A Whisper in the Dark (6 page)

“I’ve racked my brain trying to come up with some logical culprit, but I have no earthly idea.” She watched him compare the letters. “What do you think?”

“I’ll tell you what I don’t think. These letters don’t have anything to do with your father. These letters are about you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“These messages are too personal, with too much focus on books and writing. That leads me to believe it has to do with you or your shop.” His gaze met hers. “Someone put some thought into these letters. Someone who knows old books and wants to convey a message to you.”

Julia suppressed a shiver. Not because his words were a surprise, but because she’d already drawn the very same conclusion. “Who would do something like this? I mean, who would go to this kind of trouble?”

“Someone who’s fixated. Obsessed. To him, it’s not trouble. It’s a compulsion. Judging from the dates on these letters, that compulsion is pretty powerful. See the dates?”

He was right. The last two letters had been delivered just two days apart. “Why is he doing it?”

“Evidently he’s unhappy with you because of something he perceives that you’ve done.” Intensity shone in his eyes and for a moment he looked very much like a cop. “Any idea what that might be?”

“I don’t know.”

“You sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure.” She pressed her hand to her stomach. “Do you think it’s someone I know?”

“Most stalking victims know their stalkers,” he said. “I would venture to say this person has at least met you. We’re probably talking about a male.” He shrugged. “Could be a customer. A vendor. Someone you’ve come in contact with through the shop. Anyone come to mind?”

She shook her head. “I can’t imagine anyone I know doing something like this.”

“Has anyone shown an unusual amount of interest in you? In the shop? Spending an unusual amount of time here?”

“No.”

“What about boyfriends? Neighbors? Any suspicious people hanging around the shop?”

“No and no.” She laughed, but heard the tension in her voice. “And half the people in the Quarter are suspicious-looking.”

He smiled, but the humor was thin. “No recent falling out with anyone? Disgruntled employees? Have you fired anyone recently?”

“Claudia and Jacob are my only employees.”

“Who’s Jacob?”

“He’s my part-time clerk.”

“Is he religious?”

“He goes to church.”

John pulled out a small pad. “What’s his last name?”

A rise of annoyance had her shaking her head. “There’s no way he’s involved in this,” she said.

“Won’t hurt to run a background check on him then, will it?” he asked and waited.

“Brooks,” she said after a moment.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I’m not trying to be difficult. I just know he isn’t involved.”

“Yeah, well, that remains to be seen.” Frowning, John looked down at the letters, his brows knitting. “There’s a common theme to these letters.”

“I’ve noticed,” she said. “They appear to revolve around sin and redemption. Punishment. Revenge. Absolution.”

“And death.” The muscles in his jaws worked as he seemed to consider that. “Do you carry any risqué or controversial books?” he asked. “Anything that might offend someone? Anger someone?”

“Well, I have a first edition of Sir Richard Burton’s translation of the
Kama Sutra
. Some Victorian erotica. Oh, and I have a copy of
Fanny Hill
that was published on the black market in 1898. First edition.” A priceless book and one that had caused plenty of controversy over the years, but Julia knew in her heart it wasn’t the book that had angered the letter writer.

“Do you have a Web site with an inventory of books?” he asked.

“I’m working on it, but the site isn’t up yet.”

“If a book or author you carry is, indeed, the reason behind the letters, that means the letter writer has been in the shop or somehow knows your inventory.”

Gooseflesh raced up her arms at the thought.

“Have you received any strange phone calls? Any hang-ups? Unfamiliar cars parked outside?”

“I’m usually pretty observant, but the shop has been busy and it’s possible I just haven’t noticed.” She raised her gaze to his. “John, do you think this guy is dangerous?”

“I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you, Julia.”

No, she thought, he’d never been good at that, but then that had always been part of his appeal. “So what am I up against?”

“He’s stalking you. There are some strong emotions involved. That makes him dangerous.”

“How dangerous?”

“If his compulsion gets out of control, he could try to get to you.”

