Книга - Waters Run Deep

Waters Run Deep
Liz Talley


Getting attached to someone nearly sidelined agent Annie Perez's career. So she's not about to make the same mistake twice.This latest undercover assignment in Louisiana–acting as nanny for a famous couple under threat–suits her perfectly. She can investigate quietly and under the radar. That is, provided she can stay clear of way-too-suspicious detective Nate Dufrene.Easier said than done when Nate seems to be around every corner. And with each encounter, Annie is tempted a little more by this son of Bayou Bridge. Yet regardless of their chemistry, they are worlds apart, and she's not willing to compromise for love again. But when she needs an ally, Nate has her back. And that could convince her to get very attached!







This is starting over…not putting down roots

Getting attached to someone nearly sidelined agent Annie Perez’s career. So she’s not about to make the same mistake twice. This latest undercover assignment in Louisiana—acting as nanny for a famous couple under threat—suits her perfectly. She can investigate quietly and under the radar. That is, provided she can stay clear of way-too-suspicious detective Nate Dufrene.

Easier said than done when Nate seems to be around every corner. And with each encounter, Annie is tempted a little more by this son of Bayou Bridge. Yet regardless of their chemistry, they are worlds apart, and she’s not willing to compromise for love again. But when she needs an ally, Nate has her back. And that could convince her to get very attached!


The sound of a car behind her had her scooting off the road.

Annie broke her stride to check over her shoulder. Gray government car.

Nate Dufrene.

He slowed beside her. “Wanna ride?”

“I’m almost there. And I’m pretty sweaty. Wouldn’t want to mess up your seats.”

“I don’t mind.”

Her mind screamed get your butt back to the house and leave sexy Nate Dufrene the hell alone. Her libido, however, told her to take the candy the man offered and climb into his car like a naughty little girl.

“If you don’t mind,” she said, pulling open the passenger door.

“You look like you could run circles around me.”

“Don’t know about that. You look fit enough,” she said.

“Oh, yeah? Maybe we can go for a run together.”

Her body tightened unwillingly as thoughts of other things they could do together flitted through her mind. Lord, what was wrong with her? Goal: prove to Sterling she could do a phenomenal job as an investigator so she could make more money and get better assignments. Barrier: hunky detective.

She made a noncommittal sound.

“Tell me, Annie. Is that a yes or a maybe?”


Dear Reader,

The people of Louisiana have a joie de vivre that spills over and encourages visitors to get up and pass a good time. Whether it’s slurping gumbo, listening to the sounds of zydeco or watching the pageantry of Mardi Gras, this place is unique.

I love my state, from the winding piney hills of the north to the flat delta of the south and all the places in between. We live, we love and we eat…a lot!

I hope you enjoy my venture into Acadiana with the odd and sometimes kooky matriarch Picou Dufrene and her three disarming boys. If the food isn’t a good enough reason to visit Bayou Bridge, the sexy Cajun men will seal the deal. Life is good here on the bayou. Tru dat.

Look for the other two books in this The Boys of Bayou Bridge miniseries. Under the Autumn Sky will be out in July 2012 and The Road to Bayou Bridge will hit the shelves in September 2012.

I love to hear from my readers, so drop by and leave me a note at www.liztalleybooks.com or drop a letter in the mail to: P.O. Box 5418, Bossier City, LA 71171.

Happy reading,

Liz Talley




Waters Run Deep

Liz Talley







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

From devouring the Harlequin Superromance novels on the shelf of her aunt’s used bookstore to swiping her grandmother’s medical romances, Liz Talley has always loved a good romance. So it was no surprise to anyone when she started writing a book one day while her infant napped. She soon found writing more exciting than scrubbing hardened cereal off the love seat. Underneath her baby-food-stained clothes, a dream stirred. Liz followed that dream, and after a foray into historical romance and a Golden Heart final, she started her first contemporary romance on the same day she met her editor. Coincidence? She prefers to call it fate.

Currently Liz lives in North Louisiana with her high-school sweetheart, two beautiful children and a passel of animals. Liz loves watching her boys play baseball, shopping for bargains and going out for lunch. When not writing contemporary romances for the Harlequin Superromance line, she can be found doing laundry, feeding kids or playing on Facebook.


For the people of Louisiana who may face hurricanes, crooked politics and record droughts, but who never fail to invite a neighbor to the table to share their delicious dishes and their lives.

I’m honored to live among you.

Special thanks goes to Caddo Parish Sheriff Detective Mick McDaniel and to the Medeiros family who showed me true Cajun hospitality.


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#u500ee61b-3f9a-5409-9ec9-b7af0d24ac9c)

CHAPTER TWO (#ued01a915-8316-531e-9ab2-a1de0a7119be)

CHAPTER THREE (#u68bbcb5a-8d80-5180-aa68-29e772927599)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u9ead9531-627c-59d4-bb15-56a6aaf0e5a5)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u762b0447-710e-5399-a5de-2f36d0da7d8f)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

The marshlands off Bayou Lafourche, Louisiana, 1986

SAL COMEAUX GLANCED in the rearview mirror for the fifth time that night and muttered a curse. The child still stared at him with those freaky blue eyes. No longer crying, just gazing into his soul with stabbing accusation.

He clutched the steering wheel tighter, trying to ignore the weight pressing down on him. Guilt. God. Whatever. It threatened to suffocate him. Cold sweat rolled down his back as he searched the inky night for the dirt road. Ten years ago if he’d a blinked, he’d a missed the turn. Much had changed in his life, but one thing was constant—the turn to the Cheramie homestead.

“Almost there,” he said to the void surrounding him, not bothering to look back at the girl.

He felt so alone.

Why had he let Billy Priest talk him into doing something so dadgum stupid? His friend had ulterior motives that had nothing to do with mere money. Billy hated Martin Dufrene. Thought the man responsible for all his problems, for losing his family. Dufrene was a bastard, but he’d not caused Billy’s wife to leave taking their son with her. Her leaving had been a result of Billy’s alcoholism and quick fists—the reason the man had lost his job at the Dufrene mill. “An eye for an eye, and money for us both,” Billy had said, knowing Sal was soft—and that he owed half the bookies in Baton Rouge, guys meaner than a water moccasin and just as dangerous. Self-preservation had won out over loyalty, and Sal had convinced himself no harm would come to the child. He was weak, true, but he was no monster.

He’d not have the child’s blood on his hands.

He risked another look even though the girl’s eyes felt like God’s sitting upon him, like in that damn Gatsby book he’d had to read in eleventh grade. The child’s gaze was steadfast, her small mouth slack, her tear-streaked cheeks pale.

She gave him the creeps.

An old white fence post materialized in the tangled brush beside the dirt road like a specter. Relief flooded him. The old landmark tilted crookedly in the headlights. He hooked a turn left and bumped down the pitted road toward the old house where his grandmere lived.

The place wasn’t welcoming. Old, wooden and leaning like half the stumps in the land surrounding it. Though he couldn’t see it, he knew a tributary of the Bayou Lafourche sprawled behind the old house, a dark ribbon unraveling across lank swamp grass. He loved Mere’s house almost as much as he hated it.

He braked on the crushed shell drive and shut off the headlights of the stolen truck as the screen door cracked an inch or two. Then he saw Pap’s shotgun muzzle appear.

He rolled down the window. “It’s me.”

Moonlight flashed on the metal of the gun. She didn’t lower it. “Who’s ‘me’?”

“Sal.”

The gun disappeared and the door opened. “Why you here? I ain’t seen you since your mama ran off with that Morgan City boy.”

“Sorry, Mere. I—”

“Didn’t need you around here no how, so why you here tonight?” Her voice sounded tired, disinterested. She’d never liked him much, but he was her only known grandson.

He eased out of the truck, mindful Grandmere might decide he wasn’t worth a damn and hoist the shotgun again, but he knew the old woman was his only chance to hide the child until he could figure something out. What, he wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t killing no child and feeding her to the gators. Billy and his threats be damned.

