TEN DAYS

by Jenna Mills

  "You don't think he has me followed, do you?" I asked.

  "I never rule anything out," Sloan answered, crossing to a wet bar in the corner. From there, he reached for two glasses and one bottle, then turned back to me. "But New Orleans is a close-knit city. All it takes is one person to recognize you as the mystery lady from the book signing..."

  The implications cut through me.

  "...and he would know I was here," I finished for him. And all the doors I'd been prying open would slam shut.

  "Yes."

  I took the offered glass and sipped. "I don't think anyone noticed me."

  Sloan's eyes, an indefinable grayish/green, warmed. "That, sweetheart, would be impossible."

  I let my mouth curve—I did not let the laugh form. Sweetheart. He played well. I had to admit that.

  "The other night," I started, "at the signing, you said that once someone was in Aidan's world, they were in his story."

  Sloan stilled.

  "Tell me then," I said quietly—a little breathlessly. "Tell me what I need to know about his story."

  Fairy lights twinkled from the branches of an old oak, growing in a courtyard in the middle of a building, growing for a long time—decades. More. Centuries. The lights glimmered, sending shadows between us, darkening those around Sloan's eyes.

  "That's a huge question," he said. "Maybe you should also ask me to explain quantum physics."

  This time I did laugh. "And yet you're dying to tell me," I said, done with the little dance of cat and mouse. "I know these are from you," I tested, dipping my hand into my purse and lifting the Maison de R matchbooks between us. "What I want to know is why? What are you trying to tell me?"

  Sloan stood there, so very still. "Kendall—"

  And I knew. I knew he was about to deny any involvement. "Seriously?" I asked, before he could say the words. "How gullible do you think I am? If you didn't send these, then who?"

  Sloan moved before I realized his intent, closing the distance between us and taking the matchbooks from my hand, quickly scanning them himself. "Where did you get these?"

  I sighed. So we were going to keep playing. I explained how I found both, then again, asked if not him, who.

  This time, he was the one who laughed, but it wasn't a happy or seductive sound, more on the sad side. "I'm hardly the only one in New Orleans to cringe when Aidan Cross shows up with another beautiful woman."

  Circles. We just kept turning.

  "Who else had access to my purse?" I countered. "Who else knew I was going to be at the cemetery..."

  "What makes you think I knew that?"

  "You're A." It was a long shot, but I tossed the theory out there, watching carefully. "You wanted me away from Aidan, so we could talk in private."

  His smile was slow. "Excellent plot, but way too complicated."

  I narrowed my eyes.

  "More often than not, the easiest answer holds the truth, and overshadowed by all your intricate plotting is the simple reality that it's not hard to slip something into a purse. Maybe while you were distracted? Maybe an employee, or an acquaintance...someone who doesn't want to see history repeat itself...?"

  The wail of an unseen saxophone drifted into the sudden breath of silence.

  "Maybe even someone from his publishing house," Sloan added after a beat. "His editor or an assistant, someone who knows you're playing with fire and doesn't want any more hits to their cash cow's reputation."

  He knew. He'd seen the gossip sites. He knew the real reason I was with Aidan. "Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?"

  "You asked."

  "I did." But I still knew nothing. Nothing more than that Sloan, and maybe someone else, believed the rumors that Aidan was dangerous.

  "Your uncle and Aidan go way back," he said. "How long have you known him?"

  It came as no surprise that he'd seen the buzz, had learned who I really was.

  "I wouldn't say I know him at all," I said, choosing my words carefully.

  He lifted a brow. "Nate...he's onboard with all this? With you staying alone with a suspected murderer?"

  I laughed. "Do you really think my uncle would set all this up if he believed any of that?" Taking advantage of the moment, I shifted back into my questions. "You grew up with Aidan," I dangled, opting against mentioning that I'd been there, too, in the past, when Aidan was still Nicky.

  "I did," Sloan said.

  "You were friends."

  "We were."

  "Tell me about him then. Tell me about Nicky Ramirez."

