“Come on. I’ll still give you a ride,” Rowena offered. “It’ll be faster than waiting for a cab.”
She wanted to ask why Rowena hadn’t told her this earlier, but she was too anxious to get to Julia. “If you’re sure you don’t mind. That’d be great.”
Before she even thought about the sergeant or collecting her things from Les Chambres Royale, she was barreling down the mostly empty streets of the French Quarter in Rowena’s beat-up pickup. It was a good thing Rowena knew where they were going because Claire was so turned around she wasn’t sure if even the tourist’s map she had tucked in her purse would’ve helped. She’d always been directionally challenged.
“Here you go.” Rowena pulled up outside the ornate iron gates of the cemetery and shifted the truck into Park. “Do you want me to wait?”
Claire checked her cell reception. Only one bar. Hmm. “Would you mind? I’m not sure I can call a cab from here.”
“Sure. Maybe I can help with your friend.”
“Oh, that’d be great.” Maybe Julia would listen to Rowena. Even in civilian clothes Rowena stood out. Her heavy black eyeliner and lipstick made the jeans and sweater she had on this morning seem out of place. No sleek floor-length black gown a la Morticia
Addams today.
But the jeans were much more practical for tromping around a weed-infested cemetery. Rowena followed Claire through the entryway.
Aboveground graves framed by stone and plaster about three feet high were surrounded by short iron fences, marked with marble statues of Mary, or St. Francis, or a crucifix. But as she walked farther, graves gave way to wall crypts stacked four and five coffin-size squares high. Then came rows of barrel-vaulted and pitched-roof stone crypts. Built so close together, with parapets and steps leading up to a doorway, they looked like tiny houses.
Some had family names carved in the stone above the doorway, or other elaborate bas relief carvings, some had urns and vases of flowers on stoops in front of the entryways, and some roofs sported stone crosses on a spire like a church.
“Julia!” Claire called out every couple of minutes. Was she not here? Maybe they’d tracked her down and taken her back to the asylum.
Claire clenched her hands into fists, envisioning Armand dragging Julia away, forcing her to go through with that ceremony against her will. She could practically feel the satisfaction of smacking Armand in the face.
And since when did she condone violence of any kind, much less imagine enjoying it? She needed to get back to Boston and her normal life as soon as possible.
Her days might be predictable, boring even, but at least there she didn’t have to experience danger, and heartache, and—and passion. And the exquisite sensations of lovemaking, and the thrill of having a man like Rafe Moreau look at her and really see her and want her....
Why on earth did she want to return to her lonely life in Boston?
She chose a row of wall crypts at random and turned, then realized she could get lost amid all the similar-looking walls and never find her way back. Wait. Rowena was missing, too. Returning to the main aisle, she called out, “Rowena?” She scanned the aisles she could see. “Rowena?” she yelled louder.
She better find a point of reference or she’d be wandering around lost out here forever.
There. A miniature dome twenty feet in the sky with a pair of angels sitting atop it. The dome was perched on four columns that sat on the pitched roof of a multi-vault crypt. She took note of its position relative to hers and the entrance gate, and then headed farther into the cemetery calling Julia’s and Rowena’s names over and over.
“Claire! Over here!” It was Rowena and she sounded panicked.
Claire started running toward the sound of Rowena’s
voice and finally spotted her in the doorway of a pitched-roof crypt. How had she gotten the door open? And why? Julia was inside the crypt? Hurt? Overdosed? Claire’s emotions kicked into overdrive as she pictured her friend hurt or dead because she’d tried to escape. Oh, Julia.
She rushed past Rowena into the cool, gloomy crypt, but couldn’t see a thing until her eyes adjusted to the dark. Just as she realized the crypt was empty, the door slammed shut behind her. She spun around and shoved on the door. “Rowena?” But the door didn’t budge. There was no latch on this side. Why would there be? She shoved on the door again, this time throwing her whole body into it. “Rowena! Let me out!”
