A Christmas Kiss (2 page)

Marshal's Service, had been mad as the proverbial wet hen when she had informed him that she was coming to New Orleans to discuss Kit's disappearance with the authorities and demand to see the investigation they had so unsuccessfully launched.

She had never met her handler in person, but she had a pretty clear mental picture of him, based on his accent. He had the soft, rising pronunciation of the southern part of Louisiana known as Acadiana. If he was a son of the region, he would be dark-haired and dark-eyed—and fiery. She had heard the fire as well as the accent in his angry voice when he'd told her to "stay the hell out of New Orleans if you know what's good for you."

Well, that was just tough. Joey Tio and the rest of the marshals went home every night to their wives or children or girlfriends or mothers. They had a life, complete with a past, present and future. And she had nothing. Not even the satisfaction that someone was still looking for Kit. They'd abandoned the search for her husband more than a year ago. Just up and quit. More pressing cases, Captain Blake, formerly Kit's boss—and supposed friend—had said. There were others with more desperate needs, he had reminded her.

No one had taken into consideration how desperate her need truly was. There had to be some resolution to her marriage to Kit, even though there was some question whether it was even a valid marriage. In her mind, she had made a vow. A lifetime commitment. That type of commitment didn't come cheaply for Cori.

As a member of the witness protection program, she'd given up her right to be in New Orleans. For two years, ever since DeCarlo's first trial, she'd given up any contact with her family. She'd given up the name Brently Gleason and assumed a new identity. Cori St. John of Houston, Texas.

What she wouldn't give up was the belief that her husband was alive.

She felt the prickle of gooseflesh along the nape of her neck and knew it wasn't the December weather or the song the trumpeter was now blowing on the horn.

Reaching into her purse, she fished out the tiny foil-wrapped chocolate. As a child, she'd called the candy a silver bell. Later on, she'd called it a kiss. A chocolate kiss. Her favorite treat, especially at Christmas. The little drops of sweet chocolate had been a coded communication between her and Kit during the year of their engagement. She felt the tears building in a wave she no longer wanted to withstand. Kit had even tucked the box holding her engagement ring into a bag of chocolate kisses, knowing it wouldn't take her long to find it in such a tempting place.

Her hand trembled as she put the candy back in her purse. The diamond solitaire she wore beside her wedding band caught a flash of morning light. Cori fought to control her emotions—and her imagination. She had found three kisses on her desk in the small studio she ran in Houston. At first she had tried to pretend that some child had simply left his or her stash of candy. It made a lot more sense than to jump to the conclusion that her dead husband was "haunting" her. Or so she had convinced herself.

Until two days later when she'd found three more kisses on the dash of her locked car.

Either Kit Wells was alive, or she was losing her mind. And it was the latter that scared her a lot worse than the former. No one had a key to her car or her studio. There had been no sign of forced entry into either place. Was it possible that she had put the candy in both places and had no memory of doing it? The possibility made her chest ache with terror.

The sensation that someone was staring at her made her turn around suddenly. She found the startled gaze of a man who was looking over the top of his newspaper directly into her eyes. He gave a smile and a nod and looked back at his paper.

Cori felt the flush touch her cheeks with color. The man had been staring at her, true enough, but only with mild interest. She had wheeled on him like a caged tiger. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him toss money on the table, stand and leave. So much for his breakfast. Her wild-eyed stare had motivated him to get up and get away.

It had been more than a year since she'd looked at a New Orleans paper, and Cori reached across to the now-vacant table and picked up the man's discarded
Times-Picayune.
As she had anticipated, the possible retrial of Ben DeCarlo was front page news. There was a picture of him standing outside his Angola State Penitentiary cell block talking into a microphone, always proclaiming his innocence.

How could a man who had walked into a restaurant and cold-bloodedly killed his mother and father at point-blank range even pretend to be innocent? Cori felt the old anger boil. One reason she was such an astute art dealer was because of her ability to remember detail. She could recognize talent and remember the unique style and brush stroke of an artist, the exact shades that marked a painter as original, the curve on a line of sculpture that told of the creator's talent. Time and time again she'd been able to pick up a budding artist for a song and sell him for big money when he developed a reputation.

