by Mallory Kane
Reluctantly, she threw back the covers and sat up. Her gaze stopped on the closet door. She shivered. She didn’t want to think about the bloodstained bathrobe. Not this morning. Her gaze slid to the old armoire. One door was half-open and a white lace shawl was draped over it.
She smiled, remembering Maman telling her stories of the shawls and gowns and gloves as she’d cleaned and bandaged her wounds. There was a story behind every garment and often, Maman would sometimes model them for Rose as she wove her tale. Many of them involved men—prominent businessmen, politicians, musicians.
Rose had no doubt that many of the tales, if not all, were true. Renée Pettitpas had undoubtedly been a lovely, desirable woman. Even in her late seventies, her face had held an imperial beauty.
What would she say if she knew Rose had slept with the detective who’d investigated her murder? She didn’t have to ask that question. She knew what Maman Renée would say.
She’d be furious that Rose had allowed Detective Lloyd into her house—into her bed. I worked to make you safe within these walls.
That thought sobered Rose. She fished her nightgown out from the sheets and pulled it over her head, then slipped on a pink kimono that lay across a chair.
She walked over to the armoire and opened the
right-hand door where Maman’s shawls and scarves hung. She lifted an ivory lace shawl with long fringe from a hanger and wrapped it around herself, breathing in the scent of lavender that clung to it.
“Why did you try so hard to shield me from the truth?” she whispered. “Did you think you could protect me forever?” Her eyes filled with tears. She knew Maman had done what she’d thought was best, but she’d left Rose ill-prepared for the truth.
“Did you know?” she murmured. “Did you know who I was the whole time? Did you keep the truth from me for my sake—or yours?”
* * *
DIXON DIALED REED’S number as he walked down the street toward the voodoo shop. It was nearly nine o’clock in the morning, but he didn’t see any signs of life from the
second-floor windows. Shouldn’t Rose be up by now? Maybe teaching a piano lesson?
“Reed,” a strong baritone voice said. “Reed, it’s Detective Dixon Lloyd.”
“Yes?” The voice took on a deliberately neutral tone.
“Can’t talk?”
“Right. Thanks,” Reed said. “I’ll get back to you.”
Dixon hung up, frustrated. He wanted to find out from Reed what Junior had been doing in this part of town, but he appreciated Reed’s caution.
He pocketed his phone and studied Rose’s windows—the big picture window in the living room and to the left of it, the two bedroom windows. Just a few hours ago, he’d made love with her in that middle room. And he’d stood at that window, looking out at the rain.
Had Junior been out here watching him? Dixon hadn’t noticed anyone lurking around under the streetlamps, but then his mind hadn’t exactly been on surveillance at the time.
He growled under his breath. He’d been distracted—to say the least. Setting his jaw, he renewed his vow to protect Rose.
Protect her. That meant no distractions. None. For the time being, maybe forever, he had to lock away his desire, his love, and treat her as he would any victim of a heinous crime. His feelings would not—could not—get in the way. Feelings were a distraction and the slightest distraction could get people killed. His parents had been in the middle of an argument when they’d driven off in their car that fateful day. Dixon had been old enough to understand that they’d died because they’d been distracted.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. When he moved to answer it, he realized his fists were clenched and he was still staring up at Rose’s window. He shook out his cramped fingers and answered.
“Reed here. Sorry about before.”
“Junior was spotted here on Prytania,” Dixon said without preamble.
“Right. We were there all night. We got a nice view of you around four or so this morning.”
Dixon winced. Just as he’d feared. If Reed had seen him at Rose’s window, then so had Junior.
“Bing, the owner of the sidewalk café, got a picture of Junior but he didn’t mention seeing you,” Dixon commented.
“That’s because I’m good.”
Dixon acknowledged Reed’s statement with a slight pause. “So what have you found out about him?”
