“Thanks, that makes me feel real secure,” she’d quipped dryly. “I’m beginning to think I should be dressed as a pit bull and not just a first-class bitch.”
“He has you wearing a dog costume?” Stan had asked incredulously.
“No, I’m Scarlett O’Hara.” She’d paused, then speculated out loud. “I wonder if there’s some sort of connection here between the names.” But it was obvious to her that she had lost Stan with that one.
Now, as she tried to weave her way through the throngs, she seriously wished she could lose the dress—or at least the skirt. Though it made a lovely picture when she’d looked herself over in the mirror, it was hell to wear.
Cheyenne quickly discovered that Mardi Gras was like falling headfirst into a kaleidoscope. Nothing she might have read or seen could have prepared her for this, she thought. It seemed as if all the revelers believed they had been given carte blanche to let their inhibitions go for one daring, breathless night. They obviously meant to make the most of it.
“If you can keep your head while all those about you are losing theirs,” she muttered a fragment of Kipling’s poem to herself as she worked the streets with her camera, absorbing, preserving. It was too much to take in, but she gave it her best effort. What she didn’t see, the camera did.
There were parades crisscrossing on major streets, sometimes just barely missing each other. And flooding the main arteries of the city—for miles from the looks of some of them—were seas of people with their hands raised up to the costumed sentinels on the various floats.
Noise and gifts filled the air. Cheyenne tried to make sense of one—and avoid the other.
A heavyset man dove past her, trying to snag a shining string of pearls thrown from atop a two-tiered, papiermâché float that looked like Cleopatra’s royal barge. Cheyenne just barely got out of the way in time.
Abandonment was the watchword.
As Cheyenne raised her camera again, a clown materialized, prancing before her as if he wanted to have his picture taken. Cheyenne laughed and obliged. Who knew? There might be something here she could work up into a feature later, perhaps about people’s need to periodically release their inhibitions.
A masked Hercules tried to pull her over to one side. The point of her elbow applied to his solar plexus changed his mind, and they parted company quickly. Despite the obstacles, Cheyenne made her way as quickly as she could toward St. Charles Avenue. She was early for her meeting with O’Hara. If he showed up, she qualified. That he might not show up was still a very real possibility to her, despite Stan’s assurances to the contrary. She hated the thought of having to track him down while wearing this cumbersome outfit.
Someone on the next float was releasing pigeons instead of trinkets. “Just what the city needs, more pigeons,” she muttered. But she captured a shot just as three more were released in the air. She liked what she saw in her viewfinder.
The New Orleans world was alive with color and noise as it draped itself seductively in the cloak of night. Switching cameras so that she wouldn’t have to reload, Cheyenne quickly became caught up in the scene, fixing her lens on everything that moved. She could sort through them later, she told herself, and pick out the better photographs. For now, speed was of the essence.
That’s why, pointing and shooting rather than framing, Cheyenne wasn’t consciously aware of what she had caught in one series of shots until the moment had passed and belatedly imprinted itself on her brain.
The costumed red devils in the alley weren’t just pretending to torment another reveler. There was something seeping on the ground beside the fallen pirate. A dark, widening pool.
Blood?
One of the devils, his mask slipping, looked up in Cheyenne’s direction just as she lowered her camera. Even with distance between them, she felt their eyes lock. Then the others all looked in her direction.
All four began to run toward her. Another one of the devils had his mask catch on something sharp jutting out from the wall, just at the corner of the alley. As the mask ripped away, exposing his face, Cheyenne snapped another picture, then ran.
Chapter Three
“Rhett Butler, right?”
The voice whispering the question in his ear had more than just a hint of a southern lilt to it. Grant looked at the woman at his elbow. He noted with surprise that she was barefoot, with a ring of flowers around each ankle. There was a crown of flowers woven into her auburn hair and a peasant costume molded to her body. The mask she wore covered just the area around her eyes and was only marginally smaller than her top. The invitation was blatant.
Another time, Grant thought, he might have been tempted to find a place a good deal more private than where they were to answer the lady’s question in depth. But right now, he had a debt to honor.
Still, he smiled at the nubile woman and, sweeping the wide, Panama hat from his head, replied, “Right, and I’m waiting to meet Scarlett.”
The woman before him tossed her head, sending an avalanche of hair flying over her bare shoulders as she leveled a seductive gaze at him. “I’ll bet that your Scarlett’s not half the woman I am.”
Grant laughed softly to himself. Physically, the peasant woman might even have had an edge over Cheyenne, but there was more to be taken into account than just pleasing curves, an ample, raised bosom and a willing attitude. Substance more than any other attribute had always intrigued him.
“That remains to be seen,” he speculated.
The woman offered a pouting protest, but Grant hardly heard her. Cheyenne was rushing toward him as fast as the crowd would allow. Like his would-be seductress, she was wearing a small, flirtatious mask, but it hardly began to disguise her. Besides, Pierre had told him which costume she’d selected, which was exactly why he had chosen the one he had on. Having agreed to this interview, he meant to enjoy himself as much as he was able.
