Shiver: Psychic Romantic Suspense

by Cynthia Cooke

  Shiver

  By Cynthia Cooke

  Shiver

  Copyright © 2005, Cynthia Cooke. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  This book was originally published by Harlequin Enterprises for the Intrigue Imprint.

  *Edition 2 - Edited and Revised in 2021

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or person, living or dead, is coincidental. This book is published by Cynthia Cooke of state of North Carolina. This book / ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Contact:

  Cynthia@CynthiaCooke.com

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  Book Description

  Shiver

  Deadly dreams draw two hearts together; only by facing their fears will both survive.

  Death follows Devra Morgan wherever she goes. Some call her dreams a gift; she calls them a curse. Every time the killer finds her, she runs again. This time he leads the police to her doorstep, forcing her to stop running and play his deadly game.

  New Orleans Detective, Riley MacIntyre, is hot on the trail of his sister-in-law’s killer--which leads him straight to the doorstep of Miss Devra Morgan. She knows more than she is saying, but he doesn’t believe she is the killer.

  But is she working with him, or is she his next target?

  Praise and Awards

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Faith Hope and Love Reader’s Choice Award Winner

  Kiss of Death Chapter’s prestigious Daphnes Two-Time Award Winner

  Two-Time Finalist in the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Awards

  “I want to read more and more! Cynthia Cooke has a very special gift for making me love paranormal beings I would not usually care for! Another winner for Cynthia Cooke!” Monique D – Amazon Reviewer

  “Cynthia Cooke is an amazing and talented writer who captures your heart from the beginning of her books to the ending! If I could give this book more then 5-stars I would!” Rose 13 – Amazon Reviewer

  “Cooke keeps readers on the edge of their seats. . .” –Alexandra Kay, Romantic Times Magazine.

  Chapter 1

  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 quickly opened above the body, and a tarp was stretched over the area.

  Sweat, partly from the heat and partly from expectation, ran down Riley’s back further dampening his shirt. 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 yet 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 an urge gripped him to turn away—a 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 was wrong.

  He took another step. Tony Tortorici, his friend and partner, stood from his examination of the victim. Suddenly, Riley could see her clearly—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. 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—t
he horrible dreams that have destroyed so much of her life.

  She picked up Felix who was rubbing against her shins and squeezed him against her chest, burying her chin in his soft fur. “Why is this happening now?”

  After another squeeze, she set him down and opened a can of cat food. “I’ll have to move again.” 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 nightmares 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 row of tarot card readers and threw the cute one looking at her 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, in some way, her words would help. Not that they ever had before. Town after town, she watched 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 stomach muscles clenched with fear. The locket 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 leave 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.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning Riley parked his Expedition and joined his partner in his car 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 Tony. “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 let his gaze wander over the manicured lawn and abundant flowers lining the walk. There was nothing unusual or even rundown about the house, and yet, a prickle of anxiety ate 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, just a few blocks 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 shut his eyes against the image painfully etched in his mind of his sister-in-law propped against the wall, her throat slit from ear to ear. “I can’t be there.”

  Tony’s dark eyes intensified. “Don’t blame yourself. This 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—” 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 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. “I’ll turn on ‘Mr. Charm’ and 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 and got out of the car. “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 listened to the incessant buzz of bees surrounding a gardenia bush, growing hotter and more impatient with each passing second. What was taking her so long? 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. “Wh-where did you find it?”

  “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?”

  H
e 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, 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 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 and remote control. No bills, coupons, receipts—nothing like the clutter in his house.

  The mantle 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 saw 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 throaty 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 a plain facade?