface, frightened her. “I don’t know. Maybe she found it,” she offered in a voice barely above a whisper.

“No one has ever seen her with it before. Plus, it has a picture in it of a couple I’ve never seen. I know her. She wouldn’t wear a locket with someone else’s picture in it.”

Devra nodded slowly. Of course she wouldn’t.

“Who are they? The couple in the picture.”

She hesitated, her tongue seeming to thicken and fill her mouth.

He stepped closer. She could smell him now…rich, spicy, male.

“Who are they?” he repeated.

“My parents.”

“Where do they live?”

“Washington State.”

He pulled a notepad out of his back pocket. “Their names?”

She hesitated.

He looked at her, waiting, coldly calculating.

She said the names she hadn’t uttered in fifteen years. “William and Lydia.” William and Lydia Miller. But she wouldn’t tell him that much, not if she could help it. He closed the notepad and shoved it back into his pocket. She let out the breath she’d been holding and waited for him to back away.

He didn’t.

“Is that all?” she stammered.

His piercing gaze looked right through her. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

“Like what?”

“Do you have a record?”

An ice pick of fear pierced her heart and sent a cold shiver pulsing through her. She knew what was coming, knew what he’d ask next. He stepped closer stealing her air. “Have you ever been arrested?”

Chapter Two

Every natural-born cop instinct Riley had sang in tune. “Why are you rubbing your wrists?”

She didn’t answer and refused to look at him.

A telltale sign? His adrenaline kicked into high gear. “You won’t mind coming downtown to answer a few more questions, perhaps take a set of fingerprints?”

Her eyes shot to his. “What on earth for? I didn’t have anything to do with this woman’s murder. I didn’t even know her.”

“How do you know you didn’t know her? I haven’t shown you her picture yet.”

“Because I don’t know very many people here,” she said defensively and started to pace the room. “And I certainly don’t know any female police officers.” She stopped and looked at him with cold fear widening her eyes.

Gotcha, sweetheart. “I don’t believe I mentioned the young woman was a cop.”

She just stood there, staring at him.

“Right about now an explanation would be good,” he prompted. “How did you know she was a cop?”

A loud knock at the front door reverberated through the house. Devra jumped. Riley swore under his breath. “That would be my partner.”

“Oh,” she murmured, looking scared and relieved at the same time. He was aware of her soft step as she followed him through the living room and toward the front door.

How had this woman known Michelle was a cop? She’d been working undercover. Any bystander would have thought she was a prostitute. This woman knew a lot more than she was letting on. All he needed was a little more time alone with her and he’d have her singing.

He stood back and allowed her to open the door. Tony strode in, looking flushed and wiping the sweat off his brow. “It’s hotter than Hades out there. Are you about done here? The captain just called and said he wants to see you pronto.”

Riley turned. “Devra Morgan, Detective Tortorici. Grab your purse, looks like we’re going downtown.”

Tony raised a questioning brow.

She sputtered a protest, outrage crossing her face. “I can’t go. I’m due at the Children’s Hospital for story time. I have to be there.”

“I’m sure they can find someone else to read Green Eggs and Ham this morning.”

Unyielding, she stood with her hands braced on her hips. “No. There isn’t anyone else. The nurses are too busy. The children look forward to my being there. It’s important to them and to me.”

Her sudden display of backbone interested him. Was it disappointing the kids that had her all charged up, or the fear of going to the station?

Tony stepped forward. “Why don’t I accompany Miss Morgan to the hospital, then bring her by the station when she’s done?” He offered one of his smooth Italian smiles. “That way, Riley, you can go see the captain and she can still read to the kiddies.” He gestured wide with his hands.

Always the diplomat, Riley thought, but this time it wasn’t going to fly. “I’ll take her to the hospital,” he insisted. “We’ll come in to the station right after.”

Tony’s mouth twisted with disapproval.

“I’ll get my purse,” Devra said.

Riley watched her hurry down the hall. Once she rounded the corner, he lowered his voice. “Look, Tony. You and I both know what the captain is going to say the moment I walk through the door.”

“Yeah, what I already told you this morning. You shouldn’t be working this case. You’re too involved to be objective.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m going to accompany Miss Morgan to the hospital. She knows something and she’s this close to breaking.” He pushed his thumb and forefinger close together. “I won’t let her out of my sight. After she’s done, I’ll bring her in to give her statement.”

“And what am I supposed to tell the captain?”

“You’ll think of something. I can’t let this slippery little fish slither off the line. Not after I so expertly baited the hook. She knows something, Tony, and I mean to get it out of her.”

AS RILEY parked the car, Miss Morgan leapt out and all but ran to the front of the building. He followed her into the hospital, easily keeping pace. She could run, but she couldn’t hide the truth from him for very long. Discovering secrets and solving mysteries were his forte and he wasn’t about to let this case be any different. He entered the sliding glass doors and followed her into the elevator.

She pressed the button for the fifth floor, then kept her gaze glued to the flashing lights as they rose. “How long have you been coming here?” he asked, trying to get her to open up. The more she talked, the more that deep sultry voice of hers gave away.

“Three years,” she answered without taking her eyes off the illuminated panel.

“Impressive.”

She didn’t respond.

“Which floor is the cafeteria on?”

She turned, irritation pursing her lips.

“You know. Coffee?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been.”

“Don’t eat or drink?”

She turned back to the doors, ignoring him. He smiled at the back of her head. He was getting to her, making her mad. That’s when she’d give away the game. He’d give her a little line, let her think she was slipping away, then jerk back and reel her in.

