Or die trying.
Oh, God, she didn’t want to die. She loved her life. She loved her sister, her parents, her job, her friends. She loved the people she worked with—Charlotte and her sisters and…
No, she didn’t love Mac. She’d loved dancing with him, and she’d loved kissing him, and she loved talking to him and looking at him, but damn it, where was he when she needed him? Some security expert. He was probably busy reviewing her e-mails in search of a threat to her life. Or he would be, if there were any electricity. And meanwhile, here she was entering Jackson Square with a gun jammed into her side.
Not surprisingly, the park was filled with people, and moonlight sifted through the thin clouds, replacing some of the light the decorative streetlamps would have provided if they’d been working. “Where the hell are we?” Andrea asked, nudging Julie with the gun.
“Jackson Square,” Julie told her.
“Where’s the river?”
“We haven’t reached it yet.” Julie worked her way through the crowds, searching for something, anything that might resemble a chance to escape. That group of teenagers chugging beer didn’t look promising. The woman doing a suggestive dance atop a park bench? No help there.
Save yourself. Julie limped toward the statue of Andrew Jackson at the center of the park, her bruised toe throbbing. She thought the crowd looked a little thinner by the statue. She’d have room to move there. Room to fight back.
“Julie, I’m warning you—if you’re screwing around with me…”
A sudden rush of rage overtook Julie. “If I’m screwing around with you, what? You’re going to shoot me?” She spun around and slammed her arm into the side of Andrea’s head.
The gun sounded like a bomb exploding inside Julie’s skull as it fired.
THE BEAM OF MAC’S FLASHLIGHT picked up another pink feather on the sidewalk just beyond the hotel entry’s awning. Julie’s boa hadn’t looked so flimsy that it would be leaking feathers. She must have pulled them out. She was leaving him a trail.
He continued down the street, his gaze fixed to the ground as he searched for more feathers. With so many people tramping along the sidewalk, and only a little moonlight and the occasional glimmer from inside a building with a working generator to light his way, finding pink feathers would be next to impossible.
For Julie’s sake, he had to accomplish the impossible.
He couldn’t believe his stupidity. He’d been so sure her old boss would come after her. That was what her sister had feared, and her fear had made sense. Perry was the guy Julie had sent to prison.
But just as the parole officer had kept assuring them, Perry was being a good boy back in New York, and meanwhile one of Julie’s fellow models had sneaked into the Twelfth Night party on the arm of that idiot Alvin Grote and dragged Julie away. Mac didn’t have time to beat himself up for having failed to imagine this scenario. But once Julie was safe, he’d do a nice, long number on himself.
For now he’d concentrate on feathers. The beam of his flashlight picked up another tuft of pink just around the corner. Trying to move fast in a crowd oozing along at the speed of mud was a challenge—but Mac’s goal for the moment was to accomplish the impossible.
And, impossibly enough, he saw a small, trampled wad of pink feathers.
The trail led him to the parking lot where hotel staff left their cars, and his heart squeezed tight. Julie’s car was gone.
He spat out a curse. If that skinny blond psychopath had forced Julie to drive off somewhere, Mac would never find them.
Do the impossible, he ordered himself. He darted to his own car, grabbed the licensed pistol he kept stashed under the floor mat behind the clutch pedal and tucked it into the waistband of his slacks, then ran back to the parking lot’s entry and searched the street. Which way would they have driven?
How could they have driven? The cars in the road were moving more slowly than the pedestrians swarming past them, taunting the drivers by waltzing back and forth across the street and impeding their already snail-like progress.
The kidnapper would probably have wanted to leave the city with Julie, or at least get her out of the French Quarter. Ignoring the hooting, singing and shouting around him, he took a chance and headed north.
Two blocks up, he found Julie’s car abandoned beside a hydrant and unlocked, with the key still in the ignition. He searched the interior—no blood but no clues, either. He grabbed the keys, locked the car and searched the area for a feather.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered under his breath. The woman was smart enough to leave him a trail. She was smart enough to figure out a way to get out of her car. She’d better be smart enough to have left him another signal. He’d been too stupid to see the danger she’d stepped into, so she had to be smart enough for both of them.
