by Rita Herron
Judging from rigor and her body’s decay, she had been here at least a couple of days. In fact they might never have found her had a local fisherman not noticed a faint light from an old bulb shining in the darkness and decided to check it out.
“At least he left her inside the cabin,” Skeeter Jones, the head CSI officer, murmured.
Yeah, or the gators would have fed on her already. Then no one would ever have found her.
The medical examiner, Dr. Leland Charles, leaned over to examine the body. “The chest wound looks bad. A wide blade, lots of bruising. Looks as if he twisted it. He wanted her to suffer. Her coloring is pale with a yellowish tint.”
“We’ll check and track down where he got the lancet.” Jean-Paul stooped to study the spear. “They sell them in the gift shops in town.”
“Hell, a man could have his pick of murder weapons from the street vendors,” Charles muttered.
“So, what was the cause of death?” Jean-Paul asked.
“There are no ligature marks on her neck so I’d rule out asphyxiation. She might have bled out from the chest wound, but I want to check the tox screens.” Charles noted more bruises on her body—her ribs, abdomen, thighs. “She did fight back,” he murmured, “as much as she could in her position.”
Jean-Paul wondered if she had agreed to the bondage, then changed her mind later. Or she could have been unconscious when the perp tied her up. “I want the cause of death as soon as you finish with her. And make sure to send me the result of the full tox screen and rape kit. We need to determine if the sex was consensual.”
Charles nodded, then dabbed a Q-tip across the woman’s abdomen and bagged it. “It looks like he rubbed some kind of oil on her body. Maybe one of those love potions or sensual oils they sell in the market.”
Jean-Paul scanned the room for a bottle. “So our guy uses massage oil as if he wants the woman to enjoy sex, then kills her? I don’t get it. Maybe he was conflicted?”
Charles muttered a curse. “Figure out what makes this one tick and you’ll catch him.”
“Maybe the night started out with romance, then things got rough.”
“And something she said or did triggered the man to snap and he killed her,” Charles added.
Jean-Paul shook his head, not buying it. The scene seemed too posed. Too planned. “No. The serpent necklace and lancet indicate he came prepared.” And what the hell did the mask of that crocodile head mean?
A tech motioned toward the medical examiner and Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes. “Did you find something?”
She shrugged. “Boombox is still warm. Found a CD in it called ‘Heartache Blues.’”
“Symbolic or what?” Dr. Charles commented.
“She ripped out his heart, so he did the same to her.” Jean-Paul made a sound with his mouth. “Could be his motivation.”
“Check out the artist,” the tech said. “Some newbie named Randy Swain. I saw a write-up about him in the paper. He’s here for the music festival.”
Along with a thousand others. All strangers, which made their investigation more difficult. “Of course.” Jean-Paul made a note to question the singer Randy Swain. And to question a couple of guys who made masks and sold them in the market.
The woman bagged the CD, dusted the boombox, then tagged both items for evidence.
“Anyone find the girl’s identification?” he asked.
One of the CSI techs shook his head. “Not so far.”
“Where are her clothes?”
“We didn’t find them, either,” the CSI tech replied. “No clothes. No condom. Nothing personal. Not a toothbrush, comb or even a pair of underwear.”
“This guy knows what he’s doing,” Jean-Paul said. “He’s meticulous. He cleaned up. Didn’t leave any trace evidence.”
“There’s usually something—a hair fiber, an errant button, thread off a jacket,” the female crime scene investigator said. “If there is, we’ll find it.”
Jean-Paul nodded and studied the victim’s face again. Woman? Hell, she looked so damn young. Like someone’s daughter or little sister. Except for the grotesque makeup.
Had she been a hooker or had the killer only painted her to resemble the girls in the red-light district?
His cell phone trilled and he checked the number. His superior, Lieutenant Phelps. He connected the call, his gaze catching sight of his partner combing the wooden dock.
“Lieutenant, what is it?” Jean-Paul asked.
“We just got a call I need you to check out.”
“Do we have a lead already?”
“Maybe. You know that erotica magazine, Naked Desires?”
He grimaced. His sisters had mentioned it at one of their family gatherings. Apparently they thought some of the letters were titillating. “I don’t exactly subscribe to it.”
Phelps chuckled. “I wouldn’t expect my pride-and-joy officer to.”
Jean-Paul grimaced. He hated all the hype he’d received after the hurricane. Just because he’d stuck to his post, done his job and saved a few people, he’d received a damn commendation. Big deal. He’d lost his wife….
“So what is it?” he asked.
“Britta Berger, the editor of the Secret Confessions column called and said she had something we needed to see.”
“Now?” Jean-Paul tapped his boot impatiently. “What is it, some letter that freaked her out?”
“Apparently it’s a photograph, not a letter,” Phelps said in a serious tone.
“But doesn’t this case take priority?” Jean-Paul asked.
“It is about this case,” Phelps said, deadpan. “According to her description, she received a photograph of a crime.”
“What crime?”
“A murder,” Phelps said. “One that sounds suspiciously like the one you’re investigating.”
* * *
HE STOOD OUTSIDE the door to Naked Desires, the urge to go in making him shake with need. The moment he’d seen her photograph in that magazine, he’d recognized her.
