KILLING ME SOFTLY (7 page)

Gone. It was all gone. Every article, every piece of microfiche, every magazine—everything with the slightest reference to Cain and Savannah was gone.

"How can it be gone?" Renee asked the librarian. "Are you sure it's not somewhere else?"

The research librarian, Lena Mae Lamont, closed the file cabinet. "I'm sorry, but there's nowhere else it would be."

"Maybe in a local collection section?"

Lena Mae shook her head. "I've already looked there."

Someone had beat Renee here. She knew it as surely as she knew she was being stonewalled. Maybe last night, or maybe days or weeks before, but someone had deliberately scrubbed information about Cain and Savannah from the public domain.

Frustration tightened her chest, followed quickly by a punishing stab of disappointment. She'd researched the case as much as she could from afar, using the Internet to secure articles from the
New Orleans Times-Picayune
and
the Baton Rouge Advocate
, but instinct insisted that the payoff would come here in Bayou de Foi, from the accounts and opinions of the locals.

Accounts and opinions that were now missing.

Renee had a feeling she knew just who to thank for that little stumbling block, too.

"Maybe you can help me with this," she said, handing Lena Mae a slip of paper. "It's a book.
Louisiana Lore and Legends
." It had come up when she'd done an Internet search on Robichaud and murder. "I couldn't find it either."

Lena Mae, an attractive dark-haired woman with light brown eyes and olive skin, accessed the card catalog and checked the Dewey Decimal number, then led Renee to a section on Louisiana history—a section Renee had already checked.

"I'm sorry," Lena Mae said after scanning every shelf. "It seems to be missing, as well."

"Could someone have checked it out?"

A search in the library's surprisingly elaborate computer system refuted that possibility.

"But why?" Renee took a deep breath, reminded herself to stay calm. "I understand why someone might take the files pertaining to the murder investigation, but what does this book have to do with anything? It was published in 1954."

Lena Mae frowned. "Because of the legend, I suppose."

Renee blinked. "Legend?"

The lines remained carved in Lena Mae's face, but she forced a laugh. "You know us Louisianans. We've got legends about everything."

"I wasn't aware of one pertaining to the Robichauds," Renee said.

"And I'm afraid I can't tell you what it is, either." Lena Mae glanced nervously toward the front door. "The Robichauds fund this library, and with Etienne in the senate, they're real cautious of what information gets released. If you want to know, you'll have to talk to one of them."

It was starting. Less than twenty-four hours after her arrival, the town was shutting its doors and barring its windows. The stream of information was already drying up.

But Renee had learned something—Cain was not the first Robichaud to tango with murder.

"Never heard … her," Gabe said above the garble of static coming across the mobile phone. "You … me to run … through NICS?"

"Not yet," Cain bit out as the hotel came into view through the lingering rain. Almost an hour had passed since T'Roy's phone call, but the P.I.'s revelations still burned like a hot poker to the gut. "I want to see what I can get out of her first."

He looked forward to it, actually.

"Let … know if … change your … ind."

"Will do." Scowling at the lame connection, Cain swung into the parking lot. Damn phone company didn't seem to understand that the Robichauds hadn't forked over big bucks for the substandard cellular service to continue.

"Cain … Prejean's … spotted."

He killed the ignition. "Where?"

"…murder…"

Reaching for the door, Cain went very still. "Repeat that."

"…courier murdered…" Gabe's voice broke in and out of the crackle. "Prej … running from … scene."

Cain squeezed his eyes shut, opened them a moment later. His former partner had been one of the few to stand by Cain during the Grand Jury trial, even though he'd been there that night, had seen Cain kneeling with Renee's blood on his hands. "No." He shoved open the door and stepped into the drizzle. "I don't give a rat's ass what it looks like, Alec did not kill that courier."

"…just thought … should know."

"I'll be there tonight," he said, striding toward the town's signature hotel. Once, he'd found great pride in the massive columns that flanked it. Now, he couldn't look at them without seeing the ruins south of town. "We'll talk then."