“I got a little girl here.”

His grandmere shut the door and stood in her bare feet and flannel housecoat. Her face sagged in the light of the moon. She’d aged. Life was hard on the bayou and Enola Cheramie wore that life like a badge. “A girl?”

“Yeah, uh, my kid.” He hesitated. Hadn’t thought much more beyond getting the child here. Mere wouldn’t keep no child that wasn’t blood. “Um, my old lady’s strung out, beats the ever-loving shit out of the kid. She tried to kill the girl tonight. Grabbed a—”

“You got a child? Off who?”

“Some gal from Houma. You don’t know her. She’s bat-shit crazy, and I should have never taken up with her. Just need the girl to stay with you for a spell.”

Grandmere shook her head. “I can’t keep no child. I’m still fishing. Got no one to watch her.”

He jerked the girl from the backseat of the cab. She didn’t make a peep. Just allowed herself to be dragged toward the porch. Her hair was tangled and her dress stained with the black dirt of the bayou. He’d tried to do what Billy had wanted. Tried to kill the child. He’d stood holding a trembling gun on her. He wasn’t weak. He’d killed dogs when they’d needed putting down, but this child was different. And she wouldn’t close her eyes. Just looked at him. Like Christ on the crucifix had looked down on him at Our Lady of Prompt Succor. Vacant. Hopeless. And he couldn’t pull the trigger.

So he’d lowered the gun, knowing God spoke to him through the eyes of the child. Knowing he had to find a way to save her and placate Billy. Knowing his own sin would lead to pain.

Enola Cheramie was his only chance for redemption.

The little girl was pretty and barely three years old. No woman, not even a tough, old crane like Enola, could resist a child like this one.

“She’ll go with you. She’s a good girl.” He pushed the child toward his grandmere. The little girl clutched her pink blanket and turned those strange eyes on Mere.

“She don’t look like you” was all his grandmere said before beckoning the child forward.

The girl didn’t move. Just stood unblinking at the foot of the rickety stairs. His grandmere wasn’t much to look at. Wizened like fruit sitting out too long in the sun, with a square face and broad chest. He’d likely not go near her either. He pushed the girl again between her shoulder blades. “Go on. Mere will take care of you.”

“I didn’t say I would,” his grandmere said, but Sal could see it in her eyes. She’d watch over the girl until he could figure out a way to fix what he’d done. What Billy had done.

“I gotta go, Mere. I’ll be back to get her. Don’t let no one know too much about her. They might send her back to her mama and then she’d be as good as dead.”

Enola crept down the steps and reached out for the child. The little girl didn’t move, merely turned her head and watched as the old woman’s hand clamped down on her shoulder. Then the little girl did something surprising. She held her arms out.

Mere lifted the child into her arms. “She ain’t bigger than a minnow. What’s her name?”

Sal pretended he didn’t hear the old woman. The less she knew the better. News would sweep across Louisiana, and though Mere lived on desolate Houma land far off Bayou Lafourche, she went to town upon occasion. Four times a year or so. He climbed back into the cab and cranked the engine. He glanced at where his grandmere stood, cradling the child, muttering words of comfort. As he shifted into Reverse, he saw the child rest her head upon the old woman’s shoulder.

From the open window he heard Mere say, “Don’t worry yourself, minnow. Ain’t no one gonna hurt you or my name ain’t Enola Cheramie.”

Something crept round Sal’s heart and he knew somehow he’d done the right thing. He crossed himself at that moment even though he hadn’t attended Mass since he’d left Holy Rosary and headed to Lafayette over fifteen years ago. Yes, God approved. This he knew.

He backed up and left the old woman and child, heading back toward the dirt road that would connect to the highway, which would connect to the interstate that would take him back to Bayou Bridge where he was currently in an ass load of trouble.

The night draped around him, oppressive and warm for February. A mosquito buzzed near his ear. He fanned the pest away, rolled up the window of the old truck and turned the AC up two notches, but obviously the owner hadn’t bothered with the expense of Freon. Warm air blew from the vents, failing to cool his body, now drenched in sweat. Was it from the damn Louisiana humidity or the sheer terror rising in him?

Both.

He clicked the brights, haloing the grasses growing on either side of the dirt road. No one was out this early in the morning, not even the shrimpers. The road was uneven, jarring him, but there was no other way out except by boat. He reached the turnoff and headed north on the highway hugging the Bayou Lafourche. Businesses and houses lined the highway on either side of the water. He crossed a lock bridge to reach the other side and rode thirty miles in silence toward Houma. Each mile brought him closer to a no-win situation.

He’d go to jail. Maybe even Angola.

He swallowed and tried to focus on the smattering of businesses outside Houma. The interstate would be quicker, but Sal didn’t want to go fast. He knew what lay ahead. Billy wasn’t smart enough to pull the scheme off. Sal should have known better than to mix himself up with a piece of bayou trash like Billy. He turned past the entrance ramp for I-49 and took Highway 182 instead, finding peace in the old highway that would eventually cross the Bayou Tete, the very bayou he’d spent so much time on, fishing and contemplating what a failure he’d become.

The road twisted like a serpent, winding around the Louisiana wetlands before brushing against the tangled trees, sad against the February darkness. It made Sal feel melancholic. He yearned for better times. Bait on his hook, Pabst Blue Ribbon in hand, herons gliding to perches on the bayous off the Atchafalaya. How had he come to this?

His headlights caught a shape in the road. He jerked the steering wheel hard, standing on the brakes at the same time. Too late. The image of a gator in the road flashed through his mind at the same time the truck crashed through the guardrail and went airborne. Cypress limbs blocked his vision just before a sickening thud jarred the vehicle. Sal threw his hands in front of his face as the trunk of a tree hurtled toward him. His head snapped backward at collision and he vaguely registered falling, flipping, hitting the water with a loud crack.

Sal gasped for air as water the color of weak coffee poured into the mangled cab. “Hep!”

His mouth felt stuffed with cotton and he couldn’t make his legs move. His lungs starved for oxygen. He gulped at the air, hoping to drink it, telling his body to move. No use. “Hep!”

His mind raced though his body could not move. Broken rail. Someone would see. Water deep. Truck sinking. He could taste the fecund water of the swamp. It filled his mouth, stinging his nostrils as he inhaled the essence of Louisiana, his birthplace, his home.

His hands flopped useless beside him, like large oars adrift in a current. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t save himself. He’d cheated death one victim that night when he’d taken the girl to Enola, but it would wait no longer to claim a replacement.

Sal said a prayer as the water reached his eyes, but there was nothing to comfort him. Nothing except the sound of justice and regret roaring in his ears.

And the last thought to register before he slipped into a place of darkness was no one would know what had happened to Della Dufrene.


CHAPTER TWO

South Louisiana, 2010

ANNA MENDES, AKA ANNIE PEREZ, stared down at her charge and cursed her bad luck for being the only woman at the agency fit for the job. Masquerading as a nanny? Not exactly easy. More like impossible. “Please tell me you’re joking, Spencer.”

The five-year-old stood next to a potato-chip display making a horrible face. “I’m sorry, Annie, but I think I’m gonna fro up.”

Annie looked down at her shoes—her new running shoes she’d bought with her first paycheck—then back at Spencer, who had squeezed his eyes closed. He did look green around the gills. Perhaps the chocolate milk had been too much. She glanced desperately around the gas station/deli as if there might be someone lurking around the overcrowded shelves to help her. Her gaze landed on a bottle of pink bismuth. Perfect. “How about some medicine? Something to settle your—”

Too late.

Spencer jackknifed forward and reacquainted Annie with the pint of chocolate milk he’d guzzled after they’d left the outskirts of Baton Rouge.

“Oh, God.” Annie jumped back about a yard and stared at the child, waiting for his head to spin around. Then it registered. She was in charge. Of the child. Of the situation. She needed napkins and cold water. “Okay, Spencer, okay. It’s fine. We’ll get this cleaned up.”

