by JoAnn Ross
She still couldn't believe Kelsey Peters was dead. Kelsey had been the only woman friend Tara had ever had. Which was why when her friend had discovered she was pregnant, Tara hadn't hesitated to let her hide out at her apartment while Kelsey tried to make up her mind what to do.
Not that Tara believed there was any choice. Unless the father was some rich John who'd go totally against type and want to marry the woman he'd paid to have sex with, and raise the kid they'd made together, Kels was going to have to have an abortion.
As she'd tried to tell Toussaint over and over again, every time he'd pressured her to leave the business! Leon had never been one to let his girls walk away. One of the ways he kept them in his stable was by making sure they were provided with the best designer drugs money could buy. Then, of course, there was the debt.
There wasn't a girl on that damn ship who didn't owe Leon LeBlanc at least twenty thousand dollars. Most, like her, owed a lot more.
Leon had not only paid for her boobs and a designer; wardrobe Nicole Kidman herself might have envied, he'd also sprung for the plastic surgery that had made her one of the most sought-after call girls on the Gulf Coast.
And, although science hadn't yet gotten to the point where he could clone his best income producers, it was amazing what a good surgeon could create when provided the proper raw material.
To anyone who might have seen them together—and more than one John had paid through the nose for exactly that—she and Kels could've been identical twins. Hell, although Tara hadn't seen her sister in a dozen years, she'd be willing to bet serious money that the resemblance between her and Kels had been closer than that between her and Kate.
Which made sense, since both she and Kels had been created in the same mold by the clever hand of the same doctor.
So now, because of a twist of fate, and a shitstorm of bad luck, Kels was dead. And she wasn't. At least not yet. With any luck, she could keep it that way.
At least long enough to figure out what to do next.
Of course, the mistaken identity didn't have her home Free. She knew that once the autopsy report was filed, the truth would come out. Then there was also the little problem that when Kelsey didn't show up for work, Stephen, who ran the day-to-day operation for his father, would undoubtedly start wondering which of his two missing hookers had actually landed in that courtyard.
His goons were probably looking for her at this very moment, which was why she didn't dare try to leave town. Or even check into a hotel.
She could call Nick. But too many cops knew she was Broussard's hooker snitch. They'd probably have the boat staked out, thinking maybe she'd given him the damn videotape. Maybe they were even following him, Rot that he couldn't ditch a tail. But one of the reasons hhe was in this fix was that she was too damn impulsive.
She had to be careful.
Come up with a careful, rational, thought-out plan.
And meanwhile, trust no one.
Fortunately, the thugs who did the LeBlancs' dirty work were hired for their brawn, not their brains. She could probably stroll right past them and they wouldn't even recognize the shy, slightly dumpy woman with the short sparrow-brown hair, raggedy nails, sensible shoes, and shit-ugly polyester wardrobe from the Salvation Army thrift shop.
Even Toussaint, who'd been leaving Marie Laveau's tomb tonight when she'd arrived, hadn't recognized her, Of course, that may have been because his vision was blurred by the unshed tears glistening in his eyes. Tears that had almost made her stop and let him know she was alive.
But because she knew he'd feel some stupid caveman obligation to protect her, she needed to keep him in the dark. For his sake. After all, she'd gotten herself into this mess. She was now going to have to get herself out.
Her new look wasn't going to get her on an Oprah makeover show.
Which was the point. Tara wanted to blend into her surroundings.
To fly beneath the LeBIancs' radar.
Fortunately, no one ever noticed a homeless woman.
Well, almost no one.
"You're late," the hottie wearing faded jeans and a green Notre Dame sweatshirt greeted her as he unlocked the door to her knock.
"You going to kick me out for breaking curfew?"
She figured the priest, being a man of God, wouldn't be thrilled to hear she'd been paying another visit to the Voodoo queen's tomb. She also dearly hoped her previous request, which she'd made with Toussaint, hadn't had anything to do with Kels being killed in her place.
"Of course not," Father What-A-Waste said. "Though, if it happens too often, we might have to have ourselves a little chat about following rules."
She tossed her newly dyed hair. "I've never been a real big fan of rules."
"And how is that working for you?" he asked mildly.
She splayed her hands on her padded hips. "You know, Padre, if you weren't a priest, I'd think you were being sarcastic."
"Would you now?" He relocked the door to the street.
She'd realized last night that he wasn't actually locking the women and children in, because the doors could all be easily pushed open from the inside. The goal was to keep out any men who might be in the mood to victimize them.
Which was exactly what Tara was counting on.
23
DAMN IF HE HAUNT BEEN ONE STEP AHEAD OF her all along. Bad enough he'd beaten her—usually an, early riser—up this morning. As she stood at the window after her shower, watching Nick pay off the two: guys in yellow slickers delivering the world's most nondescript rental car to the marina parking lot, Kate couldn't quite decide whether to be pleased or not.
On one hand, she reminded herself that she was, after all, paying for the man's expertise, and who'd know better how to pull off a covert mission than a special-ops guy?
