KILLING ME SOFTLY (9 page)

Savannah had brought him to a small jeweler in the Quarter and straight to a stunning emerald-cut diamond flanked by two tapered baguettes in an exquisite platinum setting.

Frowning at the memory, she lifted her eyes to the mirror. It still jarred her to find a stranger looking back at her, but she recognized the rare opportunity she'd been given. She'd worked hard to create her alibi, had sold
True Crime
on the proposed segment and constructed an elaborate, albeit phony, professional Web site. Now, courtesy of a new face and a new voice, a borrowed name, she was poised to undertake the ultimate undercover assignment—solve her own murder.

"Heard you got some trouble down your way, Ed."

The late-afternoon sun glinted through the dense canopy of oaks, falling in little slivers along the highway much the way it had cut against the jungle floor back in 'Nam. Edouard squinted against it, wondered if there'd ever come a time when the slightest thing didn't throw him back.

Of course, a phone call from Nathan Lambert didn't help.

"Then you must be listening to the wrong people again," he said, steering the cruiser off the main highway and onto a small country road.

"Oh?" the celebrated importer/exporter asked. As kids, he and his brother had attended the same boarding school as the Robichauds. As adults, the whole state of Louisiana was barely big enough for both families. "You mean there's not a pretty little reporter down there digging up your secrets?"

Edouard swerved around a fallen branch alongside the road. "You mean Renee?" He let his voice thicken with fondness on her name. "That sweet thing wouldn't hurt a fly."

Nathan laughed. "Is that a fact?"

"That it is."

"Glad to hear it," Nathan said, and Edouard could almost see him in his St. Charles Avenue mansion, leaning back in his desk chair with a glass of brandy in his hands. "Sure would have been a shame if history had to repeat itself."

Down the driveway, the Acadian style frame house came into view. "That's not going to happen."

"I mean, if a second woman were to come sniffing around Cain—wouldn't be too good if something were to happen to her, too, would it? Wouldn't look too good for any of you."

Edouard braked suddenly. "Stay away from my family, Lambert. We don't need your kind of help."

"I mean, what if people started asking questions … wondering just what that reporter was getting close to—and who was running scared." Nathan hesitated.
"Again."

Nathan was enjoying this a little too much. Edouard lifted a hand to his chest and rubbed, reminded himself now was not the time to lose control.

Never was the time.

A man had to keep himself focused.

"No one's going to be asking questions," he said, his voice low and forceful, "because nothing's going to happen to anyone."

But sweet God have mercy—he didn't know why he hadn't realized it before. No matter who Renee Fox was or who she worked for, what her intent was, her very presence jeopardized them all.

If someone wanted to launch a killing blow to his family—a political enemy of Etienne's or a nuisance with an ax to grind—Renee Fox presented the perfect weapon.

"If that's what you want to believe," Nathan said mildly. "But you should know, regardless of how you got your nephew out of that last jam, this time rumor has it he's going to fry."

The line went dead.

Edouard yanked the earpiece from his face and let it fall to the seat, stared at the thin black cord lying on the seat next to a plate of cookies. He'd known all along the Fox woman's presence left them vulnerable. He just hadn't realize
how
vulnerable. Even if the killing blow didn't come from her, it would come from someone.

Lambert was right. All someone had to do was off the reporter and make sure there was a body, and this time Cain
would
fry.

Swearing softly, he reached for a cookie, ended up shoving the whole plate to the floorboard. Damn things had been arriving like clockwork every other Monday for the past several years. No one claimed to know where they came from. As sheriff, he didn't much like unsolved mysteries, but as a man, he rather found it flattering.

And hell. He liked chocolate-chip cookies.

Swearing under his breath, he yanked open the glovebox and pulled out a cigarette, jabbed in the lighter.

Renee Fox didn't need to be run out of town.

She needed to be protected.

It was a damn strange irony.

Refusing to let his hands shake, he grabbed the lighter and lit the cigarette, brought it to his mouth.

But did not take a drag.

He hadn't in over twelve years.

