Loving Laura (The Cantrelle Family Trilogy) (30 page)

“That’s all he said?”

“ Well... uh... no.”

Nicole gritted her teeth. Kathy was new and young and she looked as if she were rattled by Nicole’s questions. Nicole took a deep breath and told herself to calm down. “Kathy, that man was following me this morning. I’m sure of it. Try to remember everything he said, okay?”

Kathy’s big eyes got even bigger. “Okay, uh, after I told him there wasn’t anyone by that name here, he said he was sure the woman he wanted worked here, because he’d seen her come into our office earlier today.”

Nicole could feel goose-bumps pop out on her arms. She hadn’t been imagining things. He
had
been following her!

“Anyway,” Kathy continued, wetting her lips nervously, “I said I was sorry, but he must have been wrong, and then he said it was very important that he talk to the woman because someone was trying to reach her.” She gave Nicole an apologetic half smile. “I’m sorry, Nic. He... he said it was an emergency and I—”

“You what?”

“I told him your name!”

“You told him my
name?
Why?”
Good God. He knew her name!

“It... I don’t know... it just happened. You know how sometimes you say something and the minute it’s out of your mouth you know it’s a mistake?”

Nicole wanted to shake Kathy, but she forced herself to be calm and speak quietly. “What exactly did he say to cause you to tell him my name?”

“He said it was vitally important—an emergency situation—that he reach this Elise Arnold.” Kathy winced. “And I...I said, well, I really wished I could help him, but the only woman answering his description was one of our secretaries—Nicole Cantrelle—so I couldn’t help him.”

Oh, God. Was that the reason he’d come into the office? To try to find out her name? Was his story about this woman just a clever ploy to obtain his
real
objective? But why was he stalking her?

“Nic, I’m so sorry. I really am. But he seemed so
nice,
and... oh, dear, I hope I didn’t do something terrible.”

“Well,” Nicole said, trying vainly to push her fear away, “I can’t say I’m happy about this, but what’s done is done. I just hope—”

“Please don’t tell Mr. Villac,” Kathy said, naming her boss, the office administrator.

“I wouldn’t do that, but Kathy, don’t
ever
give out information like that again. To anyone. I don’t care what they tell you.”

“I won’t. I promise. Oh, God, I’m sorry. Do...do you think you should call the police?”

“And say what? I don’t even know who this guy is, and I hardly think his coming in here asking questions constitutes a crime.” She made herself talk in a normal voice. “No, let’s just forget it. Maybe now he’ll realize he has the wrong person, and I’ll never see him again. Well,” she continued briskly, “have you seen Julianne? I need her to sign these letters before I take off.”

“She’s in the conference room.”

Fifteen minutes later, Nicole was on her way out the door. She’d tried to put thoughts of the man out of her mind, but she was still on edge. She walked down the stairs to the first floor and let herself out into the courtyard. Rain dripped from the branches of a shiny-leafed magnolia tree.

She opened the wrought-iron gate and quickly scanned the street. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until she let it out, relief washing over her. She’d been half afraid she’d see him on the sidewalk, but he was gone.

Walking rapidly over to Royal Street, she turned right. When she reached Canal Street, she crossed and walked to the corner of St. Charles Avenue and Common Street, where she would catch the streetcar. The rain had stopped, but the sky still looked like somebody had taken huge balls of cotton and dipped them in dirty dishwater.

Nicole surreptitiously studied the faces of the people around her. None of the men wore army green jackets or camouflage hats. She breathed more easily. Yes, she was sure she had nothing more to worry about. Whoever the man was, he surely realized she was not the woman he wanted. She’d definitely seen the last of him. She even laughed at herself for getting so upset over nothing.

The streetcar rumbled into view, and Nicole counted out her eighty cents. She glanced at her watch. Already twelve-thirty. She’d hoped to be home by now, but looking for Julianne, then the episode in the reception area had slowed her down. She hoped Margaret had already given Aimee her lunch. If she had, they could be on their way by one o’clock because Nicole had packed before leaving for work this morning.

