by Brenda Novak
“Ms. Stratford?”
Straightening, she confronted Fornier. “It wasn’t a crime of opportunity.”
“Your sister?”
“Your daughter.”
His chin jutted out. “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about my daughter.”
“I’m only telling you in case you’ve been beating yourself up for letting her ride her bike home alone.”
The blood drained from his face, making him almost ghostlike in the dark room. “It was only around the block,” he said, his voice a mere whisper.
She tried not to experience his pain—but that was impossible. “He stole her necklace from somewhere before that. I don’t know when, but it was at a—a gym or a dance class or maybe a swimming pool. Someplace that has lockers.”
“No, she lost it. I remember her crying when she couldn’t find it.”
“She didn’t lose it. He took it.”
“How do you know?” Cautious hope touched his voice. But Jasmine didn’t answer. He wouldn’t believe her even if she told him.
“I’m sure that’s why he went to the school. He was already fixated and he would’ve found her eventually,” she said instead, hoping it’d make a difference in Fornier’s recovery. Then, brushing past him, she headed to her car.
“What’d the necklace look like?” he called after her.
“You know what it looked like.”
“I’m wondering if you do.”
“It was the plastic Belle you bought at Disney World.”
* * *
Romain hadn’t bought it at Disney World. He’d bought it at the Disney store. But that seemed a minor difference when there were so many other types of necklaces she could’ve named. She hadn’t said it was a gold locket or a silver heart or a pink ribbon. She’d correctly identified Adele’s necklace as the Disney character Belle….
How?
He paced his living room, too keyed up to sit down. He’d moved to the bayou to gain some distance from the rest of the world. He’d needed breathing room, the peace of nature, a chance to achieve a better perspective on a society he no longer trusted. And he’d been doing that.
Until tonight. Who was this woman who’d appeared seemingly out of nowhere?
He had only her name and a few sentences about her sister being abducted sixteen years ago. But she’d understood, immediately, the regret that corroded his soul. Not for shooting the man who’d killed Adele. He felt no remorse for that—couldn’t even remember actually pulling the trigger. It was the fact that he’d allowed such a despicable human being to get control of his daughter in the first place that hurt. As Adele’s father, he should’ve protected her, should’ve refused to let her ride her bicycle to Elizabeth’s house that day or any day.
He hadn’t realized that a block—a block—could pose such risk. They’d lived in a good neighborhood. But it’d happened anyway, and now it was too late. He’d lost his little girl in the worst possible way and every time he closed his eyes, he saw her being whisked off her bike and forced into Moreau’s rusty van, imagined the unspeakable torture she’d suffered. Torture that wouldn’t have happened if he’d said no….
Suddenly, he was standing in front of the bookcase, where her sweet face smiled back at him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, struggling against a familiar tightening in his throat. “I’m so sorry.”
As usual, there was no answer. Only the generator running in the background as Adele stared back, always with him and yet gone forever.
What did Jasmine Stratford really know about her and the man who’d killed her? If this woman could describe the necklace, she had to possess other information. But he wasn’t sure that information would be as comforting as the tidbit she’d given him. It was equally possible that her answers would only lead to more questions. Or tempt him to doubt what he already knew to be true.
Leave it alone, he told himself, and went back to his movie. But he didn’t comprehend a single word and, after an hour, he finally gave up. By telling him he couldn’t have saved his little girl even if he’d been more vigilant, Ms. Stratford had offered him absolution. And absolution was irresistible.
Striding across the living room, he retrieved the keys to the motorcycle he’d built for himself and hurried outside. She’d said she was staying at the hotel in Portsville, but he had no idea for how long.
If he waited until the sun came up, she could be gone.
* * *
The engine of the motorcycle rattled the walls of Jasmine’s hotel room. She’d just put on the chemise and shorts set she liked to sleep in, but the moment she heard the racket, she wondered if it was Fornier. At eleven o’clock, the rest of the town was asleep; there was virtually no traffic.
She waited. If it was Fornier, and he wanted to see her, she’d receive a call from the front desk.
Instead, a heavy knock made her jump.
“Tell me the old guy didn’t send him up,” she muttered and grabbed the silky robe that matched her sleepwear. “Yes?” she said through the panel as she shrugged it on.
“It’s me.”
Fornier. Just as she’d guessed. The lies she’d told the old Cajun had come back to haunt her. He’d assumed she’d want him to send Fornier up and hadn’t bothered to call first.
Taking a deep breath, she cracked the door open. There wasn’t a chain or she might’ve used it because this man was so unsettled—and unsettling.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, unable to resist turning the tables on him.
“For starters, you can let me in.”
She hesitated briefly. “Why don’t we meet for breakfast in the morning?”
“Because I’m here now.”
She didn’t usually allow strange men into her hotel room, especially out in the middle of nowhere. But she didn’t sense any danger from Fornier. If he wanted to harm her, he could’ve done it out in the swamp where he had a convenient place to toss her body and plenty of alligators to eat it.