The doors opened.

Placing a hand on her rigid elbow, he walked her to the door of the Child Life Center where a group of kids—some in pajamas, some in wheelchairs, some sitting on the floor—was expectantly awaiting her arrival. He tightened his grip before she could enter the ward. “Can I trust you alone for a minute? I need a cup of joe.”

Her gaze shifted slightly, and he knew she was considering bolting. But she nodded, her eyes locked on his, a beseeching vulnerability shining in their dark blue depths. The look unsettled him. She’d looked that way earlier, like a lost and scared kitten stuck high in a tree. And, for a minute, he wanted to rescue her, to cuddle her.

To protect her.

But he wasn’t in the protection business. No matter how tempting the idea sounded, no matter how tempting she was playing Little Miss Scared and Innocent, he would bet his lunch money she was anything but.

She pulled free from his grasp and entered the room, smiling briefly at one of the nurses. It was a nice smile that brightened her whole face. He watched as she transformed once again into a different person—warm and friendly, with sincere hugs and bright smiles. No little lost kitty here.

He was about to leave when a nurse with bouncy brown curls and a white cotton shirt stretched tight across her breasts walked into the hall, shutting the door behind her. “Are you waiting for Devra?” she asked.

He nodded, and smiled as he read the name tag pinned to her blouse. “I sure am, Betty.”

She smiled back, deepening her dimples to craters. “She’s wonderful with the kids. They really look forward to her visits.”

He leaned against the wall. “How long has she been coming?”

“Every Saturday for years now. She’s never missed a day.” She glanced over her shoulder at Devra through the glass. “The kids are very important to her, and vice versa. We’re lucky to have her.”

“She’s a very special person,” he drawled. “But then I think anyone who devotes their life to helping people is special,” he added, cranking his Irish charm up a notch.

“Aren’t you sweet to say so,” she cooed and flapped her hand at his shoulder.

“And Devra,” he prompted. “She’s just so busy with…”

“Oh, yes. Her writing, I know what you mean. And she must be a very good writer, too.”

“Really? Have you read…”

Betty’s mouth puckered into a pretty pout. “No, she promised to bring something in, but it must have slipped her mind. And I didn’t find anything under her name, so I assume she uses a pseudonym. I keep forgetting to ask her what it is, though.” She brightened. “Do you know what it is?”

“No.” He paused. “I just thought since you said how good she is…”

“Oh, well she must be because she entrances the kids so. They retell her stories to one another at night before they go to sleep, changing the endings and the characters, acting them out, just as Devra has encouraged them to do. And sometimes, for these kids, that kind of distraction is just what they need.”

“She sounds like a saint,” he said dryly.

The nurse laughed. “Saint Devra. Has a nice ring to it.”

Too bad he was having so much trouble hearing it. “She must have a lot of admirers. Other than the kids,” he prompted.

“Well, they certainly do love her. It’s funny you mention it, though. In all the time she’s been coming, I’ve never seen her with anyone. And here she’s had two gentlemen stop by in the past week.”

“Two?”

“Oh, yeah. Though, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.” A worried look crossed her face as she once again glanced over her shoulder at Devra through the glass.

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “Miss Morgan and I are just friends.” He smiled and dug his hands deep into his pockets, giving her one of those I’m-available-if-you-are looks.

The nurse tilted her head coquettishly. “Well, then, I suppose it’s all right if I let the cat out of the bag.”

He gave her a wink of encouragement.

“Just last Saturday, a man stood right where you are, watching Devra work with the kids. He didn’t say much, just stood there and watched her with this weird expression on his face. He disappeared right before she was done. When I mentioned him to her, she seemed a little surprised and a touch agitated. She was afraid of him, wasn’t she? Is that why you’re here with her? For her protection?”

Heaven help her if she really did need protection. Look how well he protected Michelle…not to mention his mother. He shook off the thought. More than likely, Devra was agitated because she didn’t want anyone linking her with her mystery man. Perhaps an estranged boyfriend? Or an accomplice.

“Can you describe this guy for me?”

“Well…he was ordinary-looking—dark hair, slim, average height. In fact, the only thing memorable about him was his eyes.”

“His eyes?”

“Yeah, they were real dark and deep-set—a little intense and spooky-looking. To tell you the truth, he was a little creepy. I could see why Devra would be afraid of him.”

“Was she?”

“It wasn’t anything she said, just a feeling I had.”

Could Miss Morgan have known what the killer was planning? Perhaps he wasn’t pushing hard enough. Perhaps it was time to tighten the line. Riley took a picture of Michelle out of his wallet. “Have you seen this woman before?”

The nurse took the picture and studied it for a long moment, then handed it back to him. “Sorry,” she said. “She looks a lot like Devra, though.”

DEVRA WAS TRYING to concentrate on the children, but found herself hopelessly distracted. He was out there flirting with Betty. And Betty was enjoying it, laughing, her perfect curls bouncing, her long red-tipped nails flicking the air as she spoke. And it was bugging Devra to no end, though she couldn’t fathom why. She finished another page. She held the book up for the kids to see the pictures, then caught the detective looking at her. Quickly, she turned the page, and her attention, back to the book.

If she thought about it, she’d have to admit that he was handsome in a rugged, arrogant kind of way. She wondered what it would be like to have him look at her the way he was looking at Betty. But, after a second, she stopped herself. Thinking about that particular man in any capacity was dangerous. The sooner she put him out of her sight and her mind, the better.

