DISGUISED BY HIS homeless man’s attire, he hid amongst the shadows of the party-seekers and noise along Bourbon Street, so close to Britta Berger’s apartment he could see the light as she switched it off.
It had taken him a long time to find his Adrianna. In fact, for a while he had given up. Had assumed she was dead. As dead as he had felt inside.
But he’d searched for her in every woman he’d met since that day. Hoping, yearning, dying to discover that she was still out there. That he could still have her.
And make her pay for the pain she had caused him.
Then one day he’d picked up a copy of Naked Desires and had seen the small photograph of her in the editorial section. She was so beautiful she looked like a hand-painted porcelain doll.
One look into those witchlike eyes, though, and he’d recognized her instantly. His Adrianna.
She had been so close all along. So near Black Bayou where they had met, where they had almost been joined together.
Running had only brought Adrianna back full circle. There was no escape for the sins that lived within her. But passing the trial by ordeal, the fact that she’d walked across the gator-infested waters and survived, did not mean she was innocent. Only that she had performed some black magic spell to keep the snapping gators at bay. That she was no ’tite ange.
That she had been spawned by the devil.
The reason he had to destroy her. She was here now spreading her wickedness, enticing depraved men with her looks, casting a spell over the weak ones with her bewitching eyes—just as she had him, years ago. Through her column, she’d found the perfect venue to reach the masses.
He wanted to complete the ritual sacrifice. But he was a man and just as the crocodiles did during mating season, he had to mate with numerous partners.
Tonight he’d choose another.
He fell into the shadows and changed his clothing. Another disguise, this time one that would entice a woman. A white shirt and tie. A pair of dress slacks. An air of authority.
A wad of money.
And a mask over his face.
Another redhead, although her wavy hair was dyed an unnatural shade, tapped her foot at the corner of the House of Love, wearing a black micro-mini skirt, thigh-high boots and a flashy green top that looked like a bra. Her cleavage spilled over and through the mesh netting, her dark nipples stood turgid.
She twisted her head one way, then the other. Her nose jutted in the air as she took a drag from a menthol cigarette and flicked ashes on the grimy pavement. Finally aware he was watching her, she dropped the cigarette to the concrete, crushed it with her boot, then curled a finger toward him, beckoning him to join her. She looked impatient, primed, ready.
In need of some cash. Probably for drugs.
He had those in his pocket, as well. One that would give her the high of a lifetime.
He smiled, then smoothed his jet-black hair into place and strode toward her. Tonight, the whore would pleasure him. He might even draw out the fun a day or two if she was good, play with her, test her resistance.
Make her beg.
Then he’d force her to confess her sins before he killed her and added her to his kingdom.
CHAPTER SIX
Six days before Mardi Gras
RATTLED BY DETECTIVE DUBOIS and by the cozy family dinner they’d shared the night before, Britta settled in her bed the next evening with a cup of tea and more letters. The sooner she figured out who’d sent her the letter and photograph, the sooner the police could catch the murderer and put him behind bars.
Then she would have no need to see Jean-Paul Dubois again. Or be taunted by his sexuality.
And more importantly, she wouldn’t have to worry about watching her back for fear he’d discover the truth about her past.
Determined to block out the sound of the partying below, she put in her favorite Harry Connick Jr. CD and allowed his seductive voice to soothe her as she read.
My secret confession:
I’ve fantasized about sex since I was a teenager and have just found the love of my life.
In my fantasy, we’ve just gotten married and my husband whisks me away to the honeymoon suite. Flowers fill the plush room, and a dozen candles shimmer with soft light across the heart-shaped bed. As he reaches for the champagne, a knock sounds at the door and his two groomsmen appear, still dressed in their black tuxes. My husband invites them in. At first, I’m confused, then one of them, a guy named Jim, smiles and says they are there to pleasure me.
A shiver goes up my spine as I realize he is talking about all three of them.
I’ve always dreamed of having multiple partners and the idea of the man I love and his two best friends all going down on me at the same time ignites a fire in my stomach.
“I don’t know if I can take so much pleasure,” I say.
My husband laughs, then presses a kiss to my hand. “It’s your wedding night, love, I wanted it to be special.”
He peels off my wedding dress, slowly unfastening each of the tiny pearl buttons down the back, drawing out the seduction with kisses and tongue licks along my spine, while Jim plucks the pins from my hair and runs his fingers through it. Chad, the other groomsman, kneels and removes my white satin shoes, while my husband plays his tongue along my lips. Soon, they lay me down, prop me up on pillows and caress my entire body. I tingle with need and hunger. Just as Chad tugs my nipple into his mouth, Jim slides his hand up my thigh and strokes my clit. Chad sucks my breasts then my husband enters me. Soon the three of us become a tangle of naked, throbbing bodies, frenzied, panting and sweating, rocking our bodies together until we finally climax all at once….
Heat rushed up Britta’s neck, and she forced herself to skim the remainder of the letter for hints of violence, then placed it in the stack of possibilities for publication. Remembering her mission was to search for possible notes from the killer, she quickly skimmed the first paragraph of the next few letters, looking for details of S and M, violent tendencies or indications that the man hated women.
A blue envelope caught her eye and she opened it; the first line made her pause.
My secret confession:
I have an odd attraction to animals, especially golden retrievers. The guy next door is really hot—big with blond hair and gorgeous blue eyes. Every night when I see him walking his big dog, I start dreaming about what it would be like…
Britta slid the letter back into the envelope. Bestiality held no appeal to her, but it didn’t mean the person was a killer. Besides, it was written by a woman.
The killer was male.
Using that logic, she sorted the letters by sex, so she could focus on male submissions.
In