On a low growl he threw the car door open and strode toward the house he'd built forts behind as a child. He found Millie standing on the wide porch. Her surprisingly long dark hair fell from the pony tail and blew in the cool breeze, reminding him of so many other times he'd stopped by to say hello and check in on things, just like Jesse had asked.

Jesse
. Hard to believe it had been a quarter of a century since he'd held his best friend's hand as he took his last breath in some godforsaken field hospital on the outskirts of Saigon.

Throwing the cigarette to the ground, he crushed it with his boot.

"Ed." Millie started toward him. "Oh, my God, no—"

He caught her as her knees went out from her. "No," he said, hating that for so many folks, his presence meant bad news. But that was the way of it, he knew. The role of law enforcement. His job wasn't to make nicey-nice. It was to keep the peace, no matter what that entailed.

"We don't know anything more," he quickly explained, and the color came back to Millie's cheeks. He could still see her as she'd been the day she married Travis, when he'd stood as best man to his best friend's little brother. Jesse would have wanted that. "I do have some questions, though."

She swiped the hair from her face. "Yes, yes, of course. Come on in." She disentangled herself and turned briskly toward the house, ushered him into the darkly paneled front room.

"Let me get you something to drink," she said, and before he could protest, she was gone.

The furniture was all old, original pieces from Travis and Jesse's parents, who'd passed on within two months of each other five years back. Edouard glanced from the heavily curtained window to the old piano, then back toward the fireplace.

The portrait was new.

He moved closer, drawn by the luminescent quality to the oil painting of two young girls in crisp white dresses, juxtaposed against the plantation ruins just outside of town.

"Isn't it lovely?" Millie said from behind him.

He turned to find her approaching with a glass of iced tea in her hands and a smile on her face. "Lena Mae did that for me last spring."

"Lena Mae?" He took the tea and stepped closer, stared at the innocence in the faces of the girls.

Of course.
Lena.

"Those are Amy's girls," Millie said, referring to her daughter who lived over in Arizona. "They were here for Easter."

"They're beautiful," he said. Lena had captured them perfectly—why the hell hadn't he known she painted?

Forcing himself to look away, Edouard abruptly returned the conversation to Travis. Damn renegade. Edouard had warned him countless times to mind his own business, but Travis never had.

"I need you to tell me everything you can about Travis's activities the past few weeks. Anything unusual?" Fisherman by day, conspiracy theorist by night, Travis had never learned where not to poke his nose. Edouard's deputies had already confiscated his computer, but so far, nothing.

"What was he working on?" he asked.

Millie frowned. "He didn't talk to me about that kind of thing."

Actually, Edouard was pretty sure Travis and Millie hadn't talked about much. Catholic down to their toes, divorce wasn't an option, despite the drinking he knew Millie despised. "Think. It's important. To help him, I have to know in what direction to look." Giving her a minute, he looked away, saw the old oak secretary. And the photograph.

The same one he kept in his bottom desk drawer.

They all looked too dog damn young—Jesse, Travis and Edouard, Millie and Lena and his sister Julia. They'd just graduated. War lay around the corner. But down by the old burned-out bridge, the lazy summer day had been perfect.

"There's nothing," Millie said, drawing his attention back to Travis. "The last time I saw him was when I got home from work yesterday."

Edouard pounced. "Did you tell him anything about that Fox woman?"

"Just a little. Nothing about that scene with you." Millie narrowed her eyes and glowered at him. "What in the world were you trying to do, anyway? Scare her half to death?"

He took another sip of tea. "If we're lucky."

"You're a piece of work, Edouard Robichaud, you know that?"

The exasperated tone warmed him. But there was no time for sentiment. "This is my town, Millie. I'm not going to let another reporter come around and stir up trouble."

Just like that the light drained from her eyes. "You think her being here has something to do with the blood in Travis's car?"

"Too soon to know," he said, setting the now-empty glass in a coaster on the coffee table. "Him and Lem been known to tie one on in the past, go sleep it off somewhere."

