Say You Love Me

by Rita Herron

  Perhaps the man climbed to her balcony and sneaked in through the patio window or the French doors. “Did he disturb anything?”

  She inhaled, fiddling with her hands. “The bedroom. He went through my drawers. Then he left me something.”

  He followed her to her bedroom. Although the paint had faded in the hall, colorful artwork from the locals decorated the wall: scenes of a historic church, the bayou at sunset, the river. A collection of macabre Mardi Gras masks shaped like alligators and sea monsters occupied a decorative shelf, while gris-gris and beads she’d probably bought from the market dangled from hooks to create an eye-catching corner. Oddly, there were no personal photos in sight.

  The bedroom appeared the same. A contemporary iron bed. A dark crimson comforter. A gray velvet lounging chair that looked decadent by the window. A few copies of Naked Desires were displayed on a bookshelf along with some self-help books. Slaying Personal Demons. Overcoming Phobias and Fears. Black Magic. The Crocodile Myths.

  Another collection of Mardi Gras masks covered the walls. Some were beautiful, exotic, while others displayed the dark side of New Orleans—the voodoo priestess, the devil, a swamp creature.

  It was almost as if everything in her apartment had been purchased in the city. As if she’d left any hint of a past behind. Or did the collection of masks symbolize her life? Was she a woman in disguise? Perhaps she had an assortment of wigs in her closet to change her appearance.

  “He pawed through my lingerie,” she said.

  Jean-Paul spied the opened drawers, the sheer fabrics—all sexy, risqué. A pair of black and red thongs hung from one corner while a hot-pink camisole dangled from the edge of the dresser.

  She walked over to the bed and leaned against the corner. “And he left me this.”

  A crimson red lace teddy lay in the center of her bed. His pulse clamored. It was almost identical to the one left at the murder scene that morning.

  She recognized the similarity, too.

  “This one didn’t belong to you?” he asked.

  She shook her head no.

  Jesus. She had a right to be rattled. Leaving a note at work raised a red flag, but invading her home and leaving the same type of underwear he’d left with his victim was way more personal.

  “He also left me this note.” Her hand trembled as she lifted it toward him.

  He read it in silence. I always have one eye on you. You can’t run forever.

  Instincts warned him Britta Berger was in danger. And that they might be dealing with a serial killer who was only getting started. “Did you notice anyone watching you today? A stranger who seemed suspicious?”

  She hesitated, then cleared her throat. “While I was eating dinner at a café in the Market, I noticed a man with a camera taking pictures of me from the square.”

  His fingers tightened on the note. “Did you recognize him?”

  “No, I’ve never seen him before.”

  “You’re sure he was photographing you?”

  “Yes. He paused when I caught him and waved to me. But his smile seemed sinister.” She hesitated.

  “Sinister?”

  She glanced at the mask of the monster on her wall. “I suppose that sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

  He shook his head. “You should trust your instincts. Especially after a day like today.”

  She nodded and he continued. “Can you describe the photographer?”

  “He was tall.” She swept her eyes over him, and their gazes locked. “But not as tall as you. Maybe five-ten. Thin, sort of wiry.”

  “Dark hair or light?”

  “Bald. I got up to run after him,” she added in a low voice. “But he disappeared in the crowd.”

  Christ. “Chasing a potential stalker is dangerous, Miss Berger. You should have called the police then.”

  “Are you serious?” Nerves made her voice high-pitched. “The cops would have thought I was being paranoid. Artists are always taking pictures, drawing sketches, painting the scenery and people in the streets.”

  True. But under the circumstances…

  “I’ll have forensics examine the note and lingerie. Maybe we can find out where he purchased the teddy.” He cleared his throat. “And we should dust your place for prints.”

  She nodded, although turmoil filled her dark brown eyes. Eyes that bled with distrust. Eyes that were so hypnotic, the need to hold her tugged at his chest.

  But he ignored the pressure. It was his nature, his job, to protect the innocent. And the only way he could protect her was to find the maniac threatening her.