Before she'd left New Orleans, she was gaining an impressive clientele of serious collectors, as well as an audience for her own work. Kit had often teased her that her memory was nearly photographic. It was that talent that had made her such an important witness at Ben DeCarlo's trial.

All of that was gone, along with Kit, and her sister, Lane. Her parents. Her nieces. All gone.

Because she had witnessed a brutal murder and had then fulfilled her duties as a citizen. She was paying the price for doing her civic duty.

She flipped the paper, hoping for something to take her mind off her personal troubles. At the photo of a man in a black dinner jacket and big smile, she stopped. He was familiar. She scanned the story quickly, gleaning the facts that Emmet Wyatt had been shot, execution-style, and stuffed in the trunk of a rental car and left at the docks.

The reporter who wrote the story, Farris Quinn, had drawn the link between Wyatt and the DeCarlo retrial. Even as she read, Cori heard the blood thrumming in her ears. Emmet Wyatt, the man who was dead, had been one of the five eyewitnesses at Ben DeCarlo's trial. His name had been Kyle Johnson, and he also had been placed in the witness protection program.

And now he was dead. Murdered the day before, not all that far from where she sat this moment.

She scanned the story again, hoping for the details that would give her enough information to form the rest of the picture. Why was Emmet back in town? Why had he returned to New Orleans? Had something happened in his new life that had triggered a part of the past he could no longer ignore? Or had he been lured back to the "Crescent City" —possibly just as she had been?

Farris Quinn's story dangled a few suppositions, but there was no hard proof either way. The New Orleans Police Department was predictably silent. Just as they had been when Kit disappeared—right after she had testified against De-Carlo.

And now Ben DeCarlo had won a new trial. "New evidence" had been discovered by his defense team, and the trial date had been set in January. Cori had been informed by her handler that she might be expected to testify again. Of course, if that was necessary, she would be supplied with a
new
identity.

Another new life. Another empty pretense.

Until that time she was "to remain in Houston and do nothing that might blow your cover." Joey Tio's exact words. The words she had deliberately disobeyed.

She folded the newspaper and left it on the table along with a five-dollar tip. After all, it was Christmas, and somebody should find some pleasure in the holiday.

Exiting the cafe, she walked across Decatur to the alley where many of the talented street artists plied their work. She had an appointment with Captain Blake in the police station, but she'd allowed herself some time to travel to familiar landmarks. She wanted to confront the past. She
had
to.

The morning was young, but the sidewalk artists were already working. Some took the easy tourist dollar with caricatures. Others hung their oils and watercolors on the wrought-iron fence that surrounded Jackson Square. A cluster of tarot readers worked a steady trade while two young African-American boys did a lanky-limbed tap dance with bottle caps pressed into the soles of their tennis shoes. Clapping for the tap dancers, she left two dollars in their hat and scanned the work of the artists. Some were very good, others not worth a glance. Even as she studied a haunting watercolor of the cathedral on the square, she found herself looking past the wrought-iron enclosure into the center of the park.

Soaring into the morning sky, a magnificent fir tree glittered and shone with tinsel and ornaments. It would be beautifully lit at night. Just as it had been on the eve of her wedding. Two years ago, she and Kit had married in the park, a Christmas Eve ceremony lit with candles and the brilliant future they had planned together. A future that had lasted hardly more than two hours.

Cori started toward the cathedral. Her old showroom was only a few blocks away. She'd heard it had been sold to a young couple who were doing well, but she wanted to see what artists they were hanging—just a glance in the window. And then it would be time for her appointment with Kit's old captain.

She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. A man was standing beside a large magnolia at the corner of the square. His wide shoulders made her halt in her tracks. When a light breeze ruffled the magnolia leaves, a shaft of sunlight filtered down onto his sandy blond hair, longer and curlier than she remembered it.

