by Cassie Miles
“Stop where you are. Don’t come any closer.”
But the stranger took another step, murmuring about how she was safe. She didn’t believe him, not for a minute. With as much force as she could muster, she threw the music box at him. It crashed against the wall.
Though logic told her that this wasn’t really her bedroom, she struggled free from the blankets, climbed out of bed and ripped open the drawer to the bedside table where she kept her snub-nose Smith & Wesson .38. The drawer was empty. She snatched the bowl filled with dried, scented leaves and drew back her arm to throw it.
The stranger held up a hand to stop her. “Wait!”
She hesitated. “Why does this bedroom look like mine?”
“It’s all right, cher.” He offered a disarming smile. “Put down the bowl. You don’t want to break it and get glass on the floor. No, no, ma chérie. Step away from the potpourri.”
As soon as he spoke, she realized the absurdity. Dried leaves weren’t a lethal weapon. And he wasn’t wrong. Breaking the bowl would make a mess. “Where am I?”
“Nothing to worry about,” he said. “Don’t you recognize me?”
His face seemed familiar, and he was so appealing that she wanted to believe he meant no harm. But Alyssa wasn’t a fool. She needed to figure out who this charming Frenchman was and what she needed to do next. “This is the last time I’m going to ask. Where the hell am I?”
He rattled off an address. “That’s about six miles northeast of the French Quarter.”
“How did I get here?” A sliver of memory pierced her mind. She recalled being carried and placed into an SUV. Her seat belt had been fastened by the man who rescued her—the man who now stood on the opposite side of the room. “You—you’re my pirate.”
“Rafe Fournier.” His sweeping bow was far less effective when he wasn’t wearing the swashbuckler’s costume. Jeans and a black T-shirt weren’t dramatic. “At your service, ma belle.”
She should have recognized him sooner with his subtly accented voice and sexy grin, but he’d been masked from the nose up. She warned him, “You shouldn’t have gotten involved. This isn’t your fight, and those men are dangerous.”
“They’re cowards. Any man who lays hands on a woman needs to be taught a lesson.”
Very gallant but not real bright—he could have been killed. When she shook her head, the pain ratcheted up a few notches, and she regretted leaping from the bed. Her entire body was stiff and sore. The inside of her mouth tasted like cotton. Physically, she felt miserable, but her brain was beginning to sort out the details. Fact: Rafe had appeared in the nick of time. Fact: He knew a lot about her. Fact: He had created a duplicate of her bedroom. Very suspicious! “You were following me, weren’t you?”
“This explanation is going to take a while. Why don’t you settle down and rest?”
As her mind cleared, she came to the obvious realization that she was nearly naked. She dragged the chenille spread off the bed, wrapped it around her and draped the fabric over her shoulder like a toga. “Why did you take my clothes off?”
“Accept my apology, s’il vous plaît. I needed to treat your cuts and scrapes and make sure you didn’t need medical attention.”
A rational explanation, but she wasn’t about to let him off the hook. “Where’s my stuff?”
“In the closet.” He pointed to a closed door. “Everything is there, except your cell phone, which I am charging in the kitchen.”
Intending to grab her clothes and get out of this crazy, through-the-looking-glass bedroom, she stumbled toward the closet and made it all the way to the foot of the bed before a wave of vertigo overwhelmed her. She stood still until she’d regained her balance. When he moved toward her, she snapped, “Don’t come any closer.”
“You don’t trust me,” he said.
“Damn right, I don’t!” His timely appearance when she was attacked might be part of a larger scheme. She’d never believed in coincidence.
“You’re dehydrated.” Several plastic bottles of water stood atop the dresser. He grabbed one and tossed it onto the bed. “Drink.”
Cautiously, she picked up the bottle. The cap was still fastened, which meant he hadn’t tampered with the contents. Taking a few sips shouldn’t be dangerous. She raised the bottle to her lips. The cool liquid moistened the interior of her mouth and slid down her throat. After another sip, she felt marginally improved. “Tastes good.”
“Have some more. The liquid will dilute whatever is in your system. If you like I can give you something for the pain.”
“Do you really think I’m dumb enough to accept mystery meds from somebody I just met? For all I know, you could be the one who drugged me in the first place.”
“Do you remember being drugged?”
“Not very well.” But she knew that Rafe wasn’t responsible. She recalled a cloth being pressed over her mouth and the antiseptic smell of whatever chemical formula had knocked her out. “There were three skeletons. I can’t remember how I got all these bruises.”
“You were attacked, three against one.”
“Who were they? What else did you see?”
“Not much. I got you away from them, put you in my car and brought you here.” He folded his arms across his torso and leaned his shoulder against the door frame. “It’s your turn to speak, cher. Tell me what you remember.”
Though grateful to him for helping her out, she didn’t owe Rafe an explanation. “Why do you want to know?”
He pursed his lips and gave a very Gallic shrug. “If we share information, we might understand who those men were and why they attacked.”