The boy looked up, tears welling in his big brown eyes. “I’m sorry, Annie. I didn’t mean to.”

Her heart melted even as she felt queasy herself. Poor kid. The whole thing was her fault. A child probably wasn’t supposed to drink that much on a road trip. She should have known, but no discussion of chocolate milk had been in any of the parenting books she’d pored over in preparation for this assignment. It hadn’t been in Know Your Child: A Study on Child Behavior or in So You Think You Can Parent? She knew. She’d read both from cover to cover, and still had no clue what in the hell she was doing.

She grabbed a stack of napkins from next to the slushie machine and mopped Spencer’s face. “Don’t worry, Spence. Are you feeling better?”

He nodded his head, “Uh-huh.”

“Good. Let’s go wash up. I’ll find the store manager and report our little accident.”

“What in the name of—” a voice shrieked behind her.

Annie spun around. Obviously, the gas-station manager had found them. “We had a little accident.”

Spencer whimpered so Annie placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“A little accident?” the woman said, screwing up her nose. She had bleached-blond hair and wore a Breaux Mart T-shirt three sizes too big for her small frame. Deep pocketed eyes, tanning-bed faux tan and smoker’s lips made Annie think of the prostitutes sitting on stools of the clubs surrounding the military base where she’d worked security years before.

“Yes, an accident,” Annie said, hardening her gaze. Spencer settled his head against her thigh so Annie moved her hand up to rub his head. The books had been very emphatic about young kids needing constant affection and praise. She rubbed harder.

The older woman spread her hands. “I can’t believe I gotta clean this up. I just got through cleanin’ all the johns this morning. Jesus.”

“Good to know the bathroom is clean. Come on, Spencer. Let’s let this nice lady do her job.”

The manager stared hard at Annie, making her glad she had combat training. If looks could kill—well, Annie would be on the floor forcing another cleanup on the paper-product-and-automotive aisle.

Spencer allowed himself to be tugged toward the neon bathroom sign in the back of the store, only putting the brakes on when he saw the candy aisle. “Hey, Annie, can I have—”

“Don’t even think about it, bud,” she interrupted, toeing the bathroom door open with her foot. She’d made a mistake at the airport giving in to the milk. She wasn’t stupid. Spencer wouldn’t see candy until he was returned to his mother.

“But I want candy!”

“Too bad.” Annie shoved him into the dark bathroom and flipped on the light. Yep, the bathroom was clean. Sorta.

“You have to give it to me. I’ve been good. You said if I was good on the airplane I could have a prize. I want a candy bar.”

No more relying on advice from a book. She went on instinct. “No. You puked all over the floor, and now that lady has to clean it up. The last thing you need is candy.”

He stuck out his bottom lip.

“Wash your hands,” Annie said, in the voice she’d used on suspects she apprehended.

Spencer didn’t move.

“My way or the highway, bud.” She flicked the faucet handle so water gushed into the sink and glanced in the mirror as Spencer finally got the message and shoved his hands under the flow.

Lord, she looked terrible.

Her normally tamed hair had slipped from its clip and frizzed around her face. Usually her olive skin glowed, but today it looked mottled. Her gray eyes looked tired. Confused. Resigned to a crappy life she had never intended.

Oh, she knew how she’d gotten back to square one. She’d dared to hope for a normal life back in her home state of California, throwing away a perfectly good career for a man, his daughter and a shot at being happy homemaker—all because she watched It’s a Wonderful Life and decided she needed a do over.

She’d been beyond naive. Okay, bordering on stupid.

So now she worked on a trial basis for Sterling Security and Investigations, LLC, as an undercover nanny. God, it sounded like a movie starring Sandra Bullock. No, she’d been a beauty queen or something. Still, having her first assignment encompass planning playdates and scrubbing mushy graham crackers off her T-shirt wasn’t what she had in mind when she told former FBI agent Ace Sterling she’d take the job. Typing reports for the firm would be better than being stuck in BF, Louisiana, with a conniving, adorable five-year-old and his celebrity parents.

“I’m done,” Spencer said, holding out his dripping hands.

Annie grabbed a paper towel. “Good job. Always wash your hands. Germs can make you sick.”

“And chocolate milk,” Spencer observed gravely.

“Yes, and chocolate milk.”

They exited the bathroom, passing the unhappy manager, and walked out into the oppressive heat. First day of fall, her ass. Felt more like a mid-August heat wave. No wonder her hair looked like it belonged in a Twisted Sister video. But, really, why did she care? She had never worried about her hair, her makeup or wearing kicky little kitten heels. Annie was a professional. Hair got in the way. Makeup wasn’t necessary. And she’d be damned if she ever wore anything on her feet like Tawny Keene did. Spencer’s mother was asking for a broken ankle.

She pressed the button on the key fob, unlocking the doors of the rental car sitting by the pump. Spencer wriggled into the booster seat in the back and grabbed his iPod touch. Annie made sure the seat belt was snug and then swiped the credit card issued by the Keene family and filled the car.

Even though they were only thirty minutes from their destination, Annie knew a full tank of gas was always a good idea. Be prepared. First as a security officer in the Air Force and later as a field agent in the FBI, Annie had taken pride in expecting the unexpected. She had never been without extra ammunition, money, false IDs or any other necessities an agent might need.

She glanced around, taking stock of her surroundings. No one had followed them from Baton Rouge. Whoever had been sending threatening messages to the Keene family was likely back in California, but she couldn’t be too careful. Her job was to protect Spencer while helping to investigate the threats. That’s what she was getting the not-so-big bucks for.

Annie set the gas handle in its cradle and screwed the lid on the tank. She had to stop beating herself up. She’d gotten herself into this situation and she’d have to make lemonade from the lemons. She could always toss in some vodka to make it less painful.

But not on the job. Never on the job.

She slid behind the wheel and started the engine, determined to have a better outlook—after all, she’d avoided vomit on her new shoes, hadn’t she?

Just as she pulled forward a government car swung in front of her. She held one hand over the horn, but pulled it back as the car slid into a parking spot in front of the gas station/deli. The door opened and one long leg emerged followed by its owner.

The man wasn’t in uniform, but Annie knew automatically he was a cop. Or a detective, more likely. Something about him had that aura. Smart. Disciplined. Sexy.

She shook her head at the last thought and inched forward, wondering if the heat had gotten to her.

The man turned toward her, giving her a nice view of a strong jaw, dark hair and crooked nose. The nose, whether acquired in a bar fight or merely a hazard of the job, made him more interesting. He worked out, that was certain. His chest was broad, but he looked quick enough. He must have felt her perusal because he zeroed in on her as the car swooped by him.

She saw the antenna raise and bleep in his mind. Awareness of something different. Rental car. Note license plate. File away in recesses of mind for later use if necessary. It was exactly what she’d have done.

Spencer started humming as she pulled onto the highway, glancing at the GPS affixed to the windshield. Twenty-two more miles until the turnoff for Beau Soleil, the plantation home where Carter and Tawny Keene waited for them. The mansion served as a backdrop for the movie Carter was directing, some mystery or horror movie starring Spencer’s mother as the dumb blonde who ironically doesn’t get axed in the opening. Or something like that. Annie hadn’t paid too much attention—horror films didn’t interest her. She liked period pieces, so maybe the old house would be interesting. She would be staying there with the Keene family while the rest of the cast and crew stayed at a local motel.

The drive to Bayou Bridge, the town nearest the plantation home, was uneventful. Tangled woods with palmetto lurking beneath branches lined the highway with the occasional pasture interrupting. Then there was the long bridge over the mysterious swamp basin with thin trees and brackish waters giving rise to the flight of the odd egret. It had a unique beauty that drew Annie’s eyes from the monotonous asphalt more times than it should.

The cell phone sitting in the cup holder chirped. She looked down. Tawny again. The woman was a high-maintenance nightmare, but she worshipped her Spencer. Annie ignored the jittering phone since they would be there in ten minutes and she didn’t want to pull over and waste time.

