“What do you know about my daughter?” Tanner demanded.

Anger and desperation darkened his face. There was no doubt she’d hit a nerve.

“Your daughter?” Georgette asked.

“Don’t play games with me, Georgette. You come in here in your little power suit, flash a business card that says you’re from the D.A.’s office and ask me the same questions over and over.” He picked up her drawings and shook them in her face. “Now you show me a sketch of my missing daughter and some muscular thug.”

“I had information you were linked to the young woman in the drawing, but I never realized—”

“Is she in trouble?”

“She could be….”

His grip tightened on her arm. “Talk, Georgette!”

“If I tell you the truth, you must promise never to tell a soul.”

He exhaled sharply. “I’ll promise whatever you want. Just tell me how you know about Lily.”

“I know because…” her voice faltered. “I know because I have the gift.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

To chase away those end-of-summer blues, we have an explosive lineup that’s guaranteed to please!

Joanna Wayne leaves goosebumps with A Father’s Duty, the third book in NEW ORLEANS CONFIDENTIAL. In this riveting conclusion, murder, mayhem…and mystique are unleashed in the Big Easy. And that’s just the beginning! Unauthorized Passion, which marks the beginning of Amanda Stevens’s new action-packed miniseries, MATCHMAKERS UNDERGROUND, features a lethally sexy lawman who takes a beautiful imposter into his protective custody. Look for Just Past Midnight by Ms. Stevens from Harlequin Books next month at your favorite retail outlet.

Danger and discord sweep through Antelope Flats when B.J. Daniels launches her western series, MCCALLS’ MONTANA. Will the town ever be the same after a fiery showdown between a man on a mission and The Cowgirl in Question? Next up, the second book in ECLIPSE, our new gothic-inspired promotion. Midnight Island Sanctuary by Susan Peterson—a spine-tingling “gaslight” mystery set in a remote coastal town—will pull you into a chilling riptide.

To wrap up this month’s thrilling lineup, Amy J. Fetzer returns to Harlequin Intrigue to unravel a sinister black-market baby ring mystery in Undercover Marriage. And, finally, don’t miss The Stolen Bride by Jacqueline Diamond—an edge-of-your-seat reunion romance about an amnesiac bride-in-jeopardy who is about to get a crash course in true love.

Enjoy!

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

A Father’s Duty
Joanna Wayne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joanna Wayne lives with her husband in the perfect writer’s hideaway beside a lazy bayou, complete with graceful herons, colorful wood ducks and an occasional alligator. When not creating tales of spine-tingling suspense and heartwarming romance, she enjoys reading, traveling, playing golf and spending time with family and friends.

Joanna believes that one of the special joys of writing is knowing that her stories have brought enjoyment to or somehow touched the lives of her readers. You can write Joanna at P.O. Box 2851, Harvey, LA 70059-2851.

THE CONFIDENTIAL AGENT’S PLEDGE

I hereby swear to uphold the law to the best of my ability; to maintain the level of integrity of this agency by my compassion for victims, loyalty to my brothers and courage under fire.

And above all, to hold all information and identities in the strictest confidence….

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Tanner Harrison—New Orleans Confidential Agent who’s obsessed with finding his missing daughter.

Georgette Delacroix—Junior prosecutor in the D.A.’s office. She’s dedicated to her work and determined to deny the gift passed down by her mother.

Lily Harrison—Seventeen-year-old daughter of Tanner, who is running for her life.

Juliana Lodge—Lily’s mother and Tanner’s ex-wife.

Isabella Delacroix—Georgette’s voodoo priestess mother.

Mason Bartley—Ex-con who is now a Confidential agent and Tanner’s partner.

Becky Lane—Underage prostitute who supplies Tanner with information about Lily.

Sebastion Primeaux—District Attorney who is sleeping with the mob.

Jerome Senegal—Ruthless mob boss.

Tony “The Knife” Arsenault—A mob enforcer who gets out of jail on missing evidence.

Maurice Gaspard—Pimp who stays out of jail by killing anyone who’d dare testify against him.

The Scorpions—South American rebels who’ve infiltrated the French Quarter.

To everyone who loves New Orleans, a sultry city with history, mystique, excitement and a thousand faces, all uniquely its own.

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

Epilogue

Chapter One

August in New Orleans was like a nasty disease that clogged your lungs and made you sweat from every pore in your body. It was near midnight now and still there was no relief from the heat or the humidity, especially not here on the edge of the French Quarter where the stench of stale beer, fried seafood and someone’s pot habit hung heavy in the air.

Tanner Harrison had loved the inner city and the French Quarter once. He’d fed on its boisterous revelry, couldn’t get enough of the jazz, the food or the Big Easy attitude. That had been years ago. Now the area was like everything else in his life, a plague to be endured. But tonight desperation added a new element to his restless discontent. It rode his nerves like a hissing snake looking for somewhere to sink its fangs.

Lily. Sweet, innocent Lily. Climbing onto his lap and cuddling into his arms for a bedtime story. Skipping through Hyde Park on a summer’s day, her tiny hand clutching his. Waving goodbye as he’d boarded plane after plane after plane, always turning at the last second so he didn’t see the tears sliding down her cheek and she didn’t see the back of his hand flick across his own wet eyes.

Only Lily was no longer living in London with her mother. And his seventeen-year-old daughter was no longer innocent.

His daughter was here in New Orleans, last seen turning tricks for Maurice Gaspard. Tanner had seen it all in a lifetime of law enforcement, but nothing had ever made him physically ill the way thinking of Lily like this did.

He jerked to attention when he spotted a young woman running toward him, her high-heeled shoes bumping and scraping along the uneven sidewalk, her long blond hair flying behind her. Her skirt barely reached her thighs and her blouse was skin-tight, a bit of gauzy material that dipped low and revealed everything short of her nipples. He braced himself and studied her face as she came closer, looking for signs of the Lily he knew beneath the layers of makeup.

It wasn’t Lily, but she wasn’t much older than his teenage daughter, and she was running scared. Tanner reached out and grabbed her arm as she rushed past him. She clawed at him with long, fake fingernails painted a bright red.

“Let go of me.”

“Right after we have a little talk.”

She twisted to see behind her, then tried again to pry his hand from her arm. “I’m not working now, so get your rocks off with someone else.”

“I’m looking for Lily Harrison.”

“That’s your problem.”

“I just made it yours, too. Lily Harrison. She’s seventeen, blond and pretty, with a British accent. I know she worked for Gaspard for a while.”

“Seventeen. You’re sick, man. You know that? Sick. Leave the girl alone and get a life.”

“She’s my daughter.” Tanner pulled out the picture of Lily, frayed and bent from being carried around in his sweaty pocket. He handed the photo to the woman, then tugged her under the streetlight so she could see the details. “This was taken six months ago. If you’ve seen her at all, I need to know where and when.”

“I don’t know nothin’. So let go of my arm.”

But Tanner figured she did know. Like the rest of Gaspard’s women, she was just too damned scared to talk. No one squealed on the sleazy, revengeful pimp.

“Who are you running from?” Tanner demanded.

“I’m not running. And if I was, it’s none of your damn business.” She threw in a few gutter words for emphasis. “Look, man. I don’t know your Lily, but there’s a young girl in that courtyard back there, and she’s hurt bad. If you want to do something, go help her, just leave me out of it. Please, leave me out of it.”

“Which courtyard?”

“Half a block down. You’ll see the break between the buildings. There’s an iron gate, but it’s not locked.”

Tanner released his hold on the young woman, then took off running. He reached the gate in seconds, pushed through it and into a courtyard illuminated only by moonlight. The victim was lying in the middle of the enclosure, sprawled across the hot concrete, one leg dangling over a fountain that was dry and green with slime.

Tanner knelt beside her and brushed the long, blood-matted hair from her face, then felt the breath explode from his lungs in relief when he realized the half-dead woman wasn’t his Lily.

He checked for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there. He grabbed his cell phone and called for an ambulance. The young woman opened her eyes and stared at him.

“Don’t…hit me. Please. Don’t hurt…”

“I’m not the one who attacked you. Just lie still. There’s an ambulance on the way.”

Her face was swollen two sizes too big, her arms were scratched and bleeding and there was a long gash running across her forehead, possibly made by the cracked flower pot that lay next to her.