His Adrianna.
How ironic to finally have found her here in the city. So close to where he had first met her. So close to where everything had gone wrong.
What was she doing now? Studying the photograph he’d sent her? Staring in horror at the woman’s vile, bloodless eyes? Wondering why he had sent her the message?
Adrenaline churned through his blood, heating his body.
He had to see her. Touch her. Watch the realization dawn in her eyes….
No. Not yet.
He’d waited years for this moment. Had searched in every face and town he’d visited. Had combed the edges of the bayou—hunting, hoping, yearning, praying she had survived.
So he could kill her.
Laughter bubbled in his chest. And now the moment was so near, his vengeance almost within reach. Yet he had to draw it out. Earn his redemption. Save the other sinners. Make them pay.
And make Adrianna watch them suffer.
With each one, she would feel him breathing down her neck. Coming closer. Know the pain of having death upon her conscience.
Just as he lived with his father’s death upon his.
God made the world in seven days and nights. Seven days and nights he had been tortured after she took his father’s life.
Seven more days until Mardi Gras.
Each day until then, a celebration.
Each day until then, a time to torture.
And on the seventh day, when Mardi Gras reached its grand finale, he would find salvation. He couldn’t wait to see the shock in her eyes when she realized that she had never escaped at all. That she had to pay for her sins.
And that she had to die because he loved her.
CHAPTER TWO
THE DEAD WOMAN’S eyes haunted Britta.
She tried to tamp her nerves as the publisher of Naked Desires, R. J. Justice, paced his office. He’d been cursing ever since she’d shown him the photo. Of course her insides were knotted. The last thing she wanted to d
o was talk to the cops.
In fact, she had held on to the picture all day hoping to convince herself the note and picture had been a joke, but finally her conscience had worn her down. She hadn’t been able to justify not showing R.J. the photograph.
Not even to save her own skin.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t come down to that. This was an isolated incident. The police would investigate.
And she wouldn’t have to be involved or divulge her secrets.
“I know you’re shaken, Britta,” R.J. muttered.
“I’ll be fine. After all, this is probably a false alarm. We aren’t positive the woman is really dead. The photographer could have staged the scene to look like a murder. For shock value.”
“True. But he had to know we’d check it out before we printed it.”
Britta shrugged and rubbed at her temple, appalled that R.J. would consider showcasing such violence in their magazine. “Who knows what drives people. Maybe he’s a photographer and wants to impress us so he can land a job here.” Or maybe he meant for her to call the police because he wanted public recognition.
R.J. stopped pacing, his tall lanky frame silhouetted in the window, his laser eyes piercing her as if contemplating the possibility. Outside, gray clouds cast shadows across the office, making the room seem even smaller and more claustrophobic. Zydeco music pounded the air, the shouts of partiers from the street below echoed through the dirt-streaked window. Crowds of tourists still cheered and talked about the parade. Although it was early evening, tourists had already dipped into the happy-hour specials with tequila and pitchers of beer and were filing into the strip joints for their first peep show of the night.
“I have to meet with our legal team. Do you think you can handle the police?” R.J. asked.
Britta clenched her hands together. “Sure.”
For a moment, R.J. reached for her. Twice when they’d discussed her column, debating over which submissions to print and which ones were too graphic, R.J. had hinted at wanting a personal relationship with her. Hinted that he’d like to share his secret sexual fantasies with her.
She backed toward the door. R.J. was barely thirty, only a few years older than her and was well-dressed in his Armani suits. Attractive. Single. Sexy. Mysterious.
But dangerous.
The collection of gargoyles on his bookshelf made her uneasy. And he had dozens of nude sketchings on his walls—all macabre with scenes of violence—along with an S and M calendar and bronze sculptures of mutant creatures—part human, part animal.
Some men had dark sides. R.J. was one of them. She’d witnessed his charm and ability to seduce a woman. Then his volatile temper.
His fantasies teetered on the narcissistic side.
And she didn’t want to be any part of them.
* * *
THE HEAT FROM the New Orleans air simmered with sexuality and smelled of raw body sweat that only heightened R.J.’s lustful thoughts. The magic of Mardi Gras fed his addiction to the night life and celebration of man’s greatest pleasure—the physical coupling of man and woman.
He wanted Britta. He had wanted her for a long damn time.
But she wasn’t ready—yet.
In fact, if she knew the gritty cravings in his mind, she would run a million miles away.
She might even suspect that he’d sent that lurid photograph.
A soft laugh escaped him. But she couldn’t run forever. One day she’d see that the two of them were meant to be together. That he had built this magazine with her in mind. That each day as he walked the streets of the French Quarter, he imagined seducing her in his office, ripping off her clothes and taking her on his desk. Each night he fell asleep with fantasies of her on top of him, her legs spread wide on his bed, taking his aching length into her warm body. With her tied to the post, the black leather squeaking as she shifted, the whip in his hand, passionate cries floating from her lips. And then vice versa.
His cock swelled, throbbing like hell. He intended to unleash Britta’s darkest desires. And she had desires…even though she refused to admit them.
