KILLING ME SOFTLY

by Jenna Mills

  She had a new face, she knew that. New hair color. New eye color. A new voice, a new name. Even a new way of walking. She'd worked tirelessly to make sure no one connected her with the woman she'd been. It was the only way to guarantee her safety, but the longer the charade went on, the more unsettling it became.

  The water stopped, and in her mind's eye she could see Cain stepping from the shower and reaching for a towel…

  Stay away. That's what the reporter in her demanded. Stay away from Cain. But that was one command the woman didn't know how to follow, not when simply being in the same room with him brought a song to her blood. It was like spontaneous springtime, everything inside her bursting into full, desperate bloom at the same time. The craving was still there, the need and the desire.

  Because there was another truth she'd overlooked.

  Life had gone on for the people of Bayou de Foi. But not for her. For her, it was all just yesterday. Her love affair with Cain. Her brother's murder. The attack. In coming to New Orleans, it was like stepping into a life trapped almost two years in the past, and though she knew the danger, every chance she got, she found herself seeking out Cain.

  Throat tight, she crossed to the small bathroom and turned on the cold water, splashed it against her face. She was still standing there when her mobile phone rang.

  Grabbing a towel, she ran it over her face and hurried into the bedroom, picked up the flip-phone. "Talk to me." The wince was automatic. She'd not answered a call with those three words since the afternoon the nervous rookie cop had called, promising her explosive information about her brother's death.

  "You that gal with True Crime?"

  She tensed. "This is Renee Fox. Who am I speaking with?"

  "Dey're after me," the man said. "Saw me talking with you in the alley, scared I told you something I wasn't supposed to."

  "Travis?" Her mind raced. She'd slipped him her mobile phone number, but the last she'd heard he and his sidekick were still missing. "Who's after you?"

  "No," he whispered away from the phone. "I know what I'm doing." Then he said to her, "The same people who killed yer friend."

  Renee noticed the difference immediately: the maniacal, drunken slur to his voice was gone, replaced by an edge of urgency. "And now you think they're after you?"

  "I know dey are," he said. "The sheriff warned us this would happen if we said anything, but I can't keep living like this. I cain't hold quiet when I know what happened to Savannah."

  Her grip on the phone tightened. "Travis, what are you talking about?"

  "Someone needs to know," he said, and his voice slipped on the words. "Before dey get me, too."

  "No one's going to get you."

  "There's a fishing camp a couple of miles off the highway. You'll pass a gas station—Al's, he closed up years ago but there's still a sign out front, an old pump—you'll want to turn three-quarters of a mile later. Take that road until it dead-ends, then go right. That'll take you straight to the cabin."

  She knew the spot. Cain had taken her there one afternoon for a so-called fishing lesson—they'd done very little fishing.

  "Come alone," he said. "Make sure no one follows you."

  The line went dead.

  Renee tilted her head and took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Travis wasn't someone she'd known before. She had no experience to call on other than their encounter a few nights ago. Now she had to wonder. He'd sounded oddly … sincere. And he was clearly scared spitless.

  Class clowns and town drunks, she'd learned, were often gold mines of information. While no one took them seriously, they watched and heard everything. Decision made, she untied the robe and headed for the bathroom.

  The loud knock stopped her. "Open up, Renee."

  She absorbed the voice, the cadence, let it wash through her like an infusion of hot moonlight. "I'll be downstairs in a few minutes."

  "The door, belle amie. Open it."

  Her heart kicked, hard. In the beginning she'd bristled when Cain barked out commands, but then the shadow dance had slowed and she'd glimpsed the man behind the hard-ass detective, the passion that fired his blood, and the bristle had smoothed into a flood of anticipation. Because she'd discovered a secret.

  The belligerence wasn't a form of control, but of fear. And it seduced like nothing else ever had.

  "This better be good," she protested as she opened the door.

  The sight of him was almost unbearable. His dark hair was damp and wavy, his shirt unbuttoned, his jaw unshaved. He looked exactly like he had after the last time they'd made love, when they'd woken up together, dressed together, gone back to bed. When they'd gone their separate ways an hour later, she'd never imagined it was forever.