"Kit?" She spoke out loud, a whisper of a question that took all the breath in her lungs. "Kit!" She knew it was him. Before she could think, she started running toward him.

A crowd of giggling young girls, their arms filled with shopping bags, stepped in her way. Unable to stop, Cori plowed into one teenager, sending her sprawling to the flagstones. Cori didn't stop. She jumped over the girl, nearly losing her balance in her high-heeled boots. Her forward momentum carried her on past the girls, who were yelling angrily.

The man was gone. The shadows beneath the tree were empty.

Cori saw a blur of movement across the busy street. The man had crossed among the parked carriages and had managed to navigate Decatur Street. He was headed for the French Market. Purse banging against her side, she started to run again.

She heard the blare of a car horn, the squeal of brakes and the horrified cry of the people sitting in the Caf6 du Monde. By the time she turned to look, it was too late. The car was careering toward her, brakes locked as the driver attempted to stop before he struck her. There was no place for her to go.

Traffic coming from the other direction couldn't stop in time.

Through the gnarl of traffic, a dark-clad man seemed to fly over the hood of the car. He struck her with such impact they both tumbled into the gutter of the street, startling one of the carriage mules into a near stampede.

For Cori, the world rocked in a carnival ride of blurred sights and pain. Before she knew what was happening, she was hauled to her feet and confronted with the snapping black eyes of a man who looked ready to strangle her.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded, his strong hands gripping her shoulders and shaking her for good measure. "You want to commit suicide? You want a stay in a hospital bed?"

At last her focus began to clear, and she took in the mouth drawn tight by fury, the olive complexion slightly paled by fear. The wind ruffled his dark brown hair. Cori looked past him to the place where she'd last seen Kit. Why had he run away from her? She had no interest in anything, not even her burning knee and bleeding elbow, except finding Kit Wells.

"Come on." The man said, roughly pushing her up on the sidewalk and toward Jackson Square.

His anger drove her forward without protest. When they came to an empty bench, he pushed her down onto it and stood over her, huffing with exertion and the residue of adrenaline that had precipitated his bold rescue.

"I ought to thank you," she stammered. She was still disorientated, but she wasn't certain if it was from the hard knock she'd taken onto the pavement or because she'd seen Kit. She rubbed her knee, which had begun to throb. Blood soaked through her dark pants, a sticky wetness that wasn't visible at first. She pulled her hand away and looked at the stain on her palm and fingers.

"Are you hurt?" The man bent down, his fingers now gentle as he probed at her leg.

"It's just a scrape." She wanted to push him away, but it would require too much energy. "Really, it's just a brush with the pavement. If you hadn't..." She thought of the car, the terror of the man's face behind the wheel when he knew he couldn't stop. "You saved my life."

"And you're going straight back to Houston, Texas." He looked directly into her eyes from his kneeling position. "Right this minute."

Cori's eyes widened. How did he know where she was from? "I..." Words wouldn't form.

"I'm Joey Tio." He lifted one brow in a gesture that made him look more dangerous than amused. "I told you not to come here." He looked around. "One of the five witnesses was murdered down at the docks yesterday. The retrial is set for January. Your life is in extreme danger, Ms. St. John. I can't believe you were stupid enough to ignore my orders."

The facts were not slipping into place easily, but Cori was finding some sense. "You've been following me?" How else could he have been right on the spot to rescue her?

"My job is to make sure you're safe and protected. You're a very valuable witness." Anger now accented his words. "Although you're making it very difficult, I have no intention of allowing you to die before DeCarlo's retrial. I'll do whatever is necessary."

"Even risk your own life?" She hadn't meant the words to sound so sharp.

"Most witnesses don't expect such heroics, but then we do have the occasional one who is so self-involved that she endangers all of us." He stood up. His fingers wrapped around her upper arm.

"And
those
we treat with necessary force. You're going home right this minute, if I have to sit on you the entire way."