by Rita Herron
DAMON COULDN’T STAND IT any longer. He knew Jacqueline was upset, probably torturing herself with guilt over her involvement with the man who’d murdered her father. But had she known about Diego or discovered his darker side before she’d been injured?
Had she been the woman in the explosion?
When he got home, he’d send that baby rattle out for testing and see if the prints matched hers. Then he’d know….
He eased the door open, and the sight before him wrenched his heart. Jacqueline stood before the mirror, staring at her reflection as if she’d seen a ghost. Maybe she had—Kendra’s.
Forgetting every reason he shouldn’t go to her, and ignoring every cop instinct screaming at him to treat her like a suspect, as Diego’s possible accomplice, he strode toward her and pulled her in his arms.
“Shh. It’s all right.”
She fell against his chest, her body trembling, her wet cheeks dampening his shirt.
“Damon, what if I’m the reason Kendra died?”
He rubbed her back in slow circles, inhaled the scent of her shampoo, the scent of the soft spot at her neck that smelled like rain…but also the smell of fear. Her pain bled into his, shutting out his own guilty voice with the need to alleviate her agony.
“Kendra was an investigative reporter, Jacqueline. She knew the risks she took when she looked into Diego, and Swafford, and corruption on the police force. You aren’t to blame for the fact that she ended up on dangerous ground. That’s what she did, who she was, just like Antwaun and Jean-Paul are cops and I’m a federal agent.” He gently stroked her hair from her tearstained cheek and pressed a kiss to her temple, then one to her cheek. She clung to him as if she needed his strength, and for the first time since the failed mission, he felt as if he could be a hero again. “And she loved you or she wouldn’t have come to you to warn you about Diego.”
She turned her angst-ridden face up to him, and licked her lips as if they were parched. His were, too. Dry for the taste of her. For the feel of the sweetness and salvation she offered. For the chance to be a whole man again. A man worthy of being cared for and loved.
“Damon…”
Her gaze locked with his, and heat speared his body, driving his need to a frenzy that robbed him of reason. They needed to escape their pain. Without thinking about where they were or the consequences, he lowered his head and claimed her mouth with his.
Her soft sigh of acquiescence only strummed his desire, and he slid his hands into the tumbling mass of her hair, threading the silky length between his fingers and pulling her closer to his body, so close her breasts grazed his chest. He felt the tight bud of her nipples as they peaked and begged for attention, and wanted her naked and in his arms.
She parted her lips, and he thrust his tongue inside her mouth, tasting and exploring until she sighed and ran her hands around his back and into his hair, drawing him closer as she arched into him. A groan escaped him, and he deepened the kiss, his hunger mounting as she played her tongue against his.
One moment they were kissing and the next, he moved his hands beneath her top. Heat flared inside him as he felt the smooth contours of her flat stomach, the curve of the underside of her breasts, the mounds he wanted to hold in his hands as he took her nipple into his mouth. He released her mouth and bowed his head to find his way to her breast, his hand already loosening the front clasp, her skin grazing his fingers. But the door to the bathroom opened and a female officer walked in. He jerked up, suddenly realizing where he was and what he was doing.
Taking advantage of Jacqueline when she needed his comfort and help.
Disgusted with himself and knowing he might be compromising the investigation by losing his objectivity, he released her and stepped back. “I’ll meet you outside.”
Avoiding the other woman’s eyes, he strode past her, wondering at his sanity and professional reputation as he stepped through the door.
Jean-Paul stood in the hallway, arms crossed. “Is she all right?”
No.
Neither was he. She was so damn hot he wanted to go back to her now. Forget the case and take her home to bed.
But she needed his help, just as Antwaun did. Antwaun, who was sitting in jail. Who’d loved Kendra. A woman whose face Jacqueline now wore.
“She’s starting to have flashbacks. I’m taking her to visit her mother. Maybe that will trigger more memories and we can piece together this mess.”
“Good. Get back to me. I’m on my way to talk to Antwaun’s partner. He may be responsible for framing Antwaun. And the murders.”