Stepping back, she permitted him to open the door the rest of the way.
“You’ve had a change of heart?” she asked as he came in.
He closed the door behind him. “Maybe you could call it that if I had a heart to begin with.”
He did have a heart. That was the problem. His emotions ran so deep, he couldn’t cope with the pain they caused him so he tried to shut them off.
Uncomfortably aware of her skimpy attire, she tightened the belt on her robe. “So you’re here because…”
A subtle shift in his body language told her Romain hadn’t missed the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. But he wasn’t obvious enough to let his eyes dip. “You know why. I want to hear how you knew about the necklace.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“What matters is that you understand this—even if Moreau hadn’t taken that particular opportunity, he would’ve kidnapped your daughter some other time. There’s no way you could’ve stood guard over her every minute of every day, not when you couldn’t possibly recognize the danger.”
“I should’ve recognized it.”
The passion in his voice confirmed the depth of his remorse. “Not if you were busy living a normal life. Not when there was nothing to alert you.”
“There was the nightly news.”
“But it’s human nature to believe tragedies only happen to other people.” She watched him carefully, hoping he’d be able to forgive himself, to trust her to some degree, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
He crossed to the window. “You seem to know a lot about this sort of thing.”
“I’ve spent my life researching it.”
He shoved large hands into the pockets of a brown leather bomber jacket. “Yet you haven’t been able to find your own sister.”
She knew he’d taken that jab simply because she’d dared bring up the past after he’d gone to such elaborate lengths to escape it. But his words still stung. Although they’d
never made any accusations, her parents blamed her, too—for not being a more vigilant babysitter that day, for being unable to provide a clear description afterward, maybe even for being incapable of filling the hole in their hearts after their cherished “baby” went missing. “I haven’t given up.”
“It’s nearly Christmas. What are you doing in Cajun country?” he asked gruffly. “Where’s your husband?”
“I don’t have one.”
His gaze flicked to her braless chest as if he was so preoccupied by it he could scarcely think of anything else. “Do you have any identification?”
She took her purse from the nightstand, flashed him her driver’s license and handed him a business card.
“Jasmine Stratford, The Last Stand, Victims’ Support and Assistance Nonprofit Organization,” he read.
She smiled. “That’s me.”
“Why do you think I can help you?” he asked as he slipped her card in his jacket pocket.
“I told you. This kidnapper has the same signature as the man who killed your daughter. I want to see if there are other similarities.”
“But you’re ignoring the most salient point. Moreau’s dead. I shot him myself, in cold blood, and if you think that makes me as much a murderer as he was, you’re taking an incredible risk by bothering me.”
She raised one eyebrow. “You don’t want to kill me.”
“And you know this because…”
“You have something far less painful in mind.”
The sexual energy emanating from him was so strong Jasmine could feel it lapping around her. His wife had been dead for six years. It was possible—considering everything he’d gone through—that he hadn’t been with a woman since. Jasmine definitely got the impression it’d been a while. But she didn’t take his interest personally. He was living on the bayou, alone for days, even weeks at a stretch, and she was standing within arm’s reach in her bedclothes, reminding him of what he’d lost. Or some of it, anyway…
But his heightened awareness didn’t frighten her. There was an unpredictable, even dark quality about Fornier, but it seemed more erotic than threatening.
“You don’t miss much,” he said, challenging her in return by letting his gaze slide more pointedly over her body.
Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat, but she didn’t cover herself. She wanted to appear unaffected, indifferent, as if the way he looked at her evoked no response whatsoever—but she knew she’d failed when her nipples puckered, displaying proof of the opposite.
His eyes latched onto that proof and a knowing smile curved his lips.
“Neither do you,” she said.
“You’re a beautiful woman. There isn’t a straight man alive who wouldn’t want to touch you.” His voice dropped meaningfully at the end, making it feel like a caress.
“Especially one who’s been living in a swamp for two years,” she said tartly, fighting to retain hold of logic and objectivity.
“So…what do you say we make a deal?”
It was pretty easy to guess what his offer would be. “A deal?”
“I give you what you want, and you give me what I want.”
Jasmine had never been propositioned quite so bluntly. Neither had she ever been with anyone who stirred her in such an instant and primal way. Was she having this reaction because she identified so deeply with Fornier’s background? Because she admired his courage and resourcefulness, sympathized with the regret he dragged around like a ball and chain? She’d married Harvey out of obligation, overwhelming gratitude and the desire for companionship. The two relationships she’d had after her brief marriage had afforded the same benefits. But never raw desire. Nothing half as potent as this sudden and confusing attraction to a troubled stranger.
Curling her fingers into her palms, she fought his effect on her. “Sorry, I don’t use sex as a bargaining chip.”
That cynical grin returned. “Somehow I thought you were going to say that.”
“I like things simple.”
“No, you like them safe.”
“No safer than you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you don’t really want what you just asked for.”