  His gaze dropped from her face to her chest, down to her waist, where the robe was slipping open. "You do have a way of opening doors," he muttered with slow appreciation.

  She grabbed the sash and yanked the ends into a quick knot. "Somehow I don't think you banged on my door to steal a peek."

  He laughed. "Mais, cher. You never know what a man like me might try to steal."

  Her lips wanted to twitch. She didn't let them.

  "Mais non," he conceded. "No matter what the sight of you in that robe does to my imagination, that isn't why I'm here." He moved into the room and closed the door. "I'm here because I want to know what Travis told you."

  Cain eased off the gas and glanced at Renee, saw that she'd barely moved in the fifteen minutes since he'd left his Mercedes behind the old gas station and climbed into the driver's seat of the rental. Like a statue she sat ramrod straight, her face angled away from him, her hands clenched in her lap. He knew that if he touched them, they would be cold.

  She hadn't wanted to tell him about the phone call. She hadn't wanted him to come with her, either. But in the end, he'd given her little choice.

  The road curved, seeming to vanish into a wall of live oaks. He took the bend faster than he should have, then abruptly slowed. "We're here."

  Mechanically Renee turned toward the fishing camp barely visible through the skeletal cypress trees. The wood was weathered, the windows dark with grime. "Good."

  He killed the engine, scanned the perimeter. The day was still, quiet save for the incessant caw of blackbirds filling the trees.

  The spider tingle down the back of his neck was immediate, the tightening in his gut. As a cop, he'd learned to trust instinct above all else. As a refugee from that life, he still did. "Something doesn't feel right," he said, reaching for his gun.

  Renee swung toward him. "They're hiding."

  He pulled his Glock from its holster and pushed open the driver's-side door.

  "Cain!" she started, but he didn't stop. He'd already made up his mind. From the time he was a small boy, his father and uncles had taught him and Gabe and their other cousins the way of the land, the way of the woods. He'd learned the nuances of the wind, the air pressure. He'd learned how the birds were supposed to sound—and how they weren't.

  He'd learned how to smell a trap from a mile away.

  "You can't do this," Renee said from behind him.

  He slowed at the porch, took the two steps quietly. "I'm sorry, cher," he said without turning to her, "but you can't stop me."

  At the door she grabbed his arm. "You lied."

  The words shouldn't have stung. No promises bound them. "Not intentionally," he surprised himself by saying. Then he turned to her. "I need you to stay here while I check things out."

  "Travis called me."

  "But I have the gun." And that should have been all that mattered. But he hesitated, disturbed by the way she was looking at him, the piercing combination of betrayal and longing. "Not now," he said, and the words sounded more like a growl. Then he surprised himself again by pressing a kiss to her mouth. Hard. "Please." He pulled back to look at her. "Stay."

  It was the please that got her. Instincts Renee had honed as a reporter urged her to charge after Cain, but the volatility she'd seen in his ey
es, the pleading, held her in place. He'd seemed scared, not of what he might find inside, but for her.

  Lifting a hand to her face, she touched where he'd touched and stared off at the trees, wondering what had triggered his alarm. He'd always had the ability, a sixth sense that had kept him alive when conventional wisdom guaranteed otherwise.

  Restless, she put her ear to the door and strained to hear what was happening, voices, a struggle, something—anything—but heard only the whisper of the wind and the incessant drone of the birds. Then she saw the blood.

  On a broken breath she squatted and stared at the partial footprint, the dark red smears beside it, the trickle leading down the steps to the dusty dirt path.

  The sound of a door opening had her swinging around to find Cain emerging from the darkness with death in his eyes.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  New Orleans

  Nineteen months earlier

  It's late. I should be tired. Normally I'm in bed by midnight, but tonight I can't stop pacing. It's been hours since my last cup of coffee, but the jittery high still jumps through me. Maybe that's why I can't stand still. Maybe not.