* * *
THE HOWL OF SOME UNKNOWN creature shattered the quiet of the bayou as darkness descended across the swampland. Esmeralda cocked her head sideways listening to the feral cry, reading the signs of frustration and warning of the evil forces at work in the backwoods. The devil’s vile breath bathed her neck. The greedy bastard.
She spread her hands before her and began to chant in the ancient language of the witches who had come before her, calling upon the good magic and fairies to draw on their powers, protect the bayou and the good people of New Orleans.
Damon Dubois was one of them, though he would argue that he was not.
He had been lost in the darkness for a while now, had walked the ledge between the forces many times, as Lex had. But the aura around Damon was shifting now, the black rim tinged with intermittent flashes of gold like heat lightning against a night sky.
Lex was also changing.
All because of the woman.
She needed all of them, but they needed her as well. God had commanded it, and he had chosen well. Even Kendra…the woman with the lost face…was not lost completely.
Sounds of evil warriors erupted in the distance, limbs and brush crackling. The gators surged upward from low-slung resting spots beneath the muddy Mississippi’s surface and vented their shrill cry of attack, knifelike teeth ready to tear the limbs off of unseen prey.
The cats arched their backs and snarled, claws bared, ears perched as they surrounded her with their magic protective circle.
Shadows from the swamp rose in the mist, hovering and moving like ghosts through the night, searching for lost souls and innocents, the war between good and evil, a battle that would never end. Someone was out there. The same person who had come for the woman.
He wanted Esmeralda now.
But he didn’t understand the power of the cats.
Midnight suddenly darted off the porch and ran into the woods. He had zoned in on the predator and would keep her safe tonight.
She bent low to pet Gorgon. “You must go to Dubois house, call for the others, guard him and the woman.”
Gorgon meowed, licked her palm in understanding, then leaped from the porch to do as she bid. She heard a scream erupt in the swamp and knew that Midnight had found the evil one and sunk his claws into the man’s flesh.
* * *
HE BELLOWED IN PAIN at the cat’s attack, furious that the vile creature had caught him off guard. He was a trained sniper, able to get in and out of situations and places that no normal man could, yet the black thing had sneaked up on him, then leaped at his chest like a fucking panther.
Dammit. He beat at the cat, prying its sharp claws and teeth from his chest and arms, plucked it away and tossed it toward a tree. The cat’s head snapped backward and a bloodcurdling screech rent the air, but it landed on all fours, green eyes glittering as if it were the devil’s own. A vulture soared above, and gators hissed behind him, his feet marring into the quicksand soil as he slowly stepped backward. He had to find a way out.
Reaching inside his pocket, he removed a pack of matches he’d picked up at a strip club on Bourbon Street, struck a few matches and tossed them into the dry grass. They landed at the edge of the woods, between him and the cat. The brittle blades caught immediately, flames catching the twigs and moss, spreading. The cat crept backward, hair on end, and he took advantage and escaped.
Blood trickled down his chest, dotti
ng his shirt, and he wiped his sticky hands on his jeans as he climbed in his Jeep. Rage exploded inside him as he stared at the old woman’s shanty through the fog. Lex had babbled that his grandmother was a witch, and he was beginning to believe it. What if the cat’s claws were treated with some kind of poison?
His hands ached, and the wounds on his chest stung like fire. Still, the sight of blood, even his own, stirred his hunger for more.
For a woman’s—the one with Dubois. He could cut her up just as he had Kendra.
Suddenly thunder rumbled and a flash of lightning pierced the dark sky, sending rain pouring to drown out the fire he had set, as if God or magic indeed guarded the witch.
Leave no witnesses behind.
Fury raged inside him at his failed mission.
Failure was not tolerated. Just as Dubois leaving the E-team couldn’t be.
Time to escalate his plan. Send another photo to the Dubois family. The one Mr. and Mrs. Pierre Dubois would recognize.
The one that would tear the happy little family apart forever.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
JACQUELINE COULD BARELY look at Damon as they drove to the rest home housing her mother. Questions about her past involvement with Diego and Kendra’s death nagged at her, along with guilt and grief as she remembered her father’s funeral. Her mother had been despondent then, had pushed her away….