  To do that, he needed a clear head. Not one complicated by images of her wearing a teddy for him or whispering her secret confessions into his ear while he took her to bed.

  Which only planted more doubts and questions in his mind. “Miss Berger, have you considered the fact that the killer might be someone you know?” She paled, but he forged ahead. “Maybe an old boyfriend? A lover?”

  “No…that’s not possible.”

  He ignored her protest. She was a heartbreaker if he’d ever seen one. “Are you sure? Do you have a current boyfriend? Or maybe someone you just broke up with?”

  “No, Detective, I’m not dating anyone.” Her voice dropped a decibel. “I haven’t in a long time.”

  “How about an acquaintance? Maybe a man who asked you out? One you turned down?”

  A faraway look settled in her eyes, but she shook her head. “No one that I can think of. Like everyone else after the hurricane, I’ve been trying to survive the past year and a half. There hasn’t been time for personal relationships.”

  He nodded, unable to argue that point, yet something about her tone indicated that her lack of a social life was more of a preference, not a result of time restraints. And that she’d lied about no one asking.

  “Not even since you started at Naked Desires?” he asked. “Your boss?”

  “No.” She shifted as if she’d lost her patience. “Now, I’m really tired, Detective. You can see your way out.”

  He was right—she was hiding something. But would she hide a killer?

  “I’m not leaving now. Not until a crime-scene unit arrives to process your place. In fact, you shouldn’t stay here tonight,” he said. “Do you have a friend you can call? A family member?”

  She shook her head. “No. No family.”

  “I hope you didn’t lose them in the hurricane?”

  She averted her gaze, picked at an invisible piece of dust on the end table. “No. It was a long time ago.”

  A note of sadness tinged her voice. “Where were you living before you came here?”

  Panic slashed across her face. “In one of the small towns that got wiped out. I had nothing there and decided to move on.”

  “Have you always worked in journalism?”

  Irritation flared on her face. “You certainly ask a lot of questions, Detective.”

  “I’m a cop. That’s my job.” He leaned forward again, this time so close he inhaled her citrusy scent. “What did you do before you came to work for Naked Desires?”

  “Odd jobs,” she said, meeting his gaze head-on. “Now, I’m tired of this inquisition. You’re supposed to be trying to find this madman, not dissecting my life.”

  He’d pushed enough for the night. She looked exhausted and had had a harrowing day. “Let me drive you to a hotel. We’ll get your locks changed in the morning and add a deadbolt.”

  “With Mardi Gras in town, there won’t be any empty hotel rooms,” she said, pointing out the obvious. “And if this man wants to kill me, another lock won’t keep him out.”

  “Maybe not, but we sure as hell aren’t going to make it easy for him.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “If you’re afraid to stay alone, I’ll arrange for a guard tonight.”

  Wariness flashed in her expression, but she jutted up her chin. “No, I’m not afraid. New locks will do just fine.”

  Why did the mere thought of having the police around frighten her s
o? And why would having the police dust for prints bother her? Unless she didn’t want them to pick up her own prints…. Which meant she might have a record.

  Was she more afraid of the cops than a ruthless cold-blooded killer?

  * * *

  BRITTA STRUGGLED to maintain her composure while Detective Dubois conferred with the CSI team. He’d also called a friend who did locksmith work for the police department to change her locks and add a deadbolt.

  “Come with me while they finish up,” Detective Dubois suggested.

  “I’m all right here.”

  “It’ll do you good to get out for a while. Besides, I haven’t had dinner and there’s a quaint Cajun café near here. We can discuss the magazine.”

  “I’ve already told you everything I know,” she said defiantly. “And I’ve eaten dinner.”

  Detective Dubois touched her arm gently. “Come on. They have great desserts at this restaurant. You can have coffee and tell me more about yourself.”

  Exactly what she didn’t want to do.

  “I don’t need a babysitter, Detective. I’ll be fine alone.”

  He angled his head toward her. “What’s wrong? You aren’t afraid of me, are you, Britta?”