"But the blood—"

The tears in her eyes got him. "I know, hon," he said, pulling her into his arms. "I know."

CHAPTER SEVEN

V
alerie Hopkins squinted at the antique mantel clock. The Roman numerals were faint, but she knew not much time had passed since the Westminster chimes announced Gabe was over three hours late.

She refused to cry. There'd been enough tears. After three years together she knew the more emotional she became, the more Gabe withdrew. He was a man who dealt in facts not emotions. He saw the world in black or white. There was no gray.

In the beginning, her insecurity had baffled him. Then, later, after they'd become lovers, it had alarmed. Now, it frustrated. He'd told her he loved her, and that meant he did.

To him, it was as simple as that.

But as Val lay in the darkness, listening to his keys jingle in the door, uncertainty streamed through her. Gone were the easy times, the fun times, when they would stay up till all hours, drinking expensive wine and sharing secrets, making love until the sun came up. Gone was the laughter. The innocence.

They'd died right along with Savannah.

The front door opened and closed. She heard him move through the house, his footsteps as quiet as his touch had once been gentle. He wasn't rough now; that wasn't the problem. A little roughness would have been a welcome change. He just wasn't—there.

"Honey, that you?" The words were sleep-roughened, tinged with more emotion than she'd intended.

He crossed to the sofa and went down on one knee. "Thought you'd be in bed," he whispered, lifting a hand to her face. "I didn't mean to wake you."

His touch, painfully tentative for a lover of three years, sent an ache through her. "Couldn't sleep." Not after how they'd left things that morning, when she'd stormed out without even saying goodbye. "I'm sorry about this morning."

"Don't worry about it," he said as he always did. "You were right to be upset with me."

"Your job is important, I know that. I was silly to expect you to play hooky just because my client never showed." A real-estate agent, Val enjoyed a schedule much more flexible than Gabe's.

"It was a sweet thought. Maybe when things slow down—"

She put her index finger to his mouth. "Shh," she said. "Don't say it, okay?" They both knew it wasn't true. Things at the district attorney's office never slowed down.

Gabe wouldn't let them.

He moved relentlessly from case to case, pursuing justice like a phantom that could never be caught. Because of his dad.

"Dinner's in the fridge." The candles were in the trash.

"Thanks, babe, but I'm not really hungry."

The twist of disappointment made no sense. "Vince called a couple of hours ago." She'd sat in the bathtub, surrounded by fading bubbles, not aware of how cold the water had become until the district attorney's phone call had blown Gabe's story about working late.

Gabe's expression, a poker face that helped him rack up at local tournaments, gave away absolutely nothing. "He reached my mobile."

Questions burned the back of her throat, but she refused to voice them, didn't want to let herself become that needy, clingy person her mother had always been.

"I was with Cain," he offered, but said no more.

When it came to his cousin, he rarely did. The more Cain called, the more distant Gabe became. For a while there, after Savannah died, Gabe hadn't had much contact with Cain. No one had. After the Grand Jury failed to come back with an indictment, he'd all but dropped off the face of the planet. There had been the occasional rumor of a sighting, but never from Gabe.

Instinct warned he knew more than he was saying. And that made her uncomfortable.

"It's late." With a soft smile, she lifted a hand to the whiskers at his jaw. "We should get to bed."

"Christ, you're amazing," he murmured, and there was unspoken gratitude in his voice for not pressing him further.

"Not really." She paused, loving the feel of his hand sliding down her throat. "I just…" The second his fingers eased back the silk of her pajama top and brushed her breast, her mind went blank. Sensation flooded her, the quick rush of anticipation, and eagerly she drew his face down to hers.

The bourbon on his breath was like a slap to the face.

Gabe had not initiated lovemaking in weeks. Maybe months. He was always too tired or too stressed, too distracted. The hour was too late or he had to get up too early.

That it took the influence of alcohol to have him reaching for her, wanting her, added insult to injury.

"Let me show you how amazing," she whispered despite the disappointment. Driven by needs that ran deeper than pride ever could, she drew him closer and arched into him, gave herself to him as completely as she could.