appearance.
“He pawed through my lingerie,” she said.
Jean-Paul spied the opened drawers, the sheer fabrics—all sexy, risqué. A pair of black and red thongs hung from one corner while a hot-pink camisole dangled from the edge of the dresser.
She walked over to the bed and leaned against the corner. “And he left me this.”
A crimson red lace teddy lay in the center of her bed. His pulse clamored. It was almost identical to the one left at the murder scene that morning.
She recognized the similarity, too.
“This one didn’t belong to you?” he asked.
She shook her head no.
Jesus. She had a right to be rattled. Leaving a note at work raised a red flag, but invading her home and leaving the same type of underwear he’d left with his victim was way more personal.
“He also left me this note.” Her hand trembled as she lifted it toward him.
He read it in silence. I always have one eye on you. You can’t run forever.
Instincts warned him Britta Berger was in danger. And that they might be dealing with a serial killer who was only getting started. “Did you notice anyone watching you today? A stranger who seemed suspicious?”
She hesitated, then cleared her throat. “While I was eating dinner at a café in the Market, I noticed a man with a camera taking pictures of me from the square.”
His fingers tightened on the note. “Did you recognize him?”
“No, I’ve never seen him before.”
“You’re sure he was photographing you?”
“Yes. He paused when I caught him and waved to me. But his smile seemed sinister.” She hesitated.
“Sinister?”
She glanced at the mask of the monster on her wall. “I suppose that sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
He shook his head. “You should trust your instincts. Especially after a day like today.”
She nodded and he continued. “Can you describe the photographer?”
“He was tall.” She swept her eyes over him, and their gazes locked. “But not as tall as you. Maybe five-ten. Thin, sort of wiry.”
“Dark hair or light?”
“Bald. I got up to run after him,” she added in a low voice. “But he disappeared in the crowd.”
Christ. “Chasing a potential stalker is dangerous, Miss Berger. You should have called the police then.”
“Are you serious?” Nerves made her voice high-pitched. “The cops would have thought I was being paranoid. Artists are always taking pictures, drawing sketches, painting the scenery and people in the streets.”
True. But under the circumstances…
“I’ll have forensics examine the note and lingerie. Maybe we can find out where he purchased the teddy.” He cleared his throat. “And we should dust your place for prints.”
She nodded, although turmoil filled her dark brown eyes. Eyes that bled with distrust. Eyes that were so hypnotic, the need to hold her tugged at his chest.
But he ignored the pressure. It was his nature, his job, to protect the innocent. And the only way he could protect her was to find the maniac threatening her.
To do that, he needed a clear head. Not one complicated by images of her wearing a teddy for him or whispering her secret confessions into his ear while he took her to bed.
Which only planted more doubts and questions in his mind. “Miss Berger, have you considered the fact that the killer might be someone you know?” She paled, but he forged ahead. “Maybe an old boyfriend? A lover?”
“No…that’s not possible.”
He ignored her protest. She was a heartbreaker if he’d ever seen one. “Are you sure? Do you have a current boyfriend? Or maybe someone you just broke up with?”
“No, Detective, I’m not dating anyone.” Her voice dropped a decibel. “I haven’t in a long time.”
“How about an acquaintance? Maybe a man who asked you out? One you turned down?”
A faraway look settled in her eyes, but she shook her head. “No one that I can think of. Like everyone else after the hurricane, I’ve been trying to survive the past year and a half. There hasn’t been time for personal relationships.”
He nodded, unable to argue that point, yet something about her tone indicated that her lack of a social life was more of a preference, not a result of time restraints. And that she’d lied about no one asking.
“Not even since you started at Naked Desires?” he asked. “Your boss?”
“No.” She shifted as if she’d lost her patience. “Now, I’m really tired, Detective. You can see your way out.”
He was right—she was hiding something. But would she hide a killer?
“I’m not leaving now. Not until a crime-scene unit arrives to process your place. In fact, you shouldn’t stay here tonight,” he said. “Do you have a friend you can call? A family member?”
She shook her head. “No. No family.”
“I hope you didn’t lose them in the hurricane?”
She averted her gaze, picked at an invisible piece of dust on the end table. “No. It was a long time ago.”
A note of sadness tinged her voice. “Where were you living before you came here?”
Panic slashed across her face. “In one of the small towns that got wiped out. I had nothing there and decided to move on.”
“Have you always worked in journalism?”
Irritation flared on her face. “You certainly ask a lot of questions, Detective.”
“I’m a cop. That’s my job.” He leaned forward again, this time so close he inhaled her citrusy scent. “What did you do before you came to work for Naked Desires?”
“Odd jobs,” she said, meeting his gaze head-on. “Now, I’m tired of this inquisition. You’re supposed to be trying to find this madman, not dissecting my life.”
He’d pushed enough for the night. She looked exhausted and had had a harrowing day. “Let me drive you to a hotel. We’ll get your locks changed in the morning and add a deadbolt.”
“With Mardi Gras in town, there won’t be any empty hotel rooms,” she said, pointing out the obvious. “And if this man wants to kill me, another lock won’t keep him out.”
“Maybe