His logic made sense. If she could figure out the names of her attackers, she’d know what to do to evade them. Leaving the investigation to WitSec was also logical, but the marshals weren’t likely to share details with her. Rafe was offering her a chance to face the threat. There was no harm in talking to him. “What do you want to know? Where should I start?”
“The beginning.”
“I got off work at the bistro at half past nine.” Don’t say too much! Before she even got started, she was throwing up mental roadblocks. She stumbled backward and braced herself against the bedroom wall. To her immediate left was a window. Peeking through the blinds, she saw that they were on the first floor. I should get out of here. It’s time to run.
“Are you all right?”
She picked up her narrative. “In the employees’ locker room, I changed into my costume. At first, I wasn’t sure I’d go to the parade, but I got a phone call from somebody who said they’d meet me.”
“Who called you?”
“Anonymous,” she said. “Nothing showed up on caller ID, but I took it as a sign that I should go and try to have fun.”
“Did you know the voice?”
“No.” The phone message could have been a trap. The men in skeleton masks might have been luring her. But how did they know her phone number? Who were they? From the street outside, she heard the clang of a streetcar. “It could have been a man or a woman with a low voice. It could have been you.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“Almost as soon as I joined the parade, you approached me. Why?”
“I promise, cher, to tell you as much of the story as I can. But first, I’ve got to hear your recollections. Details might help the cops find the bad guys.”
“No police.”
In situations like this where her cover might be blown, the protocol required her to report to WitSec. She should make that call right now, and yet something held her back. The attack had warped her perceptions. She wasn’t sure who could be trusted. And how could she make that determination?
After another drink of water, she scrutinized Rafe. When she was first taken into protective custody and the marshals started asking questions, she’d gotten good at describing the criminals she�
�d encountered in Chicago. She formulated an analysis of Rafe. His height was about six feet two or three, and he probably weighed 185 or 190 pounds. The dimple in his square chin counted as a distinguishing feature. Other than that, he was a standard version of handsome with wavy brown hair, gray eyes and a smile that could melt your heart.
Those were the physical details, and they didn’t help her decide if he was trustworthy. “I remember our tango,” she said.
“We fit together well.”
“After you vanished into the crowd, I joined a group of belly dancers with tambourines. We were clapping and dancing, and I sang along with them.”
“You have a strong voice. Not a good voice, but strong.”
“Did you hear me singing? Were you watching me?”
“Always, cher.”
He sounded like a stalker. “Do you make a habit of following me around?”
“I usually know where you are. You stick to a regular routine.”
The marshals in WitSec had warned her not to be so predictable. She was supposed to take different routes to work and to shop at different supermarkets. At first, she’d followed their rules. But after a while, she established her own itinerary for handling danger. It might be time to put her plans into effect.
She finished the water and lobbed the empty plastic bottle onto the bed. “I’d like another, please. And I need my phone.”
If she decided to notify WitSec, her life in New Orleans was over. She didn’t relish the idea of starting over in another city, but that was the deal. She did what they told her, and they kept her protected...except for tonight. Somebody had fumbled the ball.
Without coming too close, Rafe dropped another bottle onto the bed. When she picked it up, he held out a small container of nonprescription painkillers. “The seal is intact,” he said. “You can see that I didn’t touch the pills.”
Grateful, she took the container. After fumbling with the childproof lid, she shook out three capsules and gulped them down. Though still in pain, she felt better than when she’d bolted from the bed, more in control. “About that phone?”
“How long were you singing with the belly dancers?”
“A couple of blocks. Then we moved into that area with voodoo shops.” And she’d heard her mom’s laugh. “There was a silver-haired woman on the sidewalk. Did you see her?”
He nodded. “An attractive woman wearing dozens of shiny Mardi Gras necklaces.”
“She looked so much like my mom that I had to find her, had to talk to her. Even though I knew it couldn’t be Mom. She died five years ago. Her name was Claudia.”
“I know,” Rafe said.
“How do you know her name?”
“I know a great deal about you. Continue with your story. What happened next?”
“I ran in the direction I thought the woman might have gone, went into that park, then the guys in skeleton masks surrounded me. I never should have let them get so close. When they grabbed me, I clawed at one of the masks. It came off in my hand.”
“Did you see his face?”
“Yes.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No.” But she’d seen that heavy jaw before. His empty, soulless eyes would haunt her nightmares.
“Maybe,” he said, “maybe you’re remembering, maybe just a little piece. Was his hair blond or brown?”
It seemed wise to keep her secrets to herself. “I don’t know.”
“I want you to look at mug shots.”
Though Rafe hadn’t moved a whit, his attitude transformed from casual street pirate to alert professional. “You sound like a cop.”
“Good guess, cher. A while back, I used to be in the FBI.”
“And now?”
“Private detective,” he said. “Two and a half weeks ago, I was hired to keep an eye on you.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and drank more water. “Who hired you?”
“I can’t give you a name, but I can assure you that my client means you no harm.”
