by Brenda Novak
Her honesty seemed to deflect the criticism she felt sure would’ve come in the absence of her own doubt. “But we’re talking about a crime that took place years ago,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter. I pick up on random fragments of actions, thoughts or feelings. They can be in the past, present and sometimes even the future.”
“How long have you had this…ability?”
“Since I was fifteen or sixteen, maybe earlier, but I didn’t have anything to compare it to. I chalked it up to coincidence or a good guess or whatever. I didn’t talk about it until I started getting involved in criminal investigations.” If she’d had the ability when Kimberly went missing, she hadn’t known it or known how to use it, but she’d often wondered if it would’ve made a difference. Maybe she would’ve been able to sense the danger that summer day. Or been more help with the search.
“And then?”
“Then I realized I was more intuitive than most people. Sometimes it went beyond that, and I could foretell what was going to happen. Or I could sense where someone had died, or what a particular perpetrator had been thinking. Once I began focusing on these feelings, I got better and better at separating outside input from my own thoughts. But it’s still a very rudimentary and inexact science. I just do what I can.”
“Can you tell me what I’m thinking right now?”
He was being a smart-ass. “I’m not a trick pony,” she said, giving him a dirty look. “And I’m not sure I want to know what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking there are stranger things on this earth,” he said, surprising her by backing off.
“I’m not asking you to believe me,” she said.
Again, she got the impression that he wanted to touch her, but it no longer came across in a sexual way. He understood her defensiveness, wanted to reassure and calm her.
At that point, she probably would’ve let him pull her into his arms. But he didn’t try. He moved past her to the door.
Jasmine felt she should stop him. He hadn’t given her very many details on Moreau. But he had mentioned the name of someone else who might be able to help her—Pearson Black—and that was a start. If she needed more information, she knew where to find Fornier.
“This note you received, the one written in blood,” he said, turning back at the last second.
“Yes?”
“What’d it say?”
“Stop me.”
“Stop me,” he repeated under his breath. For a moment, he seemed miles away but his focus quickly returned. “Can I see it?”
“It’s at a forensics lab in California.”
“Can you show me how it was written?”
This question made Jasmine’s heart race. “Of course.” Walking to the desk in the corner of the room, she picked up a piece of paper and wrote the words exactly as she’d seen them on the note, complete with the strange assortment of capitals and an e that looked a little like an ampersand.
S-T-o-P M-e
The flash of awareness in Romain’s eyes told her he recognized some aspect of what he saw. But he didn’t reveal what. “You’ve got your work cut out for you,” he said simply.
“That’s it?” she asked, overwhelmed by disappointment. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”
“This has nothing to do with me,” he said again, and without another word, he left.
Jasmine stared down at the note. Something about the writing told him otherwise. Or he wouldn’t have gone so pale under that tanned skin.
CHAPTER 6
His helmet strapped to the seat behind him, Romain raced down the highway, embracing the cold wind as it numbed his cheeks, stole his breath, whipped his hair. Had he killed the wrong man?
No. It wasn’t possible. Moreau was a pedophile with two prior arrests. Maybe those arrests hadn’t resulted in convictions, but Adele’s blood had been on Moreau’s work pants, her barrettes in his house. And if those items had left any question, there was that revolting video.
Every muscle in Romain’s body tensed when he thought about Moreau touching his daughter the way he had on that tape. Recklessly he gave the bike more gas. He was flying over the highway, going too fast for the wet roads and the darkness. But he didn’t care. He needed the adrenaline rush to combat everything else he was feeling.
He hadn’t been able to watch much of the video. He couldn’t stand it. Huff said Moreau never showed his face on tape, but Huff also said the man in that video had the same build as Moreau and wore the same clothes. What were the chances Adele’s killer could be anyone else?
None. This sister of Jasmine Stratford’s who’d been missing for so long had to be irrelevant to Adele’s case. Or maybe Moreau was responsible for what’d happened to her, and someone else had sent the bracelet. Someone sick enough to find enjoyment in the knowledge of what it’d do to Jasmine.
But Adele’s name had been written with the same mix of capitals and that funny e—and those details hadn’t been printed in any of the papers. Huff had kept that part quiet. So how come whoever mailed Jasmine that bracelet had also sent her a note written in blood, from New Orleans and using the same e?
He wasn’t sure, but it made him angry. Angry that it wasn’t over. Angry that someone else was out there terrorizing the innocent. Angry that Jasmine had brought this back to his doorstep.
The sound of his bike blocked out everything except the mad rush of wind. And that was exactly what Romain wanted. Jasmine had accused him of playing it safe, but he wasn’t asking for much. Just peace—peace at last.
And he’d have it. He’d go back to hunting, shrimping, wood carving and tinkering with his bike, and maybe he’d eventually be able to push her and her story from his mind. She’d said she was psychic, for crying out loud. People who claimed to have extrasensory perception weren’t completely sane or else they made their living out of lying.
But he still couldn’t explain how she knew about Adele’s necklace.