Cheyenne was obviously eager to get started, he thought, watching as she cut through the crowd with the single-minded determination of an advancing foot soldier. Maybe a little too eager, he amended. Even at a distance, he could see that she appeared to be breathing heavily. He doubted it was from anticipation of the evening ahead.
Too bad she and the woman who he was even now delicately disentangling from his person couldn’t exchange their goals for the evening, he thought. If he saw the same light burning in Cheyenne’s eyes that glowed in the peasant woman’s, he’d be sorely tempted to forget all about the interview, Mardi Gras and the ball that awaited him.
Hell, he could willingly forget about the interview at the slightest provocation, he mused. And even less encouragement than that would urge him on to make a romantic night of it with Cheyenne. The lady had a great many more attributes than just her camera technique.
Cheyenne scanned the area as she hurried to put as much distance as possible between herself and the four devils she knew, without looking, were in pursuit. The streets were overflowing with people, and it looked easy enough to get lost from sight. But she wasn’t going to attempt that until she had at least twice as much space between her and the men at her heels. That way, she could make the confusion work for her instead of against her, as it did now.
Faces, masks and costumes all melded together with the ongoing parade in the background. Where was he? she wondered with rising desperation. How was she supposed to find him in this tumultuous sea of humanity if she didn’t even know what he was wearing?
But then, she hadn’t really expected that there would be this many people out tonight She blew out a frustrated breath as she pushed her slipping hat back into place. Despite the very specific appointed meeting place, finding O‘Hara was like finding Waldo in a sea of bodies—not that O’Hara remotely looked like the lanky cartoon figure. The difficulty of the task was the same, however, especially since half the people she saw had their identities obscured by their costumes. In some cases, she couldn’t even tell whether she was looking at a man or a woman.
Cheyenne struggled t
o calm herself and think rationally. Somehow, she couldn’t quite see O’Hara opting for a gorilla suit or a clown costume. It just wasn’t his style. He’d choose something dynamic, something romantic and flamboyant. Definitely something that would flatter his features. He had too good a face, with rugged, chiseled planes and angles that somehow came together to make him appear aristocratic. He wouldn’t waste all that by hiding behind a full-face mask.
But there were just too many people around for her to locate him. So when she saw the policeman standing just a few feet ahead of her, Cheyenne gave up the idea of looking for O’Hara. A policeman suited her needs far better at the moment. She was reasonably certain she could lead the officer back to the alley and the body, despite all the twists and the turns she’d taken in trying to elude the men who were chasing her.
Moving as quickly as she could, she elbowed several partyers aside until she was able to reach the policeman. She caught hold of his arm, drawing his attention away from a float.
“Officer, I just witnessed—” She stopped abruptly as the policeman turned to face her. For a second, Cheyenne could only stare dumbly at the broadly painted grin on his face. He wasn’t a policeman but someone dressed as a policeman—a clown policeman at that. “Sorry,” she murmured, dropping his hand.
Disappointment took a hard bite out of her as she turned away. Damn it, wasn’t anyone who they were supposed to be in this crazy city? Why weren’t the police out where she could see them?
But the reveler had other ideas. “Hey, wait a minute,” he called after her, quickly moving in front of her to keep her from getting away. “Maybe we could interrogate each other,” he suggested, making his thick eyebrows dance comically above his brown eyes.
“Some other time,” she said uncomfortably. She wanted to find a policeman—or O’Hara. At the moment, she didn’t care which one. Just someone she could turn to.
Cheyenne glanced over her shoulder. The devils were drawing closer. They didn’t seem to see her, but they were obviously looking for her. Instinct prompted her to protectively cover the camera case with her hand.
Her movement drew the clown-policeman’s attention to the camera. The comical grin grew and transformed into a genuine leer.
“And you’ve even got a camera. Very accommodating of you.” In one smooth motion, he snaked his arm around her shoulders. “We can take pictures of each other when we’re through. Or maybe even during.”
Cheyenne shrugged him off. “You’re through now,” she informed him tersely.
Not easily rebuffed, the policeman continued to advance on her. “Ah, don’t be like that, honey. I’ve got handcuffs.” Producing them, he dangled the steel bracelets in the air between them. The look in his eyes made his intent very clear.
“Then use them on yourself,” Cheyenne said, turning on her heel. Her escape was blocked by a short, squat Santa Claus.
The policeman swung her back to face him. “I’d rather use them on you.”
Cheyenne could have wept with relief when she saw O’Hara behind him. He clamped a hand on the reveler’s shoulder and spun the man around.
“The lady said no.”
The territorial snarl that sprang from the man’s lips faded when he found himself forced to look up into O’Hara’s face. Instantly subdued, he raised his hands in the air, palms up, disavowing any farther claim to Cheyenne.
“Fine. Plenty of more willing women out there. I don’t need this hassle.” Backing away, the faux policeman was quickly swallowed up by the crowd.
Satisfied that the man wasn’t coming back, Grant turned to Cheyenne. She looked a little flushed, he thought. Very appealing. Bowing from the waist, he smiled into her eyes. “Scarlett O’Hara, I presume?”
Cheyenne didn’t answer. Scanning the faces of the crowd again, she saw the four devils converging. They had spotted her and were coming in her direction. The men had seen her talking to O’Hara. She knew that they couldn’t stay here.
