by Jenna Mills
What did he see? Renee wondered. Heavy storm clouds gathering beyond the cypress trees, like she did? Or something different, something no one else could envision.
"You're still here?"
She blinked, saw that he had turned and was moving toward her. "Either that or you're hallucinating."
"My ghosts are my business, Ms.…" He destroyed what remained of her personal space. "I don't believe I caught your name."
"No, you were too busy playing big, bad wolf."
An odd light lit in his eyes. "Do I know you?"
Her heart gave a quick, cruel kick. "That's a question only you can answer," she said with a calm that pleased her. Then she took a leap of faith.
"Renee," she said. She'd known this man and all that he represented would be her greatest challenge, but nothing, not months of preparation, nor layers of scar tissue, had prepared her for the rush of being close to him. "Renee Fox."
"Well, then, Ms. Fox." His gaze flicked down the length of her body in a purely male gesture. He made the return journey slowly, thoroughly, leaving her warm and flushed, as though he'd touched her with those big hands of his. "Shall I walk you to your car?"
"I can manage on my own." Had for a long time. Without another word, she turned and strode toward the rental, refusing to let his less-than-enthusiastic greeting deter her.
"The highway's just a few miles down the road." The falsely friendly words echoed on the breeze. "Don't look back and you'll be in New Orleans before sundown."
Renee ignored the sting and kept walking. No way was she going to give him the satisfaction of looking back. Coming to Bayou de Foi jeopardized the life she'd been quietly building, but she could no longer live without knowing what had really happened the night this man was found with his lover's blood on his hands. She would find out, and she would avenge.
Then, and only then, would she be free from the nightmares that made it impossible for her to sleep with the lights off.
Cain watched the woman slide into the nondescript white rental car and pull onto the narrow road, then grabbed his mobile phone and stabbed a series of numbers.
As always, his cousin answered on the second ring. "Damn, you've got to quit freaking me out like that."
Cain couldn't remember the last time Gabe had answered the phone with a simple hello. An assistant distract attorney, Gabe always got straight to business—unless he was playing poker. Then he could tap-dance with the best of them. "Like what?"
"I was about to call you. There's no way I'll be at Ruby's by six. The D.A. just called a quickie for the end of the day, but he doesn't know the meaning of the word."
An old pickup pulling a boat rumbled up the road and momentarily blocked Cain's view of the woman's car. When the truck had passed, the white sedan was gone. "Neither will I."
"Good," Gabe said, and Cain could see his cousin, who preferred T-shirts but had to wear suits, kicked back at his desk, folders scattered around him, dead coffee in his cup, an empty ash tray next to his laptop. "Then, we can just—"
"I'm not coming."
"—meet later on…" A pause, then a muttered curse. "What do you mean you're not coming? We've been waiting months for Oncle to make a move. You can't bug out on me now."
Cain continued to stare at the scarcely traveled road leading to the back of his property. Almost two years had passed since his career with the NOPD crashed down around him, but the instincts that had made him a good cop remained razor sharp. His former partner called it his spider sense, the tingle at the base of his neck that warned danger lay near. The reaction was always the same, a buzz through his body, a disturbance, like a low-pressure system sweeping in fast. The white sedan could no longer be seen, but the hum remained. There was something off about Renee Fox, like a song played in the wrong key or a photograph taken in the wrong light.
Secrets. Half-truths and outright lies. They swirled around the woman like a shroud, reminding him of the mist that hovered above the stagnant waters of the Manchac Swamp.
"Something's come up in Bayou de Foi," he said. "Something I need to keep an eye on."
Someone.
He'd sensed her before he'd seen her. Someone on his land, someone who didn't belong. The locals knew better than to trespass on Robichaud property, and on the rare occasion he did find people, they wore ratty sneakers and carried fishing poles. He'd never run across a woman in a designer suit and high heels. For a long moment he'd just watched her standing there, long dark hair whipping in the breeze and a faraway gaze in her eyes.