She wished she could believe this tall, handsome, gray-eyed man, but life had taught her not to give her trust so easily. The price for naivety was steep. She came at the question of his client’s identity from a different angle. “Did this mystery person tell you to decorate this room like my house?”
“My client thought the similarity in the room might make you more comfortable.”
“Why would anybody think that? I’m not a child who needs her favorite toys, especially not the music box. It played the wrong tune, you know.”
“Duly noted,” he said. “My client wanted you to feel at home.”
“Why would that matter? I have no intention of staying here.” Anger sparked inside her. “You didn’t think you could keep me locked in this room, did you?”
“I did not.”
A horrible thought occurred to her. “How do you know what my bedroom looks like? Did you sneak into my house?”
“I avoid breaking the law whenever possible.”
“Did you take pictures?”
“Photos were taken.”
And if he didn’t enter her house, how did he take pictures? Did he use a drone? Or dangle from a tree outside the window? “You spied on me. Like a Peeping Tom.”
“I was careful to respect your privacy.”
How could she believe him? The first chance he got, he’d stripped off her clothes. His rationale of treating her injuries made sense, but it was still a violation. “You said you were hired two and a half weeks ago—”
“Sixteen days,” he said.
“And you’ve been watching me ever since. You know what I call that? Stalking. You’re a damn stalker.”
“Not stalking,” he said, “protecting.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “It’s my job to keep you safe.”
If that were true, he shouldn’t have any objection to contacting the WitSec offices. Make the call! She was angry and, at the same time, exhausted. She scooted back against the pillows and pulled the bedspread over her body. “What if I said I wanted to leave? Would you let me walk out the door?”
“Of course, but you might want to take a moment—while the assault is still fresh in your mind—to figure out who is after you. Who was the man behind the skeleton mask?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“We’re on the same team. I can help you. I learned techniques in the FBI to jump-start your memory.” His voice was gentle and cajoling, so charming. “We can try a few simple concentration techniques. You’re smart, cher. You’ll remember.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Allow yourself to relax. Close your eyes.”
Though she didn’t agree to cooperate, her eyelids slammed shut. She believed in meditation and was good at controlling her breathing. While he continued to talk in soothing tones, she focused. In her mind, she saw the face of the man who attacked her. Ignoring the terror she’d felt, she waited until his features became clear. With sandy hair and cold dark eyes, he was average-looking, except for his hatchet-shaped jaw. His mouth was wide, and he had big teeth, horse teeth. I know him. She didn’t have a name or a title, but she’d seen him at the WitSec offices. The man behind the skeleton mask was a US marshal.
Her body tensed under the covers. Her subconscious mind had been protecting her. That was why she didn’t call WitSec. She couldn’t trust the marshals—couldn’t trust anyone.
Rafe encouraged her. “Tell me. You figured something out.”
If she was straightforward with him, she doubted that he’d let her walk out the door. Trust no one. The only way she’d escape was to make a run for it. She gave a huge, deliberate yawn. “I need to sleep. You should leave.”
“We have more to talk about, cher.”
“Not now...too tired. Please turn off the light and c
lose the door.”
She heard the click of the switch for the overhead light. Darkness descended. Opening her eyes a slit, she saw the circle of light on the bedside table where the music box had been.
He lowered his voice to an intimate whisper. “Sleep well, cher.”
The door closed, and he was gone.
Chapter Three
Outside the bedroom door, Rafe walked down the short hallway toward the bathroom with a purposely heavy tread. He figured Alyssa would be lying in the bed and listening—waiting until he was out of the way before she made her move, which, he suspected, would be to run away by sneaking down this hallway or climbing out the window. Though he wanted to believe that she’d rest for a while and then wake up and have a reasonable conversation, he doubted that would happen. She didn’t trust him. Nothing he said or did would make her think differently.
For the past couple of weeks while he’d been observing Alyssa, he had developed a pretty good idea what to expect from her. Her sweet, bashful attitude was genuine, but this pretty lady could also be as stubborn and immovable as a block of granite. When she made up her mind to do something, she carried through. If she successfully managed to disappear, she’d be hard to catch, especially since she already distrusted him.
Someone else might have better luck convincing Alyssa to cooperate. Another woman could reassure her and let her know that Rafe was on her side. In the kitchen of the very small house, he made a call to a confidential informant he’d worked with for many years. Sheila Marie knew everybody in New Orleans and heard every rumor. Her connections stretched from the parish courthouse to the voodoo dens in the bayous to the wild parties in the French Quarter.
His CI answered after two rings. “Rafe, you pretty man, why you calling me?”
The strains of a jazzy saxophone wailed in the background. “Sounds like you’re celebrating the Day of the Dead.”
“Where you at? I expected to see you parading like your pirate uncle. Did I ever tell you about the day I saw naughty Jean-Pierre himself peep over your shoulder? And I heard his rumbling voice. He be liking you better as a gumshoe than a fed.”
