KILLING ME SOFTLY (6 page)

"Then you've come to the wrong place." There was nothing of Savannah left here. He'd seen to that.

She turned toward a second picture, this one smaller, more obscure, not in his usual palette of blacks and whites and grays, but with a splash of yellow. A butterfly. It hovered over a honeysuckle, starkly visible against the curve of a woman's shadow thrown across the ground.

Slowly, her hand came to rest against the glass. "You're very talented," she whispered, and the words stabbed deep.

Renee Fox was not the first woman to remark on his talent.

Cain stared at the butterfly, but saw a woman stretched out among tangled black sheets, thick blond hair flirting with her shoulders, a gleam to her slumberous blue eyes, her body nude save for the sheen of perspiration.

You, Robi, are a man of excruciating talent…

Savannah had not been talking about his photographs.

With a fierce shove, Cain stalked to the door of the gallery, reached inside and flicked off the light. "I didn't take that picture."

"Then why is it hanging in your gallery?"

He pulled the door closed and stabbed his key into the lock. "Because it's mine."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her move toward him. "How much for it?"

"It's not for sale."

She stopped so close he could feel the warmth of her body swirl against the night. "Everything has a price, isn't that what you said?"

The burn started low, spread fast. He turned to see her standing suspended between shadow and light, and realized the slow burn came from neither anger nor mistrust. "Sweet Mary, I may live to regret this, but I've decided you can stay."

The faint light of the moon played across Cain's wide cheekbones and emphasized the whiskers shading his jaw, somehow making him look soft when Renee knew without doubt everything about Cain Robichaud was unmistakably hard.

He'd
decided? To let her stay? An irritated retort burned through her, but she bit it back, knowing he was right. Whether out of fear or respect, the people of Bayou de Foi jumped when the man many believed guilty of murder barked an order.

If Cain Robichaud wanted her gone, she didn't stand a chance.

If … Cain … wanted … her.

Hearing the words strung together, even if only in her own mind, sent a shiver whispering deep.

"It's been a long time since I've had someone to play with," he added thickly, and the words wound like silken threads around her heart. "Most people are too afraid I'm going to kill them."

Renee just stared. She told herself to say something. Knew she should say something. But her throat had gone tight, and whatever words he deserved, jammed there.

"So tell me,
cher
, just so we're clear. What kind of game are we playing? What kind of rules shall we play by?"

There were no rules. No boundaries. Not when the game was one of life and death.

"Why the frown? Isn't this what you wanted?"

What … she … wanted. Oh, she wanted, all right. A lot. "Are you always this suspicious of people you don't know?"

"Not just people I don't know. Only the naive think knowing someone means you can trust them."

"Once a cop, always a cop," she murmured. He'd said as much.

His laugh was dark. "Ah,
cher
. My instincts have nothing to do with a badge."

"And what are your instincts telling you?"

"That beneath all that bravado, you're hiding something. You stroll onto my land like you have every right to be there, then defy me as though you haven't a clue as to what I'm capable of."

She knew what he was capable of. That was the problem. It was also the draw. She knew she should have gone back to the hotel after her encounter with Travis. She should never have walked deeper into the night, directly toward the oak-shrouded church where people had once come to pray … and mourn.

But the second she'd seen the glow from within, she'd been drawn to move closer, look inside. What she'd seen there had chilled her, even as a warm rush had whispered through her. He'd looked so alone standing in the shadows among photographs that said far more about the man he was, than the places he'd visited.

The butterfly…

Angling her chin, she shoved the unwanted emotion aside and focused on an equally unwanted possibility. "I suppose your instincts are why you arranged for my little welcoming committee?"

His eyes narrowed.
"Pardon?"

"The two men who so gallantly wanted to warn me this evening after I left the restaurant." On more of a fishing expedition than a crucifixion, she held back their names. It disturbed her to realize how badly she wanted his denial. "How much did you pay them to prove your point and scare me off?"