“Is that my mom?” Spencer asked.

“Um—” She didn’t want to lie. The books had said be truthful with children. “Hey, we’re almost there. Then we can see about getting some of those crawfish for dinner, huh?”

“Really? Cool.”

Mission accomplished.

She exited the interstate and drove through the charming Bayou Bridge before taking the turn on the highway that hugged the Bayou Tete. Annie wanted to stop the car and indulge in the sight of colossal live oaks fanning their branches over the snaking river, but didn’t. Beau Soleil sat on the bank of the bayou so there would be plenty of time to contemplate the land of Evangeline later. She could only imagine the breathtaking sunsets and her footfalls on the hidden paths beside the water. Maybe she could sneak a run in that very evening.

“Am I gonna get to see a real alligator, too?” Spencer interrupted her yearning for tranquility and a good sweat. She never knew kids asked so many questions, but they did. Lots.

“I don’t know.”

“But this is Wouisiana. I gotta see an alligator.” Spencer allowed a little whine into his voice. She’d given him a picture book about the bayou state when she found out they’d have to go. He’d studied the thing on the plane, pointing out Mardi Gras floats, crawfish and his absolute favorite subject—alligators. Then she’d found a book called Mr. Breaux Bader and his Ghost Town Gator at the airport and read it three times while they waited on their luggage.

“It’s Louisiana, and I’m sure we can find someone who will take us to see an alligator.”

“Cool. I can’t wait.”

The trees hung over the road, blocking out the afternoon sun, and as Annie took a big curve, she saw the iron gates opening to Beau Soleil. First impression was stately, old and very Southern. Annie felt a shiver as she drove through. She wasn’t sure if it was a sense of homecoming, which would have been weird, or a sense of foreboding, which would be alarming. But something snaked along her spine.

“We’re here.”

She heard the iPod touch thump against the seat.

“What’s that?” Spencer asked.

“What’s what?”

“That.”

Annie swiveled her head to see a small patch of ground ringed with an old iron fence laced with rose bushes. Concrete tombs surrounded a huge mausoleum sitting in the center. “Um, a cemetery.”

“What’s that?”

The questions the kid asked. Jeez. They hadn’t addressed death in those books she’d studied. Wasn’t that a parent’s job? Be truthful. “It’s where they bury people when they die.”

“They put you in a box like that? I thought you got put in dirt or something. That’s where they put my gram. They covered her up with dirt.”

“Well, usually they do, but this area is below sea level so they can’t do that here in South Louisiana.”

“What’s sea wevel?”

Lord, help me. She glanced in the mirror. He looked perplexed. “Ask you mother.”

Explaining death, burial and the fact bodies would float if they were buried below sea level wasn’t in her job description. She had to draw the line somewhere.

The car crunched down the gravel road framed by thick woods on either side. Finally, the view opened to reveal a huge yellow plantation home.

“Wow,” Spencer breathed from the backseat.

His response was an understatement. The home sitting at the end of the drive was beautiful in the way a grand old dame was. Clinging to the vestiges of beauty, showing the good bones beneath but helpless against the ravages of time. It was the perfect house for a Southern Gothic horror flick.

Spencer bounced around in the backseat.

“Hey, are you out of the booster?”

“Yeah. We’re in the driveway.” He said it with a teenager’s “duh” tone.

“Doesn’t matter. If I applied the brakes, you could get hurt.” She tapped the brakes a bit to show him. Spencer flew forward and smacked his head on the console.

“Owwww!” he cried.

Crap. She smothered another stronger curse under her tongue and stopped in the middle of the drive. She turned to the boy who had started wailing. “Oh, Spencer, I’m sorry. Let me see.”

“No!” He cupped a small hand over his forehead. “You’re mean.”

Great. Just what she needed. Tawny and her accusing blue eyes. Frankly, after four nannies in a year, the family was lucky to find even someone as childcare-challenged as Annie to take on the job. Tawny had a reputation, especially when it came to her son, but she had no clue Annie was undercover security for her child. Only her husband, Carter, knew the truth. Ace wanted everyone in the household to react naturally to better her chance of identifying the person threatening the child. The police thought the threats were perpetrated by a crazy fan and recommended standard precautions. But Annie’s boss had agreed with Carter Keene—they would take no chances.

“Come on, Spencer, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She reached back and tugged at his arm.

“Don’t,” he snuffled, finally removing his hand. There wasn’t even a mark on his forehead.

She cupped his chin, angling his head left and right. “It looks fine. I’m sorry. Okay?”

He nodded.

She let out a sigh. “Now get your fanny back in the seat and buckle up. We don’t want you to get hurt again. Never know when a driver might need to brake for a squirrel or dog.”

The little boy wiggled his hind end into the booster seat and swiped at the tears. The child had beautiful chocolate eyes with envy-inspiring lashes. “So can I have the Skittles in your purse since you hurted me?”

Damn. Swindled by a five-year-old. She glanced at the purse she’d bought when she’d taken on the nanny assignment. It was big and floppy. She hated it, but it allowed her to carry things Spencer needed, like wipes, hand sanitizer, extra socks, bandages and the ever-present iPod touch with charger. She’d hidden her Skittles in the zipper pocket. “It’s ‘hurt,’ not ‘hurted,’ and you can have them.”

She glanced in the rearview mirror. He smiled. “Cool.”

Annie pulled into the large circular drive in front of the mansion. As she put the car in Park, the double doors flew open and Tawny emerged and clacked down the porch steps heading for her child.

“Mom!” Spencer struggled against his seat belt, kicking his legs and squirming.

“Birdie!” Tawny shouted, flinging open the back door and climbing in. “Oh, I’ve missed my boy so much.”

Tawny smacked noisy kisses on Spencer’s cheeks and neck as the little boy laughed and threw chubby arms around her neck. Annie couldn’t contain the smile twitching at her lips. Those two were totally gaga for one another. If it hadn’t been so damn sweet, it would have been nauseating.

“Hello, Tawny,” Annie said, pulling her purse along as she climbed out of the cool car and into the moist heat of the Deep South. Her breath caught and immediately she felt sweat pop out on her upper lip. Why did sane people live in such oppression?

Tawny looked up. “Hi, Amy, and I thought I asked you to call me Mrs. Keene.”

Spencer slid from the car. “Her name’s not Amy. It’s Annie.”

Tawny blinked. “You’re such a smart boy. Of course, it’s Annie. I forgot.”

Spencer ran up the grand stone steps of the large home. “Where’s the alligators? I wanna see them. Annie said maybe we’d eat some crawfish.”

Tawny followed, her platinum-streaked hair swishing with the rhythm of her steps. She wore towering stilettos paired with itty-bitty blue-jeaned shorts and a halter top and looked as if she’d tumbled from a Hooters ad.

Annie tucked a piece of brown frizz behind her ear and climbed onto the wide veranda of the house that Tawny and Spencer had disappeared into. She hesitated a moment, stretching her toes in her running shoes, dropping the bag at her feet and rolling her head side to side in order to work out the kinks the torturous hours of travel had given her.

“I can work that out for you if you want.”

The voice came from Annie’s left. She flinched, appalled to have been caught unaware, and turned toward the person standing stock-still in the shadows.

The older woman was about as odd a sight as Annie had ever seen. Dressed in a pair of faded black yoga pants and a skintight tank top, she stood poised like a crane. Her long thin legs bent at odd angles while her sticklike arms curved in midair. Thick silver hair lay in a fat braid over one shoulder as if it grew from the bright green bandana wrapped round the woman’s head. Serene violet eyes stared unflinchingly at Annie.

“Oh, I didn’t see you there,” Annie said, trying to tamp down the alarm in not sensing someone within her immediate perimeter. Were her skills that rusty?

“That’s the point,” the woman said, unfurling and moving into another unnatural position. “That is the essence of Tai Chi—to ebb, flow and become centered. At one with the universe. A calm fixture within chaos.”