It wasn't until she'd turned toward the swing that he'd realized she wasn't just another apparition, a figment of fantasy he'd indulged entirely too long.
Savannah wasn't coming back.
It didn't matter how many times he waited in the clearing or thought he heard her laughter or smelled her perfume. It didn't matter how many times they still made love during the long, dark hours of the night. He knew that now. He understood the evidence.
Savannah was gone.
Cain glanced back at the infestation of cannas surrounding the cottage. Damn things wouldn't go away. They just kept coming back, thicker and more vibrant with the passing of time. Maybe this year he'd try poison.
"Cain? You there?"
Frowning, he ripped himself from the past. "What?"
"That's what I want to know—what the hell is going on?"
He'd finally lost his mind, that's what. He'd found a beautiful woman alone, and instead of toying with her as he once would have, he'd deliberately growled her off his property.
"Nothing you need to worry about. Best case, I'm there tomorrow morning. Worst case, tomorrow night." He headed toward the trees, hoping to reach the remains of an old pier while the light was still right. "What's the word on the street?"
"Same. Oncle's back, stronger than before and looking to make someone pay for what happened last time. D'Ambrosia's got his ear to the street but nothing specific yet."
"What about Prejean?" Seven weeks before, Cain's former partner, Alec Prejean, left his wife and turned in his badge, then dropped off the face of the planet. "Any word?"
"Nothing new."
The bad feeling in the pit of Cain's stomach drilled deeper. It wasn't like by-the-books Alec to just … disappear. Or to leave the wife to whom he'd been devoted. "Christ."
"No shit."
Cain reached up and slapped away a cluster of vines. "So much for being dead and buried," he muttered, then wound down the call and tromped into the woods.
Oncle was back. Prejean was missing. And now a secretive woman had appeared on his land. He'd be a fool to chalk it all up to coincidence.
Assistant District Attorney Gabriel Fontenot hung up the phone and pressed his fingers to his temples. Didn't help. The pressure still pounded against his skull, blurring his vision to the point where he wondered why he'd thrown down two grand for Lasik surgery.
"Marjorie," he said, pressing the intercom button. "Tell Vince I'll be there in five."
Frowning, he loosened his tie and leaned back, wondering what in God's name was keeping Cain from New Orleans. His cousin had been itching to settle the score ever since he'd been railroaded out of town. But he couldn't settle it against a ghost, so he'd been forced to wait. And wait.
For months, there'd been nothing. No rumors, no chatter, no whispers. The mysterious Oncle had vanished the second Cain intercepted a sizable shipment of money on its way out of the country. It had been a crippling blow to Oncle's organization, but rather than receive credit and commendations, Cain had taken the fall right along with Oncle. Because of Savannah.
More than just a woman disappeared that night in the swamp. A vital part of his cousin had, as well.
Frowning, Gabe glanced across the stack of folders on his desk, past a snapshot of his mother and sister, to a framed black-and-white taken at Pat O'Brien's two years before. They'd been celebrating that night, high on life and love and the lead that promised to bring down Oncle's crime syndicate. Cain had ne
ver been one to smile casually, but even he'd been animated, brought to life by the break in the case and the woman sharing his bed. In the picture, he had Savannah tucked against his side while lifting a beer for a toast. Grinning, Gabe also had his mug extended, while keeping Val close to his side.
Val.
Gabe leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, but he could still see Val as she'd been back then, laughing and vibrant and … happy. It was hard to believe how quickly things could change, how viciously the events in someone else's life could affect your own.
Val didn't deserve the fallout from Savannah's disappearance. She hadn't deserved to pay the price for actions and decisions that had nothing to do with her.
They'd drifted. Val had grown to resent Gabe's long hours, the endless meetings that he'd been unable to discuss with her. She'd accused him of being obsessed, and he'd had a damn hard time defending himself. She felt shut out, she told him. Alone. Left behind. And she had been.