The rumble started low in his chest. "You think I paid someone to scare you off?"

She lifted a single eyebrow. "Didn't you?"

He stepped closer, crowding her against the side of the old church. "You really think I'm the kind of man who pays others to do his dirty work?"

Her breath quickened. No. She didn't think that at all. If Cain Robichaud had dirty work to do, he took great pleasure in doing it himself.

"I have to consider the possibility," she whispered.

His thighs brushed her hips. "But you don't want to." His voice was quiet, hoarse. "I can see that in the way you're looking at me."

The night pulsed around them, thick, intimate, reducing the world to just the two of them. She eased the hair from her face and reminded herself to breathe, but only succeeded in drawing the scent of patchouli and clove deep within her.

The urge to step away was strong, but he stood too close, wedging her between his big body and the wall. "How is that?" she asked. "Like you've lost your mind?"

His smile was slow, purely carnal. "
Non
, like I'm the only man in the world." Shadows played across the planes of his face, emphasizing the glow to his eyes, the heavy whiskers at his jaw. "The mistrust and the fascination, the curiosity, like you're looking at something you want to touch, but aren't sure if you put your hand out whether you'll be kissed—or bitten."

Her heart kicked hard. Every instinct for survival told her to break the contact between them, look away, focus on the statue of a woman seated on a park bench overlooking the bayou, waiting for a lover who never returned. But she didn't move. "All that just from my eyes?"

"I'm a photographer." He raised a hand to her face, but rather than touching, he traced the outline through the smoky air. "You can look for my secrets all you want, but know that before all is said and done, I'll have yours, too."

Because God help her, she would give it to him.

"Be careful what you wish for," she shot back with a silkiness that pleased her. Refusing to give an inch, she slipped under his arm and let a slow smile of her own curve her lips. "Some secrets are best left buried."

Without waiting for a reply, she crossed the porch, went down the steps and headed for her hotel.

Cain caught up with her near the statue. His hand found her wrist, his fingers closed around flesh and bone—gently. She turned slowly, felt her pulse jump when she saw the glitter in his eyes.

"A pretty lady like you in the middle of the night—" his fingers moved with the words, slid to skim the inside of her palm "—maybe you should let me take you back to your hotel room."

The words shimmied through her like an intimate caress, leaving warmth everywhere they touched. She felt herself lean into him, reach up to him, forget every damning reason she had for staying away from this man.

His gaze slipped down her body, then returned to her face with equal leisure, revealing the glow of invitation—and the burn of warning. "Be very sure…"

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he desire to taste and feel and discover stunned her. Renee looked up into his brutally handsome face and felt her breath catch, her heart race. The night pulsed in perfect rhythm with the dance of his fingers against her hand, creating an intimacy that could tempt even a nun.

Renee was not a nun—but nor was she naive.

Women come and go from my bed faster than I can develop the film of what happens there…

One week was all she had. One day was already gone. Six remained—at most. In only a few hours Cain had blurred the lines between them. He was good at that. He knew how to manipulate any situation to get what he wanted, how to use size and strength, even his reputation, to twist circumstances to his advantage. He wasn't above using sex to intimidate and control.

Nor was she—but tonight was not the time to carelessly toss down gauntlets he was sure to pick up.

"Not necessary," she said, twisting her wrist from his hand.

He made no move to stop her, just watched her with a dark light in his eyes. "Maybe not tonight,
cher
. But soon."

It was the
soon
that fed the ache deep inside. But she ignored the temptation and kept her face blank as she turned. This time she had no problem walking away.

The sun was barely up when she arrived at the library. She sat quietly on a bench, sipping coffee from the shop across the street and jotting in a notebook. The steady breeze blowing in from the bayou whipped her hair against her face, but she made no move to brush it away.

Intrigued, Edouard leaned back in his chair and watched her through his office window.