“How do I protect myself?”

“Don’t underestimate him. Be vigilant. Be alert. Take some measures to keep yourself safe.”

“Like what?”

“Commonsense stuff. Alarm system. Locks. Secure windows and doors. Keep someone with you at all times.”

“Oh, jeez . . . like that’s going to be practical.”

His gaze moved around the shop. “Do you mind if I take a look around?”

“Oh, um . . . sure. I can show you around, if you’d like.”

“Let’s start with the back door.”

Her heart was beating a little too fast as she led him down the aisle toward the rear of the shop. She was keenly aware of him behind her, the steady tread of his boots against the floor, the rustle of his leather jacket. The faint hint of his aftershave reminded her of pine forests and summer storms.

At the rear of the shop, she opened the door to the storage room, flipped on the light and stepped inside. “This is where I do most of the inventory work and boxing for shipping.” She motioned toward the exit door. It was a dented metal antique with a push bar and knob that rattled like old bones. “That door leads to an alley behind the building. It winds through a couple of courtyards and eventually cuts over to Bourbon Street.”

John walked to the door, squatted to inspect the lock and shook his head. “This lock wouldn’t keep out a determined four-year-old.”

“In the two years I’ve owned the shop, I’ve never had any problems.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t want that first time to happen.” He straightened, turned to her. “I can arrange to have a new lock installed tomorrow.”

“That would be great. Just . . . let me know how much I owe you.”

“Did I hear you mention that you have an alarm system?”

For the first time, Julia felt foolish, because she knew upgrading the old security alarm was something she should have done ages ago. “I do, but it’s not exactly state-of-the-art.”

John frowned at her. “Tell me your security system is not a four-and-a-half-pound Chihuahua.”

“It’s not.” She smiled. “It’s just . . . old.”

“How old?”

“Well, I’ve been meaning to upgrade.”

“I’ll find a reputable company and get them out here in the next day or so.” He pulled out the pad and made another note. “Any other windows in this place?”

“Just the display window at the front.”

He scribbled, then slid the pad into his jacket pocket. “Your father mentioned your apartment is upstairs.”

An uneasy quiver of nerves ran the length of her. “Oh, well . . .”

As if discerning her reluctance, he said, “I figure the sooner we get this done, the sooner your father will get off your back.”

“There’s an incentive.” But as she left the storage room and started toward the steps that led to the second level, she tried hard to remember if she’d cleared her desk . . .

The only sound came from their shoes against the wooden steps and the occasional creak as she took him up the narrow staircase to the landing outside her apartment door. At the top, she inserted her key into the lock and swung it open.

A quick sweep of the room told her she had, indeed, tidied things up that morning. “It’s small in square footage, but it makes up for it in character.”

“Nice place.”

Despite her apprehension, she felt a quick swell of pride. Her apartment wasn’t designer or roomy or elegant, but it was hers and she loved every square inch of it right down to the creaky cypress plank floor. The walls were heavily textured and painted an eye-pleasing terra cotta. The woodwork was painted fresh white. Bookshelves crowded with volumes of all shapes and sizes encompassed the wall to her left. The sofa was overstuffed, piled high with fussy pillows and designed for spending quality time with a book.

“One bedroom?” John crossed to her bedroom, paused in the doorway.

“Two actually, but I use the second one for an office.” She watched him stride to the window and check the lock. His gaze went briefly to the queen-size iron bed where she slept, and she was suddenly ridiculously grateful she’d taken the time to make it.

“The screws have nearly rusted off the lock.” He glanced back at her. “It wouldn’t take much for someone to climb up the fire escape, sidle along the ledge and pry it open.”

She walked over to see for herself. “This building is really old. Circa 1835. Most of it is original.”

“Original is good except for when it comes to locks.”

“Right.”

He made a note on the pad, then turned from the window and nearly ran into her. For an instant she found herself staring into the turbulent gray depths of his eyes. She saw a measure of surprise. A warning she didn’t quite understand. And a heady dose of male awareness that made her feel breathless and a little dizzy. She felt that same awareness flash through her body like a lightning strike on a hot night.