Tanner lifted the woman’s head. “Who did this to you?”

“No one. I…fell.”

“Like hell you did! Was it Gaspard?”

She shuddered and closed her eyes without answering.

“I’m looking for Lily Harrison. Do you know where I can find her?”

She didn’t open her eyes or show any indication she could hear his pleas for information. Still he knelt beside her and monitored her pulse and labored breathing until the shrill cry of the sirens pierced the night.

Tanner put his mouth close to her ear one last time as he heard the footsteps of the paramedics approaching. “Do you know a girl named Lily Harrison? She’s British.”

The victim’s eyes fluttered open as if she were trying to focus, then rolled back in her head before closing again.

“One word will do. I’m begging. Do you know where I can find Lily?”

There was no answer. Tanner moved out of the way as the paramedics loaded her onto the gurney. He had his doubts she’d live to see the hospital.

GEORGETTE DELACROIX jerked awake and sat up straight in bed, then grabbed the ringing phone. “Hello.”

“Ms. Delacroix?”

“Yes?”

“This is Amos Keller.”

It took her a second or two to place the name. “The ambulance driver?”

“Yes, ma’am. You asked me to call you if I picked up another beating victim who appeared to be a prostitute.”

Her pulse quickened. “Yes. Did you?”

“Yes, ma’am. Picked her up in a courtyard on Chartres Street.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A few minutes ago, but if you want to see her while she’s still alive, you better hurry down here.”

“I’ll be right there. Thanks for the heads-up on this.”

“Glad to help. Whoever did this deserves to be locked away.”

Georgette threw on a pair of slacks and a white cotton shirt, buttoning it as she slipped her feet into white sandals. After slapping some cold water on her face, she rinsed her mouth with antiseptic mouthwash and ran a brush through her dark hair. Good enough for a predawn trip to the hospital, she decided, not bothering with lipstick.

Twenty minutes later, she was rushing through the emergency ward, looking for someone to point her to the right room. It was always faster than dealing with the admitting nurse and her legalese and protocol.

“Code blue in room twelve. Code blue in room twelve.”

Georgette dodged a nurse wielding a crash cart, then followed her to room 12. A man in jeans and a blue T-shirt stepped out of the room and Georgette slipped past him only to be ushered out by a thin, middle-aged nurse with a no-nonsense expression.

“No visitors. Not now.”

But the quick glimpse Georgette got of the activity in room 12 was enough to know that they were fighting desperately to save the life of a young woman who’d obviously been beaten. The clothes thrown over a hook were a good indicator that the woman had been working the streets.

Georgette had no firm evidence to back up her suspicion that the skinny, weasel-looking pimp with hair that looked like black wire dipped in axle grease was responsible for this, but odds were that he was. All she needed was one breathing, talking, witness to help her take Maurice Gaspard to trial. Judging from the sounds coming from room 12, she wasn’t likely to get that witness tonight.

She studied the man slouched against the wall opposite her, the man who’d come out of the victim’s room as she’d walked up. A friend? Or one of Gaspard’s flunkies sent to make sure the woman didn’t talk?

Georgette sized him up quickly. Early-to mid-forties. A couple of inches over the six-foot mark. Hard-bodied. Thick, dark brown hair that could use cutting. A defiant stance.

“What happened to your friend?” she asked, nodding toward the closed door to room 12.

“She’s not my friend.”

“So why are you here?”

“I stumbled on her in the French Quarter after someone had beaten the hell out of her. I called the ambulance.”

“And then you followed it to the hospital?”

“Are you a cop?”

“No.” She put out a hand, “I’m Georgette Delacroix, a prosecutor with the District Attorney’s office.”

“You’re working a little after office hours, aren’t you?”

“I was hoping to see the patient before she…”

“Before she dies. You can say the word. It’s pretty obvious she’s fighting for her life in there.”

“I know. I sincerely hope she makes it.”

“Yeah.”

The door to room 12 opened and the doctor appeared. “Is anyone here with the patient?”

Georgette stepped up.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “We did all we could, but we lost her. She had massive internal hemorrhaging and severe toxic shock. Basically, her body just shut down.”

“Were there bullet wounds?” Georgette asked.

“No. She’d been hit over the head with a blunt object and severely beaten. I’m sure the police will do a full investigation. We’ll need someone to stick around and give them and the hospital some identifying information on the expired patient.”

“I’m afraid I’m as in the dark about that as you are.” Georgette introduced herself and looked around for the man who’d been standing there a few seconds earlier. He was halfway down the hall, hurrying to the exit. She excused herself and chased after him.

“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions,” she said, when she caught up with him.

“Ask away,” he said, not slowing his pace.

“Did the victim say anything to you when you found her?”

“Yeah. She begged me not to hit her again. Evidently she was too out of it to realize I wasn’t the guy who’d attacked her.”

“Exactly where did you find the body?”

“In a courtyard on Chartres Street, river side, a couple of blocks off Esplanade.”

“Do you live in that area?”

“No.”

“Work there?”

“No. I was looking for someone. I found the victim instead.”

“Did she mention her own name or anyone else’s name?”

“No.”

“Look, I don’t know why you were down there this time of the night, and right now I don’t really care. I’m not trying to prosecute you for soliciting or buying illegal drugs. I just need evidence to put the guy responsible for killing that young woman in jail.”

“Isn’t that the police’s job?”

“Of course, but…”

“But you think you can do a better job of this than they can.”

She exhaled sharply, venting her frustration. “I do my job a little differently than some prosecutors, but I’m not trying to usurp the NOPD’s authority or responsibility. I would like to have your name, just so I can contact you again if more questions come to mind.”

“It doesn’t matter how many questions come to mind. I’ve told you everything I know.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card. “But you can reach me at work if you want to waste your time. Crescent City Transports. The name and number’s on the card.”

She reached out her hand to take the card. His fingers brushed hers and she was hit by a jolt that all but sucked her breath away. She dropped her hand, and the card fluttered to the floor as images played in her mind with dizzying force.

A young blond woman, face bruised, her hands and feet tied, her eyes red and swollen. And scared—very, very scared.

“Are you okay?”

The voice cut through the images, and Georgette forced herself to focus on the man standing in front of her. “What did you say?”

“You look as if you’re about to pass out. Do you want me to get a doctor?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I guess I’ve just overdone it a bit lately. Sometimes I forget to eat and my blood-sugar level dips.” That was a lie, but she’d used it before. It was far more believable than the truth.

“Can I give you a lift home?”

“No. I’ll go to the snack area and get some juice from the vending machine. I’ll be fine after that.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

She watched him walk away, still troubled by the force of the vision and the fact that it was somehow associated with the man who claimed to have just stumbled over a dying prostitute in a deserted courtyard.

The gift. That’s what her mother called it when the psychic images took over her mind. Some gift. More like a curse from Lucifer.

She’d spent half her life trying to deny it, the other half trying to escape it. The old ways belonged to her mother and her grandmother before that. They were part of the world of chants, spells and hexes, and they had no role in the life of a junior prosecutor for the New Orleans District Attorney’s office.

Still, the image preyed on her mind. She reached into the pocket of her jacket to search for the card the man had given her, then saw it on the floor by her shoe. She stooped and picked it up. The apprehension hit again, but this time without the visions or the physical impact she’d felt when their hands had touched.

Tanner Harrison. Crescent City Transports, on Tchoupitoulas Street. The guy could be as innocent as he said, but she had a very strong suspicion that he wasn’t.

The gift was often confusing, but it never lied.

TANNER DIDN’T go back to the French Quarter that night. Instead he crawled behind the wheel of his sports car and drove back to his apartment, three third-floor rooms in an aging mansion on Napoleon Street. Like him, the house had seen better days.

There was no way he’d get the victim out of his mind tonight, no way he could forget the fear in her eyes when she’d begged him not to hit her again. His Lily was out there somewhere, likely facing that same kind of fear. She might have already been beaten like that, might even be…

No. He’d told Georgette Delacroix to come right out and say the word, but when it was Lily he was talking about, he couldn’t even think it. He couldn’t begin to understand what had possessed his daughter to fly to New Orleans and take up a life on the streets, but according to his ex, this was all Tanner’s fault.

In all likelihood, it was.