* * *
Jasmine had remained in her hotel room when Romain left. She’d listened as the roar of his motorcycle dimmed. So, how was it that she was suddenly in his bedroom?
She couldn’t answer that question, didn’t remember driving down the bayou. And yet, in the light of a flickering fire, she could see his nightstand. It supported a lantern-style light and a battery-powered alarm clock. His dresser held his watch and some change. Then there was the closet, where his shoes were perfectly aligned and his pants and shirts hung so that they didn’t touch and wouldn’t wrinkle.
Only his bedding was out of order. And, at the moment, he didn’t seem to mind. His muscles flexed as he rolled her beneath him, then lowered his head to kiss her, openmouthed and hungry. His tongue moved over hers as he coaxed her to abandon all reservation, to trust him enough to let him finish taking off her clothes.
Surprisingly, she was only too willing to accommodate him. Everything he did tore at her crumbling defenses like wind threatening to carry away a boat tied to a dock. She could feel her resistance slipping, the rush of her own blood in her ears as she welcomed each new sensation far more brazenly than she knew she should.
He pulled back, gazing down at her. His eyelids were half-closed and heavy with desire, his expression intense, his lips still wet from their kissing. She knew she was being foolish. She didn’t even know how she’d come to be here. But logic wasn’t enough to make her stop what was happening. Apparently, she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.
“What?” she murmured, questioning his hesitation.
“Tu es belle.”
Jasmine liked the sound of it. He said other things, too, as he bent his head and ran his lips down the side of her throat. Some of it was in English: So soft…
Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to his talented ministrations. They didn’t even have birth control, yet seconds later she was the one urging him on. She supposed it was the common grief that bound them that dulled her conscience, that stopped her from acting with any thought for the fut
ure. But suddenly she didn’t care about “later,” only here and now, renouncing those hours when she was most alone.
Then she was straddling his hips. His hands gripped her thighs, helping and encouraging her until the waves of pleasure grew so intense she shuddered and cried out, and he moaned as he reached the same release.
Breathless, she slumped onto his bare chest, and he smoothed the hair from her forehead, muttering something in French: C’était le meilleur.
Before she could ask him what it meant, she woke up, sweating and panting and sated—but alone in her hotel room.
She stared at the ceiling, wondering what’d just happened. How could she be in her own bed? She was still tingling from Romain’s touch, could still smell the woodsmoke in his house….
Confused but relieved, she sat up. They hadn’t really made love. They couldn’t have. She’d never left the hotel. And yet it was too real to be a dream. She could describe Romain’s body in explicit detail, although he’d been wearing long pants and long sleeves during both of their prior encounters.
And then Jasmine realized it wasn’t her dream she’d just experienced. It was his.
* * *
“What are you doing here?”
Forty-year-old Casey Lynn Konitz owned The Breakfast Joint, where the locals, mostly older fishermen, came to have their coffee and la grue—what Anglo-Americans called grits. She also owned one of the town’s only computers with Internet access.
“I need to go online,” Romain responded, their voices adding to the babble of both French and English that surrounded them.
“You don’t look so good this morning, T-Bone,” she said.
He’d spent a restless night. He’d made love to Jasmine Stratford again and again in his dreams, each time more aggressively than the last. But dreams weren’t enough to satisfy the very real hunger he’d felt since seeing her in those silky pajamas. He was frustrated and edgy and worried that the woman who’d come into his life yesterday would irrevocably disturb the delicate equilibrium he’d established since prison.
“Soyez gentil,” he said, grinning.
“I am being nice. You’re still handsome as the devil, that’s fuh shore. But you’re fatigué, non?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“Really. Let me use your computer.”
“What for?”
Romain knew she didn’t mind sharing it with him. Like most everyone around here, she was just nosy. Gossip was Portsville’s main source of entertainment, especially through the winter months. “I need to do some shopping.”
Her eyebrows went up. “For Christmas presents?”
“Maybe.” Actually, he hadn’t bought one thing and probably wouldn’t. His parents were expecting him for dinner at their place in Mamou, but they’d be happy with the shrimp he’d caught in his trawling nets a few days ago, before the season ended. It’d fill their freezer and provide enough for their traditional New Year’s dinner of boulettes des chevrettes: ground fresh shrimp mixed with peppers, garlic, onions and spices, formed into patties and deep-fried. But he wasn’t excited about going home, because his older sister and her husband would be there. Susan had gone to Harvard, married an attorney and relocated in Boston. She’d done well, and Romain was proud of her, but she refused to forgive him for not fighting to stay out of prison after he shot Moreau.
“Or maybe you’re looking for a woman,” Casey teased. “Are you signing up for one of those online dating services, T-Bone?”
“Nah,” he said. “I’ve decided on a mail-order bride.”
She laughed. “Why would a man like you need to pay for a woman?”
“Because then I can order her just the way I want—meek and submissive, always willing to scratch my back and cook me dinner.” He stretched, getting as much mileage out of needling Casey as possible.
