Hall, Jessica

by Into the Fire

  When Terri stepped outside the interview room, she found J. D. leaning against the wall, staring at the ceiling tiles. How did a wealthy Creole society son like him get involved with a backwater Cajun girl? Terri wasn't sure she wanted to know. "Want to take a shot at me now?"

  J. D. thrust his hands in his pockets. "Maybe."

  Anger wasn't something she was used to feeling around her partner. She trusted J. D. with her life, and she wasn't about to let him screw up his. "I'm glad you're getting a laugh out of this, because I'm not."

  "You're crowding me."

  "Gee, I'm all broken up about that. Maybe you forgot—we don't do the bad cop/worse cop routine, and she's not even a damn suspect." She shoved at his shoulder. "What were you thinking, putting your hands on her?"

  He muttered something vile under his breath. "She won't talk to me in front of you. Give me five minutes alone with her. I'll get the answers."

  Her jaw sagged. "Do I really look that stupid to you? You want to blow this whole case because you got a hard-on for her?"

  "It's not that and you know it." J. D. looked up at the ceiling, then back at her. "Christ, Ter, I know her. She's just scared."

  "Really. That woman is a witness—the only witness so far—to a felony arson, and maybe a murder. The DA isn't going to put up with her little amnesia act for a second. Not even if she was your wife." Then it hit Terri, and she smacked her palm on her forehead. "That's it, isn't it? You and her?"

  "It was a long time ago." J. D.'s gaze never wavered. "I need time alone with her. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

  "Shit." Terri rubbed her eyes. In the five years they'd worked together, J. D. had never asked her to bend the rules. The fact that he wanted to now only made things worse. But he was her partner. "All right, I'm going to get some forms and bring her a phone. You've got ten minutes to kiss and make up with your sweetheart." When he would have gone back into the room, she grabbed his sleeve. "And when I get back, I'm dusting her for prints, so keep your hands in your pockets."

  He nodded and went in. Terri walked down the corridor, glancing back once to see him closing the blinds.

  J. D. Gamble in love with a Cajun girl. His mama must have had a stroke. Well, at least things can't get any worse. Terri saw J. D.'s girlfriend standing at her desk, and groaned. Oh yes, they can.

  "Detective Vincent." Moriah Navarre sat down in J. D.'s chair and crossed her thin, tanned legs. She wore a tan silk blouse with khaki shorts and had tucked her golden hair up into a trendy little fedora. Chunky gold and diamond jewelry glinted at her throat and ears. The blouse clung just enough to show off every curve of her natural assets. "Is Jean-Del available?"

  Every male in the detective squad room appeared mesmerized by Moriah's chest, or legs. Terri could almost hear the drool starting to drip. "Just a minute, Ms. Navarre." She picked up the phone and dialed the number for the current time and weather conditions. She listened to the entire prerecorded message while the elegant blonde frowned at her. To appear busy, Terri wrote out what she needed to pick up from the grocery store, then set the receiver down before reaching for a file she'd closed out a week ago.

  The young socialite shifted her weight and sighed a few times. Once she looked pointedly at her wrist-watch, which naturally matched her jewelry.

  Terri let another five minutes pass, but she needed to get back to check on J. D. She glanced up and smiled. "Sorry, we're a little busy today. You're looking for J. D.?"

  The diamonds in Moriah's earlobes sparkled as she lifted her chin. "Yes. He's going to take me to lunch."

  Terri wondered if she knew about Sable, but figured she'd hear it from J. D. soon enough. Probably would be best to get her out of here for now. "He's interviewing a witness to an arson," she finally said. "Getting a statement usually takes a while."

  "You should have mentioned that before." Moriah slowly rose. "Perhaps Cort will join me instead."

  Despite the sympathy she felt for the girl, Terri heard her own voice go flat. "Cort's in Biloxi, at a conference. His brother Evan's flying in this week, but oh, that's right, he's bringing his wife." She smiled. "Looks like you've run out of Gambles."

  "Aren't you up-to-date on everyone's whereabouts?" J. D.'s girlfriend produced a pretty laugh. "Part of your work, I suppose."