The guilt settled into a gnawing pain as his thoughts shifted to Georgette Delacroix. One minute she’d been firing questions at him, the next she’d looked as if she was in some kind of trance.

She didn’t look, talk or act like an attorney, at least none that he’d ever had dealings with. He’d guess her age as early thirties, and she was tall and shapely, with cold black hair that fell to her shoulders. It was her eyes that had really gotten to him, though. Dark as night, mesmerizing when she’d questioned him, haunting when she’d looked as if she might pass out on him. She was elegant, but exotic—a dangerous combination any way you cut it.

Whatever. Georgette Delacroix was not his problem and he hoped he’d never have to see her again.

GEORGETTE SAT at her desk staring at Tanner Harrison’s card and wishing she’d never met the man or even touched that card. It had been three days since the night she’d encountered Tanner in the hallway at Charity Hospital. Three days since she’d first seen the images of the young woman and felt her fear and desperation.

The images had hit several times since then, appearing at the most inconvenient of times—in a meeting with the D.A., while she was taking a deposition, and in chambers with Judge Colbert this morning. Fortunately they hadn’t been as intense as they’d been at the hospital, but they had been powerful enough to make her lose her train of thought and appear less than totally competent.

Tanner Harrison was somehow connected to the woman in the images. Georgette was certain of that, though she was sure of nothing else. For all she knew, the woman with her hands and feet tied and the woman who’d died in examining room 12 could be one and the same.

Or the woman in the visions could still be fighting for her life. The next victim. The possibility stewed in Georgette’s mind, taking over her concentration until it was useless even to think of writing the brief she’d started a half dozen times over the last few days.

Tanner Harrison, innocent employee of Crescent City Transports? Or, Tanner Harrison, lynch man for the mob? Murderer of young women who crossed the lines Gaspard drew in invisible ink?

She picked up the card and felt a cold, frightening shudder slither along her spine. To play this safe and according to protocol, she should take her fears to the police.

But what would she tell them? That she saw visions? That some unnamed woman was calling to her for help? Let that get back to her boss and District Attorney Sebastion Primeaux would fire her before she could open her mouth to deny it.

But neither could Georgette go on like this. So, it was field-trip time. She’d pay a surprise call on Tanner Harrison, but this time she’d stay in full control while she questioned him. A junior prosecutor on her way up should never have her equilibrium shaken in public.

Georgette planned to make it to the very top of the heap.

Chapter Two

Tanner hung up the phone; he’d been talking to the New Orleans Chief of Police as his newly assigned partner stopped at the door to his office.

“Guess you heard—another tourist died last night from a drug overdose,” Mason Bartley said, leaning his long, lanky body against the door frame.

“Yeah, I just got off the phone with Henri Courville.”

“What did the police chief have to say?”

“That the victim was a sixty-five-year-old retired guy from Champagne, Illinois, in town for a model railroaders convention.”

“Evidently got off on the wrong side of the tracks,” Mason said, “and ended up facedown in a back alley in the Quarter.”

Tanner nodded. “Which is exactly how I’d like to leave Maurice Gaspard some night.”

“Watch it, Harrison. You’re starting to sound like me.”

He sure as hell hoped he wasn’t. Mason had been a two-bit crook up until a few months ago, when he was recruited to join the top secret New Orleans Confidential agency. And while the boss might think he was rehabilitated, Tanner had serious doubts. He’d griped for two days when Conrad Burke had made them partners in this high-stakes case. A lot of good it had done. Burke hadn’t budged an inch.

“We’ve closed the coffeehouses the mob’s used as distribution points, shut down the refining operations for their illegal sex drug, and locked the doors to the plush gentleman’s club where they were drugging the johns and robbing them blind through theft or blackmail. And still we have guys ending up in the hospitals and the morgue from heart attacks brought on by an overdose of Category Five.”

“Ain’t no stopping them,” Mason said.

“We’ll stop them—one way or another.” And that’s what he liked about being an agent for New Orleans Confidential. They played by different rules than agencies like the FBI or CIA. The Confidential agents answered only to Conrad Burke and to their own conscience.

“We’ve slowed them down,” Mason admitted, “which means their supply of Category Five has to be running low. But the head pimp Maurice Gaspard is out on bail and still running his underage girlie show with the help of his heavies.” Mason walked over and dropped the file he was holding on top of Tanner’s desk. “Burke said to give this to you. It’s the autopsy report on that prostitute you found the other night with her skull crushed.”

“Courville said they got a positive ID on her last night,” Tanner said. “Samantha Lincoln, runaway from some town in Iowa. Age sixteen.”

“Sixteen. Those slimeballs. Got no conscience at all.” Mason turned and stared at the framed picture of Lily sitting on the top of Tanner’s file cabinet. “Don’t guess you’ve got any leads on the whereabouts of your daughter yet?”

“No. Hard to get anyone to talk when the price of squealing is death.”

“If she’s out there, you’ll find her.”

The empty consolation did nothing to dissolve the acid pooling in the pit of Tanner’s stomach. It had been two months since Lily had disappeared, and he’d gotten nowhere in his search. He couldn’t go on like this, trying to do his job for New Orleans Confidential when all he could think about was the fact that Lily was out there somewhere, maybe hiding out in some stinking crack house, just trying to stay alive.

He’d thought when they got Tony Arsenault off the street that the mob would loosen its hold. But Jerome Senegal apparently had no shortage of thugs to do his bidding. Tony the Knife and his infamous machete were in custody, but whether a person was sliced by Tony or beaten by another mob enforcer didn’t matter a whole lot. Dead was still dead.

Tanner let the report slip from his fingers, walked over to the file cabinet and picked up the photograph of Lily. It had been taken last Christmas—yet another holiday he’d missed sharing with her….

The intercom on his phone buzzed. He replaced the picture and lifted the receiver. “What’s up?”

“You have a visitor in the main building.”

“Who?”

“Georgette Delacroix.”

Not the best of news. “Did you tell her I was in?”

“No. Thought I’d check with you first, but if it sways your decision, Susie said she’s a knockout.”

Yeah, and an attorney. If that wasn’t bad enough, she’d gone freaky on him the other night, practically passed out in the hospital. Avoiding her was tempting, but on the other hand, if he played this just right, he might pick up some info from her.

It was always advantageous to get a little inside scoop on happenings in the D.A.’s office, especially now that they suspected the corrupt prosecutor was in Senegal’s back pocket. They’d get Sebastion Primeaux when the time came. It wasn’t here yet.

“I’ll walk over,” Tanner said. “Is there an office available?”

“The usual. I’ll tell them you’re on your way.”

Crescent City Transports was a legitimate trucking business that served as a front for the Confidential operation. Confidential’s offices were in the back and security-controlled, supposedly because they handled some hazardous materials as well as a few routine transports.

As far as any of the regular employees knew, the Confidential agents were garden-variety employees like themselves, and while they were aware they drove specially outfitted vehicles, they had no idea that the equipment consisted of the best surveillance technology money could buy. The back building was strictly off limits to regular personnel or visitors.

Tanner grabbed his blue one-piece driver’s uniform from the hook on the back of the door and slipped it on over his jeans and shirt. As far as Georgette Delacroix was concerned, he was just a truck driver.

GEORGETTE FOLLOWED Tanner Harrison down the hall, already feeling an unexplained shudder of apprehension, though so far the images of the blond woman hadn’t returned. He opened an office door about midway down the hall.

“We can talk in here.”

She stepped past him and into a room that, unlike Tanner, was warm and welcoming. There was a highly polished conference table in the middle of the room, surrounded by large wooden chairs with padded leather seats. Framed black-and-white prints of New Orleans landmarks hung on three walls, and a table beneath a row of windows held a coffeepot and white mugs.

“Would you like some coffee?” Tanner asked. “Or I can get you a soda if you’d rather have that.”

“No thanks.” She set her handbag on the table and slid onto one of the chairs. “Crescent City Transports must be a new company. I haven’t heard of them before.”

“We’re new and successful, but I’m assuming you’re not here because you want something transported.”

“No. I have a few questions about the woman you found beaten in the French Quarter.”

“I told you all I know.”

“Could you tell me again how you found her?”

“I stumbled over her like I said. She needed help. I called for an ambulance.”