A break in the crowd revealed a mangled pink feather lodged in a crack in the pavement.
Away from the river, toward Jackson Square. Mac picked up his pace, pushing past people, several times grabbing someone and asking, “Did you see a gorgeous woman with a pink feather boa walking this way?” Two pedestrians shook their heads. Up ahead he heard the soulful wail of a saxophone, and he elbowed his way through the crowds until he spotted the player. Reuben.
Mac charged toward Reuben and nearly knocked the guy’s sax out of his hand. “Hey, Mac! I lost my stage—no juice at the club,” he said. “Thought I’d entertain the crowds out here, pick up some spare change. What d’ya think? Are folks more generous during a blackout?”
Mac didn’t have time for banter. “I’m looking for a tall, gorgeous woman in a pink boa,” he said. “Have you seen her?”
“That lady you were with the other day? Man, she’s a looker. Yeah, I saw her headin’ toward Jackson Square.”
“Thanks. I’ll catch you later.” Mac forged back into the crowd.
Jackson Square loomed a few blocks ahead, a dark opening in the midst of dark buildings. His eyes fixed on the park, he tripped over something in his path. Glancing down, he saw a spike-heeled black sandal.
Julie’s shoes. Reuben had been right. Mac grabbed the sandal at his feet, then located its mate a few steps away and grabbed it, as well. Smart, smart woman. She knew she could move faster in bare feet than in those sexy stilts. He stuffed them into his jacket pockets, the heels sticking out, and continued toward the square.
A festive atmosphere enveloped the park. People pranced around with glow sticks and toy light sabers, chanting and rapping and laughing too loudly. The predominant aroma was booze with undertones of marijuana.
He collared a giggling teenage boy. “Have you seen a tall, gorgeous woman here?” he asked.
“I’ve seen a million of ’em,” the boy said unhelpfully.
“Really tall,” Mac persevered. “Taller than you. She had a pink feather boa.”
The kid shrugged and Mac shoved him away. He accosted another, slightly older fellow who was equally uninformative. Then he tried a woman.
“Oh, yeah—two of them. A blonde and a brunette. Coulda stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine.”
“Where?” Mac demanded. “Where did you see them?”
“Over by the statue, I think. If you strike out with them, honey, you come back and find me. I don’t have any plans, and it’s gonna be a long night.”
“Thanks.” He was grateful enough to spare her a smile and a pat on the arm before he raced toward the statue.
Before he reached it, he heard the gunshot.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JULIE’S HAND AND WRIST ached from slugging Andrea. Her knee was scraped raw from the pavement. But wherever that bullet had gone, it hadn’t hit her.
She shook her head to clear her vision. All around her she heard voices screaming —“A gun, she’s got a gun! Catch her!”—and the pounding of footsteps as people ran. The world was so damn dark, and everything had happened at blinding speed. But she didn’t see any bodies on the ground, oozing blood. Andrea’s gun must have missed t
he bystanders.
Despite her dizziness, Julie pushed herself to her feet and looked around. Andrea’s spiky platinum-tipped hair was visible in the stampede of people. A few were racing away, but more were running toward Andrea, getting between her and Julie. Julie wanted to shout at them to try to stop Andrea, but her voice wouldn’t work, and Andrea vanished as the crowd closed in on her.
Powerful hands clamped onto Julie’s shoulders from behind, and she let out a shriek and tried to jerk away. “Shh, Julie. It’s me.”
Mac.
She wanted to collapse in his arms, burst into tears, let him take over. But she gathered her wits and refused to blubber. She wasn’t the sort of woman who depended on men to take over.
He turned her toward him and scrutinized her face, his expression a blend of fear and relief and unadorned rage. “You’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” Julie said. Not a complete lie, she decided. Physically she was fine. Emotionally she was battered. But the mere sight of Mac’s dark, worried eyes, his delectable mouth, the harsh line of his jaw and the warmth of his hands on her… Fine would do for now.