“Right,” Annie said, rehoisting her bag onto one shoulder and moving toward the open doorway.

“I’m serious about the massage. I’ve studied tension points in the body,” the older woman called. “Your aura is deep red. You need untangling.”

Annie turned around. “Untangling?”

The older woman smiled. “Or maybe a mint julep?”

“Who are you? And do you really serve mint juleps on the veranda down here? I thought that was a touristy trick.”

“Ah, maybe. I prefer good bourbon straight up, myself. Oh, and we call it the porch.”

“Me, too. On the bourbon.” Annie stuck her hand out. “I’m Annie Perez, Spencer’s nanny.”

The older woman smiled, but didn’t move toward Annie. She flowed into another position. “You don’t seem like a nanny.”

Unease pricked at Annie’s nape. “Yet I am.”

The older lady unwound, placing both bare feet on the planks of the porch. She took Annie in from head to toe. “I’m Picou Dufrene and this is my home. Welcome to Beau Soleil, Annie Perez.”

The woman seemed to possess the uncanny ability to see beyond the outer wrapping. Most people saw a young Hispanic woman and put her in a category. For the past few weeks, no one questioned her being the worst nanny to ever hold the position. Annie walked to the rail of the porch and rubbed a finger along the spidering paint as she surveyed the wide span of lawn with its moss-draped twisted oaks and allowed the romance of the place to seep into her bones. Maybe Louisiana wouldn’t be so bad for the next month. It wasn’t palm trees and balmy ocean breezes, but its earthy beauty tugged at the soul. Plus, the quirky Picou Dufrene interested her. “Thank you, Mrs. Dufrene.”

“It’s Picou.”

“Annie! You gotta see this!” Spencer exploded onto the porch, nearly tripping over himself. Annie put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Slow down,” she said, pulling his little hand into hers.

“I saw a bear!” His brown eyes danced with excitement.

Picou’s laugh was smoky. “That’s Chewie. My son Nate named him after the wookiee in Star Wars.”

Annie allowed Spencer to tug her toward the house. “I’m hoping this one is stuffed?”

Picou gave her a secret smile. “One can never be too sure at Beau Soleil. What seems benign can sometimes bite.”

Picou’s words followed Annie into the house, dancing around her mind, making her wonder if the kooky owner had some otherworldly sense about life and the people who trudged through it. Annie didn’t believe in magic hoo-ha crap, but she knew from her late grandmother some people were more perceptive than others. Or maybe merely more observant.

Better to heed Picou’s words and trust no one. Spencer’s life might depend on it.


CHAPTER THREE

NATE DUFRENE WATCHED Sandi Whitehall hurry out of the liquor store with two bottles of grain alcohol and a carton of Marlboros. Not good. Paul was drinking again and that meant the next day Sandi would likely be wearing heavy makeup and moving slowly. Not that the woman would ever admit to her husband beating the crap out of her every time he fell off the wagon. The whole damn town knew about the Whitehalls, but he couldn’t do anything if Sandi wouldn’t press charges. Which she wouldn’t.

He shook his head and watched the traffic creep by, nearly everyone braking when they caught sight of him sitting in the borrowed sheriff’s cruiser under the truck-stop sign advertising cigarettes, video poker and boudin. It was almost comical.

His mind flipped back to the brunette in the rental who’d pulled out of Breaux Mart a few hours before. She’d known he was law enforcement even if he’d been in his unmarked. He’d seen it in her expression as she’d pulled by him.

At first he’d thought her a regular soccer mom, replete with a rug rat in the backseat, properly restrained, until he’d caught sight of the rental tag. Of course, nothing wrong with renting a car for a trip. But still, she’d given off a strange vibe, and it had raised a flag in his awareness. Likely she was halfway to Alexandria or Lake Charles by now, heading to Grandma’s house or something equally harmless.

He settled into the seat and closed his eyes. He hated sitting out here, but Buddy Rosen’s wife had unexpectedly delivered a baby boy early that morning. Nate had “gifted” them with covering Buddy’s shift for the afternoon even though he’d sworn he’d never sit in a patrol car again. It hadn’t seemed like such a sacrifice until he’d had to change a flat tire on the drive from West Feliciana parish and then discovered Buddy had been assigned to watch a four-way. So much for his day off.

His cell phone rang.

Picou.

He sighed. “Dufrene.”

“I know very well who you are. I called, didn’t I?”

He sighed again.

“Get over here right now.”

His mother sounded winded. Panicky. He hadn’t caught it in her initial greeting but now his Spidey senses kicked in. “Why?”

“The boy has gone missing.”

“The boy? What boy?”

His mother sucked in a breath. “The director’s son. His nanny took a shower while Tawny was playing with him, but then Tawny got a call and went to another room. When she came back, he was gone. Just hurry.”

The phone clicked. She’d hung up.

Nate started the cruiser, but didn’t put the lights on. His mother had good reason to overreact to a missing child, a fact well-known to the Bayou Bridge Police Department and the Sheriff’s office. She’d called in his younger brother Darby as missing many times over the course of his childhood. This boy had probably done what most little boys do—traipsed off into the woods to explore or play a game of hide-and-seek in the many rooms of Beau Soleil. But, still, some children didn’t come home.

Just like Della.

Regret hit him hard, as it always did. Her disappearance had been partially his fault. But he didn’t want to think about that February day no matter how much it stayed with him, like Peter Pan’s shadow sewed onto his conscience.

Della. Gone. His fault.

He glanced down at the manila folder sitting in the passenger’s seat as he pulled onto the highway and headed toward his childhood home. Another detective had handed it to him when he’d left the station that morning, but he’d yet to open the file. Instead he’d allowed it to sit like a ticking bomb, afraid it would explode and crack the thin layer over the wound festering for the past twenty-four years. He refused to watch his mother crash and burn all over again. Because even though he was a big, tough St. Martin Parish detective, his mother’s tears brought him to his knees.

Never again.

His murdered sister was gone and there was little sense in digging it up again. Every other lead over the past had played out, and this new wrinkle would, too. But following up was his job—for both his family and this girl asking questions.

He shrugged off the burn between his shoulder blades and increased his speed, hugging the twisting road. He’d not been to Beau Soleil in over a week. Not since the gypsy had visited Picou. Or was it a mambo? Either way the woman had given him the creeps. For one thing she was blind, and for another, she looked like one of the witches from Macbeth.

Huckster. That’s what she was. Had his mother believing all sorts of nonsense about setting suns, righting wrongs, and prophesies about birds or some such crap. Picou’s quest for answers was ridiculous. He could tolerate the occasional trip to Baton Rouge to consult a palm reader because that incorporated a visit to her cardiologist, but bringing those sorts of people out to the house crossed the line.

The gates greeted him before he bumped down the long, winding drive faster than normal. He needed to seem as if he were in a hurry. Otherwise, he’d hear about it for the next few weeks. The Arch Angels Feast Day was coming up and he’d been hoodwinked by the parish priest into serving on the church’s committee, so there’d be no escaping Picou, who was the chairwoman of the celebration.

He rounded the corner and saw her. Not his mother. Or the actress. But the woman from the rental car he’d seen outside the Whiskey Bay gas station.

She stood calmly in the center of chaos, hair damp, brow furrowed. All around her people scurried, left, right and in circles, calling out and craning their heads in that universal motion signaling something lost.

In this case—a child.

He rolled to a halt and climbed from the car.

“Oh, Nate, thank heavens!” Picou called, drawing the attention of the people milling about. The woman who he now assumed was the freshly showered nanny caught his gaze. Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t move.

A well-endowed blonde tumbled toward him, and he recognized her from the pictures in the local newspaper.

“Oh, God, please help us. My baby. He’s gone!”

He placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder as much to keep her from crashing into him as to hold her up. “Okay, Mrs. Keene, take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”

The blonde burst into tears, shaking her head and swiping at the streaking mascara on her cheeks. Her thin shoulders shook and she covered her face with both hands and sobbed. The presumed nanny stepped forward and took the actress’s elbow. “Go sit down, Tawny. I’ll talk to the deputy.”

