of wine and sipped it, trying to settle her nerves. But every whistle of the wind and every screech from the streets below alarmed her. Every man…posed a danger.
Dammit. She thought she’d left her fears behind. That she could finally look toward a future. But now this psycho wanted to take her peace of mind from her.
Why? What had she done to him?
She dragged in a breath and reminded herself she was being paranoid. She had her cell phone. And she knew how to fight.
Logic kicked in, along with the guts that had kept her alive. Even if this madman knew where she worked, he didn’t necessarily know where she lived. She’d been meticulous about not listing her number or including her home address on any paperwork.
Anyone experienced with a computer could find her, though. And if he’d watched her office, he could have easily seen her climb the stairs to her apartment.
She could almost hear the killer taunting her in a sing-songy voice. See him sinking the spear into her heart. Feel the cold sharp blade puncture her insides. Then see the blood oozing out. Her nightmares rose again with icy fingers from the grave clawing at her. The years fell away as if it were yesterday. As if she was there again. Except this time she was even younger.
She was five years old. So small, so tiny that if she tried hard enough, she could make herself disappear. Then no one could find her.
And the monsters couldn’t hurt her anymore.
Footsteps sounded outside. Loud voices. A man’s dark booming laughter.
No!!!!!! Not again.
She crawled beneath the bed, closed her eyes and folded one bony arm beneath the other. Then she slid her hands into her armpits, hunched her knees up to her belly and curled into a ball.
Like a fleck of dust that no one could see, she’d stay there for hours. If she didn’t make a sound, they’d think she’d gone. Then she’d be safe.
Free from the man. Free from the hideous monsters in the bayou.
The door screeched open. The scent of whiskey floated toward her. Thunder rumbled. She caught her breath. Tried to hold it.
Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Be invisible and they’ll go away. But the floor creaked. The wooden boards splintered. And she felt his hand on her arm.
He had her….
Britta heaved for air, sweating, disoriented. This memory was only one of many. The beginning. So many more afterward….
She had to banish them.
She stood, trembling, then moved to stare out the window into the starless night. It wasn’t possible that this killer knew her. Or knew what had happened years ago. How she’d escaped. How she’d survived. How she’d lived on the streets like an animal.
No one knew but her.
More panic yanked at her and she rushed back to her bedroom and dug under the mattress for her journal. Inside it, she wrote all her private thoughts. Her own secret desires and confessions.
Her fingers finally connected with the thick velvet binding, and she tugged it out, flipping through the pages to make certain it was intact. She nearly collapsed on the bed when she realized nothing was missing. Her thoughts were still private.
A voice sounded through the intercom. “Britta? Are you in there?”
Jean-Paul Dubois. He was the last person she’d tell. He’d show her no mercy. He’d take her to jail, lock her up and throw away the key. No, he could never know her secret desires or get near her heart.
She’d die before she’d let that happen.
THERE HAD ALREADY been one woman’s body found today. Jean-Paul held his breath as he waited on Britta to answer the intercom at her door. He hoped to hell there wasn’t going to be another.
Dammit, why wasn’t she answering? He’d raced over after her call. St. Charles Street had been unusually calm for Mardi Gras season. Various flags of kings and queens of Carnival waved from the palatial mansions, all symbols of the royalty: the professional businessmen and politicians who resided in the city, ones who funded the celebrations, rebuilt the city and revitalized the traditions in the Big Easy after the last hurricane. Although some businesses and people had given up and moved on, others had rallied to resurrect the historical district and the culture.
But here on Bourbon Street, the decorations boasted of sex, voodoo, black magic and the live-and-let-live attitude of the tourists seeking a good time, a stiff drink and a good lay—anonymously of course. Which only added to the crime.
Anger mounted inside him. Bon Dieu. Why the hell had Britta Berger chosen to live on Bourbon Street? Why not in one of the sleek condos on Decatur? Just working at the raunchy magazine set her up for trouble. But to live in the heart of it…She might as well hang a damn sign on her body flagging her as an open target.
Did she enjoy living on the edge?
He didn’t. He wanted the town back to normal, back to the New Orleans he loved.
The image of her tied to a bed, naked, with a lancet embedded in her heart, flashed in his head and he grimaced as he punched the buzzer again.
“If you don’t answer, Miss Berger, I’m going to break down this damn door.”
“I’m sorry,” she finally said in a trembling voice. “Come on up.”
A click sounded and he opened the wrought-iron gate in front of the door, then entered. Her office lay to the right, a dark staircase ahead. He took the steps two at a time. When he reached Britta’s apartment door, he gave three quick raps. Seconds later, she opened the door, the chain still intact.
He arched a brow. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, just shaken.” She unlocked the door and stepped back, clutching a long robe to her throat.
“You said someone broke in?” He examined the door, but didn’t notice any damage. “I don’t see evidence of forced entry.”
“He was here.” She folded her arms across her waist, the movement making her look shaken and vulnerable. “In my bedroom.”
He scanned the living room. Simple furnishings. Contemporary. A butter-yellow leather sofa accessorized by a few red and green throw pillows. A TV. Desk. Her laptop.
Perhaps the man climbed to her balcony and sneaked in through the patio window or the French doors. “Did he disturb anything?”
She inhaled, fiddling with her hands. “The bedroom. He went through my drawers. Then he left me something.”
He followed her to her bedroom. Although the paint had faded in the hall, colorful artwork from the locals decorated the wall: scenes of a historic church, the bayou at sunset, the river. A collection of macabre Mardi Gras masks shaped like alligators and sea monsters occupied a decorative shelf, while gris-gris and beads she’d probably bought from the market dangled from hooks to create an eye-catching corner. Oddly, there were no personal photos in sight.
The