“Right.” She slugged him in the arm. “You’d be bored within a month. You need a woman with some fight in her.”
“Mais, someone like that would be too hard for me to handle,” he said, grinning. “I’m a mama’s boy, remember?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that’s what you are.”
The bell sounded over the door, announcing the arrival of another patron. Distracted by it, Casey waved him toward the back room, where the computer was, and grabbed a menu for the newcomer. “I’ll bring you some biscuits and gravy. You want anything else today?” she called over her shoulder. “That’s it.” He was too eager to get online to worry about changing the menu. Jasmine Stratford pretended to need his help to find her long-lost sister, but she probably didn’t even have a sister. More likely she was a criminal rights attorney, bent on advancing her political agenda by convincing everyone he’d killed the wrong person. Or a journalist chasing her next “big” story. Or maybe a writer with a contract for a new book—When Fathers Turn into Killers. Regardless, Black had to be involved. Black was the only one, besides Huff, who could’ve described the peculiarities of the writing on that bathroom wall.
But that still brought him back to the necklace. Neither Huff nor Black knew it’d gone missing. It’d disappeared almost a week before Adele was taken. Even Romain hadn’t connected the two incidents.
Maybe after he’d had the chance to dig a little, he’d be able to explain how Jasmine knew so damn much, he thought. But what he found only added to his confusion. Google cited a whole list of articles that featured Jasmine’s name, all of which proved her to be exactly what she claimed.
…Sacramento victims rights activist Jasmine Stratford developed the psychological profile that eventually led to Bellamy’s arrest…
…Jasmine Stratford, from the nonprofit victims’ charity The Last Stand, spoke with officials earlier today…
…Mrs. Purdue insists her daughter would not have been found had it not been for the assistance of local victims’ advocate Jasmine Stratford, who lost her own sister in a kidnapping incident fourteen years ago…
Criminal Minds: Profiling the Profiler. After the widely publicized Robbins case, Jasmine Stratford has been called one of the best psychological profilers in the country. And yet she has no official degree in any of the sciences. With only a high school GED, the talented profiler credits her own personal crisis with spurring her interest in deviant behavior and motivating her to educate herself. According to Stratford, killers act to fulfill certain needs. Determining what those needs are provides understanding and, to a point, the ability to predict certain behavior—
“Here you go.”
Fornier pulled his eyes away from the screen long enough to acknowledge Casey, who’d arrived with his breakfast. She had to shove a mountain of papers aside, but she managed to fit his coffee and his plate on the desk at his elbow.
“It doesn’t look as if you’re buying anything too expensive,” she said, frowning at the article displayed on her monitor.
“No,” he said. But what he’d read could still cost him a great deal. He was beginning to believe Jasmine was for real—and that, some way, somehow, he might’ve killed the wrong man.
* * *
Jasmine hadn’t expected to run into Romain at the diner. She hadn’t heard the roar of his motorcycle go past the hotel this morning, hadn’t seen it parked in the lot when she walked over. But in order to bring water and supplies to his house, he had to have a pickup or some other form of transportation, which he must’ve driven. Because there was no mistaking the identity of the tall blond man who emerged from the back area of the restaurant. She would’ve known him simply by the way he carried himself, even if she hadn’t been able to see his face.
Ducking behind her menu, she hoped he’d leave without noticing her. She knew she hadn’t really slept with him last night, but it sure felt like she had. Her body burned at the memory of his hands moving everywhere—because the way he’d imagined the encounter was exactly as she would’ve liked it to be.
Unfortunately, luck wasn’t with her today. When she
didn’t hear the bell above the door, she peeked over the corner of her menu to see where he was and found him at the cash register, slipping his wallet into his pocket and staring straight at her.
As their eyes met and held, Jasmine cursed silently for looking up too soon. Then she lowered her menu and smiled politely, trying to backtrack to where they’d been before imagination had become more honest than reality.
We’re just two strangers who aren’t all that friendly to each other, she reminded herself. Yet erotic images kept intruding—his bare arms and chest as he poised above her, the pressure of his thigh sliding confidently between hers, the play of emotions on his face when he was too far gone to hold back.
Such a heady fantasy wasn’t easy to forget.
He didn’t return her smile, but he made his way through the other tables and sat down across from her.
“Would you like to join me?” she asked.
He tilted his head. “You’re the one who came to find me, remember?”
“I’m leaving soon,” she said. “So I won’t be around to bother you much longer.”
“Are you planning to talk to Officer Black when you reach New Orleans?”
“If he hasn’t taken off for the holidays.”
“And if he has?”
“I’ll wait till he comes back.”
“You’re spending Christmas in Louisiana?”
“It looks that way.”
“Your family doesn’t mind?”
Her family… She nearly chuckled at the thought of her parents caring where she spent Christmas but knew if she did she’d have to explain her odd reaction. “I’m determined to get what I came for,” she said.
Pulling a napkin from the dispenser on the table, Romain asked her for a pen, which she took out of her purse. He wrote something, then pushed the napkin toward her.