  She stiffened. “No, don’t be ridiculous.” Hadn’t she learned long ago not to draw attention to herself?

  His dark eyes pierced her, probing.

  Unnerved, she nodded, knowing the only way to quiet his suspicions was to appease him. He couldn’t seduce information out of her—not if she didn’t let him. “All right. But I intended to search those letters tonight to see if this guy might have written to me before.”

  “You can review the letters tomorrow.” His voice softened. “It’s been a long day already.”

  He instructed the others that he would return within an hour and pressed a hand to her waist, guiding her outside. The gesture triggered another round of nerves. He was so strong that she felt safe by his side, yet not safe at all. She couldn’t allow herself to depend on any man, much less Jean-Paul Dubois. He might stir desires and hungers that could never be sated. Might awaken a sexual beast within her….

  Not something she could allow to happen with a cop.

  The sultry evening air aroused another longing inside her, one that conjured images of a real date, of strolling hand in hand with a lover, listening to the sexy blues and jazz music wafting around them while the Mississippi lapped softly against the bank.

  “We’re here.” He stopped at a small café that had cropped up after the hurricane and gestured for her to enter. Dubois Diner. Wonderful heady odors wafted toward them. Hot, spicy Cajun sausages and gumbo, jambalaya, shrimp po’boys….

  “Do you own this?”

  “No, my father does. It’s a family business.”

  A tall, broad-shouldered, older man with wavy, gray hair and a slight limp met them at the door. One glance into his eyes and she recognized him as a Dubois.

  He clapped Jean-Paul on the shoulders. “Ahh, Jean-Paul, so good to see you tonight, son. And here, you’ve brought a beautiful woman on your arm. Finally! Welcome, chere.”

  Britta froze, aware the detective shifted uncomfortably. “Papa, this is Miss Britta Berger. She’s helping me with a case.”

  His father pinched his fingers together and slapped them to his forehead, then lapsed into a round of French Cajun dialogue. Detective Dubois’s mouth tightened but he didn’t argue.

  Finally he angled his head her way. “My papa and maman think I work too much. But my job is my life.”

  “Those who do not take time to love will never find it,” Mr. Dubois spouted. “Take heed of what the song of New Orleans says.”

  Britta smiled, remembering the strange verse. Then a pudgy woman with a bun swooped toward them.

  “Maybe this was a bad idea. Maman is great, just very old-fashioned.” Dubois shot her an apologetic look just before his mother pulled him into a bear hug.

  A sharp pang slammed into Britta’s gut as her own mother’s face materialized in her mind. It had been so long since she’d seen her that her image was foggy. Her mother had never hugged her like that. She’d been too doped up. Her eyes hollow, not laughing. Her smile strained, her face gaunt.

  And then Britta had lost her forever.

  * * *

  THE MOON BEAMED bright and full above the swampland as he made his way to his father’s grave in Black Bayou. Only the land had shifted since the last big hurricane and the patch of dirt he recognized was no longer there. His father’s remains had been swept into the tidal wave of the hurricane disaster, lost forever like so many others.

  Just as his father had been lost to him the day Adrianna had destroyed him. Behind him, miles away, stood the city. New Orleans—the Big Easy. The town of sinners.

  The city of the dead.

  There the graves remained, at least the ones that stood above ground. An ominous reminder that the city could be lost again in a second.

  No wonder Britta Berger had decided to hide in town. After all, technically, she was dead. Her new name stolen from one of those very graves just as he’d stolen a new name for himself.

  Muttering a prayer to his father, he renewed his vow for vengeance as he made his way through the backwoods to the new meeting place of his people. As he approached the circle of light created by the bonfire, the dark memories dragged him back to his childhood and the reason he’d returned.

  Yet, here he stood as an adult, trembling from fear, knowing he didn’t belong—that he’d never earned his manhood in the clan’s eyes. Hidden away among the backwater folks who worshipped Sobek, who feared the devil’s wrath, who still believed in the ancient ways, they fought the battle between good and evil.

