by JoAnn Ross
Her lips were as soft as magnolia petals and as Roarke found himself surrounded by a light romantic scent, he felt a stir of desire. Not that unsurprised by her behavior—he’d certainly witnessed far more bizarre events during Mardi Gras—Roarke decided not to question the reason for her unexpected kiss.
After all, before what his superiors were referring to as “O’Malley’s Major Screwup,” he’d built an enviable career as a hotshot, newsbreaking war correspondent on his ability to go with the flow.
Enjoying the rise of hunger he’d thought had been blown to smithereens on a city street in Moscow, and curious to see just how far she was willing to take this, he put his hands on the appealing stranger’s slender waist, intending to draw her closer, when she suddenly pulled away.
“Wherever have you been, darling? I promised Jan and Harvey that we’d meet them at Petunia’s for dinner nearly a half hour ago. I am just dying for a big helping of shrimp Creole. And you know how I am about indulging my cravings.”
Although the mask kept him from getting a good look at her face, through the slanted catlike holes that had been cut for her eyes, Roarke caught a glitter of an emotion that looked a lot like passion.
Taking hold of his hand, she practically dragged him off the oak barstool.
“I have no idea who Jan and Harvey are,” Roarke drawled as she weaved her way through the crowd, “but that little bit about satisfying your cravings has definitely piqued my interest, sweetheart.”
Her eyes, he noticed, were never still; they fluttered about the lounge like trapped sparrows seeking some way to escape.
“Please,” she murmured, her fingers tightening on his as they crossed the crimson-and-gold carpeting of the hotel lobby, “just play along with me and don’t ask any questions until we get out on the street.”
A warning sounded in Roarke’s mind, followed by a flashback of the explosion that had rocked downtown Moscow and left a hole the size of a city bus where his car had been parked.
She might look like Cat Woman, smell like his mother’s garden and taste like honey, but Roarke had been down this dead-end road before.
“Look, sweetheart—”
“Please.” Her voice vibrated with strain. Her entire body radiated a watchful stress that he could easily recognize, having experienced it more than a few times himself. “I promise, I just need you to help me escape the most obnoxious man.”
Daria had recognized him the moment she’d run into the Blue Bayou. Roarke O’Malley was a familiar sight on network television, looking wonderfully dashing as he covered wars in all the far comers of the globe. So dashing, in fact, that tabloid stories about his rumored hedonistic love-life were always popping up on the rack in her supermarket.
Although she had no idea what he was doing here, in New Orleans, she did know that he represented safety. He was, after all, the only man in the city she was certain wasn’t out to kill her.
But his in-depth reporting had also revealed that he was more than a ruggedly handsome network face. He was intelligent enough to spot a lie a mile away. She thought about telling him the truth, even asking for his help, but having dealt with the media enough to fear that he would break the story before she could arrange for protection, Daria couldn’t risk trusting him.
Fortunately, although she’d always been a rotten liar, her trial experience had taught her to bluff.
Although she was desperate to escape, she paused long enough to give him a dazzling smile designed to bring the most hard-hearted male to his knees. “He was the quintessential blind date from hell.” Her fingers began stroking his sleeve in a seemingly unconscious seductive gesture.
She was good, Roarke allowed. Damn good. But she was also a liar. Then again, he’d learned the hard way that women were not above telling whatever lies it took to get what they wanted from a man. Or, he reminded himself, to set a guy up for murder.
“Why me?”
“What?” Impatience, nervousness—perhaps even fear—surrounded her like an aura, arousing his curiosity.
“Why did you pick me to help you escape the date from hell?”
“Oh.” She took a deep breath that drew his attention momentarily to her breasts, which, while not nearly as voluptuous as those of the lady in chain mail, filled out the cat-suit just fine. “You looked safe.” Her masked gaze moved from the top of his dark head, down to his feet, then back up again. “And
“Large enough to handle most ill-behaved dates,” he agreed, deciding to play along for now. “Unless the guy’s a linebacker or pro wrestler.”
“No.” She frowned. How could she explain that she had no idea what her potential assassin looked like? “At least, I don’t think so.”
She shook her head as her frightened eyes skimmed the lobby the same way they had the cocktail lounge, lighting on each person as if looking for someone in particular. When a dark-suited man emerged from behind a marble pillar, headed their way, Roarke felt her stiffen.
“Could we continue this conversation some other time? You’re drawing attention to us.”
She began walking toward the bronze revolving door again. Since she had hold of him, Roarke went with her. He would have gone with her even if she hadn’t had that death grip on his arm.
“If you’re not interested in attention, you shouldn’t run around dressed like that,” he advised. “And how come you don’t know what the guy does for a living?”
“It’s Mardi Gras,” she said, as if that explained the outfit and her behavior. Which, Roarke guessed, it pretty much did. “What guy?”
“Your date,” he reminded her, deciding she wasn’t as deft a liar as he’d first thought.
“Oh... Him... Well, we, uh, didn’t get to discussing occupations.”
“Sounds like dislike at first sight.”
“I’m fairly good at reading people. At least most of the time,” she muttered.
