by Anne Logan
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
About the Author
Books by Anne Logan
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgment
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Preview
Copyright
“What happened with you and my dad?”
The teenager’s voice was defensive. “Don’t you like us anymore?”
“Carla.” Maddie put her arm around the young girl’s shoulders. “My relationship with your father has nothing to do with whether I like you or not. I do like you. Very much. It’s just that your dad and I don’t see eye-to-eye on certain things, and for now, it’s best that we go our separate ways.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean about not seeing eyeto-eye with him. Lately he’s been a real pain in the behind to live with.”
Maddie looked down, unable to meet Carla’s eyes. Not a day had gone by that she hadn’t dreamed of Alex walking into the store to tell her he wanted to resume their relationship. And now, facing his daughter, she found herself starved for information about him. The temptation to encourage Carla to tell her more was overwhelming.
I will not pump this child for information about her father, she told herself firmly. Then she sighed, knowing full well that was exactly what she was going to do….
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
This is Anne Logan’s fourth Harlequin Superromance novel. Her first, Gulf Breezes, published in 1992, won that year’s National Readers’ Choice Award. In That Old Devil Moon, readers will find the intrigue, danger and romance they have come to expect from Anne’s books. The story is set in the exciting—and very romantic—city of New Orleans, a setting the Louisiana author is very familiar with. She and her husband have three grown children and two grandchildren. Anne says that when she’s not writing, her role as grandma gives her great pleasure—although she’s the first to admit it can be exhausting.
Books by Anne Logan
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550—TWIN OAKS
585—DIAL “D” FOR DESTINY
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That Old Devil Moon
Anne Logan
To Charlene Logan Taylor, my sister and my best friend.
Special Acknowledgment
The author extends her deepest appreciation to O’Neil De Noux, who took time out of his own busy writing schedule to answer questions about police procedures. Any mistakes belong solely to the author and not to Mr. De Noux.
CHAPTER ONE
“MADDIE…MADDIE! Oh, God, where are you? I have to talk to you. Call me at home immediately!”
Madeline Johnson stared at the answering machine. As each of the next two messages from her brother echoed his first frantic one, her nerves stretched tighter.
With a shaky hand, she reached down, hit the rewind button, then quickly punched out the longdistance phone number of Michael’s home in New Orleans. As she waited, question after question swirled in her head. What was wrong? Why did he sound so desperate? Had there been an accident of some kind? Was he sick or hurt?
Four rings later, his answering machine clicked on. “This is Michael. I can’t answer the phone, but leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.”
Maddie cleared her throat. “Come on, Michael. Answer the damn phone.” She waited, her fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the countertop. “Guess you’re not in,” she finally said, unable to disguise the anxiety in her voice. Pausing, she glanced at the ornate marcasite watch on her wrist—a gift from her brother for her thirty-second birthday. “It’s sixfifteen, Saturday evening. I’ll be home all night, so call.”
She hung up the phone slowly, but continued to stare at it, willing it to ring. Finally, with a defeated shrug, she walked into the kitchen. Maybe a warm cup of chamomile tea would help relax the tight knot that gripped her stomach.
Besides, she thought as she searched the cabinet, knowing her brother, she was probably getting all worked up over nothing. Claiming that her temper was as hot as her hair was red, Michael had always enjoyed making more of a situation than there really was, just to get a reaction out of her.
In her mind, she could still hear his little-boy singsong voice. Mad Maddie…Maddie’s mad... And she could still picture him as a scrawny six-year-old racing around the sofa, taunting his irate ten-year-old sister.
Smiling at the memory, she reached for the kettle on the back burner of the stove and filled it with water.
Her smile faded as she shut off the faucet. Michael’s voice had sounded desperate. What if something terrible had happened? Shaking her head, Maddie set the kettle back onto the stove and turned on the burner. Nothing had happened to her brother, she told herself firmly.
The sudden, strident ring of the phone made her jump. Michael, she thought. Maybe now she would get an explanation.
But the caller was her friend, Tara Jones.
“Hi, Maddie. When did you get home?”
“Just a few minutes—”
“Never mind. Did you get the job?”
“No. ‘We’re terribly sorry, Ms. Johnson,” Maddie drawled, imitating the man who had interviewed her in Memphis. “‘But there just aren’t any openings for backup singers right now. Maybe in a few weeks.”’
“Yeah, right,” Tara said dryly.
Both women chimed in unison, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”
Tara released a sigh of frustration. “I thought for sure this time would be different,” she said. “I just hate that I sent you on another wild-goose chase.” Tara was an audio engineer for Vibration Recording Studio. She’d heard about a job opening in Memphis, and had called Maddie immediately.