She read another page. Someday, she would write books just for kids and leave the dark, ugly world of her nightmares far behind her. But, for today, she needed to say goodbye to the people she would miss the most when she left New Orleans—the children. Then she would hurry home, finish packing and disappear. Again.

She closed the book, gave the children extra-tight hugs as she said goodbye, then watched them pile out of the room. Everyone except Joey. “Did you get your necklace, Miss Devra?”

Confused, Devra looked down into Joey’s eager gaze. “What necklace is that, sweetie?”

“Your heart necklace.”

Her breath caught. Her locket. She glanced through the window into the corridor outside the room, but the detective was gone. He and Betty must have left to get that cup of coffee.

“I found it under the chair last week,” Joey continued. “I was going to give it to Nurse Jenkins to hold for you, but your friend said he’d give it to you.”

“My friend?”

“Yeah, the man that was here last week.”

Devra’s heart stilled at his words. She’d forgotten about the man Betty had mentioned. She had convinced herself the nurse had been mistaken. That he’d been waiting for someone else. What if she’d been wrong? What if he had been watching her?

“Did you get it back?” A tinge of anxiousness colored Joey’s voice.

Devra bent down so they were eye to eye and offered him a big smile. “I will very soon. Thank you for telling me.”

His smile went wide with pride.

“Can you tell me what this man looked like?”

“He was big.”

She gave him an encouraging nod. “Uh-huh.”

“And dark.”

“His skin?”

“No, his hair. And his eyes. He had the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen. They looked…” He glanced down at his feet, then looked back up at her with uncertainty playing across his gaze. “They looked dead.”

Devra recalled seeing eyes like that once. The image flashed through her mind, her stomach turned. She forced a smile through gritted teeth. “Thank you, Joey.”

“Joey, it’s time for your therapy,” a nurse called from the doorway.

Devra waved as he ran through the door to join the nurse. Her knees were beginning to ache and she realized she was still crouched down, her legs locked with an irrational fear. Joey had given her locket to a man with dark eyes. Dead eyes.

The eyes of the devil.

She shook off the thought and the fear. Tommy’s death had been a lifetime ago and far, far away. It couldn’t be the same man.

His killer had never been found.

The thought whispered across her mind. She shivered. The world was full of killers, a fact she knew only too well. Why had this one taken her locket? Had he killed that poor woman and then left the locket for the police to find? But why lead the police to her? Did he know about her dreams? Did he know her secret?

Evil lives within you, child. We need to flush it out.

Tears of frustration filled her eyes. The police would blame her for this woman’s death, just like before. Just like Tommy. She had to get away from this town. But first, she had to get away from Detective MacIntyre.

“Miss Morgan?”

His voice pulled her from her thoughts. On trembling knees she stood, smoothing down the front of her dress. Then she looked up into the detective’s face. He thought she was a killer, too. That’s why he wouldn’t leave her alone. He believed she was capable of the unthinkable. Just like everyone else, just like her family.

“Are you all right? Everyone’s gone.” Concern played around the edges of his voice, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He wasn’t fooling her. He didn’t care. No one did.

She stiffened. “Of course. I’m fine.” She walked past him without a second glance. The quicker she got away from him, the better. She kept her head down as she entered the elevator, planning in her mind which boxes she would pack first, which rooms. By nightfall, she and Felix would be on the road to a new life. A new beginning. Again.

“Will we be at the station long?” she asked casually.

He looked at her, quiet speculation shining in his eyes. “Not long.”

“Good.”

Within twenty minutes, Detective MacIntyre pulled the blue Expedition into the underground parking structure at the downtown headquarters of the New Orleans Police Department. But instead of taking her through the garage entrance, he walked her around to the front of the building through the main double doors and into the air-conditioned lobby. The long way.

Devra fidgeted with impatience.

“Hello, Nicci,” the detective said and smiled a greeting at the young black woman sitting behind a tall wooden counter.

“Hey, Riley. I’m sorry to hear about Michelle.”

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“Please sign in,” she said and, without looking at her, slid a clipboard across the counter.

Devra glanced questioningly at the detective, but he was too busy flirting with Nicci to notice. She scribbled her name on the sign-in sheet and slid the clipboard back across the counter. After another long minute of flashing teeth and big smiles, MacIntyre finally walked toward the elevator and pushed the Up button. It was amazing how women acted around him. Yeah, he was good-looking, but he was also the most infuriatingly arrogant man she’d ever met.

So what if he resembled Goliath with his bulging biceps and perfect pecs. The man was too cocky for words. He was exactly the kind of man any woman would love to see trip over his own shoelaces. As they entered the elevator, exasperation ballooned inside her. “Is this really necessary? I have things I need to get done today.”

“Yes. I believe it is,” he said without looking at her. He just stood there with his hands clasped behind his back, staring at the elevator doors.

“I already told you, I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Yes, you did.”

She gritted her teeth and bit back an expletive. She might as well be talking to a huge granite wall. Frustration burned inside her. “In fact, I know that I did lose my necklace at the hospital last Saturday.”

“Oh?” His eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch.

“Yes. Joey, a little boy at story time, told me he found it last week.”

“Really,” he drawled.

Never had the southern Louisiana accent bothered her more than it did when this man opened his mouth. “Really,” she responded and stiffened her legs to keep from stomping her foot.

He turned and pierced her with a look so cold shivers cascaded down her arms. She stepped back, her heartbeat accelerating. It was amazing the effect he had on her. Too bad it wasn’t the same effect he seemed to have on all the other women in town.