They were outside on the sidewalk, which was packed with people lined five deep, shoulder to shoulder, to watch the night’s parade. Several were holding umbrellas turned inside out in hopes of snaring “throws” to take back home along with their hurricane glasses and gris-gris voodoo charms as souvenirs of the vacation of a lifetime. Throw catching was serious business; Roarke had witnessed benignappearing, lavender-haired grandmotherly types stomp a man’s knuckles bloody in a contest for a string of fake pearls or a plastic doubloon.
The sky was overcast with heavy clouds that had caused the temperature to drop at least twenty degrees since he’d arrived at the airport three hours earlier. The scent of threatening rain rode on the cooling air and the wind was beginning to pick up, rattling the wide green leaves of the banana trees in a neighboring courtyard.
“You realize, of course, that Petunia’s is going to be packed tonight.”
She looked up at him and shook her head. “Don’t be silly. I have no intention of going to Petunia’s. Not after announcing it to the entire Blue Bayou Lounge.” When a mounted patrolman rode by, the horse’s hoofs clip-clopping on the pavement, she quickly turned away.
“Look,” Roarke said, getting tired of the game playing, “why don’t we just cut the bullshit. If some guy’s really giving you trouble, we can just stop that cop and—”
“No.” Her answer was quick, her voice strained. Her eyes, illuminated by the flashing lights of the strip joint across the street, had that frightened-bird look again. “Really, there’s no need for that.” She rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for the assistance. It’s nice to know that Southern chivalry still exists.”
He should have been prepared. Especially after that debacle in Moscow. But the momentary touch of her lips against his skin distracted him enough to allow her to suddenly break loose and meld into the teeming crowd of merrymakers.
“Damn!” He slammed his fist into his palm. Unaccustomed to failure, and sensing a story when he stumbled across one, Roarke took off after her.
DARIA’S HEART WAS pounding in her ears as she tried to mak
e her way through the Mardi Gras crowds. She wondered why Martin’s killer hadn’t waited for her in the hotel room. Perhaps he’d thought it too risky. But she knew he would come after her, knew her assassin could be any of the masked and costumed throng—Pan, perhaps, or Ra, the gilded sun god who suddenly appeared in front of her, grabbed the tops of both arms, and stopped her scream by brazenly stealing a kiss. She felt the scrape of a tongue stud against the inside of her mouth before her amorous assailant moved on to the next available female.
A hand grabbed her bottom and squeezed. Not wanting to draw attention to herself by confronting whoever dared such familiarity, she pulled away, her head spinning, her vision fogged from panic as she continued on, with no firm destination in mind, only knowing that the farther away from the police station she got, the safer she would be.
She turned the corner at Saint Peter Street and headed away from the river, pushing her way through the laughing, boisterous crowd. Despite the noise surrounding her, the sound of her high heels, clattering on the pavement, reverberated in Daria’s ears like gunfire.
Her nerves were horribly on edge, and a scream bubbled up in her throat as she was suddenly pulled into a circle of drunken men.
“What’s the hurry, darlin’?” one of them asked as he pulled her up against him, rubbing his body lewdly against hers, while another man pressed in from behind.
Furious and terrified all at the same time, she jammed her high heel into his instep.
Cursing viciously, he released her long enough to allow her to take off running again. She nearly knocked over a trio of elderly nuns who’d come out to observe the festivities and considered turning to them for help, but not wanting to get them involved in something so deadly, she continued on, not knowing where the killer might be. Or who he might be.
She reached Rampart Street, which under normal circumstances would be nearly deserted. However, during the eleven parade days of Mardi Gras, people jammed the street, waiting for the colorful line of floats that would pass by on their way to Municipal Auditorium in Louis Armstrong Park.
Several of the lights on the arch leading into the park had burned—or been shot—out and she knew that even with all the witnesses, to enter the park at night could be a fatal mistake. To follow Basin Street would be no safer. It cut a winding path between the park and Saint Louis Cemetery No. 1, a place that no cautious woman would venture into during the day, let alone at night.
Daria was attempting to figure out which way to go when she was suddenly grabbed from behind. A broad leather-gloved hand covered her mouth, trapping her breath. As she was pulled back against the man’s side, she caught a glimpse of a black executioner’s hood. With arms that felt like steel cables holding her against him, her attacker dragged her toward the cemetery.
“Hey, man!” a college student wearing a Tulane sweatshirt called out “What do you think you’re doing?”
“My wife and I had a little argument,” the man said in a pleasant voice that was at direct odds with the way his fingers were digging into her flesh beneath the Lycra cat-suit. “I’m just taking her somewhere we can talk in private.”
The kid looked unconvinced. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
Her captor was holding her so tightly against him she could feel the unmistakable shape of a gun in the pocket of his trench coat. “Say everything’s fine,” he hissed into her ear, his breath hot and smelling of bourbon, “or the kid’s a corpse.”
Since he was radiating evil intent, Daria believed him. “Everything’s fine,” she said as instructed, inwardly cringing as she heard the shaky fear in her voice.
The Tulane student gave her another look. Then, as his companions called out for him to hurry up, he shrugged, obviously deciding that his assistance wasn’t needed.