No one answered. Claire rubbed her shoulder where she’d hit the door. She stood there, stunned. Surely this wasn’t happening. Really? How could she have fallen for such a clichéd trick? But then, how could she have known Rowena would do something so completely over-the-top crazy?
Sighing, she grabbed her cell phone from her purse, but now it didn’t even show one bar. Not surprising inside this thick stone tomb. She shuddered. No one knew she was here. She could be trapped for days, weeks....
Stop it. Panicking would solve nothing. She must find a way to get out of here on her own.
The crypt wasn’t completely dark or she wouldn’t be able to see her hand in front of her face. She followed the source of light to several holes in the crumbling blackened brick wall. The openings were along the top of the wall, maybe seven feet high. Could she bust more of the stone away and fit through? Even if she could, how would she climb up to them?
Her only hope was the door, then. She’d have to find something to bang it with. Spinning around, she began searching the tomb for anything large enough to break down the door. Her prospects did not seem hopeful.
* * *
BY THE TIME RAFE GOT out of the shower and headed downstairs to catch up on all the work he’d missed lately, he’d almost convinced himself he was glad Claire was out of his life. She was nothing but a pain in his backside. Good for a couple nights of fun, like any other vacation fling.
Then he realized he was pouring himself a tumbler of vodka at nine-thirty in the morning. Pappy used to drink vodka for breakfast...
He cursed long and loud, pitched the tumbler across the empty bar and savored the satisfaction of the glass shattering against the steel cage hanging from the ceiling.
So he’d wanted a couple more days with her. Maybe that would’ve been all it took to get her out of his system. Maybe not. In less than a week, she’d managed to insert herself into the very core of his life.
He stalked to his office and sat at his desk. Flipped open his accounts payable and turned on his calculator. The rows of numbers reminded him of all the statistics she’d quoted him. He smiled, thinking about her adjusting her glasses, or how she would bite her thumbnail....
He pictured her when he’d first seen her, so out of her element, stuttering, but refusing to take no for an answer. And never giving up the search for her friend, even when the odds were stacked against her. And how she’d stood up to Armand.
If she was that relentless when trying to save a friend, how would she be with someone she’d promised herself to ’til death do them part? Would she never leave them? Never give up on them?
He’d never had anyone like that in his life.
Work, Moreau. This bar is your life.
If he couldn’t look at numbers right now, he’d count inventory. He shoved away from his desk and stalked to the storeroom. He had an order of bourbon due. And boxes of rum to unload. And he needed fresh fruit for garnishes. Maybe some fresh strawberries for daiquiris....
No!
Claire was probably on her way to Boston by now. She wouldn’t be ordering anymore strawberry daiquiris. He refused to think about her. It was over. She was no longer his problem. This bar was. And if he didn’t give one hundred percent to his business, he could lose it.
He grabbed up the box cutter and began unpacking bottles. He’d be damned before he let anything else be taken from him.
12
THE TOMB WAS COLD. This might be the Deep South, but it was still February. The sunny morning had clouded over and Claire heard thunder rumbling in the distance. The walls w
ere clammy and the air was getting chillier by the hour.
According to her cell, it was almost eleven. Claire had been pounding on the door and shouting for close to two hours. Her throat was raw, her voice was almost gone and her hands were sore. With her back to the door, she slid down the door, and dropped her forehead to her knees. At least she had her poncho with her.
As if to torment her, she thought she heard someone talking far in the distance. She stopped breathing, held very still and cocked her head. There was the rustle of leaves in the biting wind. The roar of traffic across town. But no human voices.
How cruel. Was she losing her sanity or had someone’s voice simply carried farther on the wind? She dropped her head again.
Then raised it. There it was again. A woman’s voice. A little closer now. Saying something about the eighteenth century. The woman’s words grew more distinct, louder now. She was describing the difference between a box tomb and a ledger stone. A tour guide? A cemetery tour!