“I visited the crime scene. It was through a narrow, gated passage between two brick buildings. Seems as if it would be difficult to stumble that far off the street.”

“I heard moaning and checked it out.”

“Most people wouldn’t have in that section of town. They might have called and reported it to the cops, but they wouldn’t have gone down a dark passageway on their own.”

“Guess I’m not like most people then.”

“You said you were looking for someone. Who?”

“I’d hoped to hook up with some friends in the Quarter that night. I didn’t, so I was walking back to my car. End of story.”

“The problem, Tanner, is that this isn’t the beginning or the end of the story. May I call you Tanner?”

“Sure, Georgette. Call me whatever you like. It won’t alter the fact that I’ve told you all I know. Now why isn’t that the end of the story?”

“The woman you found isn’t the first prostitute to die this way.”

“Newspaper this morning said she was number five.”

“At least. Five young women who should still be alive. We have to stop this needless killing, so if you know anything at all, please share it with me.”

“I wouldn’t have any reason not to tell you.”

Unless he was involved in this. She looked into his eyes. They were gray, cold and daunting. Tanner slid into the chair next to hers and her throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow. Even without the images, the man had a disturbing effect on her.

“You want to tell me why you’re really here?” he asked.

“I just did.”

“You’re not a cop. You’re a lawyer, and I’m not involved in one of your cases.”

“Then why do you think I’m here, Tanner?”

“You think I had something to do with the beating, and that if you keep harassing me I’ll blurt out the truth. But since you’re not a cop, I guess you’re just looking to pick up a big case and acquire some clout. Best of luck with that, but you’re still wasting your time with me.”

“This isn’t about clout. It’s about underage girls being sucked into a life of prostitution and being killed if they try to leave.”

“If you know that much,” he said, “why don’t you and the NOPD go in and shut down the operation? You surely know that mob boss Jerome Senegal and his second-in-command Maurice Gaspard are behind all of this.”

“Whatever information we have is privileged at this point.”

“Sure and you’d tell me, but then you’d have to kill me.” He leaned closer and something inside her head clicked on, releasing a rush of adrenaline and an out-of-breath feeling, as if she’d been running.

“If you attorneys with the D.A.’s office are so gung ho on getting the bad guys off the streets, quit throwing out the cases and take more of them to trial.”

“Everyone is innocent until proven guilty. We can’t take people to court without sufficient evidence to warrant it.”

“Well, you’re not going to find any evidence here, and I’ve got to get back to work.”

Just as well. Although she felt strong, disturbing vibes around Tanner, the images she’d expected hadn’t returned and she was getting nowhere with her questions. She opened her leather briefcase, took out her business card and laid it on the table between them. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”

“Nothing else to think of.”

Only he didn’t get up to leave. Instead, he picked up her card and studied it as if it were a puzzle he was trying to solve. “I guess you’ve questioned a lot of prostitutes,” he said.

“A few.”

“They must be running scared these days what with the attacks.”

“Some are.”

“What do they do when they get scared? Do they band together? Leave town? Have someone who helps hide them?”

“It varies.”

His questions suggested more than casual interest and reinforced Georgette’s original fears about Tanner. His gaze bored into hers, and the intense scrutiny stirred confusing emotions.

“I appreciate you taking time to talk with me,” she said, standing and extending her hand.

He took it, and she felt a rush of warmth, followed by needling prickles along her fingertips. The images of the young blond woman returned, full force, pushing reality aside.

Perspiration rolled down Georgette’s forehead and mud squished between her toes. There was nothing but endless swamp in front of her and the air was so fetid, it made her nauseous.

She reached out for something to hold on to as her knees buckled and she started to slide into the murky water, but all she caught hold of was the open briefcase which crashed to the floor at her feet.

“Hey, don’t faint on me.”

The voice sounded as if it were coming from a long way off. Finally, the images began to evaporate, leaving Georgette shaken, but aware that Tanner had an arm around her shoulder and was holding her steady.

She jerked away. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, but you need to see a doctor.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You damn sure don’t look it, and you totally blacked out for a few seconds there.”

She raked her hair back from her face and took a couple of deep breaths. The images had faded, but the fear hadn’t let go of her. Fear so intense it was palpable, but it didn’t belong to Georgette. It belonged to a young woman. The same woman as she’d seen in the psychic visions the other night, but her hands and feet were no longer tied, and this time she was running through a swamp.

“Let me get you a soda,” Tanner said, already stooping to gather the papers that had apparently slipped from her briefcase.

“Thanks.” That would buy her some time. Besides, her throat was so dry she could barely swallow. Tanner was definitely involved with the woman in some way. So now what? She couldn’t question Tanner about the images, and she certainly couldn’t take this to Sebastion. One hint of the gift, and she’d lose all credibility, if not her job.

But when Tanner returned and she took the cold soda from his hands, she felt the strange connection take hold again. Someone was trying to reach Georgette through Tanner.

Or else the evil emanated from him.

“I WANT HIM out of jail—now.”

Sebastion Primeaux stared past Jerome Senegal and kept his gaze on the barge floating down the Mississippi River. It was late afternoon, but the sun was still relentless, and the humidity felt as if they were breathing through wet wool.

“I can’t let Tony walk, Senegal. The media will be all over me.”

“You’re breaking my heart here, Sebastion. I thought we were friends. Friends don’t let friends down.”

“I’ve done everything you asked up until now, but this is over the line. It’ll cost me my job and then it won’t matter if you blackmail me with those damn pictures or not.”

The mob kingpin stepped into Sebastion’s space, his breath reeking of garlic. “Does it matter if one of my guys pays a visit to that pretty little wife of yours? Does it matter if he slices up that face right in front of your kids?”

Sebastion felt the pressure pushing against his brain.

“So what is it, Sebastion? Tony or your wife?”

“Leave my family out of this, you—”

“What? You giving the orders now?” Senegal smirked, and his leathery face screwed into a thousand rutted wrinkles. “’Cause I don’t think you got the balls to go against me, Sebastion.”

And if he did, Jerome Senegal would cut them off or have one of his hit men do it for him. Meet Senegal on the street, and he was just another guy in his late fifties who’d eaten too much jambalaya and crawfish and spent too much time baking in Louisiana sunshine, but Sebastion knew him for what he was.

He’d earned his right to run the mob by killing anyone who got in his way, had beat their brains out with a baseball bat and had their bloody bodies delivered to their front door like some deranged Christmas package.

Sebastion turned around, half expecting to see someone climbing up the levee swinging a baseball bat, but there was no one there but them. Just two guys standing on the levee out near Bridge City, watching the Mississippi River roll by.

“Give me a day or two,” Sebastion said. “I’ll see that Tony’s released.”

“I knew you’d see things my way, but we don’t have a day or two. He’s got to walk today.”

Although Senegal didn’t spell it out, Sebastion knew the mob boss needed Tony to set up a new drug refining operation since the last lab had been shut down by the cops.

“There’s no way I can do what you ask.”

“Sure there is. It’s all taken care of. You just play your little part when Judge Boutte calls and asks to see the evidence.”

“I don’t have the evidence. It’s at the courthouse in the evidence room.”

“I’ve got that under control. Can you handle your part of the deal?”

“You don’t leave me a lot of choice.”

“Glad you see it my way. Now I’ve got to run. Tell your wife and kids hello for me.”

Sebastion watched him walk away, hating him, hating himself, too, for being stuck in a situation that could only get worse. Most of all, he hated that there was no way out.

IT WAS one of the rare times when all the New Orleans Confidential agents were gathered in one room, and, as usual when that happened, Conrad Burke was not smiling.

He shuffled some papers while the group poured themselves cups of the dark chicory coffee from the pot on the back counter and found chairs around the round table. Just like the knights of old, only they were out to slay scorpions instead of dragons. And there wasn’t a white horse in sight.

Alexander McMullin was second in command to Burke. Young, cocky, a risk taker who’d grown tired of the rules that went along with being a cop. He was perfect for the Confidential team. Seth Lewis was even younger, only twenty-nine. He was a homeboy who had joined the army to see what the world looked like outside the ghetto. Now he was fighting a different kind of war.

Tanner was the old man of the group. Forty-three. He’d seen enough to know that he liked his cars fast, his jazz cool, and his women hot—and temporary.