"Gabriel," came Marjorie's molasses-tinged, maternal voice from the intercom. "It's been five minutes."
He opened his eyes and glanced at the Rolex Val had given him for his thirtieth birthday three years before, then at the picture. "I'll be right there."
But Val might not be. She'd made that clear.
The hotel room looked as if it belonged in a pre-Civil War plantation home, not a sleepy bayou town southwest of New Orleans. The furniture alone, a massive mahogany bedroom suite, must have cost a small fortune. It wouldn't be hard to imagine a Southern belle sleeping in the big poster bed or primping at the dainty vanity. "This is gorgeous."
The hotel manager breezed in beside Renee. "Isn't it though?" Millie Comeaux, a petite Creole woman with dark hair and dark eyes, had bustled to life the second Renee walked through the door and hadn't stopped chattering since. "When the Robichauds do something, they do it right."
Renee stripped the surprise from her face before turning toward the armoire. When opportunity knocked… "The Robichauds?"
Millie threw open the doors, revealing a television and DVD player. "Oh, I just assumed you knew the Robichauds—everyone does. This is their town, you know. Their parish, really."
Their everything. "Yes, I—"
"When they bought the hotel, they tore it down and rebuilt from scratch. Didn't want a run-of-the-mill hotel, said people had a certain expectation of the Deep South, and it was their duty to give it to them."
Duty and expectation. They were odd words in conjunction with former police detective Cain Robichaud, but with his Uncle Etienne serving in the United States senate, Renee guessed the family was trying to scrub their image clean.
The hotel was impressive. If any of the senator's cronies chose to visit and didn't want to stay in the Big Easy, they could stay in style in Bayou de Foi. The hotel's facade resembled a Greek Revival plantation, complete with Corinthian columns, a wraparound porch and an upstairs verandah. Bushy ferns hung from the exterior rafters, while overflowing barrels of petunias flanked the front door. Inside, the reception area spilled into a foyer, where a curved staircase led to the second level. A massive crystal chandelier oversaw it all.
Millie crossed the room to fiddle with the heavy brocade curtains, drawing Renee's attention from the furniture to the walls. The pale salmon color complemented the bedding and offset the black-and-white artwork. Three gilded silver frames embraced photographs of Louisiana sunsets, stark, haunting images accentuating the play of shadows and light.
One featured a bayou, with two small children in baggy overalls standing with their backs to the camera, looking at the sleepy canal of water, fishing poles at the ready.
There was a shot of the marsh, with a skeletal cypress tree in focus and everything else artistically blurred, while the sun sat low on the horizon.
But it was the third photo that stole Renee's breath.
In a palette of grays, a row of crumbling columns stretched toward the hazy sky. A cluster of graceful oaks stood in the background. The perfect symmetry of the columns made it clear they'd once flanked a home, but the brick and mortar were no longer there.
"Breathtaking, isn't it?" Millie asked with a sigh. "They were taken by a local."
"He certainly makes an impression."
"Keeps a gallery down on Pecan Street
, he does, if you'd like to take any of his work back with you."
Renee found a polite smile, but knew Cain's gallery was the last place she belonged. It was bad enough she'd had to step into his world. His intensity bled into his photographs, even without the use of color. Through the lens of a man who'd once frequented grisly crime scenes, even birds and trees and sunsets looked stark and uncompromising.
"Thanks," she said, because it was the right thing to do. "I may have to take a look, though I'm pretty sure I'm the last person he wants to see."
"What on earth makes you say that?" Millie asked, turning. "Pretty girl like you, I'd think Cain would be more than happy to show you his work."
Showing her the highway was more likely. "Somehow I doubt that. I ran into him out by the old cottage and when I mentioned Savannah—"
The hotel manager sucked in a sharp breath. "Savannah?"
Renee chose her words carefully. As deep as the hunger for information ran, the need for discretion ran even deeper. "I was trying to explain why I'd come to town."