Nicole smiled. She was looking forward to visiting her family in Patinville this weekend. Although she loved New Orleans and loved being independent, out from under the watchful eyes of her two brothers, who had a tendency to treat her as if she were still a child, she missed her family. She wondered if other families were as close-knit as Cajuns were. Somehow she doubted it. Her family was wonderful—supportive, loving and understanding. Well, at least most of the time.

Aimee loved going to Patinville, too. She loved her Grandma and Grandpa Cantrelle and all her cousins, especially her cousin Celeste, the daughter of Nicole’s brother Neil and his wife Laura. Celeste was only eight months older than Aimee, and the two little girls were as close as sisters.

Still smiling as she thought about her family, Nicole absentmindedly climbed onto the streetcar and found a seat about halfway back. She slid over the slatted wooden seat to the window, which was partially opened for ventilation, and watched as the last stragglers climbed on. Just as the streetcar was ready to leave, a man hopped on and strode down the aisle toward her.

Her eyes took in the army green jacket and the camouflage hat.

Her heart stopped.

She stared at him, but he didn’t meet her gaze. He walked on past her and when she turned, she saw him take a seat a couple of rows behind her on the opposite side.

By now her heart was going like a trip-hammer.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
She almost bolted from her seat, but with a lurch and a creak of metal on metal, the streetcar started up.

Calm down. What can happen to you here among all these people, in the middle of the day?

She had to force herself not to turn around again. But she could feel him back there. Watching her. She knew he was following her. He
had
to be following her. It was too coincidental that they both just happened to get on the same streetcar.

What should she do? Should she tell the driver? Should she stay on the streetcar?

She fingered her big totebag. There was a can of Mace in the bag, along with about fifty other things she never left home without. Julianne constantly teased her about carrying so much junk around in her bag.

Wait’ll I tell her.

All too soon Nicole had to make a decision. First Street was coming up, and it was her stop. She waited until the last minute, then clambered to her feet, her totebag slung over her left shoulder and clutched securely in her left hand. The streetcar driver gave her a curious look as she sped past him and practically threw herself off the car in her haste to exit.

She dashed across St. Charles Avenue, recklessly cutting in front of an oncoming car whose driver hit the horn in an angry blast. Water splashed around her feet, but she was no longer worried about her new boots.

Her breath came in short spurts, and her heart thudded against her chest as she ran. She was afraid to look behind her.

Only two blocks to go before she reached Coliseum Street and home. Two blocks. Two blocks.

Should she turn around? Had he gotten off the streetcar, too? The sound of rapid footsteps behind her made up her mind for her. Still half running, half walking, she pulled her totebag around to the front of her. She yanked the zipper open and shoved her right hand inside the enormous handbag until she found the slick, round shape of her can of Mace.

Simultaneously, she pulled the can out of her bag and whirled around to confront her pursuer.

“What do you want with me?” she demanded, all caution forgotten. She lifted the can of Mace and held it in front of her, ready to spray it at the least sign of aggression.

“Hey, whoa, quit waving that thing around!” He lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

“You have an odd way of showing it,” she said, her breath still coming fast. “You’ve been following me! Asking questions about me!” She kept her finger on the spray button. “Don’t come another step closer!”

He stopped about four feet away from her, still holding his hands up, palms facing her. She narrowed her eyes and stared at him, her gaze daring him to move one inch closer.

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said, his voice strong and low-timbered.

Now that she could see what he looked like, Nicole realized he didn’t look very scary. What was visible of his hair under the cap looked thick and either light brown or dark blond. It was a bit too long, and curled over the collar of his jacket. He had a square face with a deep tan—as if he spent a lot of time outdoors—and a slightly off-center nose. He also had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

“You’ve got exactly two minutes,” she said through clenched teeth. “And your explanation had better be good!”

“Will you please lower that can of Mace?” her would-be assailant asked.

Although her instincts told her she had nothing to fear from him, Nicole held on to the can even as she abandoned her threatening stance.

“Thanks.” He lowered his hands, too, and pulled something from the left breast pocket of his jacket. He held it out to her.