  Cain should have been here hours ago. Things have been different since the attack. Something changed between us as he'd cradled me in the damp darkness. Words had been said. Touches shared. Truths exposed.

  At first we'd both tried to deny, to go back to the way things had been, the comfort of antagonism and sparring, the ironic safety of focusing on Oncle. But that was impossible. Neither of us could forget. Pretending didn't work. The want was too strong.

  But being together is new, different. Awkward. We don't know how to have a relationship. Neither of us is pure as the driven snow, but somehow we still act like teenagers drunk on the discovery of raw physical attraction, the desperate, chaotic need to be with each other.

  I thought tonight was going to be that night. Cain invited himself over, said there were things we needed to talk about. That he was tired of playing games. The words had washed through me on a delicious wave, sending me shopping for new lingerie.

  I notice the slash of headlights first. Then the rumble of an engine above the wail of Leroy's sax two blocks away. I brace myself as the car slows, stops. A door opens, closes.

  Slowly, I look toward the front of the house, where I see Cain open the iron gate and move up the walkway.

  The anticipation is intense, the way my heart starts to pound and my palms go moist. I hate that he can do this to me, reduce me to waiting around for him like I haven't anything better to do.

  Bracing myself, I wait for the knock.

  Long moments pass. I'm not sure how many. Thirty seconds. Maybe forty. Far too many for the short distance he has to cross. Ready for this to be over with, I stalk to the front door and yank it open—go completely still.

  His eyes. God. They're always gleaming with the dark light of a predator, capable of slaying one moment, seducing the next. They do neither now. They're vacant almost, dull … like death.

  The dread is immediate, a tight fist squeezing my throat. The cold comes next, sharp, debilitating, bleeding from the inside out. Because I know. It's the middle of the night. And Cain is a cop. On my doorstep. Stoic. Somber.

  And my world tilts.

  "Adrian." His name breaks on the way out. I see Cain wince, see his mouth form words, but hear nothing beyond the brutal roaring in my ears.

  "No—" Vaguely I'm aware of my knees buckling, the floor rushing up to meet me.

  But then Cain is there, reaching for me, pulling me into his arms. "S'okay," he murmurs, and somehow I'm in his lap, and he's rocking, just rocking. His hands are all over me, running along my arms and my back, tangling in my hair, gathering me as close to him as possible.

  "I've got you," he whispers over and over. "I'm here now. You're okay."

  Everything around me is spinning, but Cain is there and he's solid, and I feel my hands digging into the fabric of his shirt. The temptation to sink into him is strong, to surrender to the darkness and trust him to guide me to the light. No one has ever held me like this before, infusing me with the heat of his body, his strength.

  "No," I whisper but don't even recognize my voice. Then I'm fighting him, yanking out of his arms and grabbing the collar of his shirt, shaking him. "No, God damn you. No!"

  He doesn't try to stop me. "There now," he says in that low, black magic voice of his. "That's a girl. Just let it out."

  My fists curl and I shove at him. "Shake me back, damn it." Shove me. Hit me. "Make me wake up!"

  His eyes gentle. "You know I can't do that."

  "Yes, you can!" There's a ripping deep inside, starting low in my gut and working its way up through my chest. I feel the tremor tear through my throat and rush for my eyes. "You're a cop, damn you. You're supposed to protect people."

  With devastating gentleness he gathers me to him again and holds me against his chest, buries his face in my hair and murmurs in French. I don't know what he's saying, but I hear the sorrow, the compassion. I feel the humanity in his touch.

  Time passes. I don't know how much. I'm only aware of sensation, the thrumming of Cain's heart and the possession of his embrace, the cool breeze drifting through a door still open. My cat Esmerelda joins us, circling us, rubbing against my arm, stroking me with her sandpapery tongue.

  Gradually the fog subsides and the need to know overrides the safety of Cain's arms. On a deep breath I pull back and meet his eyes. "Tell me."

  "Not now, cher—"

  "Now." There's no room for negotiation in my voice.