He also knew this was the first job he’d had in a long time that he could sink his teeth into, the kind of no-rules operation he’d been looking for all his life.

“It’s been a long, hot summer.”

Tanner refocused on the meeting as Burke got down to business.

“I’ve got a feeling it’s about to get even hotter, but before I hit you with that, I have some good news. Wiley Longbottom is making great progress. He’s being released from the hospital but is staying in town a couple of weeks longer so that his cardiologist can keep a check on him.”

They broke into applause. Everybody loved the retired director of the Colorado Department of Public Safety, and had been worried sick about him.

“Wiley got us off to a great start in New Orleans,” Burke continued. “He became one of the drug overdose victims of Category Five and launched us into war against the mafia drug trade and ring of underage prostitutes. We’ve had some successes there, though not enough, but we haven’t made any headway with the original assignment. We still don’t know why the Nilia rebels who support the overthrow of their democratic government are in New Orleans.”

“Are we sure Scorpion Poison hasn’t left the area?” one of the agents asked. “We haven’t spotted any of the members in almost a week.”

“Not only are they still here,” Burke answered, “but the Coast Guard and CIA think illegal substances were smuggled into New Orleans yesterday on a cargo ship that was docked in Miami at the same time a ship from Nilia was in that port. Something big is up. We need to find out what that something is.”

“Any ideas what we should try next?” Mason asked.

“I’m standing in front of the best idea and action bunch I know. Now it’s up to you guys. Do what you have to do, but get this job done. I expect a hundred percent of your efforts, and unless you’re eating or sleeping I expect a hundred percent of your time. Just remember, if the game goes sour, there’s no such agency as the Confidential. You are on your own.”

The room grew quiet, not because that bit of news came as any surprise. They’d all been made aware of the rules of engagement up-front. The silence was more a reflection of their moods. So far they’d found out nothing about the rebel presence in the city, and failure in any form was not acceptable to the men in this room. Everyone except Tanner would give the assignment a hundred and ten percent.

Their daughters weren’t missing.

“I’ll be meeting with each of you one-on-one over the next few days,” Burke said. “In the meantime, I’d like you to give serious thought to your next plan of action.”

There were a few more questions, but the meeting was basically over. Burke was a family man. He and his wife had twins only eight months old, but he never asked his agents to do anything he wouldn’t tackle himself. He’d be out there in the fray with them, putting his life on the line in the same way he expected them to be.

There wasn’t a man in the room Tanner wouldn’t trust with his life—except one—and he was walking toward Tanner right now.

“Party time,” Mason said, smiling broadly. “I say we go out and kick some Nilia rebel ass, partner.”

“First we have to find them.”

Tanner’s cell phone vibrated. He took it from the clip at his waist and stepped out of the room to take the call.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Tanner.”

He recognized the strident voice with the heavy British accent immediately. His ex. Talk about making his day.

“Hello, Juliana. I was going to call you later.”

“Don’t lie to me, Tanner. You weren’t going to call. And I just want one thing from you. Have you found my daughter?”

“Our daughter. I haven’t found her.”

“You thought you were such a bloody good CIA agent, so why can’t you find your own flesh and blood?”

“I’m trying.”

“You better be. This is all your fault. If you’d been a halfway decent father, you’d know where your daughter is.”

All his fault, but then what hadn’t been? “I’m doing everything I can to find her, Juliana. It’s just a matter of time.” He doubted she believed him, wasn’t sure he believed it himself any longer.

She spouted more accusations, and his grip tightened around the phone. There was no reasoning with Juliana when she was like this. There would be less reasoning if she knew that their daughter had been working as a prostitute.

She started a new round of accusations, and he held the phone away from his ear. It had been ten years since he’d lived with her, yet that screeching voice could still set every nerve in his body on edge.

“I’ll call you later. And I won’t rest until I find Lily. I promise you that.”

Juliana broke into tears, then hung up the phone without saying goodbye. He probably hadn’t said the right things today any more than he’d ever managed to say the right things two times in a row when they were married.

A rotten husband. A lousy father. Par for the course.

The door to the conference room opened and the guys started filing out, all fired up and ready to go out on the streets and do their job. He could see it in their eyes and the way they walked, shoulders back oozing confidence. Only one thing on their minds, the way it had to be if you were a Confidential agent. It was the promise they’d given, the one he’d given, too. But that was before his world had been turned upside down.

He waited until Burke walked out, then joined him. “I’d like to talk to you if you’ve got a minute.”

“Sure thing, Harrison. Let’s go to my office.”

Tanner nodded, and kept walking, feeling sick inside, as if he were about to walk off the edge of a cliff with nothing to break his fall but jagged rock.

There was no cliff, but he was about to do the second hardest thing he’d ever done in all his life. And once again, there would be no going back.

Chapter Three

“Is this about Lily?” Burke asked as he closed the door.

“Am I that transparent?”

“You are now that I know what it’s like to be a father. Hope this doesn’t mean you got bad news.”

“No news. I comb the Quarter every night, ask questions, search the crack houses and dark alleyways. There’s no sign of her, and if anyone knows where she is, they’re not talking.”

“I won’t even claim to know how hard this must be on you, Tanner. If there’s anything I can do…”

“I don’t know what it would be. I’m not even certain she’s in the area anymore.”

“You want to sit down?” Burke asked.

Tanner shook his head. “I’d rather just say what I have to say and go.”

“Why do I have the feeling this isn’t something I’m going to like hearing?”

Tanner exhaled slowly, tempted to walk away and let things ride, but it wasn’t fair to anyone, most of all Conrad Burke. “You said you expect a hundred percent from all of us. I’ve got no quarrel with that. It’s the pledge I made when I signed on with you. But I can’t give it. I spend at least half my time searching for Lily. That’s just the way it is right now. I don’t think I can change that.”

“You wouldn’t be the kind of guy I’d choose for my team if you could.”

Tanner stuffed his hands in his pockets. This was tough, but putting it off wouldn’t make it any easier. “You need every man pulling his weight. I’m not pulling mine. I don’t know what else to do but resign from New Orleans Confidential.”

“Is this what you want to do?”

“No. Hell, no! I want to be out there. I want to be in the thick of the action. I want to get Senegal and Gaspard so bad I can taste it. And I want to be on the front line when we take down those scorpion-tattooed gorillas.”

Burke drew his lips into a straight, taut line and nodded slowly. Tanner felt the finality of his association with Burke and the Confidential team burn in his gut.

“It’s my loss,” Tanner admitted, “but finding my daughter has to come first.”

“We need you on the team, Tanner. I specifically picked you for what you have to offer. You’re tough and tenacious and loyal to the core.”

“I could come back when this is over, when I know Lily is safe.”

Conrad shook his head. “No. This isn’t the kind of situation a man can drop in and out of. You’re one of us or you’re not.”

“I understand.”

“I don’t think you do, Tanner. I’ll lose a good man if I have to, but not like this, especially when I don’t see your searching for Lily as a problem. While you’re out in the streets and crack houses and dark alleys looking for a lead on Lily, just keep your eyes and ears open for information on the Nilia rebels. I know you’re already doing that.”

“You’re sure?” Tanner asked, not wanting a reprieve now only to have to deal with this later.

“I’m sure.”

“The other guys may have a problem with it.”

“I doubt it, but if they do, they can take it up with me.”

“What about Bartley?” Tanner asked.

“What about him?”

“I’m not going to be able to keep an eye on him all the time if I’m out searching for Lily.”

“I didn’t pair Mason Bartley with you for you to keep an eye on him.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No. I hired him because I believe he’s the man for the job.”

“A leopard doesn’t change his spots.”

“That’s true of leopards, but men can and do change.”

Burke threw his arm around Tanner’s shoulder. “Do what you have to. In the end, that’s the measure of a man.”

“Thanks.” Tanner’s fears for Lily were just as strong as he walked over and opened the door, but the clenching in his stomach had eased. He was still a Confidential agent. He was still a member of the team.

LILY HARRISON leaned against the trunk of a cypress tree, so weak she could barely stand. She was hot and tired and so very hungry. She’d kill right now for fish and chips the way Bertoli’s on Edgeware Road made them. All crispy and golden. And water, clean, cold water that was fit to drink and not this murky mess she was standing in.