  Sloan lifted a hand, smoothing a few long strands of blond hair from his angular face. "He was smart, and he was hungry, and if I let him eat dinner at my house, he'd do my homework for me."

  Something inside me kicked. "What else?"

  "The girls liked him."

  "And he liked them?"

  Sloan laughed. "Not as much as he liked basketball—and my mom's garlic roast."

  "When did he change?"

  Sloan looked away.

  With Laurel. I knew that. But I didn't want him to know how much I already knew.

  "Were there signs?" I asked. "Did something go wrong?"

  He looked back at me. His eyes were dark, distant. All the suave Sloan Rivard warmth and polish was gone. "When I purchased this building, it had been empty for over ten years. Inside there was a huge, beautiful cathedral window of beveled glass. No one knew why a cathedral window was in a bank, but it was, and I had the entire redesign created around the window. And then during construction, it fell. And shattered. And they called me and I came and I was standing there in all that broken glass, and I told them to fix it, that money was no object, just fix it. But every time they picked up a piece, the edges would cut, until finally no one would try. But I did. I tried. I picked up the glass, and I was sliced, and I bled."

  I stood there, motionless.

  "And finally I realized I had to let it go. It didn't matter how beautiful the window had been or what plans I'd made for it, only what was, the shards that remained."

  Maybe the breeze blew.

  Maybe the piano played.

  I had no idea.

  "What happened when we were boys...what happened when we were men—none of that matters. Only that you can't fix him."

  Answers. Insights.

  They were what I wanted.

  Why I'd come.

  But sometimes you learned more than you bargained for.

  More than you asked. Wanted.

  "And that's why you think I should stay away from him?" I asked.

  "It is."

  Eyes of piercing blue. I could still see them burning into me the night before, when Aidan pulled open the door and dragged me into his arms.

  His world.

  "You think he'll hurt me," I said.

  "I don't know what Nicky—Aidan—will do," Sloan shot back. "But I do think you'll get hurt, yes."

  The pinprick of cold was immediate. I looked down, at my fingernail, the slick black polish.

  And the cold needled even deeper.

  Not my imagination.

  The mud. The nail polish. Those were real. Someone had been there, on the porch.

  While I slept.

  "Because that's what happened with Laurel?" I asked, voicing one of the questions that haunted me more by the day.

  A question whose answer haunted Aidan?

  "Because she got hurt?"

  Sloan looked down at the swirl of amber in his glass, for a long, long time. And I saw the memories, and the pain, play across his face.

  "I told her Aidan wasn't right for her, that he burned too hot, too dark—but she wouldn't listen."

  Jealousy, I'd assumed, until I stood there, looking at him, listening.

  Not jealousy, I realized.

  Love—and devastation.

  "And I was right. Loving him destroyed her."

  So she took her own life, as the story went, leaving Aidan to deal with what remained and in doing so, came as close as sh
e could to taking his life, as well.

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  Sloan closed his eyes, opening them a long moment later. "Danielle didn't believe me either."

  I knew I was supposed to ask, that I wasn't supposed to know who Danielle was. But I did. So I played along. "Danielle?"

  "She thought she could fix him. She thought she could heal his broken heart."

  From my research, I knew she entered Aidan's life a little over a year after Laurel's suicide. "But she was wrong?"

  Sloan laughed. "It's hard to fix someone when you're not around."

  I knew the relationship didn't end well, but facts were sketchy. "What happened?"

  Sloan sat down at the small bistro table, rolling his empty glass between his well-manicured hands. "She called me, said she needed to talk—needed my help. We were going to meet, but..."

  I swallowed hard—those details had not been in the media.

  "...she never showed," he went on. "Anywhere. Ever again."

  And Aidan Cross, acclaimed mystery writer, began his rapid fall from grace.

  One man.

  Two women in less than two years.

  One dead, one missing.

  I looked away, toward the twinkling lights, staring until they blurred. "You think Aidan—"

  "I don't know," Sloan answered before I could even say the words—words I did not want to say.