She was also relieved they wouldn't be riding around in his ridiculous hey-look-at-me-bitches black pimp-mobile.
But she didn't like the fact that he'd kept his plan to himself.
"So whatever happened to teamwork?"
They were definitely going to have to have another talk about his inability to play well with others.
Proving as unpredictable as everything else about her life these days, the weather seemed to have done a one-eighty from yesterday's sunny and warm. Black-edged clouds rolled across a gunmetal-gray sky that was drizzling rain.
Fortunately, since it had been thirty-five degrees when she'd left Chicago yesterday—had she only been in New Orleans a day? —Kate was prepared for the change in temperature.
"It's raining," she announced when he returned to the boat.
Terrific. As if he hadn't been able to see that for himself while he'd been outside. This wasn't as bad as some mornings-after she'd suffered, but on a scale of one to ten, it still only rated a five on comfort.
"The weather's unpredictable this time of year."
Okay—she considered as he poured coffee into a black mug depicting a gold eagle holding a trident in its claws—maybe it was more a three. At least she wasn't the only one who was conversationally challenged in the morning.
He was wearing the black jeans again, but this time with a black sweatshirt. The sleeves were pushed up, revealing well-defined forearms.
He handed her the mug. Breathing in the rich aroma, she took a tentative sip and burned her tongue.
"Look, about last night..."
Buying time, she blew on the coffee, took another, longer drink as she tried to remember the carefully constructed argument against any personal involvement she'd come up with in the shower.
'"Which part? Dinner? The shooting? That humdinger of a kiss?"
Humdinger. Well, that was one word for it.
"The kiss."
"Ah." He lifted a brow. "The one that isn't going to happen again." He took a drink of his own coffee. "Unless you've changed your mind?"
"No. I haven't." She decided the little spike of lust that shot through her at the sight of his firm, chiseled lips on the rim of that mug didn't re
ally count. "But I thought, if we're going to be working together, we should get it out into the bright light of day." She glanced over at the rain-streaked window. "Metaphorically speaking, that is."
"Works for me," he said easily. "Because I spent some time last night thinking about the same thing, and well, as gorgeous as you are, Detective, you really aren't my type."
"Well." Kate blew out a breath and reminded herself that she'd always put a high premium on honesty.
She really was serious about avoiding any personal involvement. So why did his assertion sting?
"That's good. Because you're not my type, either." That was absolutely true.
"Well, then." He was leaning back against the counter, long legs crossed. "We shouldn't have any problem, then, should we?"
"Not at all."
He was the most compelling man she'd ever met. The contrast between his black-as-midnight hair and his blue eyes—set in the coppery tan she figured came from living on a boat—was absolutely riveting even before you tacked on the strong blade of a nose, chiseled lips, and square warrior jaw.
"I'm glad we got that settled," she said.
His smile was dry, and openly amused. "And I'm glad that you're glad."
If the sedan had been any more nondescript, it would've been taken for an unmarked cop car.
"Good choice, going for two doors," she said. Four doors definitely would have screamed police.
"I passed camouflage instruction with flying colors."
The idea of yet another Voodoo shop, particularly one that dealt in black magic, was not appealing. Kate reminded herself that this trip wasn't about fun. Besides, she didn't believe in ghosts or ghoulies or anything else that went bump in the night. Which, though she'd never given it any thought before, included Voodoo.
As he drove through block after deserted block that looked spookily like a ghost town, she reluctantly dialed the number Remy had given her for her mother. She'd already tried it this morning, soon after getting up, but I he call had been picked up by her mother's answering machine.
It was the same story this time.
"No answer, huh?" Nick asked.
"No, dammit."
"I called the hospital while you were in the shower," he revealed. "St. Croix's been moved out of the intensive care, but he still isn't being allowed visitors."
"His accident has got to be a coincidence," Kate said, wishing she could fully believe that. "My mother may not have an honest bone in her body, but she'd never kill anyone for money."
"Doesn't look like the old guy's going to die."
Cops were always observing their environment, looking down alleyways and driveways, checking out the civilians as they drove past. Kate had always thought she was good. Nick was better. His eyes were never still, not in a nervous, unable-to-concentrate way. Rather, they were making quick, thorough sweeps of the landscape, as if he were storing away mental pictures. It took no imagination at all to hear the camera shutter clicking away inside his head.
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah. It could be that she really did take off on a little vacation of her own—"
"And not call the entire time she was gone?"
"Maybe they had a spat."
He slowed down as they passed a slightly overweight, dark-haired woman—clad in an olive-green plastic poncho, brown wide-legged polyester pants, and dirty running shoes—leaving what appeared to be a homeless shelter. One of many Kate had seen in the city.
"The other possibility is that she knew what your sister was up to, your sister's killer came after her, too, and the husband made the mistake of getting in the way. Maybe he tried to protect her."
The same unsavory thought had occurred to Kate. "And she took off running. Unfortunately, that's a scenario I can buy into. And by the way, I couldn't help noticing that you used the term 'killer.' Does that mean you believe me about Tara being murdered?"
