A Whisper in the Dark

by Linda Castillo

  He’d hoped the letters would stop her, but they hadn’t. He was going to have to step up his efforts. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her. But he knew all too well how powerful and utterly deceitful Satan was. It was going to take more than gentle persuasion to stop her. He was going to have to hurt her in order to save her from herself and deliver her from evil . . .

  The image of his hands around her slender throat sent another hot rush of blood to his groin. He looked helplessly at the bulge at his crotch, and shame cut him like a blade. She made him weak, and he hated her for it. Hated himself.

  Embarrassment choked a sound from his throat, but the lust was stronger. It had taken hold of him like a fever. She did this to him. It was her fault. Her fault!

  The need pulsed inside him. An agony he could no longer stand. He was weak. A mortal in the hands of Satan.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered as he unzipped his fly.

  His hands trembled as he wrapped his fingers around his swollen penis and began to pump his hand. He stared at the photo, pleasure wrapping around his brain like a powerful narcotic. A drug he would never get enough of.

  He could hear his breaths rushing between his clenched teeth. His hips moved in time with his hand. Oh, God. Oh, God! So good.

  “Whore,” he spat. “Bitch.”

  Shame sent tears to his eyes. He could hear his father’s voice inside his head. You’re an evil boy. A demon. You’ve got the devil inside you!

  “No,” he whimpered. “It’s her fault.”

  But when he closed his eyes, the memories descended.

  TWO

  John Merrick stood beneath the green and white striped canopy outside the Book Merchant and watched the traffic along Royal Street bump and grind into the night. Around him, a cold February rain fell in sheets, bringing a rise of fog. He’d been in New Orleans for almost two weeks, but it wasn’t long enough for him to forget why he’d come back—or why he’d run in the first place.

  His lieutenant had tried to persuade him to stay in Chicago, but John had turned him down flat. As far as he was concerned all of the things that had once made him a good cop had died the night his bullet had killed DEA Agent Franklin Watts.

  After the grand jury cleared him of charges and Internal Affairs ruled Watts’s death a friendly fire incident—a euphemism John had come to hate—he’d resigned from the force and walked away from a career he’d invested twelve years of his life building. He’d broken the lease on his apartment, loaded all of his worldly possessions into his restored 1971 Mustang fastback and headed to his hometown in the hope of putting the incident behind him and moving on with his life.

  Yeah. Right. The way things were going he figured he’d be lucky to find a way to live with himself.

  He’d found a one-bedroom apartment in a shady neighborhood on the east side of the Quarter, and set his sights on getting a job. But for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what the hell to do. All he’d ever known was law enforcement. Who wanted a broken-down ex-cop with a ruined career and a shitload of baggage? An ex-cop who hadn’t been able to pick up his gun since that terrible night . . .

  He’d been surprised as hell when he’d gotten the call from an old friend of his father’s, Benjamin Wainwright. Something about his daughter needing some additional security at her French Quarter shop. John hadn’t wanted to do the rent-a-cop thing. He’d tried to wriggle out of the meeting, but Wainwright wasn’t a subtle man when it came to getting what he wanted, especially when it came to his two daughters.

  John knew he should go inside and make nice with her, but he wasn’t in the mood for nice. He sure as hell wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He barely remembered Julia Wainwright; hadn’t so much as given her a single thought in all the years he’d been away. Last time he’d seen her she’d been a chubby fifteen-year-old with bottle-cap glasses and a mouth full of braces. He didn’t even want to think about what she might look like now. She’d had a crush on him if he recalled, though John had never so much as spared her a second glance. He’d never gone in for the bookish type, especially the quiet, brainy ones.

  He was considering walking away from the whole damn situation when Benjamin Wainwright’s Cadillac slid up to the curb. The reverend threw open the door and stepped out.

  “John! Good to see you!” he said in a booming voice as he crossed to the sidewalk.

  John put on an expression he hoped looked friendly and extended his hand. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Wainwright.”

  “Don’t ‘Mister’ me, son. It’s Benjamin to you. How’ve you been?”

  Wainwright was as tall and thick as a century-old cypress, and as wily as a bayou fox. His white hair contrasted sharply with black brows that arched over intelligent eyes the color of antique pewter. He had a loud voice, a quick laugh and eyes that didn’t miss a beat, no matter how subtle.

  John recognized the shrewdness behind those Southern gentleman eyes, and he knew that while Benjamin Wainwright might look like someone’s favorite uncle, he hadn’t gone from minister to the head of one of New Orleans’s largest religious organizations on his charm alone. Behind all that Old South charm lay a cunning man who knew how to get what he wanted and didn’t mind stepping on toes to get it.

  He wondered what the hell Wainwright wanted with him.

  “I was sorry to hear about the trouble you had up in Chicago.” Wainwright pumped his hand. “If there’s anything I can do . . .”

  John felt the words like a slap, but he didn’t flinch. Two months had passed since he’d pulled that trigger and killed a fellow cop, but not a moment went by that the incident didn’t eat at him. “I’m fine,” he said.

  Glancing through the display window of the Book Merchant, Wainwright lowered his voice. “I need you your help with a problem. You remember Julia, don’t you?”