“Good girl,” the man grated. “Now, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to come with me. I’ve got a friend of yours who wants to have a little heart-to-heart chat with you.”
Daria knew there would be no chat What she knew was too dangerous to allow her to live. They were going to kill her. Just like they’d killed poor Martin.
Adrenaline pumped through her veins, giving her the strength to break away. But the man leaped after her, caught her flowing hair and hurled her roughly to the ground. She struggled to her knees and looked up at the assassin. The eyes visible through the holes in the black hood resembled those of a tiger who’d just caught sight of its prey.
Daria struggled to swallow her fear and forced her mind to remain calm. She was an intelligent woman. Hadn’t she graduated first in her class at Stanford law school? Hadn’t she made law review? Hadn’t she been on the short list to clerk for a state supreme court justice when she’d accepted the position in the prosecutor’s office? Surely she could think of a way out of this predicament
“You’ll never get away with this,” she warned as her heart drummed impossibly hard against her ribs.
“Want to bet?” His voice was deep and rough and filled with deadly intent. “You should have left well enough alone, bitch. Now you’re going to find out what happens to a woman who puts her nose in other people’s business.”
He jerked her to her feet and began half dragging, half marching her into the darkened cemetery. The shells used for gravel in this part of the world crunched beneath their feet; the white marble tombs gleamed ghostlike in the silver winter moonlight that had managed to slip between a gap in the heavy black rain clouds.
“This is far enough.” He flung her against one of the larger tombs. As she hit her head on the stone and slid to the ground, Daria found it ironic that of all the places he could have picked to kill her, he’d chosen Marie Laveau’s final resting place. The X’s drawn on the tomb had been made by individuals hoping that New Orleans’s former voodoo queen would grant their wishes; the coins, shells and beads scattered at the base of the tomb had been left as payment.
He’d just knelt beside her and taken the pistol she’d felt earlier from his pocket when two African-American teenagers suddenly appeared from behind the tomb.
“Police,” her captor growled.
It was all that needed to be said. They both looked from Daria to the man, to the gun, then turned and began to run back toward the red-brick housing project. Although she suspected their reasons for being in the cemetery in the first place hadn’t been exactly legal, Daria had no intention of risking their lives by calling out for help.
“Now then, where were we?” Daria found his pleasant tone every bit as terrifying as the gun barrel he’d just pressed against her temple. The gun, she noticed, was equipped with a silencer. This was a man comfortable with killing; he would suffer no pangs of conscience after pulling the trigger.
Unable to draw a breath to scream, but unwilling to die without a struggle, Daria surreptitiously gathered up a handful of shells.
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” she managed, choking back her terror.
“You realize that if you die with a lie on your lips, you go to hell,” he said conversationally. He’d become slightly winded from dragging her into the cemetery. Now that he’d caught his breath, he seemed to be enjoying his role of assassin.
“It’s not a lie—”
He hit her—a hard, backhanded blow that jerked her head back—then surprised her by running his gloved fingers down her throbbing cheek in an evil parody of a caress. “It’s a shame we don’t have more time,” he murmured. “You’re an appealing package.”
The hand trailed down her throat, his thumb lingering at the hollow where her blood was pounding wildly. “I’ve never been able to figure out what you saw in that jerk you got yourself engaged to. Always looked like a pansy to me. Too bad you’re going to die without ever knowing how good it can be with a real man.”
She swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat. An idea occurred to her. One that was every bit as dangerous as it was outrageous. “Why does it have to be that way?”
He lowered the zipper
on the front of the cat suit, revealing pale flesh that contrasted vividly with her jet lace bra.
“What way?” He trailed the barrel of the gun between her breasts, obviously enjoying her involuntary tremors.
“If you really are going to kill me—”
“Oh, I am.”
“Well, now that you’ve brought the subject up, I don’t think I want to die a virgin.”
Bingo. She knew she’d just said the magic word when the gun stilled and his eyes jerked up to hers. “You’re lying.”
“There’s one way to find out.”
“You’re engaged.”
“So? I’m an old-fashioned girl. And besides,” she improvised, “you’re right about James. The one time we almost did it...” She paused for dramatic effect, trying her best to appear embarrassed rather than terrified. “Well, he couldn’t quite, well...you know.”
He threw back his head and laughed at that The rough sound scraped against her nerve endings like sandpaper. “Figures.”
“Even condemned prisoners get a last request,” she reminded him.
He reached under the hood and rubbed his jaw as he seemed to be considering that. “If you’re trying to pull something, I’ll kill you.”
“You’re going to kill me anyway,” she said. “I’m just trying to get something out of the experience.”
He gave her a long deep look. “You lawyers always have to dicker.”
“I think it’s in our blood.”
As he continued to look at her breasts, his laugh was softer. And far more deadly. “You know, I must be nuts. Because I’m actually considering going along with this.”
“I wish you would.” She took off her mask and tried for what she hoped was a seductive expression. “I’m asking you to make a woman of me. Then you can do anything you want. Kill me, if you insist. But there’s always the chance we’ll be so good together, you’ll want to keep me. No one would ever need to know.”