His eyebrows arched in cold speculation. “You expect me to believe this little boy, Joey, left the hospital in the middle of the night and walked down to the Quarter where he killed an NOPD officer, then hurried back to the hospital. But not before leaving your locket clasped around her neck?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Exactly. I couldn’t have said it better myself.” He turned as the doors slid open and stepped into the hall.

Could he be any more obtuse? She took a deep breath and followed his long steady gait along the blue-carpeted corridor lined with cubicles on either side. At this point, she didn’t care who heard her, she just wanted him to stop and listen. She lunged forward, grabbed his bulging bicep and pulled.

It was like trying to move the Rock of Gibraltar.

“Excuse me,” she said through gritted teeth. This time, he stopped, and more than one head popped out from around a partition to see what the ruckus was about. “Joey told me there was a man at the hospital who said he was my friend. Joey believed him when he said he would return the locket to me. So, he gave the locket to the man.” She said the words as clearly and as succinctly as she could. Now all she could do was hope there was more to him than bulging biceps and a killer smile. Now all she could do was hope he’d focus on “the man” and leave her alone.

He stepped closer, looking down at her with that piercing gaze that made the oxygen suddenly evaporate from the space she was standing in. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier while we were still at the hospital?”

“I don’t know. I guess your charm overwhelmed me and I forgot.”

He took another step toward her and, for a second, she thought he was going to throttle her.

“All right, I’ll send an officer down to talk to Joey. Maybe he’ll remember what the guy looked like.”

“Dark eyes,” she responded and took a small step back so she wouldn’t have to crane her neck. At least, that’s the reason she told herself.

“What?”

“Joey said he had really dark eyes.”

“Hmm. I’ll be sure to write that down.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t want to forget.”

His jaw stiffened, and she held her breath while waiting for his response, but he didn’t answer. He just turned and led her down the hall once more. As they reached a row of desks next to the windows, he pointed to Detective Tortorici. “Would you mind going with Tony down to fingerprinting? I’ll type up your statement. You can read it over, sign it, and then I’ll take you home.”

“Fingerprinting?” she asked, her voice coming out in a squeak.

His eyes narrowed. “Yeah. You have a problem with that?”

She straightened her back and took a deep breath to make sure the squeak was gone. “As a matter of fact, I do. Are you booking me?”

“Did I say I was?”

“Then I don’t agree to be fingerprinted.”

He blew out an exasperated breath. “Why not? You got something to hide?”

She threw up her hands. “I believe you’re trying to stomp all over my civil liberties, Detective MacIntyre, and I don’t like it.”

“Really? I thought you were more than willing to help with this case in any way you could.”

“I am.”

“Except for getting fingerprinted,” he said calmly, his gaze cool and slightly disbelieving.

“Exactly.” She clenched her teeth, refusing to budge an inch. “So, I really don’t see any point in my staying here.” She took a step back. “I’m leaving.”

“Wait.” He latched on to her arm.

She looked down at his hand, then back up into his dark brown eyes. Something lurched inside her—something…uncomfortable. “What?”

He released her and rubbed his face. “I’ll drive you.”

“I’d rather not.”

“It’s too hot to walk,” he cajoled.

She gave him an icy stare of her own.

“All right,” he relented. “If you don’t want to be fingerprinted, I can respect that. But can we hang out long enough to get the statement written up? Unless, that is, you don’t want to cooperate with the police after all?”

For a second she thought about it, then decided it would be better to cooperate than to have the whole department thinking she had something to hide. “Very well.”

“Good, ’cause the process of typing up my notes helps me put my thoughts together and it never fails that I always seem to remember something else to ask. It would help me out a lot if you were here.” He smiled at her. That stupid smile he used when he thought he was being charming. But he wasn’t. It didn’t work on her, not one little bit. She pursed her lips, and tried to rekindle her fading anger.

She gave her statement, then sat quietly as he typed away, his fingers moving awkwardly over the keys and slower than molasses in January. She squeezed her hands together to stop from insisting on typing her statement herself, then looked out the window, examined the clutter on his desk, then looked out the window again, anything to keep from jumping out of her skin with impatience.

Her gaze fell across a picture on his desk—the detective standing between and resting his arms on the shoulders of another man and a woman. Devra’s eyes widened as she took in the striking resemblance she shared with this woman—so much more so than with the others. So much more than she remembered from her dream. The sound of typing stopped. She looked up to find the detective staring at her, his eyes hard and unreadable.

“Have you seen that woman before?” he asked.

What could she say? That she’d seen her in a dream with her throat being slashed? They’d lock her up in the nearest loony bin. “She looks like me,” Devra stated.

Suspicion teemed in his eyes. And something else…something cold—rage. Fear zipped down her spine.

“And…” he prompted.

“She does look a little familiar,” she hedged. “Perhaps I’ve met her at the hospital. Does she have children?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She paused, swallowing. “Was she the one who had my locket?”

“In a matter of speaking.”

“The woman who was killed?” Nightmarish images flashed behind her eyes—bright beads twisting, pulling taut against white skin, blue eyes bulging with fear. He was getting more and more suspicious by the moment. She could see it in his face, could read it in his eyes. But she didn’t know what she could do about it.

Something twitched in his jaw. “Yes, she was.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze.

“So am I.”

“Well,” she stammered. “Are you almost done?”

“Almost.”

Devra turned back to the picture, unable to face the hardness in his face, and noticed the strong resemblance between him and the other man in the picture. “Brother?”