“It’s not your fault, Tara. You can’t help it if Judd Cameron has blacklisted me. The bastard is out to make my life miserable.”
“Yeah, well, I still think you should get yourself a lawyer and sue the pants off that aging Romeo. Just because he’s the hottest country singer of the decade doesn’t give him the right to sexually harass everyone in a skirt. For Pete’s sake, the man’s married with a passel of kids, to boot.”
Maddie rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Sue him, right. And have the media hang me out to dry. No thanks. Without any witnesses or proof, it’s his word against mine. Besides, we’ve been over this before, and you know how I feel—”
“Yeah, yeah. What will be will be…something will come along, and all those other Pollyanna cliches you believe in. But you could be wrong. What if—”
“Tara!”
“Okay, okay. So what are you going to do? I don’t mean to pry, but how are you fixed for money?”
“I’m okay for a while.” Maddie tried to ignore the hollow feeling in her stomach. “If worse comes to worse, I can always go back to waitressing.”
“Now that would be a waste. You should be singing.”
“Hey, don’t knock it. It’s
honest work and it paid the bills and put food on the table until just a few years ago. Besides, sooner or later, the old Romeo is going to get caught and caught good. What goes around, comes around.”
“Let’s just hope he gets his before you go broke,” Tara quipped. “So how about meeting me for lunch tomorrow?”
After agreeing on a time and place, Maddie hung up.
Glancing around her home, she thought about what Tara had said. Unless she got work and got it soon, she would have to sell the six-room condo it had taken her years to afford. Then what would she do with all of the treasures she’d painstakingly collected, she wondered—her numbered wildlife prints, the bentwood rocker she’d spent hours restoring to its former beauty, the hundred-year-old massive, hand-carved bed she’d found at an estate auction and the other pieces of furniture that gave her so much pleasure?
The swelling whistle of the teakettle was the only answer she heard.
LATE THAT NIGHT after Maddie had unpacked the suitcase she’d brought on the futile trip to Memphis, she took a long leisurely bath. After pulling on a cotton gown, she padded barefoot to the kitchen counter and tried one last time to contact her brother. Seconds later, she hung up.
Sighing, she switched on the radio, then poured herself a glass of milk. With the romantic strains of an old love song following her, she wandered toward the French doors that led out onto a small, enclosed patio. Once on the patio and settled in a wicker rocking chair, she sipped her milk and listened to the familiar tune.
It was a warm August night. Maddie inhaled deeply, enjoying the poignant, spicy scent of roses blooming on the one bush she had planted.
“Bewitched” was the name of the hybrid tea rose. Maddie knew nothing about growing roses; she had bought the plant on a whim, because of its name and the delicate pink color of its blooms…and because roses would always hold a special significance for her…
Don’t cry, Maddie. Here, I picked you a flower for your birthday.
Michael’s grubby little hand had been covered with scratches and several dark spots that looked like dried blood. At the time, she had figured he’d probably stolen the rose from their neighbor’s garden. The wilted pink flower had been the only gift she’d received for her twelfth birthday. Her mother had forgotten, but her little brother hadn’t.
Maddie reached out and stroked one of the velvety blossoms on her lone rosebush. It still surprised her that the thing was surviving, just as it still surprised her that she and Michael had survived their haphazard, turbulent childhood.
Michael…
Why had he called? And where was he?
THE FIRST THING Maddie did after she opened her eyes the following morning was reach for the phone. The moment she heard her brother’s recorded message click on, she slammed the receiver back onto the cradle. “Dammit, where are you?” she grumbled.
She glanced at her watch. Since it was Sunday, it would be noon before her brother opened his store. She’d just have to wait and call there. He was half owner of Crescent Antiques. Surely someone at the store would know where he was.
At a quarter to twelve, Maddie was back on the phone. After the third ring, a woman’s voice answered, “Crescent Antiques. How may I help you?”
“This is Madeline Johnson,” she said. “I’d like to speak to my brother, Michael, please.” A long silence hummed over the line while Maddie held her breath. “Hello? Are you still there?”
“Er…ah…Ms. Johnson, he’s not in.” The woman’s voice was barely a whisper.
“When do you expect him?”
Again there was silence, and Maddie felt her patience growing thin.
“Oh, dear…”
Maddie frowned. Why did the woman suddenly sound so distressed?
“Ah, he—he won’t be in today.”
“Look, I received several rather strange messages from him, and I really need to get in touch with him. Is there somewhere else I can reach him?”
“Oh—”
When Maddie heard the firm, unmistakable click on the line, her pulse quickened.
“Hello? Hello!” She jerked the receiver away from her ear and glared at it. Had the woman actually hung up on her?
Maddie tightened her grip on the hard plastic receiver. “Now, Maddie, don’t jump to conclusions here,” she muttered. “We were probably disconnected.”