  John remembered enough about her to know he didn’t want to be here. “Sure.”

  “Well, some troubled individual has been sending her letters.”

  “What kind of letters?”

  “Vague threats. Strange stuff. Enough so that I became concerned.”

  “Are these letters coming through the U.S. mail, or what?”

  Wainwright grimaced. “Claudia told me the latest was hand delivered.”

  “Did she go to the police?”

  “She filed a report, but you know how that goes. The NOPD has one of the highest murder rates in the nation. They’re spread pretty thin. They don’t have the manpower to do much but drive by the shop a couple of times a week. That’s not enough to suit me.”

  “It sounds like she’s doing everything she can.”

  Wainwright’s face went taut. “I’m afraid those letters might have more to do with me than her.”

  John got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Why do you think that?”

  “You’ve heard the old adage, don’t talk about politics or religion?”

  John nodded, wondering where the conversation was heading.

  “I break both rules. My position with Eternity Springs Ministries is more political than ever these days. The national convention is being held here in New Orleans next month. There’ve been whisperings of a faction of the church breaking away.”

  “Because of where you stand?”

  “I’m a conservative, and some people don’t like my stance on certain issues.”

  “You think someone from the church is behind the letters?”

  Wainwright shrugged. “Could be someone trying to distract me or trying to get me to pull out.”

  “Seems like a roundabout way to do that.”

  The old man’s expression remained troubled. “The truth of the matter is I’d never forgive myself if Julia was hurt because of me.”

  “What exactly do you want me to do?”

  He leaned close, his eyes taking on a diamond-hard glint. “I want you to find out who’s sending those letters and put a stop to it.”

  “Mr. Wainwright, with all due respect, I’m not sure I’m the r
ight man for the job.”

  “I’d feel better about this if someone of your caliber were keeping an eye on her.”

  John didn’t have anything to say about his caliber. “To be honest with you, I was thinking about heading out to the cabin to do some fish—”

  “I’ll let Julia fill you in on the details.” Wainwright plowed past him and started toward the door. “I suspect she’s going to be stubborn about this.”

  “I can’t imagine where she got that,” John muttered under his breath.

  Wainwright grinned at him over his shoulder. “Her mama, of course.”

  As John followed Wainwright through the front door of the shop, he assured himself he could handle this. A quick look at the letters. A canned speech on personal safety. And he was out of there. If all went as planned, he’d be on his way to the cabin at first light.

  The Book Merchant was exactly the kind of place John would never venture. It was a narrow, crowded shop that smelled of old wood, musty paper and some flavored coffee he’d never developed a taste for. Floor-to-ceiling shelves jam-packed with books of every shape and size formed four rows that stretched from front to rear like ancient canyon walls. To his right, an antique cash register sat atop a scarred wooden counter. To his left, a small sitting area, replete with a settee, tiffany lamp and silver coffee service, invited customers to sit and read or whatever the hell it was people did in shops like this one.

  Despite the old world ambience, there were telltale signs that someone’s tastes leaned toward the contemporary. Yellow light rained down from snazzy little pendant lights suspended from the ceiling. A sleek laptop lay open and humming on the desk—right next to an antique typewriter. Expensive chocolates wrapped in gold foil were neatly displayed on the counter—free of charge to the book-buying public. Colorful bookmarks, depicting everything from Labrador retrievers to stars, dangled from a small rack next to the cash register.

  John did a double take when he spotted the woman behind the counter. Her back was turned, but he didn’t need to see her face to know she was attractive. She was standing on a short stepladder in high heels and a snug suit that revealed some very intriguing curves. She was reaching for a book on a shelf above her head, and her skirt had ridden up to reveal legs so long and shapely he thought they ought to be illegal. A cell phone was jammed into the crook of her neck, and she was in the midst of a lively conversation.

  “Mr. Thornbrow, if you would just give me a moment, I’m sure I can find the book and have it back to you first thing tomorrow morning.” She tugged out a tattered volume, turned slightly toward the light in order to read the spine and shoved it back. “I know it’s here somewhere.”

  Her voice was throaty and Southern and as intoxicating as aged bourbon—the kind that went down like warm silk, then knocked a man flat without his ever knowing what hit him. But John was barely aware of the conversation. His attention was focused exclusively on those mile-long legs and one of the nicest derrieres he’d ever laid eyes on.

  She wore a rust-colored jacket that hugged slender shoulders and a narrow waist. Beneath the jacket, a cream colored sweater flowed like wet silk over the swell of generous breasts. The fabric was so finely woven he could see the lace of her bra and the faintest impression of her nipples . . .

  Holy Moses.

  Aware that his pulse was up and his blood was heating fast, John tore his gaze away to stare out the display window, and tried hard to concentrate on the traffic moving along Royal.

  “Darlin’, are you sure you ought to be on that stepladder in those high heels?”

  The woman turned at the sound of Benjamin Wainwright’s voice. John felt something go soft in his chest when she smiled. It had been a long time since he’d noticed a woman’s smile. Even longer since he’d experienced a moment so fundamentally male. That he did now made him feel just a little bit more human.