She was about to heed the warning and step back when he reached out to steady her. The unexpected contact jolted her. She could feel the heat of his fingertips through her jacket. The beat of his pulse against her bicep. The zing of nerves that had nothing to do with cryptic letters and everything to do with the way he was looking at her.

Unable to hold his gaze, she let her eyes skim down his face, past the straight slash of his nose, the chiseled lips, to the crescent scar on his chin he’d gotten when he was fifteen. She remembered that day perfectly. He’d jumped into the swimming pool, but didn’t clear the diving board. He’d bled like a sieve and had to get six stitches. But he’d been incredibly brave. And she thought maybe that was the day she’d lost her nine-year-old heart to him . . .

Gently, he pushed her to arm’s length. “I need to check the fire escape door,” he said, then stepped around her and headed toward the kitchen.

Julia stood her ground in the bedroom and assured herself the wild skitter of her pulse had nothing to do with attraction. She’d gotten over him years ago. She was just uneasy about the letters. Besides, she didn’t like people poking around her apartment. Any other reason was too ludicrous to consider. Schoolgirl crushes didn’t last twenty years.

John Merrick might be a sight to behold with those stormy gray eyes and that chiseled mouth, but Julia was a hell of a lot smarter than the naïve teenager she’d been a lifetime ago. Experience had taught her caution when it came to men, and she’d learned how to steer clear of the ones who spelled trouble. John hit the danger zone in that category, and Julia had never been attracted to danger. She liked her life safe and predictable, just the way it was.

“This is your office?”

His voice snapped her out of her reverie to see him push open the door to the bedroom she’d transformed into her work area. She didn’t want him in there, but couldn’t think of a viable excuse without making him suspicious, so she held her ground in the doorway while he crossed to the single window and checked the lock.

“This one’s rusted, too.” He pulled the pad from his pocket and made a note. “You probably ought to have the windows wired to the alarm, too. It’ll cost more, but it’s worth it in terms of security.”

His eyes skimmed the crowded bookcases while he spoke. Julia knew it was silly, but she felt like a secretive teenager whose parent was inspecting her room for contraband.

“Nice collection of books,” he said.

“Thank you. It’s taken me a while to accumulate.” Pride swelled as she skimmed over the leather spines and embossed titles. “These are the ones I could never bring myself to sell.”

His gaze swept from the books to her. “I’m glad you’ve found your place in the world,” he said quietly. “Some people never do.”

She sensed an inference to his own failed career and didn’t know what to say. “There were times when I thought the shop was a pipe dream. Times when other people in my life thought the same thing.”

“You pursued it anyway.”

“You can’t please everyone. But then you already know that, don’t you?”

He stared at her for so long she wanted to squirm. Julia had always been good at reading facial expressions and body language. But John’s face was so utterly inscrutable, she hadn’t a clue what he was thinking or feeling.

Shaking himself as if from a dream, he stepped back. “I’ll check the kitchen and get out of your hair.”

Before she could say anything, he’d turned away and disappeared into the hall.

 
His heart was still pounding when he reached the galley-
style kitchen. He stood there for a moment, trying hard to convince himself it wasn’t attraction that had arced between them just a moment earlier. He might have screwed up his career, but he wasn’t stupid enough to get involved in a situation simply because his hormones thought it was a good idea. Hormones rarely steered a man in the right direction.

Julia Wainwright might have a body made for sin, but there was no way in hell he was going to concede to some primal instinct to mate and get tangled up with her, physically or otherwise. With the shooting weighing heavily on his mind and his life in upheaval, he was in no condition to act on some animal impulse.

Determined to finish the security inspection and get the hell out of there before he did something stupid, he strode to the fire escape door and tugged it open. The lock appeared to be as old as the building. The striker plate was bolted to wood that was rotted in places and warped with age. One hard kick and the door would give.