Her voice was nice. Kind of low and gravelly. It had quiet authority, probably from all the nannying she did.

Tawny nodded and allowed a pale Picou to lead her away. Nate looked hard at his own mother. She looked shaken and he felt every tremble of her hand as it stroked the actress’s back. His mother’s clouded eyes met his and he tried to convey reassurance in his nod, but as usual, he failed to comfort her.

He turned his gaze back to the nanny.

“I’m Annie Perez,” she said, stepping forward without extending a hand, as if recognizing the situation didn’t call for niceties but rather expediency. “I work for the Keenes as Spencer’s caretaker.”

People still scrambled around them. Many looked to be part of the production crew, if their sweaty T-shirts and baggy parachute shorts were any indication. He would expect the nanny to be searching desperately, but she wasn’t. Her calm struck him as peculiar.

“Lieutenant Nate Dufrene.”

“Dufrene?”

“Picou’s my mother.”

“Oh.”

“Time is of essence…”

She stiffened. “Right. Tawny took Spencer to her room to spend some time with him. She said he fell asleep while she read to him, so she stepped out to make a phone call. When she hung up, he was gone. I’ve searched the rooms on the second floor, top to bottom.”

“Closets? Bed—”

“Thoroughly,” Annie interrupted, pushing a piece of hair behind her ear. Sweat beaded her upper lip, reminding him to wipe the sweat from his own forehead. Too hot for mid-September.

“The first floor?”

“Your mother and Mr. Keene searched the bottom floor—”

“Third floor?” he interrupted.

“The housekeeper—I’ve forgotten her name—and the production assistant are searching now. Mr. Keene brought some of the crew to search the grounds and outer buildings.”

“Lucille.”

She frowned. “What?”

“The housekeeper’s name is Lucille.” He realized that had nothing to do with the task at hand. “What about personal security? Does Keene have it?”

“His name is Brick, but he was with Carter on set. He’s out there searching now,” she said, with the slight lift of her shoulder. Any other time and he would have thought it sexy, but not in the middle of a crisis. Or that’s what he told himself.

“Where do you think the child is?”

“If I knew, you wouldn’t be here.”

Okay, it had been a dumb question. “Best guess?”

“I don’t know. We had a long flight from L.A., and he could have gotten up to look for me or Tawny and fallen back asleep somewhere. He’s done that before, but if he dozed off elsewhere, it’s somewhere very strange.” She averted her eyes and he knew there was something she wasn’t saying. Something darker and more worrisome.

She started walking toward the door of the house. She didn’t invite him to follow. He followed anyway. She turned around. “You may want to talk to Mr. Keene. He’s in the kitchen on the phone with the FBI.”

“FBI?” Nate stepped inside the house. “The child has been missing for all of thirty minutes, why would Keene call the feds?”

“That’s not my place to say.”

“Humor me. There’s a child missing.”

He saw reason overcome duty. “Fine. The family has been receiving threats for the last several months, directed at Spencer.”

He studied her in the gloom of the entryway. Alert, no-nonsense and levelheaded, this woman seemed once again something more than what her job title hinted. “You sure you’re just the nanny?”

A flicker of something appeared in those quicksilver eyes. “What do you expect? A bodyguard? The Keenes have one of those.”

Her words didn’t drip with sarcasm, but it was there. She seemed offended he didn’t trust her. “Sorry. You don’t talk like a nanny and with the threats, other precautions might have been taken.”

Another lift of her shoulder. Again, kind of sexy. “Look, I’m just a former real-estate agent. The housing market sucks, and I needed a job. Besides, the only threats have been letters and, maybe, a rock through the production office’s window. Nothing to necessitate locking down the kid. The FBI is looking into it as a courtesy to Mr. Keene since he consults with them on his films. My job is to keep the kid with me when he’s not with his parents…something even a former real-estate agent can manage.”

He couldn’t stop his lips from twitching. He liked her prickly and smart-assed. Suited her. And made those mysterious gray eyes crackle. “Okay, I get the picture. So why aren’t you as concerned as everyone else?”

“Who says I’m not?” she challenged, lifting her chin. Her skin was smooth and golden, her cheeks broad and high. Her hair frizzed around her face, making her hard edges a bit softer. She was altogether an intriguing woman. “Do I have to run about like a chicken missing its head in order to be worried?”

“No.” Yes. Every woman he knew reacted in that way. Were real-estate agents any different?

“So I don’t panic. Won’t help find Spencer. Oh, and by the way, I don’t know what was in the notes they received. Only what I heard from the staff. You’ll have to ask Mr. Keene.”

She’d anticipated his next question. Odd.

He stood a moment watching her as she pushed through the swinging kitchen door. Then he followed and found Carter Keene, careworn and sweat-soaked, holding the corded phone Nate’s mother insisted on keeping. He spoke intently to whoever was on the other end of the line. When he saw Nate, he cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. The cavernous kitchen felt oppressive with the man’s apprehension. Nate preferred Annie’s calm assurance or Tawny’s wailing melodrama over the desperation in Carter Keene’s eyes.

“Nate? Thanks for coming. You know about the threats against Spencer in California?”

Nate nodded. “Ms. Perez told me a little.”

The former star of Miami Metro, now turned director, looked at Annie. “Tell him what he needs to know. I’ll join you out back when I finish talking to Agent Burrell.”

Annie gave Carter a look, as if communicating something. Were they involved somehow? With Carter’s former reputation, it wouldn’t surprise him. Nannies had to be easy plucking, but this one didn’t seem the type to dally with the boss.

Yet after ten years in law enforcement, nothing truly surprised him.

The nanny motioned Nate through the back door and onto the bricked patio as if she were the hostess of Beau Soleil. As if she were the one in charge. He bristled. This was his damned house. Okay, not his, per se, but his family’s. Something about this woman both soothed and rankled.

“Look, I need to call for backup. Do you know if Keene has talked to Blaine Gentry about the situation?”

She shook her head and averted her gaze. “I don’t know who Blaine Gentry is.”

“The sheriff.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes searching the property behind the house. “What’s out there?”

She pointed to the horizon toward where the land sloped off toward the Bayou Tete. She also ignored his question.

“The bayou.” He combed his hand through his hair, wicking the sweat from his forehead. “So is the sheriff aware of this threat situation? He’s hasn’t mentioned it to our department. And is there anything you can tell me about Spencer that might help me? A special toy? Activity? Perhaps he did something naughty and doesn’t want to be discovered?”

Annie’s eyes glazed into thoughtfulness, and he could almost see the cogwheels in her mind turning. A furrow crinkled her forehead. She blinked once. Then twice. “You know, I think I know where he might have gone.”

“Where?”

“To see the alligators.”

“Alligators? We don’t…” His voice trailed off as she turned, breaking into a jog as her feet hit the thick grass of the lawn. He snapped his mouth closed. “Hey, where are you going?”

“He wanted to see a real alligator. I told him we’d find one later, but he’s not good at waiting,” she called back.

Nate jogged after her. “Surely he wouldn’t wander off with no one seeing him? To the bayou? By himself?”

“You don’t know children well, do you?”

He didn’t answer. No, he didn’t know children at all. Why would he? But he didn’t think a child could make it down the stairs, through the kitchen and across the wide lawn without making noise or at least one person seeing him. It didn’t seem plausible.

The distance to the bayou was a good piece. Thanks to numerous hurricanes, fallen oaks lay uprooted, their grotesque limbs stretching toward a cloudless sky, blocking their progress to the river. Finally they reached the edge of the property. “To your left.”

She veered, spying the worn path leading down the embankment toward the river. Her footing was steady, though the path was steep. All the while her eyes methodically searched the silted bank below.

“Spencer!” she shouted, quickening her steps.