  “Oh, hi, Dad. I’ll be down in just a moment. Help yourself to coffee. It’s vanilla, I think. And there are some beignets left from this afternoon.”

  Dad?

  The word ricocheted inside John’s head like a stray bullet. Then it registered that the stunning creature with the thousand-watt smile and killer curves was none other than little Julia Wainwright all grown up. He didn’t surprise easily, but this one smacked him right between the eyes like a sucker punch. He simply couldn’t get his mind around the idea of the klutzy ugly duckling he’d once known blooming into such a magnificent swan.

  She’d returned her attention to her phone conversation. “Look, Mr. Thornbrow, I’ve got a couple of visitors I need to take care of. No, I’m not trying to put you off. Fine. I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise.”

  His eyes did another slow, dangerous sweep of her as she climbed down the ladder, and all he could think was that she was innocence and sin rolled into one very intriguing package. But when she turned to face them, it was her eyes that sucked the breath right out of his lungs. She had the most incredible eyes he’d ever seen. Gypsy eyes, he thought, as bottomless and mysterious as the bayous surrounding New Orleans. They were large, fringed with sooty lashes and as blue as the Gulf of Mexico on a sunny day. Her hair was as glossy as mink and cut into a chic style that curved under at her jaw, a stark contrast to her magnolia-blossom complexion. Her mouth was sulky and full and painted the color of a wet hibiscus petal. It was the kind of mouth that could bring even the most impervious man to his knees.

  John had never cared for upper-crust sophistication when it came to women. Women like that were too much trouble, when most of the time all he wanted was a few laughs and an expeditious roll in the hay. Still, he thought Julia Wainwright might be worth a bit of trouble, and for a moment he wondered what it would be like to peel away those fancy outer layers and take a peek at the woman beneath all that class . . .

  Snapping the cell phone closed, she gave them her full attention. Her gaze swept from Wainwright to John. He saw a flicker of recognition. Her mouth opened slightly in an instant of surprise. Her eyes cooled a few degrees, and he suddenly knew that his wish of being off the assignment before he’d even really begun was about to become reality.

  “John Merrick?” Her gaze flicked to her father, then back to him. “Well, um . . . what a surprise.”

  John snapped out of his lust-induced trance and stuck out his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

  A moment of hesitation, then she reached over the counter and accepted his handshake. He felt the contact like the heady shock of a first kiss. Her hand was small and soft, but her grip was surprisingly firm. Pleasure ran the length of his body, like a lit fuse burning short and a few degrees too hot.

  “What’s this all about?” She released his hand, and her gaze swept to her father.

  “Claudia told me about the letters you’ve been receiving,” Wainwright said.

  She blinked, and John knew immediately there had been some kind of confidentiality breach between the two sisters.

  “I was handling it,” Julia said.

  “I don’t think you can handle something like that on your own.”

  “I filed a report with the police.”

  “Which was the smartest thing to do,” John said.

  “But it’s not enough,” Wainwright added.

  Her eyes went from John to her father. A woman who sensed a conspiracy and had just realized she was outnumbered. “Dad, I’m handling this.”

  “And how are you doing that?”

  “For starters a beat cop from the eighth precinct stops in almost every afternoon for coffee,” she said.

  “What else?” John asked.

  Her expression cooled. “And this has what to do with you?”

  John smiled, but it felt stupid on his face. “We’re working up to that,” he said.

  “Working up to what?” she demanded, cool being replaced by outright suspicion.

  The elder Wainwright sighed. “Look, honey, I heard that John was back in town and between jobs, so I gave him a call and asked him to meet
us here.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  Wainwright looked at a loss for an instant. “Well, I thought he could help out.”

  “I have a part-time clerk. I don’t need any help.”

  “I mean with security, darlin’.”

  She gave him a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. “Security?”

  “I thought he might start with a security check.” Wainwright turned to John. “Right?”

  Feeling like an idiot, John nodded. “A security inspection would be a good starting point.”

  “Oh, good grief.” She all but rolled her eyes. “What does this security inspection entail?”

  “I have a checklist.” John looked around. “Exterior and interior lighting. Locks. Alarm system.” He smiled. “Might even get you a break on your insurance.”

  She didn’t smile back.

  “It’s painless,” he said. “Twenty minutes max.”

  Julia frowned at her father. “I suppose if it will help you sleep better at night.”

  Wainwright looked mildly annoyed. “Honey, look, I thought maybe John could keep an eye on the shop for a few days,” he said, obviously trying for diplomacy.

  “Dad, I appreciate your concern, but I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said.

  “Julia, you’re too smart not to do something about those letters. I’m a public figure in New Orleans and not everyone agrees with my views. Unfortunately, I think there are a few people in this city who wouldn’t hesitate to take their displeasure out on my family.”

  “Dad, I don’t think the letters have anything to do with you.”

  “Then what?”

  She blinked. “Well, maybe a book I carry here at the shop has displeased someone.”

  “Maybe.” But Wainwright didn’t look convinced. “I’d never be able to live with myself if something happened to you because of me.”