Her terror over the photo might be his ticket to win her trust. She needed comfort. Protection.
And he’d open his arms and watch her fall right into them.
* * *
DESPERATE TO ESCAPE R.J., Britta raced away, but her breath caught at the sight of the hulking man in her office. Neon lights twirled and blinked intermittently, painting a kaleidoscope of colors across his angular face as he stared out the window overlooking Bourbon Street. A mixture of blues, jazz and gospel music engulfed her, its pounding mirroring her beating heart.
Who was he? The man who’d sent her the picture?
As if he sensed her presence without even facing her, he murmured her name. “Miss Berger?”
He knew she’d been watching him. “Yes?”
He slowly turned toward her, his intimidating stance personified by his huge masculine body. “Detective Jean-Paul Dubois.”
She inhaled sharply as recognition dawned. His picture had been plastered all over the paper. That reporter Mazie Burgess had written a half-dozen hero-worshipping pieces on him. Apparently, Jean-Paul Dubois had risked his life to save hundreds after the latest hurricane disaster.
He was also a hard-ass when it came to the law.
Fear tightened her chest as she scrutinized him for signs that he wouldn’t pry too deeply into her life. That he’d accept what she gave him and ask for nothing else.
But the steely expression in his eyes told her not to count on it. His masculine body screamed Cajun and his raw sexuality hit her in the pit of her stomach. He was rugged, much bigger than he’d looked in the newspaper, probably at least six-four. Tough. Not afraid to fight. His hands were broad, scarred, as if he’d wrestled alligators in the swamp and survived.
If he’d grown up in the bayou, then he probably had.
His razor-sharp eyes looked almost black in the dim light. A five o’clock shadow already grazed his angular jaw and his masculine scent triggered wicked fantasies of her own. Naked, he would look like an ancient Roman god.
“You phoned?” he asked in a deep baritone.
She nodded, searching for her voice and professional manner.
He glanced at the current magazine cover on her bulletin board, a half-nude couple donning elaborate Mardi Gras masks with black and red feather boas as their only clothing. She silently reminded herself she didn’t have to be ashamed of her job or her affiliation with the magazine, either. Besides, it was a cover. “Yes, Detective. Please sit down.”
His gaze slid over her, then lingered a moment too long on her breasts and a disapproving flicker followed. She cleared her throat, irritated at herself for letting it bother her. What did she care if the man found her sexually lacking? She’d never indulge her fantasies or pursue a relationship with a cop.
Recovering quickly, she claimed her office chair and waited until he settled into the wingback opposite her. “I don’t know if this is important or not. It may be a prank, someone wanting to shock me. We…get some of those.” God, she didn’t want to do this. What if he asked too many questions?
Questions she didn’t want to answer.
She’d lied all her life about who she was, what she was, where she’d come from. Sometimes she barely remembered the truth herself.
“I imagine you do.” A suspicious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You like reading people’s secret fantasies?”
How could she answer that without sounding perverted herself? “There’s nothing wrong with sexual fantasies, Detective Dubois.”
“Ever include your own?”
Her chest tightened at the smoldering insinuation in his husky voice. The music outside intensified its beat, drawing her into its seductive lair. The odd love chant of New Orleans rippled through the paper-thin walls from the bar next door. “If ever I cease to love, may cows lay eggs and fish grow legs. If ever I cease to love…”
“No.” She wouldn�
��t openly reveal her private thoughts. Or her fears. And good heavens, she wished they’d stop that song. She didn’t believe in love.
“This isn’t about me,” she said, struggling to redirect the conversation. “I phoned the police because I received something disturbing in the mail today.”
His jaw tightened. “Yes, of course.”
She handed him the envelope and their hands brushed, sending a shiver up her spine. She drew her hand back quickly. She couldn’t allow this man to charm her. He was a pro.
He might extract information from her without her even realizing it.
Information she would take with her to her grave.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS SIGHED in disgust. What the hell was wrong with him? Granted he was a sucker for a woman in trouble but usually he handled his reaction better. But something about the challenge, the wariness, the spark of sexual attraction between him and Britta Berger had him on edge.
Not a good idea. He needed to get back to the crime scene. This visit was probably a waste of time.
Still she was intriguing. Her camisole top, coupled with that long whimsical skirt and sandals gave her a live-and-let-live look, yet he sensed she wore a disguise. She wasn’t laissez-faire at all but as uptight as a wild animal in a cage.
And those dynamite full lips conjured up images of sultry kisses. Plus her fiery short, red hair triggered fantasies of wild, tawdry sex.
But her brown eyes skated over him as if he were the scum of the earth. He reminded himself he was here on business. He didn’t care what she thought about him. A woman was dead, for God’s sake, and he was the lead investigator.
“He left a note with the photo,” she said in a strained voice. For a brief second, tension ruled her slender face, then she inhaled sharply, making her top stretch across her breasts and offering a glimpse of her tantalizing cleavage.
Shit.
He dropped his gaze to the desk while she slid a manila envelope toward him. “Who delivered it?”
“I have no idea. It was on my desk with the other mail when I arrived at work.”
“You lock your door when you leave your office at night?”