“When he left class just before noon yesterday, he headed over to an old office building off Canal,” Reed said. “I didn’t follow him inside because I didn’t know the building, but I’ve got a list of the businesses that operate from there. Should I send it to you or would you rather meet? I’ve annotated the list.”
“Send it. What’s the address?”
Reed gave him an address on Tchoupitoulas Street.
“I know that building. A couple of loan sharks operate out of there. And an escort service we busted for prostitution a couple of years ago.”
“Yep. It’s a Who’s Who of minor crime lords. Even Tito Vega from over on the Mississippi Coast rented office space in there until he went to prison. There’s a For Rent sign on his suite now.”
“And you don’t know which office Junior visited?”
“Nope. I’m sending you the list of names now. So do I stay on Junior?”
“Nope. Thanks. I’ll take over for now.”
“If you need me again, you know how to reach me,” Reed said and disconnected.
Dixon hung up and considered what Reed had told him. Whoever Junior had gone to see yesterday had told him to tail Rose. He’d spent the night watching Rose’s house.
A soft chime from his phone indicated that he’d received a message. A second chime sounded as he looked at the display.
Reed had forwarded him two lists. The first was the directory of businesses occupying space in the building on Tchoupitoulas. The second was Junior Fulbright’s class schedule.
Dixon knew what he had to do. There was no longer the option of sparing his partner’s feelings. He had to find out who Junior answered to.
And to do that, he was going to have to bring him in for questioning.
He turned toward his car, but something made him glance back one more time at the bedroom window. At that instant the sun went behind a cloud.
He squinted. Rose stood there, partially obscured by the glass, her black hair in stark contrast to the pale gown she wore. She wasn’t looking down at the street. Her head was lifted toward the sun. He stood mesmerized.
Even distorted by glass and half-hidden in shadow, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. His throat closed and his eyes stung just looking at her.
The sun came out again and reflected off the window panes. Dixon swallowed hard. He couldn’t leave without seeing her.
Checking on her, he corrected himself. He needed to remind her to be careful.
It was his duty, after all, to keep her safe.
He strode up to the house and rang the doorbell. He waited, knowing it would take her a minute or so to come down the stairs. He saw her through the cut glass inset in the door.
When she opened the door, he almost gasped. Her hair was in a long single braid. Her cheeks were pink where his beard had rubbed them. They matched the pink floor-length kimono she wore. She was breathtaking.
He blinked and set his jaw. He had to guard against those kinds of feelings if he was going to have a prayer of keeping her safe. Feelings clouded judgment. Distractions could kill.
“Dixon!” she said, her face lighting up.
He frowned and pushed past her. “Close the door.”
“What’s the matter?” she asked, worry creeping into her voice.
He turned and scowled at her. “You shouldn’t be opening your door to just anybody. Wait before you unlock it. Ask who it is. Ask for proof to be sure they’re who they say they are.”
She angled her head and laughed. “Dixon, I can tell it’s you through the glass.”
That made s
ense, but still. “If you don’t know the person, please, don’t open the door.”
“Okay,” she said, the laughter still in her voice but fading. “Has something happened?”
He shook his head. “I just wanted to check on you.…”
Her smile grew again. “I’m fine,” she said, her amber eyes twinkling. “How about you?” She stepped closer, obviously expecting a kiss.
He ached to kiss her. He couldn’t believe how isolated he felt without her lips on his, without her body pressed against his. But if he started kissing her, he couldn’t trust himself to stop. And that was not a good idea. Not now. Not until he was one-hundred percent sure she was safe. He took a step backward.
“There is something the matter. What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” he snapped, and regretted it when he saw a twinge of hurt cross her face. “Nothing has happened, and I intend to see that nothing does. My job is to make sure you’re safe. There’s a time and a place for feelings. Right now, you’re in danger.”
“A time and a place… I don’t understand.”
“Last night was a mistake. An error in judgment. As long as you’re in danger, I can’t afford the distraction—”
He was making things worse. He could tell that she was confused and hurt by what he was saying. As he watched, she straightened and lifted her chin.