Claire scrambled up and pounded on the door. “Hello? Help me!” she screamed. “Hello, can anyone hear me?” She repeated the words, and then listened. The woman’s voice was gone.
But a different voice floated through the hole in the crumbling bricks. “Hello?” It sounded like an adolescent, with enough of a touch of huskiness to be a boy.
She darted from the door to the wall and jumped and shouted as her mouth got close to the opening. “Help.” Another jump. “Hello.” Another jump. “Help me.” Her voice was going. She rubbed her throat and waited.
The young teen shouted to a friend. “Hey, man, I heard something in that grave.”
A second male teen voice said, “Yeah, sure. You think I’m gonna fall for that old trick?”
“No!” She jumped and yelled but no sound came out. She tried again. “It’s not a trick. I’m trapped inside! Please!” Her voice gave out on the last word and it sounded more like a croak. She waited and listened.
The second teen scoffed, “The tour guide is leaving us behind. There ain’t no one in there.”
“I swear, I thought I heard something.”
Their voices faded into the distance.
Her shoulders drooped. Why hadn’t she thought of a tour group coming? Then she could’ve saved her voice. But if there was one tour group, surely there’d be another coming by in an hour or so. And she needed to get her voice back for when they did. She needed water. Or the closest thing to.
Of course!
She dug in her purse, certain she had at least a breath mint or a piece of gum.
Jackpot! A granola bar! And a small bottle of water from the airplane, half full. And gum. And mints. She smiled, feeling as if she’d stumbled upon Aladdin’s cave with all its treasures.
She sat and ate the granola bar and sipped at the water, reserving it to make it last longer, just in case. Then chewed a piece of gum, willing her voice to heal.
She finally checked her cell phone for the time and realized it was already past noon. If the tours didn’t run every hour, hopefully they ran every two hours. What else was in her purse that she could use?
She sat in the small spot where the sunlight shone, rummaging around in her tote. Notepad and pen! Of course! She wrote Trapped in tomb, Please help! on a piece of notepaper and tried to slip the paper through the thin crack in the door. But it wouldn’t go no matter how she wiggled. Great. The wall was falling to pieces, but the door was airtight.
She tried jumping and tossing the note through the hole in the crumbled-out bricks, but unless she crumpled up the paper into a ball it only fluttered back down inside.
Hopefully the next tour would come by soon.
Giving up for the moment, she found a small rock and drew in the sandy dust, playing with a mathematical formula that had stumped her since college. Sometimes she’d try to solve it when she was waiting on test results in her lab.
After another hour had passed and she still heard no sounds of a tour, panic threatened, but she pushed it away. Positive thoughts would serve her best in this situation.
After another hour, emotions began to rear their ugly head, and then she heard it. Barely audible, a woman’s voice, the same woman, Claire thought, talking about the same stones in the cemetery. As the voice grew slightly louder, Claire jumped to her feet and banged and banged on the door with the flat of her hands and called out for help.
Then she darted to the opening in the crumbled brick and jumped again, waiting until her voice was exactly at the opening when she shouted. She jumped and shouted and jumped and shouted, repeating it until she couldn’t hear the woman’s voice anymore.
As she jumped the last time her foot landed half on a pile of crumbled brick and her left ankle turned. She fell hard onto her side, catching herself on her elbow and wrist.
Claire didn’t move as she strained to hear an answer.
But no one responded. This group didn’t seem to have straying teens, or straying anyone.
“No!” As she tried to scramble to her feet, her ankle throbbed in sharp agony. She half crawled, half pulled herself along the chalky floor until she reached the door. Panicked, she pounded on the door until her muscles ached.
Her teeth chattered and her body shook. She examined her ankle, testing its movement. Judging from the way it felt, she was fairly certain it wasn’t broken, just a bad sprain. But there was no way she could put her weight on it.