Without breaking pace, Cain wound down the call and pushed through the doors, shoved the damp hair from his face and took the curving stairs two at a time.

The door at the end of the hall served as a flimsy barrier to a former undercover cop accustomed to infiltrating ironclad criminal organizations. He could knock it down with a shove, but something he didn't understand kept him from just barging in.

He knocked loudly and placed his finger over the peephole.

"Yes?" Her voice rasped with the roughness of sleep.

He wondered if he had visited hers, as she had visited his. "Can I help you?"

Despite his anger, his body responded. "You better believe you can." In ways that could easily destroy them both. "Open up and I'll show you how."

Silence. Absolute, deafening silence.

"Don't make me use my key," he warned, sliding his hand into the front pocket of his suddenly tight jeans.

A sigh. He heard it through the two-inch layer of wood, as provocative and damning as though it brushed his neck. "Cain."

"Don't pretend you're surprised. This is what you wanted,
non?"

More silence, followed by another sigh
. "Non."

Sweet Mary Mother of God. Her voice flowed like honey when she spoke in English, but when she used it to caress a word in French, even one simple syllable, it conjured images of sin and—

"Don't test me." To prove his point, he jingled his keys.

A chain rattled, followed by the click of the dead bolt. Slowly, the wood eased from between them to reveal her leaning against the door frame. She didn't look frightened, as Millie had. She looked resigned.

"Far be it for me to test one of the mighty Robichauds."

The words, the tone, had the effect she no doubt intended. For a second, a damning fraction of a second, shame taunted him.

Do you make it a point of personally trying to run off every visitor to Bayou de Foi?

He pushed the question aside and strode into her room. The bed caught his eye first, the tangled sheets and indentation on one of the feather pillows. Then he noticed the heap of damp clothes on the floor near the bathroom, the stylish, slightly muddy boots. And despite everything, the thought of this buttoned-up woman getting caught in the rain fired through him. He turned toward her, took in the bulky hotel-provided robe wrapped around her body and gaping at the chest. Her damp hair was still tangled and pushed back from her face. She wore no makeup. Water slid down her legs.

"What in God's name are you doing answering the door dressed like that?" he demanded.

A smile flirted with her pale lips. "You didn't give me much of a choice, did you?" She moved from the door, leaving it open. "Had I taken the time to get dressed, you would have barged in using your key." She arched an eyebrow. "Care to tell me which would have been more indecent?"

The image formed before he could stop it, of walking in to find her sliding out of the terry robe and into something more … appropriate.

"Do they train you to deceive?" he asked in a deliberately quiet voice. "Or does that just come naturally?"

At first he thought she would say nothing, sidestepping his demand as she'd done the day before. But she angled her chin. "You know."

"You didn't really think I wouldn't find out, did you?" It hadn't even taken that much effort. "A quick Internet search and there you are,
True Crime
's newest addition, acclaimed for your ability to dig up secrets and hang them out to dry." As far as smut TV went,
True Crime
ranked right up there with the most offensive. "Is that how you get your kicks?" When her eyes flared, he took a deliberate step closer. "Telling lies and exploiting scandal, no matter who you screw in the process?"

"I'm here to do a job, Cain. A job I take very seriously. Screwing you has nothing to do with it."

"Your job is snooping into my life?"

Defiance flashed through her eyes. "At the moment, yes."

The tightening started in his gut and shot out through his body. There was anger, yes, a cold feeling he'd lived with day in and day out during the weeks after Savannah vanished, but damn it, it was the disappointment that punished. He'd wanted to believe her. He'd wanted to believe she was just a woman passing through town.

Now the truth burned. Renee Fox had come to Bayou de Foi to resurrect Savannah—and nail him to the wall—all in the name of journalism. "You stood there on the porch last night, smiling, when all along you knew you were here to crucify me?"

The first trace of nervousness flitted across her face. "I'm not here to crucify you."

"Then what would you call it?"

"Research," she said with that stubborn tilt to her chin. "I'm here to see if there's a story to tell."