“I see,” she said. “Well, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your concern.”
“Rose—” He lifted his hand to the scar at her
temple, but she recoiled slightly. “My priority is your safety. Surely you can understand that.”
“I don’t think so,” she bit out. “Your priority is closing your case. At least you could be honest about it. But don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
“Please, Rose, trust me. I swear, when all this is over—”
“Don’t,” she said, holding up her bare hands. The hands he’d kissed and licked and soothed last night. “Please don’t make promises you have no intention of keeping. Trust me, I will definitely think twice before I open my door—to anyone.”
She whirled and opened the door, making a sweeping gesture. “Goodbye, Detective.”
He started to argue, started to grab her shoulders and force her to understand what he was trying to say. But looking at the determined lift of her chin, he decided that it was probably better this way. She was angry with him, and if being angry with him made her more cautious about her safety, then he’d accomplished his goal.
There would be time later to make up for hurting her.
Chapter Twelve
Rose checked her watch again. Thomas should have been there by now. His piano lesson was at three-thirty. But sometimes his mother, who worked night shift as a nurse in the emergency room of Touro Infirmary, had to work a double shift and stay until after four o’clock. That meant his dad, who was an auto mechanic, would have to take him to work with him. Usually one of them would call her to let her know Thomas couldn’t be there.
Rose had offered several times to keep Thomas, but his mother hadn’t wanted to impose.
“If you’d let me keep him, he wouldn’t have to miss,” Rose muttered irritably as she walked into the kitchen. She set a glass of water down in the porcelain sink so hard that it shattered and cut her palm and the pad of her thumb.
“Ow, damn it,” she cried, grabbing a paper towel to press against the cut.
This was all Dixon’s fault. Him and his self-righteous pompousness. Can’t let feelings enter in, he’d said.
Well, if he’d been blocking his feelings the night before, then he was a real expert. Had he felt nothing when he’d whispered “I thought I’d never find you”?
Had he been thinking of nothing more than her safety when he’d made love to every inch of her body? When he’d cried over the scars that crisscrossed the skin of her breasts and stomach?
Had he been doing his job when he’d held her close and soared with her to a height of ecstasy she wouldn’t have believed possible?
She knew he hadn’t. Something Maman had once told her came to her. “Men always think they have a duty to protect women. It’s a good excuse that lets them avoid admitting that they care.” I hope you’re right, Maman. Remember, you also told me my safety would lie in the hands of the Fool.
Rose held her hand under the cold water tap. The water made the cut sting, but Rose wasn’t thinking about the pain. She was staring at the pink-stained water that swirled in the white porcelain sink, spinning like a pink transparent pinwheel as it ran down the drain. As she watched it, mesmerized, a grating voice echoed in her ear.
Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss.
The sound of the doorbell startled her. How long had she been staring at the bloody water? She shut the tap off as the bell rang again, insistently.
“I swear, Dixon, if that’s you, I’m not opening the door.”
As she started down the stairs, she composed her features. It was probably Thomas, and she didn’t want to throw the door open with a scowl on her face.
The distorted figure on the other side of the ruby-and-beveled glass was too tall to be Thomas, and it wasn’t Dixon’s long, lean frame. But it could be Thomas’s dad.
By the time all that had sifted through her brain, she’d gotten to the bottom of the stairs and was reaching for the door.
Dixon’s words echoed through her brain as she turned the knob. You shouldn’t be opening your door to just anybody. Ask for proof.
She tossed her head to rid herself of Dixon’s imperious voice as she swung the door open. If he was so concerned about her safety, maybe he should have stuck around to screen her visitors.
She refused to be afraid in her own home, in her own neighborhood.
The man standing at the door smiled when Rose’s gaze met his. She had two fleeting thoughts. The first was that with his close-set black eyes, flat nose and sallow skin, and those small yellow teeth, he looked like an alligator. The second was that there was something familiar about him.