She let out a breath she’d been holding tightly along with every hope and positive thought she had left within her.
What if she really was trapped in here for days? Or even longer? What if no one ever found her? An infuriating sob escaped. She hated this place! Oh, why did Julia have to choose this crazy city in which to disappear and join a cult? Maybe she should’ve just left Julia here and gone home!
But this city, with its lush history and vibrant colors, its pulsing energy and unique flavors that filled the very air one breathed, this city worked a magic, a kind of voodoo on her that pulled her in and tempted her to bare her soul and believe she was someone more than she thought she ever could be. And she wasn’t sure she could ever go back to being the old Claire. New Orleans had made her believe in the ghost of possibilities and in a vampire bar owner who could whisk her away to a fantasy world of passion and romance.
This city had robbed her of rational judgment.
She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. You are Claire Brooks of Springfield, Missouri. Scientist. Pragmatist. Realist.
Logic and common sense had always been her allies. Think, Claire.
But she couldn’t concentrate.
She sat up, grabbed a half broken brick and pitched it with all her might at the other side of the tomb.
Screw rationale. Screw logic and staying calm. She wanted to scream and cry and bash something. She’d never lost her temper and had a tantrum before. Not in all her twenty-nine years. She swore as soon as she got out of this place she was going to. She closed her eyes and fantasized about smacking Rowena, and Armand, and even Julia for getting her into this.
And what else in life had she been missing by always being the rational one? Passion. Romance. A true fling. Not just a couple of guilt-laden nights.
So, when she was done with her tantrum, she’d see what she could do about having a torrid affair. But there was no one back in Boston she could even remotely imagine having steamy, uninhibited sex with. In fact...the only man she wanted was Rafe.
But she’d burned that bridge with her behavior this morning. Oh, how she wished she’d appreciated what she had when she had it. She closed her eyes and relived every moment she’d had with Rafe Moreau.
* * *
WHEN RAFE HEARD THE dead bolt unlock and the door open and close, he checked his watch. Four o’clock. “Ro?” he called out, assuming she was here for her shift.
“Yeah?” Ro poked her head in his office door, her gaze darting around as if she were looking for something. “Is...everything okay?”
She must be exhausted af
ter working back-to-back twelve-hour shifts. “Everything’s caught up. I’m not going anywhere, so if you want to take some time off, I can handle things tonight.”
“Time off isn’t what I need.” Ro stepped into the doorway and leaned her shoulder blades against the frame, raising one foot behind her. One high-heeled foot. She wore a black mini-dress that plunged so deep in the front she couldn’t have a bra on. Not that she needed one, she was fairly small-breasted. But she also wore black leather high-heeled boots that came up to her mid-thigh.
“You seeing someone after work?” He shouldn’t ask about her personal life. He didn’t appreciate when she pried into his. They’d had a thing a few years ago when he’d first hired her on as assistant manager. It had lasted a week or so and then every once in a while one of them would need an itch scratched. It’d never been more than that for either of them, and it hadn’t happened in a long while. But this look was different for her. She’d removed most of the rings from her lip and brow. It made her look softer.
“If I was seeing someone else, would you be jealous?”
Rafe frowned. What the heck was she talking about? “Uh...”
She pushed off the door frame, closed the distance between them and bent to trap him in his chair. “We got a quick half hour before Bulldog gets here.” She licked her lips and moved her hands to unbutton his jeans.
He gripped her wrists and lifted her hands away. He looked into her hazel eyes and knew he’d never sleep with her again. It just wasn’t right anymore. But how did he say this? He sighed. “It’s not going to work anymore, Ro.”
Her face hardened and her lips twisted. “I was only feeling sorry for you, anyway.” She pushed away and headed for the door. “I got things to do.” She sauntered off.
He almost went after her but his cell buzzed. “Moreau.”
“Good afternoon, this is Les Chambres Royale Hotel calling for Ms. Claire Brooks, please.”
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