Nicole could see that it was a small packet of papers. “What are those?”

“My identification. My name is Jack Forrester, and I’m an investigative journalist with World Press, based in Houston. These papers will verify that what I’m telling you is the truth.”

Nicole reached out and took the papers. There was a World Press I.D. card encased in plastic with a full-face mug-shot type picture of Jack Forrester. Under the picture in bold letters was printed: JACKSON ALAN FORRESTER. She carefully read the information on the card, noting that his height was listed as six feet, his weight a hundred and seventy-eight pounds. Blue eyes. Dark blond hair. Thirty-three years old.

She quickly shuffled through the rest of the papers. Texas driver’s license. Passport. Social security card. Voter’s registration. She raised her eyes, meeting his steady gaze squarely.

She felt a strange tug of allure, an almost instant rapport. His eyes reminded her of the sea. Deep and bottomless, they were eyes a woman could get lost in. She almost forgot she’d been afraid of him. If she’d met him at Michaul’s, her favorite Friday-night haunt, she’d probably have flirted with him.

But this wasn’t Michaul’s, she reminded herself, and she wasn’t looking for a dancing partner. This was First Street, and this man, attractive or not, bedroom-blue eyes or not, had been dogging her since early this morning.

Mentally shaking herself, she handed him back his papers. He took them and put them into his jacket pocket. “Okay, so you’re Jack Forrester. Why have you been following me?”

“I’m looking for someone—a woman named Elise Arnold.”

“I know that. But by now you should also know I’m not the woman you want.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see you’re not. But I wasn’t sure until now.”

Partially mollified by his reluctant admission, Nicole said, “Who
is
this woman anyway, and why did you think I was her?”

“Elise is a friend of my sister’s, and she disappeared from Houston four weeks ago. My sister asked me to try to find her. My search led me to you.” He must have seen the skepticism Nicole felt, for he smiled—a warm, engaging smile—and something went
zing
in Nicole’s stomach. “You don’t know whether to believe me or not, do you?”

Nicole wanted to believe him. How could a man with such a charming smile and such beautiful eyes be dangerous?
Remember the last man you thought had a great smile and nice eyes.
The thought was sobering. Her earlier lack of judgment had had very serious consequences. She didn’t exactly have a great track record when it came to men.

Besides, hadn’t she read somewhere that the most successful serial killers were all charming, attractive men? Men who women instinctively trusted?

She sighed. “Maybe I’ll be sorry later, but I do believe you. However, as I’ve said before, I’m not the woman you’re looking for. My name is Nicole Cantrelle. It’s never been Elise or Arnold, and I’ve never lived in Houston. I’ve lived in Louisiana all my life—for the last two-and-a-half years here in New Orleans. So I’ll ask you again—what made you think I was her?”

His eyes studied hers for a long moment, and Nicole’s heart gave an odd little thump when something flickered in their rich depths. Lordy, those eyes were lethal! When he finally spoke his voice was thoughtful. “The two of you could be twins you look so much alike.” He withdrew a small, black notebook from his inside jacket pocket, opened it, removed a photograph. He held it out to her.

Nicole stared at the picture. The snapshot showed a woman who looked to be in her late twenties with long, thick, curly dark hair, and wide, dark eyes. Her full lips tilted up in a shy smile with a hint of dimples as she faced the camera. The dimples gave Nicole pause. She might have been able to ignore the eerie similarity in their looks. After all, wasn’t it well known that everyone had a double somewhere? But the dimples were another story, because Nicole had those same dimples when she smiled. She continued to study the photo. The girl he’d called Elise Arnold was dressed in white shorts and a red tank top, and she was sitting on top of a redwood picnic table and eating an ice cream cone. Nicole had to admit she could have been looking at a picture of herself.

Although she was shaken by the photograph, she was sure the resemblance between her and this unknown Arnold woman
had
to be coincidence. Because if there was someone in her family who looked so much like her, she would know it, wouldn’t she? “I’ll admit this woman looks very much like me,” she finally admitted. “But they say everyone has a double somewhere in the world.”