  Terri seriously doubted Moriah Navarre knew anything about work. The Deb had gone to the best schools in Europe, served as her father's hostess when her mother was "on the Continent," and otherwise devoted herself to not breaking a sweat. She'd dated all three Gamble brothers, vacillating between Cort, Evan, and J. D. for some time before settling on Terri's partner.

  Like comparison shopping, only for men instead of handmade Italian pumps.

  Moriah's flirtatious wave at one of the younger detectives made Terri decide to end things before she snapped out something she'd enjoy. "Any message for J. D.?"

  "Yes. Tell him to call me as soon as he's free. Oh, and remind him that he needs to get the final fitting for his tux for Saturday night." She gave Terri a small smile of insincere commiseration. "Sorry we won't be seeing you there."

  Terri imagined lepers would be more welcome than she was. "J. D. invited me, but I already had plans."

  "What a pity. I think you'd look marvelous in white, myself. Something simple, with a few flounces here and there to de-emphasize those narrow hips and shoulders." She studied Terri's face. "Perhaps more cream than white, with your skin tone. You are so very dark, aren't you?"

  Moriah's family lineage stretched back to the influx of refugees seeking asylum after Napoleon fell at Waterloo. Terri wasn't too sure who her grandparents were. "I'll give J. D. your message." She said it the same way she would nice shot, bitch.

  "Thank you so much, Detective."

  She watched J. D.'s girlfriend saunter out, then listened to the other cops mutter in low voices about Gamble's great luck with the ladies.

  If he marries her, I'll have to put in a transfer request. No way am I putting up with The Deb calling here every day wanting J. D. to come home and help her count the family silver.

  Sable closed her eyes and rested her head on her folded arms. She could have wept, but the tears had retreated as swiftly as J. D. had. Now she only felt numb. The same way she had that night, ten years ago.

  "You don't talk much, do you?"

  She glanced at the friendly face of the trucker beside her. He'd picked her up just outside campus and, after giving her a good scolding for hitchhiking, agreed to give her a ride back to the bayou. He seemed like a nice man, and he'd accepted her story about her nonexistent car breaking down in a ditch. Considering how she looked—and smelled—it was a small wonder he didn't make her ride in the back with the frozen shrimp he was hauling north to Baton Rouge.

  All she had to do was hold on a few more minutes. A few more minutes, and she'd be home. She'd be safe. She'd never have to go back again.

  "Not much to say." She felt certain that she could shriek with rage until her lungs collapsed, but that wouldn't solve anything. Plus it would scare the daylights out of the trucker, and likely then she'd have to walk home.

  "You sure you don't want me to stop somewhere, honey, so you can get cleaned up and call a tow truck?" the man offered as they headed out of New Orleans. "Look like you could use a cup of coffee, too."

  If he stopped, she'd explode. She should know—she'd already done it once that evening. "No, sir, but thank you," she said. "My dad will take care of it. I just want to go home."

  "All right, then." He turned on his radio, and Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson started singing in duet about a good-hearted woman in love with a good-timing man. "Now, that's some real music," he said to her, tapping the wheel with his thumb in time with the song. "You can keep your Reba and your Garth Brooks—just gimme Waylon and Willie."

  The sound of a ear screeching to a halt outside brought Sable back to the present. Terri Vincent had opened the only window, but it was covered with a thick steel mesh bolted on all sides
to the frame. From the shadows on the door panel, it looked as though J. D. and his partner were standing right outside. Sable lifted a hand and rubbed the large bump on the back of her head.

  Maybe I can pretend to be sick, or faint.

  That was stupid, and it would never work—it never did on any of the cop dramas she'd watched on television. No, they would keep her here until she told them what they wanted to know, God help her. Her fingers slid down her neck, then up to the still-sensitive place on her jaw where J. D. had held her. She bruised easily and he'd probably left some marks. Her skin still tingled and ached from his touch.

  He's so angry.

  So was she. The moment he'd touched her, it had all come back—everything she had spent years trying to forget. The feel of his skin on hers, the way he used to touch her, as if he were an addict and her body were his drug of choice.