She took a deep breath in an effort to calm herself. “If at first you don’t succeed—” Maddie hit the redial button. Several musical beeps sounded, then a busy signal buzzed in her ear. “Damn!” She pressed down the switch hook.
The woman was trying to call her back, she decided. But seconds later, instead of the phone ringing, the doorbell chimes pealed.
“Now what?” She dropped the receiver onto its cradle, marched to the front door and peered through the peephole. Two men dressed in suits were standing on her porch. “Who is it?” she called out.
The man closest to the door answered. “Police, ma’am. We’d like to talk to you.”
A sudden chill raced through Maddie. Telling herself that a visit from the police didn’t necessarily mean trouble, she willed herself to relax. But old fears were hard to overcome, and all Maddie could think of were all those other times, years ago, that the police had come knocking at the door.
Stop it! You ‘re a grown woman, not a scared little girl.
“I’d like to see some ID, please.”
The same man slipped a badge out of his breast pocket, flipped it open and held it in front of the peephole.
“Okay, just a minute.” With trembling fingers, Maddie unlatched the door, pulled it open and did a quick study of both men. The gray-haired one with the badge was of average height, older than his companion—she guessed midfifties—and he had a kindly, fatherly look about him.
But it was the other officer who gave her pause. There was a quality about him that no one would ever mistake for being either kindly or fatherly. Tough was the word that came to mind. Not a man to cross. Maddie figured him to be not much older than her own thirty-three years.
It wasn’t until the gray-haired policeman cleared his throat that Maddie realized she’d been staring. Feeling more uncomfortable by the minute, she directed her attention back to the other man.
“Is something wrong, Officer?”
“Are you Ms. Madeline Johnson?”
Maddie nodded.
“May we come in?”
For a split second, Maddie hesitated. Then she stepped aside. “Sure.” She motioned for them to come inside. “What’s this all about?”
“Ms. Johnson, I’m Detective Fred Smith with the coroner’s office here in Nashville, and this is Alex Batiste with the New Orleans Police Department.”
Maddie jerked her head toward Alex Batiste. New Orleans…Michael. She felt her knees grow weak.
Suddenly, Alex Batiste looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, ma’am,” he said gruffly. “Maybe you’d better sit down.”
As Maddie shook her head, declining his suggestion, her heart began to race and her vision blurred. No…no, I don’t want to hear this, she thought.
“I’m sorry. There’s no easy way to say this, but your brother is dead. I—”
Dead! Your brother is dead...
Stunned, all Maddie could do was stare at the policeman. She felt as if every drop of blood had suddenly drained from her body. And except for the detective’s words still screaming through her mind, time and space ceased to exist.
“Ms. Johnson…ma’am? Maybe you’d better sit—”
But Maddie didn’t hear him—couldn’t hear him. It was her worst nightmare come true, too terrible to comprehend or believe. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “He can’t be.”
But the grave, pitying look on the detective’s face belied her denial. And as the terrible truth finally broke through the shocking numbness that had momentarily held her paralyzed, Maddie felt a rush of emotion so intense that she reeled from the impact. Then a great gu
lf of darkness crept around the edges of her vision, and the last thing she saw was Alex Batiste reaching out to her.
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN MADDIE opened her eyes, she was lying on the sofa with a damp washcloth on her forehead.
She blinked hard to clear her vision and spotted a pair of dark, watchful eyes staring at her. The detective from New Orleans—Alex…Alex Batiste was his name, she remembered—was perched on the edge of the sofa, next to her.
She slid her gaze toward the end of the sofa where the other man, the detective from Nashville, stood. His expressive face held a wealth of sympathy.
Michael’s dead…
Maddie made an attempt to sit up, and the New Orleans detective retrieved the washcloth.
Dead…dead…
She jammed her fist against her mouth, but couldn’t hold back the sobs that escaped. She squeezed her eyes shut, but tears streamed down her cheeks, anyway. And inside, a bleak, heavy emptiness spread, an emptiness that threatened to consume her very soul.
Michael’s dead…dead…
He can’t be. Not her Michael, not her handsome, full-of-life brother. Flashes of him swept through her mind—Michael as a chubby, angel-faced toddler… Michael as a skinny, towheaded boy missing his two front teeth…Michael as a gawky adolescent with peach fuzz on his face…and Michael grown, a tall, good-looking young man.
It was a joke, a cruel joke…it had to be, she thought. He had just called her…she had just heard his voice…he had left messages on her answering machine…
“No! No! No!” she cried, her anguished voice an alien sound to her ears. It couldn’t be true. But with heartbreaking clarity, she knew it was. The grim expression on both policemen’s faces left no room for doubt.