“Yes?” she said politely yet coolly, frowning slightly as she studied his face.
“Ms. Pettitpas?” he said with a slight bow.
Alarm skittered through her. The low, harsh voice grated like a rusty hinge. Pain jabbed through her temples. Had she heard it before?
“No, I’m sorry,” she said, and stepped backward. As she pushed the door into the jamb and felt the resistance of wood against wood, something crashed into her, cracking her head and knocking her backward.
“No!” she shrieked as her hip, her elbow, then the back of her head, slammed into the hardwood floor. Blue-white fireworks exploded before her eyes. Her head ached abominably, and her hip and elbow throbbed.
She fought through the pain, but her temples were still reverberating from the blow as she twisted onto her stomach and started crawling away from the man. She tried to scream for help.
“Come on, Rosemary, don’t make this difficult,” the man said. “I have a job to do.” As he talked, he stepped up to her.
She’d managed to push herself up to her hands and knees, but he planted his feet on either side of her sprawled figure and grabbed her hair in his fist. “Be good, Irish Rose.”
Through the pain-filled haze in her brain, she heard the whispers that filled her nightmares.
Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss.
“No-o-o!” she wailed. It was him. He was back and he was going to kill her.
She tried to jerk away, but his grip was like iron. “Please, no.”
“Well, look at that. The door cut your forehead,” the man was saying as he held her by the hair. “I didn’t enjoy torturing you before and I certainly don’t want to now. Luckily that cut will leave plenty of blood behind for your Detective Lloyd, won’t it, Rose?”
Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss.
She jerked her head, trying to dislodge his hand from her hair,
but he jerked her head backward, bringing tears of pain to her eyes.
“Let go of me!” she cried.
“Soon, Rosemary. Soon. If you cooperate, things will go much more smoothly. If not, well…” He pulled a taser from his pocket.”
Rose went rigid. “What is that?”
“This? It’s a taser. Don’t you watch TV? It’s the latest technology for making people do what you want them to do.”
Just as the word taser registered in her brain, she heard a sizzling sound and her whole body felt as if it were on fire.
Her muscles seized in cramping pain, then went limp, all within a fraction of a second. She collapsed to the floor, hitting her forehead again, and blacked out.
Aron Wasabe looked at the woman sprawled on the floor, then at the taser. “Nice,” he said. “Exactly as advertised.”
He studied Rosemary’s sprawled body. His gut reaction when she’d opened the door had been that Junior was wrong. This wasn’t Rosemary Delancey.
But it hadn’t taken but a millisecond for him to see that of course it was her. Nothing could obscure that haughty, regal beauty.
Yes, her hair was black, but now he saw the pale roots—a kind of reddish gold, the same color as her eyebrows.
He reached down and grabbed a fistful of her hair to turn her face upward. There was the slender ridge of scar that ran from her hairline down to the curve of her jaw.
His work. His fingers twitched. Even after all this time, he remembered the feel of the knife in his hand. He still felt the same mixture of revulsion and raw excitement as he recalled how the ultrasharp blade had split her skin. A faint shudder rocked him and his stomach churned with nausea.
He preferred a knife because it was clean and precise. He’d made a career of dispatching his assignments with one stroke.
The memory of torturing Rosemary Delancey had haunted him for twelve years. Wasabe frowned. He wasn’t sure how he would react if The Boss told him to do it again.
While those thoughts swirled in his head, he pushed her legs out of the way and closed the front door. Sure enough, like many people, she’d left the keys in the dead bolt lock for convenience. He locked the door, then pocketed the keys. Digging a roll of elastic bandage out of his pocket, he quickly bound her hands and feet. The Boss’s instructions were very specific. No tape burns, no ligature marks. No sign whatsoever that she had been restrained. He had no idea why, but if The Boss wanted it, fine.