“Yeah. Okay, done.” He grabbed the paper out of the printer and thrust it at her.

She scanned it, then signed her name on the bottom.

“Riley, what are you doing?” a man boomed as he walked through the door.

“Just getting a statement, Captain.” The detective stood and faced the man, then gestured toward her. “Captain Lewis, this is Devra Morgan. It was her locket we found on Michelle.”

Devra stood uncertainly, trying to hide her nervousness.

The captain took only a second to size her up, then turned back to the detective. “Have Pat finish up her statement. You need some time off. Go home and be with your family.”

Devra sat back down and pretended to be reading her statement. He was being taken off the case. She smothered a smile.

“Captain—”

“I don’t want any arguments about it,” his captain continued. “You’re too close to this case to be objective. You could do more harm than good.”

“I’ve been living the night stalker case for thirteen months. I know it inside and out,” he insisted.

“At this point, it doesn’t matter. This wasn’t the night stalker.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This one is different, hair and fibers don’t match up.”

“That’s why Michelle was out there. She was trying to flush this guy out. Are you telling me someone else got to her?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Michelle was a good cop. Her death is a terrible loss for all of us. Do yourself a favor, Riley, go home and take care of your family. Take care of yourself.”

“There’s no way I’m dumping this case,” he said softly.

Captain Lewis gestured with the manila file folder clutched in his hand. “You don’t have a choice. The FBI is taking over.”

“Why?”

The captain glanced at Devra, took the detective by the arm and led him a few feet away. “The computer matched forensics with three other murders—one each in Portland, San Francisco and Miami. What we have is a killer who goes after blondes—blondes that look a lot like Michelle.”

Even though his tone was muted, Devra couldn’t help but hear him. Her eyes widened as he listed the cities. Cities she’d lived in. They’ve found out about the others. It would only be a matter of time before they discovered her connection with those cases, too. But what had he said about forensics?

“Are you saying they were all murdered by the same man?” The detective’s voice rose in pitch.

His words didn’t make sense. The same man? There was only one killer? The thought and its implications came crashing down around her. Only one? All this time? But she’d thought… It hadn’t been the victims she’d been connected to, it’d been him—a killer who murdered women who looked like her.

The room spun. Her stomach heaved. He’d known about her all along. He’d been following her. Terror seized control of her senses. She stood. She had to leave. Now.

Riley watched his suspect swing her purse over her shoulder and get ready to bolt. She’d heard something. Before she’d gone two steps, he gripped her arm and pulled her back. “What do you know about this case?” he demanded, his barely controlled fury rasping his voice.

“Nothing,” she whispered, her eyes widening with the fear of a trapped animal.

“You do!” he insisted. “Tell the truth.”

She cringed beneath his fury and fell back into the chair, clutching her purse against her stomach, refusing to meet his gaze—the little scared kitty again.

“Riley!” Captain Lewis warned, outrage crossing his face.

“She’s hiding something, Captain.” He’d seen it in her face. Something she’d heard had thrown her into a panic. All he needed was another minute to work her and she’d break.

“Get hold of yourself,” Captain Lewis demanded.

He wouldn’t get hold of himself, he couldn’t. His fury was too strong, too pungent; he could taste it with every breath he took. He was so close to the truth. He pulled the folder out of the captain’s hands and dumped the contents onto the desk for her to see. Pictures and papers spread haphazardly—pictures of three different women, all with long blond hair cascading in curls around their pale lifeless shoulders.

Pictures of women who looked like Michelle.

Pictures of women who looked like her.

His captain stepped forward. “Riley, we know how much Michelle’s death has affected you, but this behavior is unacceptable,” he warned. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that you’re skating on thin ice here, real thin.”

“The last murder took place in Miami, three years ago,” Riley said, his voice sounding cold and hard. “Where did you live before you came here, Miss Morgan?”

She didn’t answer, just stared at him with her round baby-blue eyes trapped in fear.

She should be scared, he thought. Real scared.

By now, everyone in the department was standing, listening, staring with curiosity alive on their faces. Riley swung the swivel chair she was sitting in, turning her around to face the captain and everyone else.

“Tony, where did Miss Morgan live before she came here three years ago?”

Tony opened his file. “Miami.”

“Whose locket did we find on Michelle?”

“Miss Morgan’s.”

Riley turned to his captain. “You think she doesn’t know something about this murder? You said we have a killer who goes after blondes—blondes that look a lot like Michelle.”

He turned and lifted the glasses off Miss Morgan’s shocked face, then released her hair from its clip. An audible gasp sounded throughout the room as long blond locks cascaded around her shoulders.

“Well, what do you all think about this?”

Chapter Three

Stunned silence permeated the room.

“Riley, I want to see you in my office now.” Captain Lewis’s tone was soft and lethal. “O’Connor will stay with Miss Morgan.”

Riley followed him into the office and tried not to notice his captain’s clenched fists or the heavy rise and fall of his chest.

With a steely gaze, he pinned Riley to his seat. “You have a choice, MacIntyre—voluntary three-day bereavement leave with pay or mandatory three-day suspension without pay, and one extremely unhappy captain who will make your life a living hell. Which will it be?”

Riley groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands.

“You are not working this case. You were too close to the victim to be objective and your behavior with Miss Morgan proves that.”

Riley glanced at Devra through the office window. She’d managed to pull her hair back again, completely changing the way she looked. Pat O’Connor was smiling, patting her on the shoulder, comforting her after the trauma she’d been forced to endure. Somehow, he had to make the captain see he was on to something, that he was right about her. “That woman knows a lot more about this case than she’s letting on.”