She closed her eyes and pretended she was back home in her own bed where the sheets always smelled of lemon and the down duvet was soft as a cloud.

Something swished in the ankle-deep water and she forgot the dream and took off running again. It was more difficult now. Her legs ached and her lungs burned as if someone were holding them to a torch, but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t let the two monsters catch her. Dying in the swamp, even being eaten by alligators, would be far better than the way they’d kill her.

She’d give anything to have never hopped on that bloody plane to New Orleans. To have never gotten caught up in the underage prostitution ring that had led to her witnessing that grisly double murder in the back alley of the bordello. Now Lily was fleeing for her life from two mob hit men, and she feared it was only a matter of time before they caught up with her again.

Something sharp dug into the heel of her right foot. The pain went all through like some kind of electrical charge. Tears burned and slid down her cheeks, but she managed to hold in the scream that tore at her throat.

All she’d wanted to do was come to the States and get to know her father. But Mum had been right. America was a frightening place. And her father didn’t want her in his life. That hurt a hundred times more than the pain and fear that was driving her over the edge.

And still she ran, fighting to stay a step ahead of death at the hands of madmen.

GEORGETTE SAT UP in bed and clutched her chest. She couldn’t see anything in the blackness of the room, but she could hear sucking noises behind her, footsteps in the swamp, coming closer and closer.

She kicked at the sheets, and all but fell out of bed before reality checked in enough that she could regain her equilibrium. She reached for the lamp and flicked it on, knocking over a glass of water she’d left on the bedside table.

She grabbed a handful of tissues and soaked up the water, though her mind was drifting back to the nightmare she’d been caught in minutes ago.

The same young woman who’d been haunting her while she was awake had now taken over her mind while she slept. Georgette had dealt with these crazy psychic experiences all her life, but never had they come at her with this frequency or intensity.

She wondered if this was what it was like for her mother and grandmother. Had they once fought it the way she did, only to finally give up and accept this as part of their lives?

No. Her grandmother maybe, but not her mother. Isabella Delacroix embraced the gift like a lover. It was Isabella’s life. It would never be Georgette’s. Yet Georgette couldn’t shake the fear as she walked to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk. She’d walked away from the gift every time before, but something was different this time.

Her mother would probably know why. But asking her mother would mean going back to the house she hated and admitting that the curse was claiming control over at least part of her life.

She took her milk to the balcony. Her condominium was on the top floor of a converted warehouse just a few blocks off the Mississippi River. The view from the balcony was magnificent, but all Georgette could see tonight was a swamp and a young blond woman running for her life.

Damn the gift and damn Tanner Harrison for forcing this on her. If he was involved with this young woman in any way, she’d find out and she’d make him pay. She’d find out at any cost.

Which meant that, as much as she dreaded it, she’d have to make a visit to Isabella Delacroix.

“YOU GOT A DOLLAR, mister? I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast, and I’m real hungry.”

“Hungry, are you?” The guy took the dirty hand Becky held out to him and pulled her beneath the streetlight. He shoved her mass of thick, black curls away from her face. “What’s your name?”

“Are you a cop?”

“A cop? Whatever gave you that idea? I’m a businessman, and I may be able to help you.”

“Hmmp. Not a lot of people looking to help me, but my name’s Becky Lane.”

“Are you from around here?”

“What’s that got to do with anything. I stay here now.”

“I see. Do you have any family here?”

“You sure ask questions like a cop.”

“I can assure you that I’m not in law enforcement.” He looked her over, from top to bottom and up again. “You may be exactly the kind of girl who can do well in my business.”

Becky studied the man, afraid of what he might really want from her. He was a honky, tall and skinny, with slicked-back black hair that looked as if he’d soaked it in motor oil. The man gave her the creeps, but he was dressed nice, and she was hungry.

“I just need a few dollars or whatever you can spare,” she said.

“What you need is a job, so you can buy your own food and some nice clothes. A young lady has needs.”

“What kind of job are you talking about? I’m not a hooker, you know.”

“A hooker? Such a disgusting term. I don’t deal in disgusting. I deal in class.”

“How old would I have to be to get this job?”

“Eighteen would be old enough. You look eighteen to me.”

She was barely sixteen, though she did look eighteen when she wore lipstick and had her hair fixed. She didn’t mind lying about her age, as long as he didn’t want some kind of proof. “I’m eighteen, but I don’t have a driver’s license or anything like that.”

“You won’t need to drive in this job.” He led her to the circle of illumination beneath a streetlight, then tugged on her blouse, pulling it to the back so that the fabric fit tight around her breasts. “You have a nice shape and nice skin,” he said, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “Men like light-brown skin when it’s as soft as yours. We’d have to do something with that hair, of course, and you’ll need decent clothes, something expensive. Have you ever worn silk?”

She didn’t answer, just stared down at her worn, dirty jeans and stained sneakers.

“I’m talking high-class, Becky. Very high-class. No gutter talk. No gutter clothes. No gutter ways. Just high-class dancing, and being friendly. You’re a friendly girl. I can tell. This will come naturally to you.”

“When would I start?”

“We’ll talk about that later. In the meantime, let me take you to see a friend of mine. She’ll see that you get a good meal and have a nice bed to sleep in tonight. The rest of this can wait until tomorrow.”

Food and a bed. She wasn’t about to turn that down. As for the job, she’d make up her mind about that later. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Mr. Gaspard.”

“That’s a nice name.” And so far he seemed like a really nice man. She hadn’t met too many of those. Maybe New Orleans would be the place where her life got turned around for good.

GEORGETTE PARKED her beige sedan in front of the shotgun house in old Algiers. Some guys next door were working on their car in the street, their jeans hanging so low on their hips, she could see the band of yellowed underwear at their waist. They were shirtless and shoeless, and one was gulping down a can of beer.

He finished it, crushed the can in his hands and tossed it to the curb as she got out of the car and started up the front walk to her mother’s house. Some parts of old Algiers had experienced a rebirth over the last few years. The historic old houses had been restored and the yards and streets cleaned up. They’d started neighborhood watches and gotten rid of the run-down vacant houses frequented by addicts looking for a place to flop.

A neighborhood like that would have tossed Isabella Delacroix out.

The old feelings were potent as Georgette climbed the front steps and knocked on the door. It had been over a year since she’d seen her mother and then it had been at a café in the Quarter at Isabella’s request. It had been five years since Georgette had been in this house. That had been the night her grandmother had died.

Georgette lifted her hand to knock again, then dropped it to her side. She couldn’t do this. She absolutely couldn’t be drawn back into curses and gris gris and mysterious spells. She turned and had reached the steps when she heard the door open behind her.

“Georgette.”

Her mother’s voice crawled under her skin the way it always did. It was lyrical and haunting, as much a part of who and what Isabella was as the bright colors she wore and the bracelets and earrings that jingled when she walked.

Georgette took a deep breath, then turned to face her mother. “Hello, Momma.”

“Come in, Georgette. Please. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”

Georgette looked for words but didn’t find them, so she just walked to the open door and stepped inside. Isabella hugged her then stepped away and started straightening some magazines on a small table. The house hadn’t changed. The front room was where her mother did business. Telling fortunes, reading tarot cards, giving psychic advice. As always, it smelled of incense and spices, and was dimly lit by lamps whose shades were draped with red silk cloths. Music played in the background, an aria from an unfamiliar opera.

“Come with me,” Isabella said. “Let me look at you under the bright light.”

Georgette followed her into the small kitchen at the back of the house. It was exactly the same as it had been five years ago. The appliances were old but clean, and the small wooden table and chairs were the ones Isabella had bought in a second-hand furniture store on Magazine Street when they’d first moved here from down the bayou.

Charcoal drawings Georgette had done in high school were thumbtacked to the wall next to the refrigerator, and an eight-by-ten framed picture of Georgette in her cap and gown hung on the wall behind the table. It had been taken the day she’d graduated from Tulane Law School.

Isabella ran her fingers through Georgette’s shoulder-length hair, then cradled her cheeks in her hands as if she were a small child. “You are so beautiful. You look like your grandmother did in her old pictures. You have the same hair. Silky and black as pure onyx.”

“You have the same hair, Momma.”

“Maybe once. I don’t remember. Are you hungry? I could fix us some lunch. I have an appointment at two, but nothing before then. That gives us a whole hour and a half to visit.”