Was her father’s death related to Kendra’s, and to the fact that she’d ended up in a hospital herself? Was it all connected to Diego? Were both their deaths her fault?
“Do you know where Diego is now?” she asked.
Damon cleared his throat. “He’s dead.”
“You’re sure?”
Damon nodded, a grim look in his eyes.
“How did he die?”
He shifted, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “I can’t really discuss it,” he said. “All you need to know is that he’s gone and can’t hurt you, not ever again.”
She wondered at his secrecy. “Then it’s not him, but someone else who wants to kill me,” she said quietly.
Damon’s dark gaze locked with hers. “I won’t let that happen.”
His quiet authoritarian voice soothed her anxiety, slightly, and she studied the storm clouds outside, noting the gray and black shadows streaking the deserted road, the fingerlike claws of the Spanish moss as it waved in the wind. Any minute she expected ghosts to rise from the ground and shimmy through the bayou searching for their lost souls, or perhaps their salvation.
Lex…Esmeralda said he was gone. Had Jacqueline really seen a spirit caught in limbo?
How about Kendra? Was she hovering in between worlds, faceless and horrified at her fate, waiting for justice?
More images from her past returned in small snippets—she and her cousin jumping rope in the backyard. A birthday party with pony rides and squirt-gun battles. The two of them spying on the boys down the street when they were eleven. Kendra telling her that she was in love for the first time when she was twelve.
And then again…just before she died.
Jacqueline gripped the door handle and glanced at Damon. Kendra had been in love with Antwaun. And now he was accused of killing her….
But it was becoming pretty clear he was innocent; Kendra wouldn’t want him to go to jail. Jacqueline touched her face—her cousin’s skin—and shivered. She had to be strong and help Damon. She owed Kendra that and so much more, even if she was still disconnected from her old life.
Damon pulled up to a black iron gate with a security stand, spoke to the guard to gain entrance, then they wound down a long secluded drive lined by towering trees. He parked in a guest spot beneath a covered entrance. The stately white building resembled a hotel more than her image of a mental facility, the professional landscaping highlighting dozens of flower beds, a garden area to the side and acres of plush green grass with cobblestone pathways for the residents to stroll. Grateful her mother hadn’t been confined to a shabby nursing home and mistreated, she climbed out and walked to the entrance.
A few minutes later, the director of the facility, a stout woman named Geneva Curtis, met them in her office.
“Miss Braudaway, I wondered if you were going to visit.”
“I would have come much sooner, but I had an accident and have been hospitalized for months,” she explained, feeling chastised by the woman’s remark.
The woman jerked her head backward. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“How is my mother?”
Miss Curtis smiled sadly. “She has good days and bad, but her depression continues to plague her. It’s almost as if she’s grieving her life away.”
“Can I see her now? Please.”
“Certainly.” She and Damon followed the woman to a suite, but the director hesitated at the doorway. “If she becomes agitated though, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Jacqueline nodded, then braced herself. She hoped her mother would recognize her and be happy to see her.
But the harshness of her mother’s cry at the funeral taunted her, and told her that she wouldn’t.
* * *
DAMON WATCHED JACQUELINE AS she approached her mother, hoping to glean some new information from their interaction.
Her mother sat in a wicker rocking chair beside the window, dressed in white slacks and a pale blue blouse, her look glassy, as if she was in a catatonic state or heavily medicated. He’d never met the woman but had seen photos of her and the ambassador. Her once blond hair had tinges of gray in it now, and she had lost weight over the past year, along with any semblance of a smile.
The room smelled like lavender and was simply decorated with a burgundy sofa, coffee table, television and the rocking chair. Magazines about home decorating and antiques were stacked neatly on the table, and several photos of the woman and her husband lined the built-in bookshelf against the wall. Only one photo captured the entire family. Odd.
His own mother had countless pictures of him and his siblings on the walls, tables and bookcases.
“Mom?” Jacqueline’s tentative voice jerked him from his thoughts.