"I always had trouble with the idea of her killing herself that way." They stopped at a red light; the woman crossed in front of them. "She was too vain to risk ending up a broken corpse."
"And you weren't going to do anything about your suspicions?"
"In case it's escaped your mind, I'm not a cop anymore. It wasn't my case. I did bring it up to Remy, but she's not the only case he's jugglin' right now, so he's waiting for the autopsy."
"Do you think he'll do anything about it if the cause of death comes back murder?"
"Yeah." Kate wished he'd sounded more positive. "I do." His watchful gaze followed the woman into a market. "Rut you've got to understand, chère, the crime rate's skyrocketing back up these days. And the department's shorthanded, and—"
"And nobody cares all that much about a dead hooker."
"You saying the situation would be that different in Chicago?"
She wanted to believe it would. As many problems as she had with the department, she knew the majority of cops were honest and believed in the adage of protect and serve. The problem was, New Orleans wasn't the only police department that was stretched too thin, especially in these days of shrinking tax revenues and increased spending for Homeland Security.
"No." She blew out a breath. "Prostitutes are pretty much on the bottom rung of the social ladder."
Which was how they'd ended up prey for serial killers, going back to before Jack the Ripper.
Guilt weighed heavily on Kate's heart as she flipped open the phone, and willing to go to any ends—even talk with the woman she'd escaped so many years ago— to learn the truth about Tara's death, she punched the number she already knew by heart.
24
NO DOUBT ABOUT IT. HE WAS FRIGGING GOING insane. Bad enough that thoughts of all the things he wanted to do to—and with—Kate had kept him awake most of the night. The woman was a tough nut to crack. But although she was doing her best to hide it, he suspected that inside that tough shell was a soft-as-buttercream heart.
Which, he reminded himself as he polished off a platter of colas, -pain -perdue, sausage, and fried eggs, was all the more reason to keep his distance.
Despite her claim that she didn't eat breakfast, she had broken down and ordered a plate of beignets after the grandmotherly, seventy-something waitress insisted it was a mortal sin to come to N'awlins and not sample the city's famed deep-fried dough carpet-bombed with powdered sugar.
"You know what's wrong with this city?" she asked.
"That's a loaded question, right?"
"Well, perhaps an inappropriate one," she allowed. "Given its present circumstances." When she licked some snowy-white sugar off her fingertips, Nick forced down an urge to put those fingers into his own mouth. "But I was referring to the fact that there's just too much temptation."
Like the temptation to go back to the boat, sprinkle powdered sugar all over her naked body, then lick it off?
"You sure as hell called that one right, chère."
Five minutes later, Kate was standing at the rain-streaked window watching the city of New Orleans disappearing behind them. Despite her reason for being on this ungainly white and red ferry, she began to relax for the first time in months.
"This is nice," she murmured, imagining that on sunny days it would be lovely to be standing below on the car deck, breathing in the scents, feeling the river breeze in her hair. "Peaceful."
When they'd discovered a multicar tractor-trailer accident on the cantilever Cresent City Connector bridge had tied up traffic, Nick had immediately declared plan B to be in effect and driven to the ferry terminal.
Although here, at the curve of the river, where the Mississippi flowed wide and slow, Kate felt a bit of a rush being on one of the largest, most powerful rivers in the world.
"It always has been. And it doesn't really take any longer than the CCC, especially when traffic's all snarled up on the bridge like it is today. People'd probably be a lot less stressed out if they'd just leave their cars home and travel 'cross this way all the time. Though I suppose when they'd end up being forced to wait
in long lines all the time, it'd just move the stress factor from the bridge to the ferry.
"When I was a kid, I used to sometimes just ride back and forth, all day long. Since passengers ride free, it was a good way to pass the time."
"And it got you out of the house. Away from your father."
He glanced over at her. "Good guess."
She shrugged, trying not to be pleased by the idea that he probably wouldn't share that little bit of personal information with just anyone. "I did the same thing. Except in my case my hideout was the public library."
Even as she sighed, it crossed Kate's mind that this was yet another thing she and Nick had in common.
Cargo ships were cruising up and down the river; pelicans and seagulls followed the boats, hovering over the water, hoping for a meal.
A white, towering wedding cake of a cruise ship was headed out to sea. Many of the passengers standing on the decks waved gaily at the ferry. Although she'd always suspected she'd find being stuck on a ship for days on end claustrophobic, at this moment Kate found herself wishing she were going with them.
Their destination didn't matter. What she wanted, she'd realized with Nick's offer to just hoist anchor and sail off into the sunset was to escape her life.
"Do you think those idyllic families that are supposed to represent the American norm really exist?"
"Sure," he said, surprising her. "On television."
Which was obviously why Tara had TiVoed all those shows.
They shared a comfortable silence as the white car ferry continued churning its way across the water. WithJ her mind on families, Kate was thinking how one of the reasons she'd balked at getting married, even though the cop who'd ultimately dumped her had proposed on an almost monthly basis, was that she had no earthly idea how to be a mother. Or, for that matter, a wife.
Which brought to mind another thought.
"Have you ever been married?" she asked.