Nate pounded behind her, slipping often on the eroded bank, before catching his footing. He skidded to the bottom and saw the boy, standing near the water, kicking at an old tire that had lodged in some reeds. Nate held up at the bottom of the path, but Annie made a beeline for the boy.

Spencer turned his head and grinned. “Look what I found, Annie. A tire. We can make a swing like Tony made in the book.”

Annie scooped him up and gave him a tight squeeze.

“Ow! Stop it, Annie.” Spencer squirmed, kicking his legs.

“I ought to paddle your behind, Spencer Keene,” Annie said, setting the boy on the bank away from the river. “You’ve nearly given your mother a heart attack.”

He wrinkled his nose. “What’s a heart attack? And I don’t want to get a paddle. Why would I get a paddle?”

The nanny sighed and sent her pretty eyes heavenward, mouthing something. Was she counting? Then she dropped to her knees and cupped Spencer’s chin.

“Hey, who’s he?” the boy asked, trying to rip his face from Annie’s hand. He pointed a chubby finger toward Nate.

“That’s not important now. I want your eyes to meet mine. Now.” Her voice was firm. Very firm.

Spencer stopped struggling, his gaze moving to Annie’s, the first inkling of uh-oh in his eyes.

“Don’t you ever, ever, go somewhere by yourself without asking first. Ever.” Annie’s voice shook and at that moment, Nate knew that however the woman had first appeared to him, she’d been frightened for her charge. Or maybe she was overcome with anger.

What he could see of Spencer’s chin started to wobble. “I wanted to see the alligators. You said I could.”

“That’s no excuse. You did not have permission to come here by yourself. Do you know how dangerous this is? We’ve talked about this. About how you aren’t allowed to go anywhere alone.”

A fat tear plopped onto Annie’s wrist. “Don’t be mad at me, Annie. I just wanted to see the alligators—”

Annie shook her head. “No. I am mad at you because you could have been hurt. Badly. Don’t ever do that again.”

Nate started to intervene. They needed to alert everyone at the house, Spencer had been located and was safe, but as he watched Annie tug Spencer into her arms, saw the small boy cry on her shoulder, something stayed him. Annie wrapped her arms about the boy and rocked him slightly, before lifting and carrying the child toward him.

“Here,” she said, shoving the boy into his arms. “Carry him up the hill. He’s too heavy for me.”

Nate flinched as the child wriggled. So much for tenderness. Spencer cocked his head back and stared at him with big brown tear-filled eyes. “Who are you?”

Annie started scrabbling up the hill, not bothering to look back at where Nate stood holding the child. “Obviously, I’m her minion.”

“Oh,” the child said, pursing his lips into an O. “What’s a minion?”

Nate sighed and walked toward the little-used path that would take him back to Beau Soleil. “Someone who has to follow the directives of a master.”

“What’s diwectives?”

Nate smiled. “What she tells me to do.”

“Oh. Then I’m a minion, too,” Spencer declared. “I want down. I can climb good.”

Nate set the child down because his calves screamed and his back didn’t feel much better.

Spencer dropped to his hands and knees and made like a monkey scrambling up an incline. The child’s bottom wagged in the air, and he started making monkey sounds. Nate almost smiled because he’d forgotten the silliness of children, but he remembered the seriousness of the situation and recalled Annie’s face as she passed him, handing off the boy. She’d been too emotional to deal with the child.

A twinge of something unknown plinked in his chest. Odd, and not comforting, was the knowledge he’d become fascinated by the plucky nanny in such a short time, almost from the moment he’d first spotted her behind the wheel of the rented Chevrolet. Some primal urge inside him wanted to crack her veneer and dig beneath her mask of supreme capability to the sweet vulnerability he’d just glimpsed.

Hell. Not what he needed. A prickling awareness for someone obviously not interested in him. For someone staying a few weeks at the most. For someone hiding something. His instincts told him so, and if there was one thing Nate could claim about himself, it was having good instincts. Something was off about the nanny.

By the time he emerged from the path, Annie had Spencer by the hand and people were bearing down on them, including the director and his wife.

Catastrophe averted.

But something told Nate things were just starting to heat up. Or maybe that was his blood. He never thought of himself as a Mary Poppins man, but that nanny was doing weird things to him. And he didn’t like it.

* * *

SEVERAL HOURS LATER, after a supper of Creole fried chicken and a summer salad, Annie sat in the wood-paneled den of Beau Soleil, watching as Tawny balanced a teacup on her knee and stroked Spencer’s head. He sat on the floor putting puzzles together while his mother read a fashion magazine and occasionally chatted with Picou about psychics, mediums and the truthfulness in séances. For once, Spencer seemed content with the task, biting his lip as he tried to force pieces where they couldn’t possibly fit.

Annie knew how that felt. She’d been living a giant jigsaw puzzle for the past year. Not fitting no matter how much she tried to shove the pieces in.

Like this job.

First, she was less than good in her nanny undercover role. She’d probably screw the kid up before she finished the assignment. And second, she had no leads on the perpetrator. Zip. Zero. Nada.

This afternoon had scared her. Putting her in as the nanny hadn’t been fair to Spencer. Prime example—alligators. Why hadn’t she explained to him how dangerous alligators were? Or the truth about animals with sharp teeth? Why hadn’t she gone over rules with him about where he could go at the old mansion, and who he could go with? She should have briefed him on what to expect at Beau Soleil.

But she hadn’t. She’d been too tired. Wanted a shower. And had been more than happy to hand the child over to his mother.

She’d have never done something so sloppy when she’d been with the Bureau. Of course, she’d never been in charge of a kid. Never had to go undercover. But it had proven to her yet again she wasn’t cut out for raising children. She didn’t have the knack. Her failed almost-marriage to a man with a daughter had proven as much. She and Mallory had been oil and water.

Spencer looked up at her and smiled. Her heart unwillingly swelled in her chest.

Damn.

Okay, so she could see the attraction of kids. They were a pain in the butt, but when they smiled like that, or lay their little heads so trustingly on your shoulder, well, all bets were off on the old ticker. Spencer’s smile did funny things to her.

She smiled back.

He went back to work on the puzzle, and his mother turned toward her. “I hope you’re planning on doing a better job of keeping up with my son, Amy. We fired the last nanny, you know.”

Annie shoved her magazine onto the table crowded with knickknacks as irritation gnawed at her. She needed to grab hold of some coolness. The last nanny had been fired for sexting with her boyfriend while hiding out in the pool cabana during Spencer’s fifth-birthday party over a month ago. It had been an awkward discovery especially since her boyfriend sat right next to her, naked and at attention. Annie really didn’t see sexting in her future.

Spencer looked up. “Mom, her name is Annie.”

Tawny wrinkled her nose. “Funny birdie, you remember everything.”

“Taw—Mrs. Keene, my aim is to take care of Spencer every moment he’s in my care.” She wanted to point out he’d not been in her care when he disappeared. He’d been in his mother’s. Instead she silently counted to ten.

“He was with you when he went missing, Tawny,” Picou interrupted, licking her thumb and turning the page of her Southern Living magazine.

Tawny frowned. “Well, she was on duty. Her day ends when Spencer’s does.”

“But you told her to leave him with you,” Picou persisted, her eyes on the magazine, but her intent clear. “That sends mixed messages. Either he’s with you or he’s with her.”

Tawny didn’t say anything more. Her silence was almost petulant. She picked up the magazine and her lips started moving as she read silently.

“Are you ready for bed, Spencer?” Annie asked, hoping to shift the tension in the room. It was tough being on the Keenes’ payroll even though technically she wasn’t. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold her tongue over Tawny’s unreasonable expectations.

“No,” Spencer said, shaking his head emphatically.

Tawny dropped her hand onto his head and rubbed his silky brown hair. Her message was unmistakable. Spencer wasn’t going to bed until the actress was ready. For some reason Tawny was hostile to Annie. She’d yet to figure out why the normally bouncy actress went all snake eyes on her.