A frown marred Mrs. Braudaway’s forehead as she glanced at her daughter. “Who are you?”
Jacqueline stooped down to take her mother’s hands in her own. “It’s me, Mom. Jacqueline.”
Shock and anger tightened the woman’s mouth. “You aren’t my daughter. I’m not blind. I can see, young lady.”
Jacqueline winced and bit down on her lower lip. “It is me, Mom. I had a terrible accident, and was burned badly. I had to have plastic surgery.”
Her mother reached up and tilted Jacqueline’s face sideways. “No. You’re Kendra.”
“No, Mom—”
“Yes, you are. Why are you lying to me now?” Her mother stood abruptly, letting the afghan in her lap fall to the floor as she gripped the rocking chair arms. “What do you want?”
Jacqueline glanced at Damon, her eyes misting, then turned back to her mother. “I’m not lying. I had surgery and was in the hospital for months. I would have come to see you sooner if I had been able to.”
“Where’s Jacqueline?” Mrs. Braudaway cried in an agitated voice. “What have you done with her?”
“Listen to me, Mother. I am Jacqueline.”
“She ran off with that awful man, didn’t she?” Her mother’s eyes darted toward him, fear sparking in the glassy depths. “You told me about him, Kendra.”
“Mrs. Braudaway.” Damon stepped forward and reached inside his jacket for his identification.
Jacqueline’s mother panicked and shouted, “He’s got a gun! Don’t kill me, please don’t!”
Jacqueline ached for a hug, to calm her mother, to know that she still loved her. “Mother, please, it’s okay. He’s with the FBI.”
A nurse appeared at the door with a scowl. “What’s going on in here?”
Mrs. Braudaway twisted the ends of her hair nervously. “He’s got a gun.”
Damon held up his hands to indicate he p
osed no threat. “Yes, I do. But I’m a federal agent. I’m going to show her my identification. My name is Special Agent Damon Dubois.”
Jacqueline stroked her mother’s arm. “He’s helping me figure out what happened to me, Mother, and who killed Kendra.”
“Kendra?” her mother screeched. “Oh, God, where is she?”
Jacqueline gave Damon a helpless look, and he flashed his badge. “Mrs. Braudaway, this is your daughter, Jacqueline. I’m afraid Kendra is dead. I’m investigating her murder.”
“Murder?” Mrs. Braudaway clapped her hands over her heart and staggered back. “Oh, God, no! Murdered just like Eduardo.”
“Mom,” Jacqueline said softly, “I need to know what happened.”
She turned toward Jacqueline, eyes flaring with emotions. “You know what happened. You killed your father.”
* * *
JACQUELINE’S HEART CLENCHED in pain.
She closed her eyes, fighting waves of anguish and guilt, trying desperately to see the past, but images blurred and ran together.
“Mrs. Braudaway, that’s not true,” Damon said.
Dizzy, Jacqueline staggered to the sofa and collapsed onto it, then leaned her elbows on her knees and dropped her face into her splayed hands. She couldn’t breathe, although somehow it registered in her muddled mind that Damon was defending her. But why? How did he know she was innocent when she couldn’t remember herself?
“Maybe you folks should leave,” the nurse suggested, still hovering at the door like an armed guard.
Damon held up a warning hand. “Just give us a few minutes. Please. Jacqueline needs to talk to her mother. This is important.”
The nurse eyed him skeptically, then gave Jacqueline a more sympathetic look. “All right, but if you upset her again, you two have to leave.”
She left with a hefty sigh, and Jacqueline remembered her resolve to find Kendra’s killer, and gathered her breath. “Mother, I…The accident caused me to have amnesia. All I remember is seeing Dad’s car exploding. Then Kendra came to me at the funeral and told me that I knew the killer.” She gulped back emotions that threatened to destroy her.
Tears filled her mother’s eyes and she sank back into the rocking chair, looking lost. Damon moved forward, knelt and replaced the afghan over her lap. “Please, Mrs. Braudaway. I understand this is difficult. But Jacqueline needs you now. She needs to know what happened to her father. She might be in danger, too.”