  God would punish the sinners. But the devil was always working. Sometimes he walked among them, stealing souls and casting spells on innocents to convert them to do his service.

  The clan had to pull together. Pray. Offer the gods a sacrifice so they could live among the bayou safe from the crocodiles and vermin the devil used as traps for the weaker.

  The low hum of gospel singing echoed in the air, beginning the ceremony. The passage of boy to man, girl to woman.

  One was always taken.

  Adrianna’s face remained etched in his mind as the young girls dressed in virginal white stepped before the altar. Their mothers shivered with fear, knowing that any one of their daughters might be the chosen one.

  Only the girls knew nothing.

  But Adrianna had known. The devil must have whispered in her ear. And she had chosen him.

  Then the clan had cast him aside as if he was a leper.

  He fisted his hands at his sides. He had to destroy all those wicked women who defied their religion. The cheap whores. Satan’s messengers. Then the curse would be removed from him and he could once again walk among his people.

  Fury twisted his insides as time spun backward.

  He was back in Black Bayou on that fatal day.

  Blood soaked his hands, his face, his clothing where he leaned over his daddy’s body. Shouts and screams of terror and shock rocked through the clan. Suddenly someone yelled for them to hunt Adrianna.

  Torches were lit, tempers fired and men dispersed. He had gone with them. Hours had dragged as they’d relentlessly fought through the bayou. Crocodiles had threatened. Attacked. Another brother had fallen prey to the swamp, his limbs ripped away one by one by a gator’s sharp teeth.

  Then one had shot out of the water toward him. His stomach rolled as he recalled the gator’s teeth ruthlessly sinking into his arm, his torso, his ear. Fear had nearly crippled him.

  But Satan had decided to let him live that night. Death would have been too easy.

  Finally at daybreak they’d returned to the camp. Exhausted. He was half-dead.

  They hadn’t found Adrianna.

  Then his next realm of punishments had begun. He’d bowed his head before the snake pit, the blinding pain swirling him into a vortex of eternal darkness. The cla
n chanted and prayed for the demons to be exorcised from his body. They’d thought him weak. A traitor. That he had warned Adrianna….

  In their eyes, he was a failure. An outcast. He had not survived the trial by ordeal without looking guilty.

  Then they had banned him from their presence forever.

  Thunder clapped above, drawing him back to the present. He stood on the edge of another clan now, the work of the great Ezra Cortain in progress. The pounding drums echoed around him and the chants began, praising Sobek. Although forced to remain on the periphery, he clasped his hands and silently joined their prayer.

  Adrianna might be able to run, but she couldn’t hide.

  And she had changed her name, but he knew it, as well as her real one. The Christian one her mother had given her.

  The one he would call her when he finally offered her to the spirits.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JEAN-PAUL SILENTLY CURSED his decision to bring Britta Berger to his family’s restaurant. He should have called it a night. Left her at her apartment. Gone back to the precinct.

  But once he’d ignored his family’s welfare for his job and his wife had died. He’d never forgive himself. Lucinda’s family hadn’t forgiven him, either.

  He had to warn his sisters and mother now that there was a killer preying on women.

  A low jazz tune wailed in the background of the diner, wrapping tendrils of nostalgia around him—and a longing for what he’d lost. The comfort of a companion. The feel of a woman’s touch.

  Only Lucinda had never been a comfort about his job. She’d hated it and begged him to leave police work.

  God, why was he thinking about her tonight?

  Because another woman had died and you couldn’t stop it.

  “This is the rest of our family!” His maman gestured toward the wall of family photographs above the table, forcing Jean-Paul back to the present as she rattled on. “Jean-Paul is the oldest and of course, always the responsible one, taking care of everyone.”

  “Mother—” he growled.

  “It’s true.” His mother batted her hand at him, then continued, oblivious to the fact that she was embarrassing him. “See all the pictures of him after the hurricane? He worked day and night, saved women and children. My boy is a local hero.”