He touched his lips to hers, and she felt a lot more fine. Then he pulled back. “Where did she go?”
“I don’t know, maybe that way.” Julie pointed in the direction where she’d last seen Andrea’s bobbing head.
“Don’t move,” Mac ordered before releasing her and forging into the crowd.
Like hell she wouldn’t move. For one thing, she was as enraged as Mac, as determined to stop Andrea. For another, Julie had to be with Mac right now. The moment he’d removed his hands from her, she’d stopped feeling fine. She wanted his nearness. And although she wished she didn’t need it, she did.
Besides, her sandals were sticking out of his jacket pockets, and she wanted them back.
She followed in his wake. People seemed to know enough to clear a path for him. Maybe it was his fierce expression, maybe his determined strides, maybe the aura he emanated. Whatever it was, the crowds instinctively backed away and let him through.
Ignoring her stinging knee and throbbing toe, Julie trailed close behind.
He finally caught up to Andrea near the gate leading out to Royal Street. She was racing to escape the park, her purse dangling from her wrist on a strap. Where was her gun? Could she fire it again? Could she fire it at Mac? If she did, if he got hurt… Julie was not a violent person, but she could easily kill Andrea with her bare hands if Andrea hurt Mac.
He launched himself at Andrea, gracefully avoiding the crowds that had stopped to gawk at the confrontation, and brought her down with a clean tackle. She let out a scream, and someone yelled, “Get the police!”
“Yeah, do that,” Mac shouted over his shoulder as he pinned Andrea to the ground. She writhed under him, and he slammed her hand against the pavement. The gun went flying from her fingers.
Julie pounced on it before anyone else could pick it up.
Mac shifted his weight on Andrea until he could force her hands behind her back. “Give me your boa,” he called to Julie.
The poor boa was nearly bald, a featherless strip of knitted pink cording. Surely, given the circumstances, Creighton would forgive her for destroying the thing. She promised herself she’d buy him a new one.
Mac took the scrawny boa from her and used it to tie Andrea’s hands behind her back. “All right,” he said, his voice tight but calm as he eased off her. “Did anyone call the police?”
“They’re all directing traffic on Canal Street,” someone shouted.
“Great,” Mac muttered, pushing himself to his feet and then helping Andrea up. She glowered at him, her bony shoulders straining against her improvised shackles. The two words she uttered were far from ladylike.
“I believe the correct term is ‘getting biblical,’” he said, shooting Julie a faint smile. “You’ve got her gun?”
Julie lifted it up for him to see. She’d never held a gun before. This one was heavier than she’d expected, a dense sculpture of lethal metal. Holding it filled her with a weird mix of potency and dread.
One hand clamped firmly around Andrea’s skinny arm, Mac extended the other and Julie placed the gun in it. It looked so small against his large palm.
He shifted his jacket to slide the gun into his trouser pocket. Julie glimpsed another, larger gun tucked into his waistband. Where had that come from? The hotel security staff didn’t carry guns.
She’d ask Mac later. Once her mind settled down, once her bloodstream was no longer polluted with adrenaline, once her pulse stopped hammering in her temples. There would be plenty of time for questions later.
Together the threesome made their slow way out of the park and back toward the parking lot. Julie felt her respiration slow. Her chest stopped hurting with every breath. Her throat muscles gradually remembered how to swallow.
She’d nearly died. Andrea Crowley had tried to kidnap her with the purpose of killing her. Why? Because Julie had helped to put a bad guy in jail? A shiver racked her body, causing her legs to wobble beneath her. She was glad Mac and Andrea were ahead of her. She didn’t want them to see her falling apart.
They reached the parking lot and he headed directly to his car. After unlocking it, he shoved Andrea into the backseat and strapped her in. “My arms hurt,” she whined.
“I’m real sorry about that,” he drawled sarcastically before slamming the back door.
“You have no right to tie me up like this,” Andrea squawked as Julie opened the passenger-side door. “You aren’t the police. I could have you charged with kidnapping. And assault.”