“Based on what?”

“My gut.”

“Your gut isn’t good enough, considering the circumstances.”

“It’s never been wrong before and you know it.”

“The victim has never been part of your family before.”

The image of Michelle lying on the dirty French Quarter sidewalk flashed through his mind, making his own fists clench. “That’s bull.”

“The truth is you’ve never been this unhinged before. You’ve always been Mr. Cool, Mr. Confident—hell, Mr. Cocky. Now you’re a loose cannon and I won’t have your emotions jeopardizing this case. Take your three days and spend the time with your family. Rest, relax, and when you come back, you can focus on the night stalker case and let Pat and his team handle this one with the FBI.”

Somehow he didn’t think “Ladies’ Man Pat” would do what it took to find Michelle’s killer. “I can see his charm is working wonders on my suspect as we speak. She’s all ready to let loose and spill everything she knows any minute now.” They both watched Pat through the glass. Though he was trying, Miss Morgan was sitting as stiff and tight-lipped as a pastor’s wife in a Bourbon Street strip club.

“You’ve been known to load on the charm yourself,” the captain grumbled.

Usually, Riley thought, but not when it came to her. That woman just drove the charm right out of him.

“Just stay clear from her. Got it?” The captain ordered on an exasperated sigh.

Riley nodded, but continued watching Devra out of the corner of his eye.

“By the way, your father has called three times. I’m going downstairs. You can use my office to call him back. Consider that an order.”

Riley swore under his breath as the captain slammed the door behind him. Sometimes it didn’t pay to have a powerful father. He wondered how much his forced leave had to do with his old man, then pushed the thought out of his head. Tony had had the same idea earlier and if it’d been anyone else, Riley would probably even agree. Anyone with a loss of this magnitude should take their three days, but the worst part was having his case ripped out from under him.

Surreptitiously, he watched Miss Morgan. Three days of mandatory leave—three days to get that woman to crack. He raked a hand through his hair. Three days to get the answers he needed for his brother, Mac, and his old man.

A lead weight dropped to the pit of his stomach as he picked up the phone and dialed the ranch. “Hey, LuAnn,” he said when his stepmom answered the phone. “How’s Dad?”

“Devastated like the rest of us, but he’ll be glad to hear from you. Hold on, hon, and I’ll get him for you.”

Riley waited, not sure what to expect from his dad and not able to take his eyes off the enigma of a woman sitting at his desk. He was going to make it his priority to find out everything about her that he could and flush out whatever she was hiding from him.

He watched Tony bring her a cup of water. She nodded, thanking him, a trace of a smile touching her face. As she sipped the water, a hint of moisture wet her seductive lips. She turned, her melting blue eyes meeting his through the glass. Awareness rushed through him, hot and thick, making him cringe.

He was going to take her down.

“Hey, Son.” His father’s voice sounded dull through the receiver.

Riley turned away from the glass. “Hey, Dad.”

“When you coming home?”

“Soon.”

“Good, ’cause we all need to be here right now to support your brother. He’s taking it real hard.”

Guilt slithered through him. “Yeah, I suppose he is.”

“He has a lot of unanswered questions. We’re hoping you can fill him in.”

“I don’t have a lot of answers right now. If I’d known what Michelle had been planning… I didn’t know she’d try to draw this guy out alone, Dad.”

“We know you didn’t, Son. No one blames you.”

Riley knew that, but he could still hear the quiet disappointment in his old man’s voice, disappointment that had been festering for eighteen years. And now he had Michelle to account for, too. A heavy weight pressed against his chest.

“Who knows what she was thinking?”

“She wanted to nail the SOB that had been cutting up women in the Quarter. Only she hadn’t been prepared for a new monster…a different monster. I’m going to find her killer, Dad. I promise,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion.

“I know you will, Son. I know you won’t let us down.”

No, not again I won’t.

Riley ground his teeth with frustration as he hung up the phone. He took a deep breath, steeling his emotions as he watched Miss Morgan talking with Pat and Tony. There she was, playing the demure little kitten again, but it wasn’t as convincing without her big blue eyes directed his way. Now he could easily see through her little game. Her shifty little glances kept giving her away.

He left the office and approached them. “Come on, Miss Morgan. I’ll take you home.”

“Why don’t you let me do that,” Pat said, rising. “You go home to your family.” He stood possessively over her, his chest puffing up like a peacock’s.

Made Riley want to spit. “That’s quite all right, Pat. Thanks for the concern and the offer.” He dropped the good-ole-boy smile and pierced him with a cold stare. “Miss Morgan and I have some unfinished business. I’m sure you understand.”

Pat held his gaze for a moment, then looked away.

Riley turned back to Devra. She was staring at him, her fear shining like a beacon in her luminous eyes. Yeah, she was good—he took her by the arm and led her away—but he was better.

DEVRA STARED OUT of the Expedition’s window, pushing loose tendrils of hair back into their clip. Everything in its place, her mother used to say. Thankfully, the detective hadn’t muttered a word since they left the station. As he stopped in front of her house, she hopped out of the car and all but ran toward her door. Dark storm clouds raced across the sky. Electricity sparked the hairs on the back of her neck. Either that, or it was the detective’s close proximity as he followed behind her.

“Mind if I come in for a minute?” he asked when she stopped to unlock the door.