  "Maybe she couldn't handle being with him anymore, so she ran away..." Removing herself, much as Laurel had. Danielle found another way out—but both were forms of escape.

  "Doesn't really matter, though, does it?" A rough, distorted sound broke from Sloan, hanging there against the night, between us. "Doesn't change anything. Doesn't change the fact that she stepped into Aidan's story—"

  I looked up.

  Our eyes met.

  "And now she's gone," I finished for him.

  The lines of his face tightened. "That's why I asked you to dance, Kendall. That's why I warned you to be careful."

  It was also why Uncle Nathan asked me to come to New Orleans, to write the in-depth piece to prove Aidan Cross was more man than mystery. That he wasn't a monster.

  That he was human.

  I'd known the basic facts. And I'd believed my uncle. But that was before. Before I came to New Orleans. Before I stepped inside the old Garden District mansion. Before I'd looked into Aidan's eyes, and let him touch me.

  Before I'd realized how easy it was to get lost in his world.

  How skillfully he plotted and staged every moment of his life.

  Maybe that should have been the end. Maybe that's when I should have stepped back and chosen a different path.

  But I didn't.

  Didn't want to.

  Because I'd already stepped too far, and seen too much. I'd seen him, the night before, when he found me locked outside. I'd seen the look in his eyes, and felt the way he reached for me.

  And I couldn't walk away, not when so many pieces refused to fit together.

  "There's something I need to do," I said, standing and crossing to Sloan. "And I need your help."

  Night 4

  The Club with No Name

  The side street was dark, quiet. Sloan rolled down his window and handed the young, guy with the pierced eyebrow a hundred dollar bill, then eased his sleek black Porsche into an unmarked driveway. A few minutes later, we were out and walking with several other groups along the rundown sidewalk.

  Music collided from all directions, jazz and blues and classic rock. A few cars eased by. A small crowd lingered outside the coffee shop. A single-file line snaked along the outside of the old shotgun building that looked badly in need of renovation.

  We walked straight to the front, where an unmarked door stood closed.

  The same unmarked door Aidan had entered the night before.

  "Ready?" Sloan asked.

  More than he could ever know.

  "One second," I said, sliding my phone from my wristlet to see if Aidan had replied to my final lie:

  Change of plans,

  my friends are taking me out.

  Be back later than I thought.

  I could tell my text had been delivered, but fifteen minutes and still no reply.

  "Okay," I said, glancing at Sloan. "Let's do this."

  He looked the same as he had in the hotel, dressed in dark jeans and a sport coat, with his blond hair slicked back into a ponytail. There he'd looked sophisticated, a celebrity among common man. But here on this urban street where locals came to play, removed from the gaudy parade of tourism, that very same look blended in, casting him as edgy as everyone else in line. Except they didn't treat him like everyone else. There was a difference here, too, as everyone stood back and let him pass.

  Sloan Rivard totally had street cred.

  Just like Aidan Cross.

  With a quick glance down, he took my hand.

  "You think this will work?" I asked. For him, I had no doubt. For me, I wasn't sure.

  "Watch," he said, guiding me to the entrance. Then he knocked.

  Anticipation tangled with disbelief. I'd never really imagined—

  The door swung open. This time, it was a large man who stepped out, bald except for a long, thin ponytail down his back.

  And the steady drum of excitement inside me quickened.

  He looked at Sloan first, openly assessing. Then at me. Not as long, but definitely assessing.

  Sloan squeezed my hand, but he didn't need to. Maybe it was the outfit he'd given me to wear, the short, tight leather micro skirt and black tank, or the shoes, the black motorcycle boots. Or the way he'd had a friend come in to transform my hair from co-ed to centerfold, my makeup to a goth look that closely mirrored many of the girls in line behind me.

  But the moment the guy looked at me, I was fully and completely in character. I didn't need a mirror to know my expression was mild, indifferent, and before long, he looked back at Sloan and motioned us inside. That was all. Just a motion. No words.