“Be my guest,” Mac drawled as he settled in behind the wheel.
Julie sank into the leather cushion of the front passenger seat. All her strength drained from her. She felt limp, exhausted.
“What happened to your leg?” Mac asked.
She glanced at him, astonished by the tenderness in his voice. Lowering her gaze, she noticed the blood oozing from her knee. “I guess I scraped it,” she said.
He reached into the console between their seats and pulled out a tissue. She expected him to hand it to her, but instead he leaned across the gearshift and gently pressed the tissue to her wound. “We’ll get you patched up as soon as I’ve handed our friend over to the police. Any other injuries?”
She flexed her hand, which no longer hurt. Her toe was still sore, but she decided not to tell him about that. He seemed so unnecessarily worried. “Really, Mac, I’m fine,” she said, wishing her voice sounded a little stronger.
“You are amazing,” he whispered, then straightened up and started the engine. “I found your car,” he said as he maneuvered out of the lot. “You left your key in the ignition. I took it and locked up.”
“I think I parked illegally.”
“I’ve got friends on the force,” he said. “A parking ticket is an easy thing to fix. How did you get out of the car, once she got you in it?”
Julie permitted herself a smile. “I think I told you my brakes squeak. I convinced her the squeak was an engine malfunction and the car was dying.”
He laughed. “Brilliant.”
“It wasn’t brilliant,” she argued. “It was sheer desperation. I didn’t know what I was doing, I—” She broke off, aware of how close she was to crying.
“You told me your car was dying,” Andrea grumbled in the backseat. “You bitch, you lied about your car!”
Mac snorted and shook his head, then let go of the gearshift and squeezed Julie’s hand. He said nothing, for which she was thankful.
The drive to the police station took an eternity. If cops were directing traffic on Canal Street, Julie didn’t see them. The traffic resembled downtown rush hour to the tenth degree. Only headlights illuminated the streets; the lack of working traffic signals at the intersections made driving through them perilous. The city spread around Mac’s car like a vast ocean of black with massive schools of people swimming through it.
But eventually they arrived at the c
ity’s main police headquarters. Mac seemed to know his way around the building, which either hadn’t lost power or had several generators keeping the lights aglow and the computers humming.
The night sergeant who stood behind the main desk greeted Mac by name. “Hey, Mac—looks like you’ve got more than you can handle tonight,” he joked, eyeing Julie and Andrea with a bit more interest than Julie appreciated.
“We’ve got a bad situation here, Joe,” Mac said. “You’d better call the D.A.’s office. And we’ll need a doctor.”
“I’m fine, Mac. Really,” Julie insisted. “All I need is a sink and a Band-Aid.”
The sergeant signaled a female officer from the sparsely populated squad room. “Come with me, honey,” the woman said, leading Julie away from Mac.
Separated from him, she once again acknowledged how soothing his presence was and how much she would have preferred to stay with him. She tried to listen politely while the officer ushered her down the hall and rambled on about how most of the squad was out dealing with the city-wide power outage, helping people stuck in elevators and assisting with medical emergencies. “I’ll tell you this—a lot of new babies are gonna be arriving nine months from now,” the woman said with a snort. “What a night. Never a dull moment in New Orleans. You look like you’ve had a time of it.”
Julie pushed open the door to the women’s washroom and thanked the officer for having brought her there.
“I’ll find you a first-aid kit,” she said. “You get yourself cleaned up.”
Alone in the bathroom, Julie peeled off her shredded stockings and threw them in the trash can. Then she lifted her leg across one of the sink basins and washed her knee, which looked worse than it was. She examined her toe and found the nail blue but unbroken.
She dabbed her knee with a wet paper towel to wipe off the excess blood, then tossed the towel into the trash can with her stockings. Glimpsing her reflection in the mirror above the sink, she cringed. She looked like hell, her hair half up and half down, her dress wrinkled, her cheeks tearstained. Where had those tears come from?
In the Dark Page 20