A scowl creased his forehead. “Wanna bet?”
“If you did, you wouldn’t have asked for it in that way.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“What are the odds of a woman agreeing to what you suggested?”
“There’s always a chance.”
“But you provided yourself with an escape hatch.”
He leaned against the wall. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Just in case I surprised you and happened to agree, you set up the encounter to be so mechanical it wouldn’t be any different than carrying on as you’ve probably carried on so far.” She gestured with her hand so that he got her point, which provoked a genuine-sounding laugh.
“It’d be a lot different. I promise.”
As far as she was concerned, Satan himself couldn’t have been more alluring. She was actually beginning to wonder if one night really mattered. The desire to soothe a soul even more damaged than her own was strangely appealing.
But indulging in that kind of intimacy would be a mistake. She doubted he’d let her comfort him, anyway. He was too busy proving he didn’t need anyone.
She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be good.”
His grin slanted to one side. “Try me.”
She wanted to do just that. But it was too reckless, too irresponsible to give in to that urge. “Tempting but not tempting enough.”
Releasing a dramatic sigh, he rubbed a hand over his stubble-covered jaw. “So we’re back to your sister, right?”
“Right.”
She knew he wasn’t really disappointed. He’d been testing her, using sex to create a diversion, at the least, an escape at the most.
“What is it you want to know?” he asked.
“Tell me about Moreau.”
“His house was a couple of miles from ours in the Garden District. He lived alone, kept to himself.” His monotone suggested he was attempting to distance himself from the subject. “He had a prior arrest record for molesting a little girl when he was about twenty and a young teen when he was twenty-five, but no convictions. He was as twisted as they come and, although I’m the first to admit I was wrong for doing what I did, society should thank me for the favor. That’s it.”
“Any other suspects?”
“A few. But there was no physical proof that any of them had my daughter in his house.”
Jasmine sat on the bed. “Are you angry at Huff for bungling the search?”
“No. Huff took a calculated risk—and lost.”
“Which meant you lost, too.”
“Without the physical proof he discovered, there wouldn’t have been enough evidence to charge Moreau in the first place.”
“The cops couldn’t have got what they needed in the morning, after the judge signed the affidavit?”
“Moreau had seen Huff watching his place earlier in the day. He was already spooked and would’ve burned it or gotten rid of it somehow.” A muscle twitched in Fornier’s cheek. “It was the system that failed me, not Huff. A proven predator’s rights turned out to be more important to the state than an innocent child’s.”
She heard that sentiment often in her line of work. “Was anyone else privy to all the details of the case?”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know. Someone who followed Huff’s progress, who acted as if he was trying to help. Someone who kept inserting himself into the investigation, maybe even confessed?”
“Because the media took hold of it, we had all kinds of crazies calling in. One guy wasn’t in New Orleans when she went missing, and there were at least half a dozen people who could prove it.”
“Anyone else stand out?”
“There was a guy Huff worked with on the force, a street cop who was trying to work his way up to
detective. He wasn’t officially on the case but he took a real interest. Huff believed he might’ve been the one who tipped off the defense to the illegal search.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Huff and Black never got along, and he wanted Huff’s job.”
“The newspaper reported Moreau’s mother as the whistle-blower.”
“That was just the attorney trying to protect Pearson Black. Black’s the one who provided the information. Huff insists he didn’t see anyone besides Moreau at the house when he returned that morning, but Black had helped with the search so, of course, he knew what happened.”
“Do you have regular contact with either of them?”
“I don’t have regular contact with anyone. And I like it that way.”
“Yet you came here.”
He faced her again, doing exactly what she’d thought him incapable of doing—revealing his most vulnerable self. “I want to believe you about the necklace.”
“It’s still missing, isn’t it?”
“Can you tell me where it is?”
“No. I only know that whoever took Adele kept it in his pocket so he could fondle it when he wanted to remember her.” Jasmine hadn’t realized she knew that detail.
Romain’s eyes grew watery, but he didn’t look weak, he looked dangerous. “If you’re lying, if you’re telling me this to manipulate me, thinking you’ll enlist my help…”
“I’m not lying.”
He stepped closer. “Then how do you know?”
She hated admitting she had psychic abilities. She preferred to hang her reputation on her profiling skills, which was what she played up with the media and the police departments she helped, even though it was really some of both. But she couldn’t say that in this instance. For one thing, she would’ve had no way of ascertaining the information. “I have certain…intuitive abilities.”
“Intuitive?” Skepticism etched deep grooves around his mouth. “Like the crazy old woman who lives a mile from me and claims to be a witch?”
“I don’t claim to be anything,” she said. “Occasionally I get…impressions. Some are clear. Some are not. There’s no rhyme or reason to them. I can attempt to invite them by studying a particular case and touching something that belonged to the victim or the perpetrator. Once in a while I have an uncanny amount of success. More often, I get random, fleeting, confusing signals, and I wonder if I’m losing my mind.”