"Ah, child." Millie's voice was thick, tense. Sad. "That explains it then. Nobody speaks that girl's name to Cain. For all intents and purposes, Savannah Trahan never existed."
Renee had known coming here would be hard. She'd realized she might learn things she didn't want to know. But the matter-of-fact words landed like a quick punch to the stomach.
"Has he come to hate her that much?"
"It has nothing to do with hate, nothing at all." Millie glanced at the door before continuing. She almost looked … nervous. "Their affair was the talk of the town. Everyone knew they were carrying on in that cottage at the back of his property."
"Then why doesn't Cain want her name spoken?"
Millie's eyes went dark as she did a quick, shaky sign of the cross. "Because he killed her."
CHAPTER TWO
There was a vase of roses sitting atop a white lace doily. Renee stared at the crimson-tinged yellow petals and the dark green leaves, the long, thorn-lined stems dipping into the blown glass. A quick glance in the mirror revealed her expression to be one of careful, practiced indifference, revealing not one trace of the chill seeping through her. Because he killed her.
Four words. That's all they were. Cold, clinical, to the point. Words Renee had heard before, insidious claims largely responsible for drawing her to Bayou de Foi.
The media had an appetite for scandal, the darker, the juicier, the better. When one of their own was involved—believed murdered by her cop lover—the fascination escalated into a feeding frenzy. Everywhere Renee looked, she'd been confronted by the rumors and allegations and so-called exposés, but the black, typeset words had never quite seemed real. It had been like reading a disturbing story. But here now, hearing the words spoken aloud, by someone who'd lived through the ordeal, stripped away the bandage of denial.
"Killed her? Are you sure?"
The hotel manager frowned. "They say he was just fooling around with her to keep tabs on her investigation. Even Eddy—that's his uncle—said their affair was just a physical kind of thing. Lust."
Lust. The word sounded so dirty. "Is that what Cain said?"
"As far as I know, he never said one way or the other."
"So no one really knows. It could have been more."
"Could haves don't matter," Millie shot back. "All that matters is that girl vanished and Cain was found with her blood on his hands."
The image chilled. "You really think he did it?"
Millie closed her eyes, opened them a long moment later. "I've known that boy since he was knee-high to a nutria. I saw him grow up. He gave me this job. He's always been good to me. It's hard to acc
ept that he could kill in cold blood…"
But all the evidence indicated that he had. Notes from Savannah's apartment indicated her investigation into corruption within the New Orleans Police Department was pointing at her lover. Then she vanished. Seven weeks later her car was found submerged in Manchac Swamp.
Savannah Trahan was never seen again.
Renee turned toward the photograph of the solitary columns and felt the ache deep in her bones.
"You never really know what's beneath the surface." And that was the rub. Everyone had their secrets, buried deep, little half-truths and lies that shaped them into who they were—and the mirage they wanted the world to see. "You might think you know, hope you know, but at the end of the day, the only person you ever really know is yourself."
Millie sighed. "Cain's not someone you want to cross, hon. That boy has never been one to forgive."
"Forgive?" Renee twisted toward her. "Forgive who?"
The widening of Millie's eyes was the only warning she got. "I'd say that's between my nephew and Father Voissin," came a low masculine voice, and on a rush of adrenaline Renee turned to find a tall man dominating the doorway, broad of shoulder and long legged, without a trace of middle-aged spread at his waist. Silver dominated his hair, but enough dark remained to hint at its original color.
Cain's uncle was far more attractive in person than in the angry photos that had once filled the press.
"Ed—Sheriff…" Millie's voice wobbled on the word. "I didn't realize you were stopping by."
"Non?" he drawled, and though his eyes glimmered with potent sexuality, he sounded more like a parent indulging a forgetful child. "Weren't you the one who told Becca we have a visitor?"
Renee realized her mistake immediately, the foolishness of thinking she could make a single move without a Robichaud breathing down her neck.
"Well, yes." Millie was saying. Flushing, she glanced from Renee to the sheriff. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize—"