Far more time than Georgette planned to be here. “I’m not hungry,” she said, “but fix something for yourself if you like. We can talk while you eat.”

“I’ll eat a bite later, but I’ll make us some herbal tea. It’s good for the tempers.”

They didn’t talk as Isabella filled the kettle and adjusted the flame on the front burner of the gas range. When she finished with that, she dropped two tea bags into a teapot and took two delicate china cups from the cabinet.

“I wish you’d come to see me just because you wanted to,” she said, taking the chair closer to Georgette, “but I think it’s something much darker that brings you here.”

“It is.” Georgette spread her hands on the table. “I’ve been seeing images of a young woman who appears to be in danger.”

“Is it someone you know?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“What do you see in the revelations?”

“The first time she had her hands and feet tied, but last night she was in a swamp. She’s running. I think someone must be chasing her but I only see the young woman.”

“She’s calling out to you.”

“Then why aren’t things clearer?”

“It’s the way of the gift. It only shows what it wants to show. When did the visions start to appear?”

“A few nights ago. I’d gone to the hospital to see a prostitute who’d been assaulted. She died while I was there.”

“So you think the images are tied to the victim?”

“I’m not sure. The first time they appeared was when I talked to the man who claimed he had found her and called an ambulance.”

“You sound as if you don’t believe him.”

“I don’t know what to believe. I saw him again a few days later and the images returned.”

“Do the images only materialize when you’re with this man?”

“No. Last night…” Her voice trailed off as the images shadowed her mind.

“What happened last night?”

“I had a nightmare. I was running through a swamp and when I woke my heart was pounding so I was afraid I might have a stroke or a heart attack.”

“You are experiencing her fear.”

“So what do I do to make the images stop?”

“Find a way to help the woman.”

“How can I? I don’t know who she is or where she is.”

“Go back to the man and tell him what you see. Demand that he tell you the truth.”

“I can’t do that, Momma. I’m a junior prosecutor. I can’t go around telling people about visions. They’ll think I’m …”

“Crazy as me?” Isabella reached over and put her hands on top of Georgette’s. “If I could have, I would have spared you this anguish, Georgette, but withholding the gift isn’t within my power. You have it. You must learn to live with it.”

The teakettle started to whistle. Isabella went to the range and poured the water over the two tea bags. Her long skirt swayed with her hips and the charms dangling from at least a dozen bracelets jingled with every movement of her arms.

Isabella was fifty-one, eighteen years older than Georgette, but she could have passed for mid-forties. She was striking, with dark eyes and thick black lashes that set off her soft brown eyes. She possessed all the beauty traits Creole women were famous for, and yet Georgette knew her mother never saw herself as pretty.

Not that she saw herself as ugly. It was just that Isabella lived on a different plane. She saw things no one else saw, but she never saw herself. She just took her looks the way she took life, as if it were in control and she was there to do its bidding.

Isabella set the teapot on the table and settled back in her chair. “Maybe you’re not giving the visions a chance, Georgette. You can’t fight them or try to push them away. That only thwarts the power that lies inside you and keeps you from seeing things clearly.”

“I don’t want to see any more, Momma. I want you to tell me how to make them stop.”

“And what about the young woman?”

“She’s not my responsibility. I didn’t ask for any of this. I refuse to let it claim my life.”

“It’s not so simple, my sweet one. You can’t choose when the gift shows itself or when it goes, but you must listen to it.”

“Why? Why do I have to pay attention to something that has no place in my life?”

Isabella took her hands in hers. “Look at me, Georgette. Look into my eyes and listen carefully to what I say. If you deny the gift and ignore the images you may be sentencing this woman to death. And if you do that, her blood will be on your hands and it will never go away. Never.”

Isabella put her hands in front of her, staring at them as if she could actually see blood running between her fingers and dripping onto the floor.

The room grew icy cold and Georgette longed to bolt and run away, but something held her. “Did you ignore the gift and let someone die, Momma?”

“It doesn’t matter. The past can never be undone. Tell me about this man who first caused the images to appear.”

“His name is Tanner Harrison. He’s a truck driver, I think. He doesn’t have a criminal record. I checked. But I have this feeling that he’s not leveling with me.”

“You must be careful, Georgette. Be very, very careful.”

“Then you think he’s dangerous.”

“All I know is that sometimes when the images are so strong that they won’t let you go, the danger can reach out for you, too.”

“What should I do, Momma? Please. You must tell me.”

“Talk to this man. Spend time with him, and go where the images lead you.”

“Are you saying I should go into a swamp and look for her?”

“It might help. All I know for certain is that you must let the visions guide you. Follow them, but don’t let your guard down. Not for a second.”

The tiny kitchen seemed to be closing in on Georgette, and she hated that she was here, that she was talking of spells and curses and psychic visions. Hated that her insides were tumbling around and making her nauseated. Hated that she’d been sucked back into a life she’d tried so desperately to escape. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“You’re right. I’ve probably said enough for now.”

Even Isabella seemed relieved to let the subject drop. Georgette drank her tea, then said a hurried goodbye. If she were half-smart, she’d go back to her office, bury herself in her work and not give any more thought to the blond woman in the swamp. She’d pretty much convinced herself to do just that when she turned on the radio and heard the latest news.

A young woman’s body had been pulled from the Mississippi River in Plaquemine Parish. She’d been identified as Simone Billings, a prostitute who’d been listed by her friends as missing a month ago.

…her blood will be on your hands.

Isabella’s warning echoed in Georgette’s mind as a new plan formed in her mind. Swerving into a U-turn, she headed toward Tchoupitoulas Street and another visit with Tanner Harrison.

Chapter Four

Tanner had spent half the night searching for leads, and he was bone-tired when he got the message that Georgette Delacroix was in the front office of Crescent City Transports and asking to see him—again. For some reason the news didn’t surprise him, maybe because the exotic beauty with the strange habit of blacking out on him had been on his mind far too often since she’d swayed against him in the conference room.

One of the weird things about being a man. No matter what was on your mind, your libido could come into play at the first touch of a seductive woman’s body. But Georgette had concerned him more than she’d aroused him. Something was going on with her, though she obviously wasn’t going to explain it to him.

Whatever her reasons, she was zeroing in on him, so once again Tanner grabbed his uniform from the hook on the back of the door and went off to meet the intriguing and very inquisitive attorney.

GEORGETTE LOOKED UP when Tanner walked into the conference room.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said, offering a half smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I won’t keep you but a minute.”

He looked at his watch as if he were going to time her. “How can I help you?”

“I seem to have lost a notebook, and I thought perhaps it fell out of my briefcase when I was here the other day.”

“If it did, I didn’t see it. I can check in the office to see if anyone’s turned it in.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’d appreciate that.”

“So what are we looking for? Small? Large? Some kind of binder?”

“Letter-size with a black leather cover,” she lied.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

She slid onto one of the chairs and opened her briefcase. She’d scribbled some notes after driving over, mostly impressions from the nightmare. She couldn’t tell Tanner about her visions, but her operational plan involved more than a fictitious notebook.

If Sebastion found out about this, he’d raise all kinds of hell, scream that she was overstepping her bounds and that she should be spending her time concentrating on the cases she had going to trial. But then Sebastion was frequently in a foul mood these days even if she didn’t give him reason to complain.

Georgette pulled out the pencil sketch she’d done in the parking lot before coming inside to see Tanner. It was a recognizably close match to the young woman from the visions. Long straight hair, petite, probably no more than a size four. Big eyes. Full lips. Light brows, not too thick. A classic nose. Face slightly oblong, almost regal. And very young. Now all she had to do was study Tanner’s reaction when he saw the drawing.

But while she was sitting there, a new image flew into her mind. This time it was a dark-haired, Hispanic man with slicked-back hair and tattoos all over his biceps.

She started to draw, filling in the features, her fingers flying as she transferred his likeness to the page, so lost in what she was doing that she didn’t hear Tanner when he walked up behind her.

“What do you know about Lily?”

The pencil dropped from Georgette’s hand and rolled to the middle of the table. She turned and stared at Tanner. Anger darkened his face and clamped his jaw tight. There was no doubt she’d hit a nerve.

“Lily?”