  Still holding my hand, Sloan led me inside the building with no name. Behind us, the door closed. Light vanished. But I didn't say anything, just let him lead me deeper into the dark, airless corridor.

  Maybe I was crazy asking him to take me there. He was more stranger than not, and I was pretty sure he was lying to me. But the need to find out what was inside gnawed at me, and I knew better than to show up here alone. I'd never get past the door.

  The hallway vibrated. Music, I thought, but I felt more than heard it. Then we were going up narrow stairs. Still dark. Pulsing like a fun house at a carnival, but not. The door up ahead was real. The stark light leaking through the edges, the low rhythm bleeding through, was real.

  And then we were there, and Sloan was ushering me into the flashing lights and syncopated music. Each strobe illuminated dancers, some on a crowded floor, some in suspended cages, all thrown back into the darkness a breath later, only to blast back into view with the next beat.

  Hand in hand, we moved among them.

  At the far side, away from the gyrating mob, we emerged at a neon-outlined bar. Sloan leaned in and flagged a waitress, who slipped away a few words later. Then he reached for me, not my hand this time, but my waist, and tugged me toward him.

  The urge to pull back was strong, but I made myself settle into the moment.

  "What you were expecting?" he asked.

  It was all I could do not to laugh. I'd heard about private clubs, knew they existed, but never imagined—

  I don't know what I imagined.

  I don't know what I imagined when I saw Aidan vanish inside.

  Don't know what I expected when I decided to find a way inside and see for myself where Aidan went at night.

  But not...this. Not the freneticism. Not the illicit undercurrent. Not the...seduction.

  "Why all the secrecy?" I had to press up on my toes for him to hear me.

  "Because everyone craves it," Sloan drawled, and then the waitress was back and he was pushing
a drink into my hand. "The forbidden is always more exciting than the everyday."

  I watched him sip from his drink, and thought once again how much he looked like he belonged here in this underground world. Beautiful people surrounded us, women with sleek hair and bold make-up, men dressed like magazine models, all drinking and dancing, huddled in corners, unseen except for the occasional glimpse through the pulsing lights. It was the perfect place to come and not be seen.

  The perfect place for a man like Aidan Cross.

  "Drink up," Sloan said, guiding the glass in my hand to my mouth. And...I did. I shouldn't have. I knew that. For so many reasons. Technically, I was working. And high velocity partying wasn't my scene. But I was there, and I didn't want to stand out, and the drinking wouldn't hurt.

  The sweet burn stunned me. I tried to hide my reaction, but the liquid moved fast, consuming me from one breath to the next.

  Sloan laughed. "God, I love virgins."

  I felt my eyes flare. I tried to stop them. I tried to look away, but he had me anchored against him now, and we were moving, moving like everyone else to the rhythm of the electronic dance music.

  "First-timers," he explained, and his eyes glimmered with amusement. "There's nothing like your first sazerac."

  I tried not to cough. "Sazerac?"

  He kept grinning, and it was so infectious, before I knew it, I was grinning, too. "It's a N'awlins thing. Drink up. The burn gets better."

  I did. I took another sip, then another, and like he promised, the sweet took over, and before I knew it, my glass was empty.

  He signaled the waitress and guided me onto the dance floor.

  I tried to take it all in, what it could mean that Aidan came here and if I dared put the club in my article. Moving to the beat, I reached for my phone—

  Sloan stopped me. "Not here."

  "Just a few pictures."

  He pulled me closer, until the gyrating crowd consumed us, mashing us together. "Not here."

  On some level I knew the lighting was too bad anyway. I'd have to write everything down when I got back to Aidan's, in as much detail as possible—

  I saw the text then, waiting on my phone. From him.

  Let me know when you're on your way.

  I frowned.

  Sloan snatched my phone and slid it into his pocket. "People here don't want to be seen—and they don't want any evidence, either." And then he was sliding a fresh drink into my hand instead. "Loosen up. This is what you wanted. You have to let yourself be where you are."