She turned, looking up into his dark brown eyes. They looked…tormented. She pushed back the compassion rising within her. “I can’t imagine what else we have to say to each other.”

“I have something I’d like to say.”

She cringed at the plea in his voice, at the pain clearly etched in his eyes. She could feel his anguish. A part of her wanted to help him. But she couldn’t. To do that, she’d have to trust him with her secrets, and trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

She turned away from him and waited, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t leave. She took a deep breath, knowing it was a mistake even as the words left her mouth. “All right, but only for a minute.” She’d listen, but she wouldn’t help him—that would cost her too much. She opened the door and they walked in.

Inside, the house was hot and heavy with humidity, but it wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as his presence behind her. She set the ceiling fan in motion and watched the wide wooden paddles spin, circulating a gentle breeze.

The detective stood just inside her living room, studying her. She could feel his gaze on her exposed skin, hot and demanding. He made her nervous and jittery, but there was something else, too. An emptiness and longing for something she couldn’t quite name. The need left her restless and shaken.

As the first drops fell, she opened the windows, letting in the thick smell of ozone as the rain battered the white petals of the gardenias outside. She loved the rain, loved the calming sensation that came over her as the water cleansed the earth, washing away the dirt and grime. “What was it you wanted to say, Detective?” she asked while watching a bird bathe in the sudden shower.

“I’d like to ask you a question.”

“All right.”

“What’s with the getup?”

She turned to him. “I’m sorry?”

“The schoolmarm imitation?”

Stunned, she could only stare. “Is that a professional question?”

“Doesn’t your hair hurt being yanked back so severely it pulls at the corners of your eyes?”

She walked toward him, refusing to let him intimidate her. She’d made it through the hard part, she’d made it past his captain. He was off the case and he was blowing off steam, acting like a petulant boy in the throws of a temper tantrum.

“Do you really need glasses? And what was with the Poor-Little-Miss-Timid routine at the station, when we both know you’re anything but?”

Her fists tightened at her sides and she glared at him. How could she have considered helping him, even for a second?

His hardened jaw eased into a cocky smile.

“You have no right to talk to me that way.”

“I have every right. You know more than you’re telling.”

Suddenly, he was in front of her, backing her against the wall. The heat from his body scorched her skin right through the stiff cotton fabric of her dress. She gasped short breaths. Her heart pounded in her ears. He leaned down close. His cologne, rich and spicy, overwhelmed her senses.

“Stop,” she murmured.

His dark eyes filled her vision and clouded her mind.

“What are you hiding?” he said softly, the rich timbre of his voice stroking sensitive nerve endings.

“Nothing.”

“Why are you hiding?” he whispered and gently released her hair clip. He speared his fingers through her hair, lifting it and letting it tumble across her shoulders. His fingertips brushed against the skin on the back of her neck, sending a slow shiver tumbling down her arms.

She couldn’t get enough air. His heat, his touch, his pure animal masculinity was making her weak in the knees. Her eyelids fluttered, her skin burned and a yearning deep down in the pit of her stomach made her want to scream.

“Leave me alone,” she pleaded, knowing full well she didn’t want him to leave her alone. She wanted him to pull her up against him, to soothe the pressure building in her aching breasts, to smother her lips with a kiss so passionate it could rip the fabric of her being.

How could I want him? She almost cried the thought out loud.

“Why was Michelle wearing your locket?” he persisted, his voice a husky whisper, his breath hot on her cheek.

She barely heard him. Her peripheral vision darkened and all she could see, all she could focus on, was his mouth. What would he taste like?

“Tell me why,” he demanded, shaking her loose from her fervent thoughts.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want to know who killed Michelle,” he insisted, clearly exasperated.

“I said I don’t know!”

He pulled away from her and stormed out of the room. Shaken, she fell into the nearest chair. She heard the water running in the bathroom and took a deep breath. Why wouldn’t he just leave her alone? She couldn’t help him. She wouldn’t. Lord, she was scared. She was confused, and she felt sick to her stomach. And on top of all that, she’d never been more attracted to anyone in her entire life. And he hated her. She could feel it with every breath he took.

And worse, she hated him. He was a bully, a cretin, a scourge of the earth. The very last thing she wanted was for him to touch her. She placed a hand over her fluttering heart.

The very last thing.

DAMN THAT WOMAN! She had to be the most exasperating female he’d ever met with those big blue eyes and tremulous lips. She looked tempting enough to ravish—almost. Until he reminded himself what a chameleon she was, an expert manipulator. Well, she wouldn’t work her charms on him. He was on to her game.

Riley splashed cold water onto his face, then stared at his reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes and a hard grimace exposed fatigue and hopelessness. He had to get hold of himself. He wouldn’t get her to crack by flying off the handle. He had to be smart about this. He must get his emotions in check. He couldn’t go home empty-handed. He had to have something to tell Mac and his dad. Anything. He would get this woman to talk.

In the mirror’s reflection, he saw a room behind him. He stood just outside the door and listened down the hallway. All was clear. In the room, a large desk littered with papers held a sleek computer. He didn’t know computers very well, but he could tell that this was one impressive setup. He walked into the room and noticed several boxes half full next to the closet door. Packing?

He approached her desk and glanced at the papers lying next to the keyboard. All double-spaced pages with the name Miller in the header. Miller? More pages lay facedown in the top tray of a laser jet. He picked them up, and scanned the first few lines. Alarm tightened his gut as he continued to read.