"I can be on the next plane to New Orleans," Etienne said from the Hart Office Building in Washington.

"No." The word came without hesitation. "There's no need to feed a fire." Etienne's abrupt return would accomplish nothing except extra publicity, which Edouard categorically did not need. "Everything's under control."

Sometimes it still amazed Edouard that someone as excitable as his brother had gotten himself elected to the highest echelons of government.

But then, that's what smooth talking and an easy smile could do for you.

"You'll take care of it then?"

Edouard glanced toward the library and frowned. Of course he would take care of it. That's what he did, what he'd done since the time they were boys and Etienne had come home dead drunk for the first time. Just because Edouard didn't have a fancy office and a face that had been on the cover of national news magazines didn't mean he wasn't capable.

Family came first. The town second. There wasn't time for a third.

"I've got someone looking into her," he told his brother. Cain had T'Roy, but Edouard preferred to do his own dirty work. "If she's got a hidden agenda, I'll find it."

The call wound down, and Edouard swiveled in his chair to review the contents of the folder open on his desk—the desk his grand-daddy had occupied until his death at the age of eighty-four. The articles clipped from various newspapers stared back at him, nasty reminders of how fast a man could go from hero to goat. His nephew had been doing his job, leading the investigation against a dangerous criminal organization. But in the blink of an eye—

Not the blink of an eye, he corrected. The stroke of a pen. Cain's investigation had been going fine until his informants started turning up dead and critical evidence went missing, whipping the media into a frenzy. Stories about a cop turned dirty had been splashed all over the front pages.

Then Cain had been found with Savannah's blood on his hands, and the suspicions had turned into an unholy witch hunt. With the heat turned up, illegal activities had conveniently dried up, leaving his nephew with a burning thirst for vengeance but no more than a phantom to follow.

Someone had gone to great lengths to frame Cain for a crime he did not commit.

Edouard had gone to even greater lengths to clear him.

Yanking open his desk drawer, he looked for a cigarette that wasn't there. Some said his thirst for justice was his downfall. At least,
someone
had said that. But she hadn't understood. To her the world was a simple place. A friendly place. Pretty and untarnished. She believed in white picket fences and rainbows, fairy tales and promises that lasted forever.

Vietnam had taught him otherwise. He'd learned the truth about the dark side of human nature there: a man with his head in the clouds was doomed to stumble and fall.

A man needed a purpose. Goals. That's what kept him strong. Kept him focused.

It was why he'd come home from 'Nam with nothing worse than a head full of silver hair, whereas so many of his buddies had come home in body bags.

Frowning, Edouard leaned down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk, fumbled under a stack of reports and pulled out an old wooden frame. The black-and-white picture had weathered, but they were all still there, young and innocent and drunk on the promise of the future. He couldn't believe how young they looked—couldn't believe he'd ever been that young.

Or that naive.

Only a week later, three of them had landed in 'Nam.

Two tours later, only two of them had come home.

Holding the photo, Edouard leaned back in his chair and turned toward Renee Fox. She'd stopped writing in the notebook, now just looked toward Main Street with the oddest expression on her face.

He wasn't nearly as uneasy about her presence as he wanted everyone to think. The criminal, after all, always returned to the scene of the crime.

It just took time.

And while he was pretty dog damn sure Renee Fox was not responsible for hanging Cain out to dry, maybe, just maybe, she would lead Edouard straight to the bastard who was.

The buzz of his intercom broke his thoughts. "What's up, Becca? I told you not to interrupt unless it was urgent."

"It is urgent," his secretary said. "It's about Travis."

"Comeaux?" he asked, frustrated. Travis Comeaux and Lem Lemoine had a habit of showing up in the strangest of places. "Where's he passed out this time?"

"That's just it," Becca said. "His wife says he didn't come home last night."

"That's nothing—"

"His car is there. Keys are in the ignition, and Millie swears there's blood on the seat. But she can't find Travis anywhere."