Grabbing his hand, she began to push her way through the crowd, which was still growing. It was becoming steadily more difficult to make any headway.
How was it, she thought irritably, that everyone seemed to be moving in the opposite direction from the one she wanted to go?
Puzzled, Grant let himself be led off. “Not that I don’t like surprises,” he said to the back of her head, raising his voice, “but would you mind telling me where we’re going?”
Dragging him across the street, narrowly missing getting in the path of another float, Cheyenne didn’t bother turning around. She was afraid to stop moving, afraid to see the devils closing in. “Just follow me. I’ll explain later.”
There was an urgency in her voice that told him she was neither caught up in the spirit of the city, nor being coy. Something was definitely wrong. “Are you all right?”
“Later,” she insisted.
He was as game as the next man, but Grant had never liked being kept in the dark. Something was wrong, and she wasn’t going to tell him. From the looks of it, Cheyenne was going to drag him around the entire city without uttering another word.
That wasn’t the way he intended to play it. Choosing a site, Grant suddenly pulled Cheyenne over. They were standing before a single-story building, its doors opened to expose a huge, brightly lit hall. He held her in place even as she tried to make him follow her again. “You’ll explain now.”
She wasn’t accustomed to being ordered around. Her first instinct was to pull her hand away and leave him there, if he didn’t have the sense to follow. But then her common sense took over. He obviously wouldn’t follow if he didn’t know what he was running from.
Needing to explain this as quickly as possible, she took a deep breath and began, “I think I saw a murder.”
He nearly laughed, then caught himself at the last moment. She was obviously under the impression that what she had seen was real.
“What you probably saw,” Grant assured her calmly, “is just a group of people acting out some little skit. That sort of thing happens all the time during Carnival.”
But she shook her head, adamant in her belief. “These weren’t actors or street mimes. I tell you I saw them kill someone.” She held her camera up. “And I’ve got it all. on camera. One of them looked up and saw me, and now they’re after me. Four devils.” God, she sounded like a lunatic, she thought. “Four men in devil costumes,” she amended. “I saw one of their faces.”
There was fear in her eyes. Grant took her hand in his. “I really doubt—”
She yanked her hand away, refusing to be placated or patronized. “Look at me,” she insisted. “Do I look like someone who’s just been running away from a group of street mimes?”
He paused, studying her. “No, you don’t.” And she didn’t seem like the type who got hysterical or frightened easily. Maybe she had witnessed something. “All right,” Grant allowed. “If what you say is true, then maybe we should—” He saw her turn pale as she looked passed him. “What?”
“Oh God, here they come.” There was no time to get away. The devils were too close. Any moment, one or all of the pursuers would see her—see them. “Quick, in here.” Before he could say anything else, Cheyenne yanked Grant inside the hall.
Like the immediate world outside its doors, the huge room was filled with people. Paired people. Couples, all holding hands and looking at the man standing before an altar that appeared to have been specially constructed for the occasion. The altar, and the surrounding walls, were lavishly decorated with flowers and artificial doves.
Above the murmur of voices, Cheyenne thought she could hear music playing. The wedding march was being piped into the hall.
She looked around again. For the most part, all the couples were outlandishly garbed in matching costumes. But some were even wearing wedding gowns and tuxedos. And a very few were wearing simple street clothes.
Fear took a back seat to the journalist in her. Raising the digital camera, Cheyenne quickly snapped a few photographs. The
couple next to her posed, pleased at having the moment preserved.
Moments ago, she’d looked almost terrified, Grant thought, but now she was the consummate photographer, calmly taking pictures. Definitely not your run-of-themill woman.
“Do you always take photographs of everything you see?” Grant asked, whispering the question in her ear as the noise swelled.
She made a concentrated effort to block out the teasing ripple of excitement that zigzagged down her spine. “Makes it easier to remember things.” Cheyenne aimed her lens at the front of the room.
She took a few photographs of the squat little man who was facing the crowd. The smile on his face was benevolent and oddly peaceful. He was dressed in a stark white suit that matched his thick mane of hair. The only color evident was on his hands: huge, precious stones caught the light from the array of candles behind him and reflected streams of color onto the faces of those closest to him.
Cheyenne lowered her camera. “What is this place?” she whispered to Grant.
He shrugged in reply. Glancing to the rear, he saw a tall man dressed in a devil’s costume hurry by the open door. The expression on the devil’s face was as malevolent as the man at the altar’s was benevolent. It sent a cold chill down his spine.
Maybe Cheyenne had witnessed a murder.
Grant slipped his arm around her shoulders. When she looked at him in surprise, he merely motioned for her to move farther away from the door and into the mesmerized crowd.
“They’re outside,” he whispered to her, and saw panic flash through her eyes. His arm tightened around her.
A small man, almost invisible in the crowd, shuffled toward Cheyenne and pushed a wilting bouquet of flowers into her hands.
“Last one,” he announced. A smile that was missing a tooth cracked his face. “This must be your lucky day.”
“Must be,” Cheyenne agreed. She stole a glance toward the doorway, praying the man was right.
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