"A story?" The word, the simplicity it implied, sickened. He'd seen the show, after all, and he knew there was nothing simple or innocent about the scandals it exploited. "This is my life you're talking about, not some sordid little it-was-a-dark-and-stormy-night tale."

"I'd think an innocent man would welcome the opportunity to clear his name."

"Trust me,
cher
," he said very quietly, with absolutely no emotion to his voice. "You can't clear my name."

She staggered back from his words, as though he'd pummeled her with fists and not the truth. "No?" Determination glowed in her eyes. "Why not?"

He stared down at her, at the way her hair tumbled from her face, revealing skin ridiculously beautiful and flawless for a woman her age. The blast of lust was obscene—and dangerous as hell. He had no business being attracted to this woman, not when she was out to destroy his life.

"I don't owe you any explanations."

"Is that what you'll say when I have a camera trained on you?" she asked with equal directness, sounding exactly like the reporter he now knew her to be.

"Rest assured," he said. "There will be no cameras."

They stood that way a long moment, locked in a fierce battle neither wanted to lose. Now, at last, he understood why she'd disturbed him upon sight, why he'd been unable to quit thinking about her.

"Was it all a lie?" he asked harshly. "Did you even know Savannah?"

Her mouth trembled slightly before she answered. "I would never lie about that." Emotion flooded her expression. "That's why I'm here," she said in an oddly thick voice. "Because of Savannah—I know enough to make me want to know more."

He stepped closer. "Reporters aren't welcome in my town."

Finally she backed away from him, but the massive mahogany armoire stopped her retreat. "I'm not a reporter."

He reached toward her, his hands framing, but not touching, her flushed cheeks. "Then what would you call it?"

"A researcher."

"And just what, goddamn it, is the difference?"

"A reporter reports the news. A researcher explores the unknown."

The heat radiating from her robe seared through him, bringing the unwanted temptation to press her against the armoire and teach her firsthand about exploring the unknown.

"So somebody else can report it," he said instead, his hands settling against the warmth of her cheeks.

She flinched, didn't twist away. "Not report. Share. Milton Leonard is a respected journalist. He treats each story with care and respect."

"Care and respect?" He almost choked on the words. "I've seen the show,
cher
. The more sex, violence and scandal, the better."

Her eyes flared. "Like you said, your life."

The burn started low, spread fast. "And I intend to keep it that way—
my
life is not for public consumption."

"I don't want to consume anything, Cain. I just want the truth. Does that really frighten you so much?"

He stared at her a long moment before answering. He should be furious. This woman wanted to tear apart his life, and yet there was something about the way she stared at him, that ridiculous glint in her eyes and the slight part to her lips, that overrode the darker emotions, replaced them with something even more dangerous.

"You really want to know what frightens me?" he asked with a slow, lethal smile.

"Yes."

The spurt of enjoyment was so damn wrong. "You," he said in a rough, quiet voice. "You frighten me." The shock on her face felt better than it should have. "The fact that despite everything you've told me, all I can think about is what it would feel like to put my mouth to yours." He leaned closer, until just a fraction of an inch separated them.

"Would you taste like lies?" he murmured, "or like sin?"

She sucked in a sharp little breath and lifted her eyes to his. "The truth," she whispered, then stunned him by lifting her hands to his chest and giving him a good solid shove. "I would taste like the truth."

God help him, he laughed. "We'll see about that," he drawled. Then because he didn't trust himself to stay, he turned and walked to the door, pivoting before leaving. She stood with her back against the armoire, its dark finish highlighting the lack of color in her cheeks. A swing of dark hair curtained her face.

Cain steeled himself against the stirring deep within. "A word to the wise. Little girls who play with fire get burned."

She didn't so much as flinch. "I haven't been a little girl for a long time."

He refused to let himself smile.
"Touché"
was all he said, then he walked away.

Renee stood that way for a long time, with her back to the armoire, staring at the empty hallway. Her heart thrummed a painful rhythm. Shock seared her throat. Cain had been gone for fifteen minutes, but she could still feel the heat radiating from his body, like the first blast of summer air after a long cold winter.