  But it hadn't been all sex. That night, outside his parents' magnificent home. Sitting on the porch swing holding hands, watching the stars come out. He'd teased her about not eating enough of his father's excellent food, and she'd confessed her confusion over the bewildering amount of utensils. He'd laughed and told her that he always mixed up the salad and dessert forks himself.

  She hadn't meant to say it, but it just burst out of her. Jean-Delano, I love you.

  He hadn't laughed. He'd lifted her onto his lap and held her, and he'd looked at her for a long time, like she was something rare and precious. Do you mean that? Really, you do?

  Sable lifted her head as the door opened. J. D. walked inside, this time without his partner. He wasn't the boy she loved back in school anymore. He was all business, a homicide detective intent on questioning a witness.

  Questioning her.

  Nausea rolled in her stomach as she thought of how she had stumbled over Marc's body, and the blood. How could she tell Jean-Del about that without revealing everything about her and Marc? Would J. D. believe her, even if she did confide in him?

  Ten years ago he'd been all too ready to condemn her. Have you lost your mind? How could you do that to my friends?

  No, she couldn't trust him. Not with this.

  "It's just you and me now." He came over and sat across from her, in the seat Sergeant Vincent had occupied. He sounded calm and professional, but an aura of something dark and violent radiated from him. "I want you to tell me everything that happened, from the time you arrived at the warehouse to when you escaped the fire."

  She avoided his gaze. "I went there to see the property. When I went inside, someone hit me from behind. That's all I remember."

  Frustration and anger flickered across his face; then his voice changed and softened a few degrees. "Did you see his face?"

  He still had a wonderful voice—smooth and deep, with the kind of warmth that stroked her like a gentle hand. For a moment, she was almost tempted to confide in him. Almost. "No."

  J. D. sat back, studying her for a minute. "You haven't been back to New Orleans since you left school. I would have heard about it."

  She stared at him. They hadn't seen each other in a decade; why would he care whether she'd come back to the city? Then she thought of Marc, and realized he must have known the Gambles—the LeClares and the Gambles were both old Creole families, and between them had more money than God.

  Her stomach, already knotted, clenched even tighter. They were going to crucify her for her relationship with Marc—and they'd make J. D. pound in the nails personally.

  He tried again. "How did you meet Marc LeClare?"

  "How did you know I was there?" she countered, stalling for time.

  "Fate. Dumb luck. Take your pick." He looked down at her hands. "Sable, whatever you're hiding, you can tell me. I can protect you."

  The way he had in college? She'd be better off dancing naked in front of a news camera. "I'm sorry, I don't remember anything else." The splinters in her palms shifted and stung as she curled her hands. "Can I go now?"

  "Let me see your hands." When she wouldn't, he reached across the table and took one gently but firmly by the wrist. "Open your fingers." He bent closer and turned her palm from right to left. "These look like wood splinters—are they?"

  "I guess." If he didn't stop touching her, she was going to climb straight up the walls.

  He went over to a cabinet, took out a small first aid kit, and brought it to the table. "Your palms aren't bruised. Did you grab some old wood inside the warehouse when you were trying to get out?" He pulled up a chair next to hers.

  She had been so desperate to get away from the fire that no pain and few details had registered at the time. "I think so. I remember some boards over a window."

  He took out a pair of tweezers, wiped the slanted ends with an alcohol swab, then took hold of her wrist again. She jerked a little as he tugged at the first sliver. "Hold still."

  "It hurts." No, it didn't. It was his hand, his fingers against her skin. His body, so close she could feel the heat coming through his clothes and hers. She could see the faint dark shadow along his jaw and his upper lip, the marked grooves of tension on either side of his mouth. She wanted to touch his skin to feel the rasp of his beard.

  He still has to shave twice a day.

  "You left Tulane, and you moved out of the city," he murmured as he extracted the first splinter and placed it in a little clear plastic bag. "Where did you go?"

  "Away." She'd lost her scholarship, of course, and it had taken another year before she'd managed to save enough from guiding swamp tours to go back to school. It had been different at L.S.U.; no one had known her, and no one had cared where she came from. In many ways it had been like being able to breathe for the first time in years—except that she had missed him terribly, even after a year of being apart.