  Frowning, he lets out a rough breath and lifts a hand to my face, slides the hair behind my ears. "He didn't suffer."

  Moisture burns my eyes. I want to rage at him, scream that he can't possibly know how Adrian felt in those last moments. But the words don't form. "Was he … alone?"

  "Looks that way."

  I swallow. "Where?"

  "His body was—" He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them a heartbeat later. "He was found south of Bayou de Foi."

  Tears well. My throat burns. "What was he doing there?"

  With his thumb, Cain wipes the moisture beneath my lashes. "Waiting for me."

  The words jolt through me. "You? Why? You hate each other."

  He shakes his head. "Things are not always as they seem, cher. Adrian called, said we needed to talk."

  I struggle to take it all in, but the thoughts gridlock in my mind. "About what?" I manage, but Cain doesn't answer, just pulls me closer and holds me tight.

  "We'll talk more later."

  I want to protest, but then Cain is scooping me into his arms and striding toward the back of the house. In my bedroom he yanks back the covers and sets me on the mattress, then eases down beside me, pulling me into his arms. Esmerelda joins us.

  The darkness is coming in waves now, punishing, jerky, and though surrender is not in my nature, for once in my life, I simply let go, knowing that no matter how far I fall, Cain will be there to catch me.

  Sometime later I open my eyes. The sun has not yet risen. Esmy is curled on the pillow around my head, purring. Beside me, the mattress is empty.

  Disoriented, I prop myself up and squint against the night, see Cain strapping on his shoulder holster. "Cain?"

  He turns toward me and frowns. "Go back to sleep."

  "But—"

  He moves toward me. "I have something to take care of." The words are soft. "Mais I'll be back as soon as I can."

  The disappointment is acute. "Don't go."

  I've never said those words to another human being.

  He leans down and eases the hair from my face, skims a kiss to my forehead. "I have to."

  I reach for his face, savor the rough feel of whiskers beneath my thumbs. "Hurry back."

  I've never said those words, either.

  "I promise." The dark light is back in his eyes, the one that feeds some place deep inside of me. But then he's gone, leaving me alone in the bed with a pillow clenched to m
y chest. The tears start then, deep, gut-wrenching. For my brother. For myself.

  And the man who stands between us.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  New Orleans, present day

  Slowly, Renee stood. She knew the look in Cain's eyes. And without even having to ask, she knew what he'd found inside.

  "No." Her voice broke on the word, just as it had that dark night a lifetime ago, the one that had catapulted them down a path unimaginable at the time. Unimaginable even now. "Cain—"

  "I need your phone." His voice was tight. So were the lines of his face. "Mine's in the car."

  Heart pounding, she reached into her purse. "Something bad happened, didn't it?" It seemed a gross understatement.

  Cain jabbed seven numbers and looked beyond her, toward the trees. His body blocked the door. "Get to the old Comeaux place." The muscle in the hollow of his cheek thumped. "I've found Travis." On a rough breath, he met Renee's gaze. "Get the coroner."

  Horror coiled through her, and squeezed. A week ago she could have passed Travis on the street and the encounter would have meant nothing to her. But now he lay dead, murdered, because he'd dared to tell her what no one else would.

  "God, it's happening again." The vertigo whipped hard, fast. "It's got to stop," she murmured, pushing past Cain and shoving at the door, stumbling inside.

  Everyone said Adrian hadn't suffered, that his death had been quick and clean, painless. But the second Renee's eyes adjusted to the shadowy room, she knew the same could not be said for Travis. The broken chairs told her that he'd fought. The blood against the wall told her it hadn't been fast. The unnatural position of his body told her that he'd suffered.

  "Don't look," Cain said, turning her from the grisly scene and pulling her into his arms. On some distant plane she knew she should fight him, should not accept his comfort. But his body felt so good against hers, and the low thrum of his heart steadied her like nothing else ever had. Just for a moment, she bargained with herself. She could allow herself just this one moment. It didn't mean anything. Didn't change anything. It was just a time-out.