you know.”
“A name?”
“Yes. You’re doing this beauty a great disservice by not taking the time to learn hers.”
He grinned over at her before accelerating out into a busy thoroughfare. “What would you call my car?”
She leaned forward to lay both palms flat on the dashboard. She listened for a moment and then broke into a big smile. “Of course. Her name is Lola. She’s Italian.”
“Most Ferraris are.”
“You’re making fun of me,” she accused.
“Are you one of those people who names everything?” he asked, without sounding at all like he was making fun of her.
She shrugged. “Only the things that need names.”
“And I suppose you skip people’s and animal’s given names entirely and make up endearments for them?”
She scowled, sensing that he was subtly poking fun at her. “Yes. And I’d call you Curmy.”
“Like Kermit the Frog?”
“No. Short for Curmudgeon.”
He laughed aloud. “I could live with that.”
“Fine, Curmy. How long till we reach the police station?”
“About...ten...seconds,” he answered as he decelerated quickly and swerved into a parking spot in front of a rather nondescript building obviously built in the modern-utilitarian 1970s.
“Lord, that’s an ugly building.” Of course, it wasn’t just the dreadful architecture. An aura of suffering and human evils hung over the place like a shroud. Hastily, she closed her mind’s eye, snapping it shut like a cheap door.
“No kidding it’s ugly,” Max muttered fervently as he helped her out of the car. “You’d think in a town like this that the builder would have given at least a tiny crap about his building not looking like a three-story wart.”
His hand came up to touch the small of her back as he escorted her into the police station, and her breath caught a little at the way her entire being focused on that light contact between them.
The actual taking of a statement took about two minutes. But then she came to the tricky part. “Officer Leblanc, have there been other girls in the past few years who went missing?”
“Of course,” the handsome Cajun replied.
“I mean any who look like me. You know. Similar height, build and coloring. Close to my age. That sort of thing.”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“My attacker. He...” She searched for the right words that didn’t come right out and say she’d picked a vision out of his brain. “He...indicated that I was not his first victim.”
“What do you mean?” As she’d expected, the cop jumped on her comment aggressively.
“I’m not sure exactly,” she demurred. “I...” Crap. She had no words to get around the truth she was determined not to reveal.
Thankfully, Max dived in and rescued her. Again. “I have to agree with her. I saw the way he was manhandling her. He was no amateur. He knew exactly how to subdue her. Could you just look into other missing persons reports, Bastien, and see if any other petite redheads have gone missing?”
“Fine. I’ll take a look.”
They had to wait around for a while as a lineup was prepared for her, and then Detective LeBlanc put her in a nasty little room with no lights and a big window. She knew the drill from watching television. Five surly-looking men filed into the room on the other side of the one-way glass, and she immediately pointed out suspect number four.
She was led out, and Max was brought into the room. He came out in about ten seconds, as well. She didn’t even bother to ask him which guy he’d picked. They’d both gotten up-close-and-personal looks at her attacker last night. The lineup was purely a formality.
And then they were done. An odd sense of panic washed over her. There was nothing else to tie Max to her life. He could drop her off at the curiosity shop and drive away, never to see her again. She didn’t even have his real name, let alone his phone number. If only she had more experience with men. Maybe she would know a smooth way to ask him for his contact information. Something that would let her keep in touch with him. She had a serious crush on him and craved more of him desperately.
They parked down the street from her shop a little before noon. He did not invite her out to lunch as she’d hoped he would. There was no small talk, nothing to indicate he had any personal interest in her whatsoever. That was what she got for dressing like a mortician. She should have gone with her first impulse to dress up for him.
“Here’s my card,” he announced without preamble. “It has my private cell phone and personal email address on it. If you ever get in trouble, ever need help, give me a call.”
She took the white rectangle despondently. Not a “Call me if you want to have coffee or go out for a drink.” Just a “If you get in trouble...” It was pro forma polite behavior, not a sincere offer to see her again. Well, hell.
She climbed out of the car, insisting he not get out and come around to help her. She watched the sleek black car pull away from the curb and dart into the city. And she was alone once more. Except today it hurt even worse than usual.
* * *
Max watched the small black figure retreat in his rearview mirror, her shoulders slumped in defeat, her entire spirit shrinking in on itself. He was a horrible human being. She’d obviously hoped he would throw her a social bone and show even the tiniest spark of interest in her.
Thing was, he was interested. And, furthermore, he did give a damn about her. And that was exactly why he had to stay away from her. To cut off even the most casual contact between them. He had to break any link between them before she got seriously hurt. For he and his dangerous, fake life would do just that if he let her into it.
He parked in front of his restored French Quarter condo, pulled out his cell phone and placed a call. In rapid Russian, he said, “Hey, Peter. It’s me. There was some trouble last night.” Peter Menchekov was his boss nowadays, ever since the mobster who’d controlled Max initially had been killed in a government raid a few months back.
At least he no longer worked for the more violent psychopaths who populated the lower rungs of this crime syndicate. He’d finally moved up the ranks to quiet, thoughtful men who wore expensive suits and weren’t prone to fits of temper. But he sensed that he was still far from the top of this sprawling organization. There was someone hiding at the apex of the pyramid. The ultimate predator and mastermind of the whole organization. Until he learned that person’s identity, his work was not done.
“What kind of trouble was there, Masha?”
He winced at his childhood nickname. It was the common Slavic shortening of his full name, Maximillian. “The girl, the one whose store you wanted me to watch, is not the person we thought she was. The store’s owner died a month ago, and this girl is the new owner.