“You know damn well who I’m talking about.” He reached behind him, hooked the door and slammed it shut. “The girl in the picture. Where is she?”

“You’re asking me?”

He grabbed her arm and tugged her to her feet. “Don’t play games with me, Georgette.”

“I’m not playing.”

“So what do you call it? You come in here in your little power suit, flash a business card that says you’re from the D.A.’s office and ask me the same questions over and over.” He picked up her drawings and shook them in her face. “Now you show me a sketch of my daughter and some muscular thug.”

His daughter. Surely not, but when she met his gaze and saw the distress in his eyes, she was almost sure he was telling the truth.

“I didn’t know she was your daughter.”

“Why else would you be here with this picture?”

“I thought…” She caught herself before she blurted out too much. “I had information you were linked to the young woman in the drawing, but I never realized…”

“I don’t give a damn what you’ve heard about me. I’m only interested in one thing. Do you know where Lily is?”

She shook her head. “Not exactly.”

He tapped his finger on the burly ruffian she’d drawn. “Is she with this guy?”

“She could be.”

His grip tightened on her arm. “Tell me what you know about Lily, straight, none of your attorney double-talk.”

He was angry, demanding. She didn’t blame him, yet even now she wasn’t certain he was totally innocent in any of this. “How long has it been since you’ve seen your daughter?”

“Three years.”

Her suspicions swelled again.

Tanner dropped to a chair. “It’s not the way it sounds. Her mother and I are divorced, and Lily lived in London with her until a little over two months ago. She left there without telling me or her mother her plans. By the time I found out she was in New Orleans, she’d disappeared.”

“Your daughter flew all the way from London to New Orleans but didn’t contact you, not even after she’d arrived?”

“I was out of town and no one knew how to reach me. I’ve been searching for her since the day I got back. The only information I’ve been able to uncover is that she worked for Maurice Gaspard for a while.”

“As a prostitute?”

“So it seems.”

The pain pulled at his voice, and in spite of her doubts her heart went out to him. “I’m sorry, Tanner.”

“I don’t need your sympathy. Just give me answers.”

He was desperate for the truth, but there was no way to tell him what little she knew without explaining how she knew it. Georgette Delacroix, junior prosecutor with the D.A.’s office. Georgette Delacroix, psychic, with the ability to see things and feel things when there was no logical explanation for her powers.

…her blood will be on your hands.

“I need to get some air.”

“You’re not going to run out on me, Georgette, not until you level with me.”

She held on to the back of the chair with one hand and struggled for a deep settling breath. “I don’t know exactly where your daughter is, but she’s either in a swamp or has been in one recently. I think she’s running from someone.”

“Where did you get this information?”

“A source.”

“Who?”

“I can’t say.”

He put a hand under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. She trembled at the intensity of his anguish, but if she told him the truth, everything she’d worked for could be lost. Her career. Her chance to lead a normal life.

But if she kept her own dark secret safe, Tanner’s daughter might lose her life.

The curse of the Delacroix women.

“Talk, Georgette. South Louisiana is covered in swamps. I have to know more.”

Her insides quaked. “If I tell you the truth, you must promise never to tell a soul.”

He exhaled sharply and for a second she thought he’d say no. Finally, he released his hold on her and let his arms fall to his side. “I’ll promise whatever you want. Just tell me how you know about Lily.”

She looked away from him and stared out the window, unwilling to let him see how this was tearing her apart.

“I know because…” Her voice faltered. “I know because I have the gift.”

TANNER STOOD THERE, staring, while Georgette spun a tale that rivaled something from a late-night horror flick. “You actually expect me to believe that you fall into trances and see visions of Lily?”

“I’m not asking you to believe anything. I’m telling you the truth.”

He started to tell her he didn’t believe a word of it, but talking of this had transformed her from confident, intimidating attorney to someone who looked as if she might shatter and break at any moment. She picked up her briefcase as if she were ready to leave.

Tanner planted himself in front of the door. “You can’t tell me something like this and then walk out.”

“I have to go.”

Dammit. Her soft brown eyes were moist and she was shaking. The last thing he needed was to let her get to him. “Stay and talk to me,” he said, this time keeping his voice calm.

“Why stay if you don’t believe me?”

“I’m trying, so work with me. You say you have visions, but they only go so far. What do you have to do to nudge them up a notch?”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Explain how it works.”

“The trances come at will.”

“There must be more to it than that.”

“No. I have no control over them. If I did, I’d never experience them at all. It’s not as if I enjoy being a freak.”

“When did you first have visions about Lily?”

“The night I ran into you in the hospital. You seem to be the link that joins me with Lily,” she admitted.

“We’re together now. Are you feeling anything—or seeing anything?”

“No.”

“Then we’ll stay together until you fall into another trance, or get the gift, or whatever you want to call it.”

“I can’t do that. I have to go back to the office.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No.”

He was losing patience fast. “It’s not like we have all the time in the world, Georgette. Hours count. Hell—minutes count.”

“Even if we’re together, the visions may not return.”

“But there’s a better chance that they will. You said it yourself. I’m the link.” He took her hands in his. “I’ll beg if that’s what you want. Just help me find Lily.”

She shuffled her feet, moved her gaze from him to her briefcase and back again. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. We can spend some time together then.”

“That won’t cut it. I don’t see a ring on your finger so I’m guessing you’re not married.”

“That has nothing to do with this.”

“It makes it easier for us to spend the weekend together.”

“I can’t spend the weekend with you.”

“You can’t spare one weekend to save a young woman’s life?”

She sighed, and he knew he was getting through to her. Great. He’d have hated to have to kidnap her.

“What is it you want from me, Tanner?”

“The same thing you wanted from me. Information. Is there anything we can do other than spend time together to improve the likelihood you’ll have another vision?”

“Location might help.”

“You mean, if we were in a swamp.”

“Perhaps. I don’t really know, Tanner. I’ve always tried to avoid the visions before.”

“We can start out tonight,” he said. “Drive south and find some swampy area and see what happens.”

She looked as if she were about to protest again. He didn’t give her a chance. “You need me to keep your psychic powers a secret, Georgette. Well, I need something from you, too. So, give me your address. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“There are no guarantees this will work, Tanner.”

“But it could, and I’ve tried everything else.”

“Okay. At seven.” She scribbled her home address and phone number on the back of one of her cards and handed it to him. “It’s a condominium complex in the Arts District. I’ll meet you out front.”

He opened the door for her. She hurried past him, as if she couldn’t get away from him fast enough. He watched as she headed down the hall and to the elevator—her lustrous black hair caressing her slender shoulders, that gray suit skirt ultra conservative but still short enough to show off her shapely calves.

Not the kind of woman you’d expect to utter talk of visions and psychic powers. Whether she was on the up-and-up or this was some kind of dirty scheme, he had no choice but to go along. They were linked together by a daughter he barely knew but would do anything in his power to keep safe.

His thoughts stayed with Lily as he ducked out of the main building and walked back to his own office. He’d find her. And then he’d tear out Maurice Gaspard’s heart with his bare hands and feed it to the rats in the streets.

SEBASTION’S OFFICE DOOR was open a crack. Georgette knocked lightly. “Do you have a minute?” she asked, when he looked up from the manila file folder he had open in front of him.

“Sure, come on in. Actually, I was about to see if you were back. I wanted to talk to you before you left for the weekend.”

“What about?”

“A problem, but let’s hear yours first.” He closed the file and pushed it to the front edge of his desk.

“It’s the disposition from Sara McManus.”

“Is that the Griffith murder trial?”

She nodded. “Sara changes the details every time she tells her story. The defense is going to rip her to shreds if I put her on the stand.”

“Isn’t she your only witness?”

“Yes, but the evidence stands by itself. We don’t have to have a witness.”

“Do you think she actually witnessed the murder?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why?”

“She gets so upset when she describes the actual stabbing that it’s impossible not to believe her.”

“That’s your answer, Georgette.”

“Then you think I should put her on the stand.”

“It’s your call. It’s a matter of whether or not you trust this particular jury.”

“Thanks for the input.” Sebastion was an excellent prosecutor, and she was constantly learning from him. “One other question.”

“Shoot.”

“Have you ever heard of a man named Tanner Harrison?”

“Why?”

“He’s the man who called the ambulance for the prostitute who was beaten to death a few nights ago.”

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