  The same way she'd missed him every day since.

  He met her gaze. "Why?"

  Because I loved you too much. "I found a better school." She bit her lip as he drew another sliver of wood from her palm. His breath smelled like coffee and mint. "Why did you become a police officer? I thought you'd be in politics by now." That had been his mother's most fervent hope, according to what Sable recalled.

  "I did, too." His mouth curled on one side. "Evan's training horses up in Montana now." He switched hands and started on her other palm. "Corf s the city fire marshal."

  She'd never met Evan, but Cort and his mother had never approved of their relationship. Only J. D.'s father, Louis, had made an effort to be kind to her, and she had liked him a lot. "How is your dad?"

  "Older." He finished removing the last splinter and set the tweezers aside. "My mother wants him to retire and let one of my cousins run the restaurant, but Dad still goes in every day." He swabbed her palms again. "Why did you leave me?"

  The alcohol stung, but not as much as the question. She took in a sharp breath. "That's ancient history, J. D."

  "I was on my way to pick you up that night when I ran into my friends. I couldn't believe what they said you'd done to them. I went after you, and saw you get into that truck." When she tried to stand, he latched on to both of her wrists. "I know you heard me when I caught up with you. Why did you hide from me?"

  Because your friends had tortured and humiliated me. Because I was eighteen years old and scared and stupid in love with you. "It was a long time ago, Jean-Del." She hadn't meant to use his name, but it hung between them, a ghost from that other time. His eyes narrowed and focused on her mouth. "Let it go. Let me go."

  "No." He shifted closer. "Not this time."

  Terri Vincent came in, carrying a phone, and plugged it into an empty wall jack before setting it in front of Sable. "You can make your phone call, Ms. Duchesne." She looked at J. D. "Let's get some coffee and give the lady some privacy."

  J. D. cursed under his breath as he stalked out of the room.

  Sable waited until Terri left and locked the door before she dialed the number to Martin's Country Store with trembling fingers.

  "Allô, Martin's?" It was one of Hilaire's cashiers
.

  "Je voudrais parler à Hilaire," Sable said. Please, please, Hil, be there.

  The girl was new and didn't recognize her voice. "C'est de la part de qui?"

  "Sable Duchesne, her cousin—je suis la cousine de Hilaire."

  "Ah, oui—un instant, s'il vous plait."

  A moment later Hilaire Martin's cheerful voice came over the line. "So, how did it go? Is the place big enough? He take you somewhere ritzy for lunch?"

  Sable's hand tightened on the receiver. "Hil, listen to me. I'm in trouble."

  She gave her cousin the bare details of what had happened. The other end of the line went completely silent until she reached the part about Jean-Delano being the detective in charge of the case.

  "C'est rien que de la merde!" Hilaire, who knew every detail about what had happened to Sable in college, was outraged.

  "This is not bullshit, Hil. It's real." Tears welled up again, but she blinked them back. "Marc's dead."

  "Ah, chère. I'm so sorry." Her cousin's sweet voice hardened as she added, "You just tell them keep that no-good stuck-up fils de pute away from you!"

  Sable rubbed her fingertips against the growing ache in her temple. "I can't do that. He's in charge of the case and I'm the only witness."

  "What difference does that make?" Hilaire made a rude sound. "Jean-Del, working for the poh-lice. Now I heard everything."

  Sable knew J. D. and his partner would be back any minute, so she hurried out the rest. "My car got burned; I need someone to come and get me. And don't tell my father a word about this."

  "He listen to that news radio station all the time on the boat, you know," Hil reminded her. "He hear about this, he will go crazy."

  That was true enough—if he heard Isabel had been in a fire on the radio, nothing would keep Remy Duchesne from coming after her.

  "You're right. Check and see that he's taken his pills before you tell him. Make sure he understands that I'm not hurt." Her head was really throbbing now. "And hurry, please, Hil." She hung up the phone.

  I want to go home. Home, where she would be safe— the only place she'd thought she'd be safe after what happened at Tulane.