From the shadows he watched the blonde sashay down the stone tiles of St. Peter Street. Plastic gold-and-green dice bounced on her chest as her turquoise pumps clickity-clacked in rhythm with her sway.

“Hey, lady, looking good tonight. Want me to read your fortune?”

The woman glanced at the tarot card readers lining Jackson Square, then threw a cute one a wave. “No, thanks. Tonight I make my own fortune.”

“I just bet you do,” the man responded, laughing.

He watched their exchange, then saw her steal a glimpse behind her, searching for whoever had been following her as she’d left the Café Du Monde and headed toward Bourbon Street. His footsteps had been steady, but in the darkness, she hadn’t been able to make out the source. He’d made sure she wouldn’t.

She slipped her hand under her jacket and shifted the Glock in her waistband. He knew she was carrying one; what cop wouldn’t when in the Quarter alone? The way she was dressed, he guessed she was trying to lure out the night stalker who’d been cutting up whores. He’d been watching her for over an hour, if anyone was helping her, he’d have known it. It was foolish of her to go it alone—foolish for her, advantageous for him. Tonight, she’d get more than she bargained for.

She turned right down Royal, heading for a more isolated street. He smiled at his good fortune. This time of night there were too many hosts standing outside trendy bars and restaurants, hoping to draw in the tourists.

His heartbeat rose in anticipation. Excitement crawled along his skin as she turned left onto Orleans Street, once again heading toward the raucous noise of Bourbon Street. Here, no one would hear her scream.

He closed in. Her quick furtive glances behind her betrayed her fear. She could feel him hunting her. He enjoyed this part of the game, perhaps even more than the kill itself. She quickened her pace. He left her.

From his new vantage point, he watched her turn again. She stopped and listened, becoming aware that his footsteps had fallen silent. She let loose a deep sigh, and the corners of her mouth lifted slightly as she shook her head. She continued up the block to Bourbon Street, toward him. People up ahead were laughing and stumbling their way down the neon alley. She visibly relaxed even more.

As she approached, he stepped out from behind an old-fashioned cast-iron lamppost. Alarm chased across her face. She reached behind her, grasping the Glock’s handle.

“Hey, Michelle,” he said softly and gave her a disarming smile.

She squinted into the dull light from the dirt-encrusted lamp, trying to get a handle on him. Recognition dawned. She relaxed, dropping her shoulders. “Hey. What’s up?”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Just heading to Bourbon Street.”

“It’s not safe to be out here alone. Let me walk you.”

“You know I can take care of myself.” She took a quick glance behind her, then threw him a smile. “But I don’t mind the company.”

They’d only taken a few steps before he motioned to a doorway on the right. “What’s that?”

She peered into the darkness. Before she could turn back, he seized her. His big hands wrapped around her neck, squeezing as he shoved her up against the wall. She clawed at his wrists. He could feel her heart hammering with fear. She let go of his wrists and tried to reach behind her for the Glock.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he hissed.

He twisted the beads around her neck, applying more pressure, squeezing harder. Her eyes widened as she choked for air. She slumped forward. He pushed her back, grabbed the gun and pocketed it.

Breath surged back into her lungs and she gulped it. The blade flashed in the dim light from the street lamp. In one swift movement, it was over and she slid down the wall. He took something gold and shiny and slipped it around her neck. A gold heart with a rose etched across the front dangled between her breasts, nestling amidst the rivulets of blood seeping from her throat.

Riley swayed as pain and confusion obscured his vision. He stormed through the house, a burning rage pushing him beyond control. He slammed the wad of papers bunched in his hands onto the table. “I want the truth and I want it now.”

Devra’s eyes widened as she stared at the papers.

“You were there. You saw the whole thing. Tell me who killed her.”

She stood, her chair falling behind her with a loud crash. “I wasn’t there.”

“Then what is this?”

“It’s just a scene from my book.”

“Bull. This is a reenactment of Michelle’s murder.”

Devra covered her face with her hands.

He gripped the table’s edge to stop himself from grabbing her shoulders and giving her a good shake. “You know too many details for someone who wasn’t there!”

She tried to back away from him, but hit the wall behind her. “I wasn’t there. I swear.”

“Liar,” he roared.

She covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m not a liar. I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t.”

He stepped closer, leaning down into her face. “I want the truth.”

“I didn’t.” She swayed before him, her eyes glazed and frightened. “I didn’t kill Tommy, Papa.” The color drained from her face and she collapsed in a heap onto the floor.

Stunned, Riley dropped to his knees beside her. “Come on, lady. Wake up.” He gritted his teeth to restrain himself from clutching her in his arms to make sure she was okay.

Long lashes fluttered on her cheeks. She opened luminous eyes full of hurt and vulnerability and pinned him to the wall. He felt a need to apologize, to help her in some way. Dammit, why wouldn’t she just tell him the truth?

“What happened?” she asked with a shaky voice.

“You fainted,” he muttered, and tried to swallow his irritation.

She sat up, cradling her head in her hands. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. I know you want answers, and I wish I had them for you. But I don’t. I just don’t.”

Tears filled her eyes, and damn if they didn’t work. He could feel the fury seeping right out of him. Apparently, he was in worse shape than he thought. He needed sleep. He needed food. He needed to go home, recoup and try to sort this mess out again later.

“Listen—”

The sound of crashing glass reverberated through the room. Riley jumped to his feet as splintered shards scattered across the floor. Clumps of glass mixed with something red hit the sides of the sofa and oozed down the fabric. Devra let out a bloodcurdling scream, shattering Riley’s ragged nerves.

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