Annie shifted in the comfortable armchair and glanced about the room. A floral rug anchored the space beneath a bank of windows that allowed a study of the bricked patio with its still-blooming containers of verbena and begonias. Comfortable, slipcovered furniture scattered the room, with built-in bookcases taking up a whole wall. The room was feminine without being nauseating, and Annie liked it better than any other room she’d seen in the colossal house.

A huge portrait of the Dufrene boys dominated the space over the fireplace, tripping her thoughts back to the man who’d rattled her today. Nate Dufrene had suspected she was not really a nanny. Almost blew her cover. Thank goodness Ace had the IT guy build her a real-estate site in Nevada. Hopefully, if someone went looking, they’d see Annie Perez as a failed chica real-estate agent desperate to make rent. Outside of the fake career, that’s pretty much what she was anyway. Well, half chica.

But then again, most “someones” weren’t detectives with prying chocolate eyes and a nose for truth. If Nate poked around too much, he’d discover she’d never sold a house in her life.

She studied the portrait. Nate’s dark hair had been clipped short and his expression was a mixture of boredom and tolerance. He’d not been happy about sitting still in button-up clothes next to his younger brothers. It was fairly obvious.

“Those are my sons,” Picou said, catching Annie staring at the portrait. “Nate is the tall one. The others are Abram and Darby.”

Annie smiled politely. “All nice-looking boys.”

“Aren’t they? Yet I can’t seem to collect any daughters-in-law, which is a shame. I’d love to have a grandson like Spencer someday.”

“Like me?” Spencer asked, scrambling to his feet, abandoning the puzzle pieces. He preened and gave the older woman the same dimpled smile his father had been delivering since his Tiger Beat magazine days. Killer.

Picou’s eyes widened. Yep. Got her.

The older woman wore a patterned blue caftan, replete with a girlish bow pinned on the side of her platinum hair. It looked utterly ridiculous, but yet, somehow fitting for the matriarch of the Dufrene clan. “Just like you…or a girl might be nice.”

“A girl? Girls are dumb. They like purses and stuff.” Spencer delivered a disgusted look.

Annie glanced back at the young Nate and recalled how the older Nate made her feel. Not just apprehensive, but interested. He’d grown into a long, tall, sexy drink of water, his youthful cheeks melting into a lean jaw and whiskered chin. Bright eyes fading to weary. Hair curling just behind his ears. Broad shoulders tapering to square, masculine hands. Yes, the man was on her radar, damn it.

Why couldn’t her rational mind control her irrational desires?

It was not like her to feel so attracted to a cop. Or, rather, someone so similar to her. She’d always liked the shy guys, the ones who seemed bumblingly inept, with sweet smiles and simple outlooks on life. Seth had fit the bill.

Nate Dufrene did not. He felt dangerous. Not biddable. Not sweet and complacent—more like intense, deep water with a strong current.

Annie had a job to do and the farther she stayed away from Nate Dufrene, the better. She didn’t need him hanging around, chipping away her façade, tempting her with his haunted eyes. Something about him compelled her to draw near when she needed to pull back—especially since she still had to split an astronomical mortgage on a condo with the last mistake she’d made. And that note was due at the end of the month.

She caught Picou regarding her with a thoughtful expression. Annie pulled her gaze away from both the portrait and Picou. The glint in the woman’s eye made her squirm. Not going to happen, lady. Annie wasn’t barking up that particular tree.

“Time for bed, Spencer.” This from Tawny.

Finally.

Annie rose from the chair and held out her hand. Spencer took it, rubbing his eyes with the other hand while yawning. Once again something warm stole across her heart. He reached up for her to pick him up, so she did, enjoying his arms curling around her neck. He looked back at his mom and Picou. “Mom, Annie’s not in trouble, is she? She told me I could see the gators, but I didn’t wanna wait.”

Annie froze, her back to Tawny and Picou.

“Of course not, birdie. And I’ll take you to see the gators, okay?”

“’Kay,” Spencer murmured, stifling a yawn.

“Good night, birdie. Love you,” Tawny called as Annie walked to the door. “And goodnight to you, too, Amy.”

Annie bit off a retort.

Tawny had gotten that one in on purpose.


CHAPTER FOUR

NATE LEANED BACK AGAINST the supple leather of his desk chair, his heavy sigh interrupting the silence of his office. He’d been through the files for the third time that week, looking for anything that might grab him, might stand out enough to follow, but there was nothing. Dead end in every direction.

He grabbed the files and bagged evidence and carefully placed them back into the cardboard box, setting it on the short filing cabinet. His office needed organizing. In fact, his whole house could use a good cleaning. His housekeeper, Gloria, cleaned the toilets and changed the sheets once a week, but she couldn’t make heads or tails of the cold-case boxes lining the wood floor of the living room.

Damn it. Radrica Moore’s killer would go unpunished.

He shoved the lid onto the box. Then he hesitated. He didn’t want to give up. Wouldn’t be fair to Radrica. To her mother, who still mourned the death of the thirteen-year-old honor student. He pulled off the lid and propped it against the box, staring into the contents.

There was very little physical evidence in the case. The body of the African American girl had been found in stagnant water of the flooded timberland just off the Mississippi River, badly decomposed. The cause of death had been inconclusive, though the coroner found evidence of possible defensive wounds. The Rapides sheriff’s department classified it as a homicide, but had nothing else to go on.

Nate padded into his kitchen, opened the fridge and surveyed the contents: six pack of Abita, leftover barbecue from the Wing Shack and a package of luncheon meat he didn’t remember buying. He grabbed an Abita and shut the door.

As he cracked open the beer, he shifted his thoughts from the cold case lying dead in his office to the incident at Beau Soleil that afternoon. Even though the boy had been found safe and sound, something bothered him about the whole deal.

Annie Perez.

Maybe that’s who had him at attention.

And not in a way he welcomed.

When he’d reached the reunion between the “missing” Spencer and his over-the-top mother, he noticed how easily Annie faded into the background—purposely, it seemed.

She’d skirted the gathering, melding herself into a quiet statue on the perimeter, but her eyes had been searching the group of people gathered as if weighing some unseen force.

But maybe that’s who she was. Cautious, still and serious. Nothing wrong with being quiet, even if intensity flowed out of every pore of the woman.

Desire snaked into his belly.

Exactly what he didn’t need. He lifted the bottle and took a swig, swiping a hand across his mouth. It had been a while since he’d dated. Maybe too long. He’d been busy this past summer with more requests for help on cold cases than he could handle. The state budget had police and sheriff departments cut to the bone, and word had gotten out about his talent with homicide cases that had no pulse. His consulting jobs were freebies, and sometimes when things were slow, Blaine gave him leeway. Not that it really mattered. He didn’t work them for the money anyway. He worked them for the satisfaction of getting what he’d never have—completion.

He walked back to his office and stared at the database open on the computer screen. The Annie Perez he’d met earlier today hadn’t been a real-estate agent in California. Didn’t mean she hadn’t been one someplace else, which was why he reserved judgment on the woman and stopped poking around looking for info on her. He had no real reason to check her out—she’d done nothing wrong. Still, something told him it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get to know her a little better.

The only thing he couldn’t figure out was whether his interest was strictly professional. He really didn’t want to think about it being anything more. He was good at hunches; bad at lying to himself.

* * *

WHEN ANNIE WOKE UP the following morning, she felt as if she’d been run over and left for dead. Spencer had ended up in her bed at some point. She’d forgotten when. Some vague notion of 2:24 a.m., muttering “climb in” and then spending the rest of the night being kicked by a mule.

She rolled over and looked at the mule sleeping peacefully on his back, mouth slack, brown hair sticking up like Billy Idol and jammies riding up over a plump little tummy.

Little devil should be on a soccer team.

She yawned in the bleary light escaping into the room through the heavy brocade drapes over the long windows. Had to be around 6:00 a.m. Her internal alarm clock woke her whether she needed to sleep longer or not. Leftover habit from high school when getting up had rested squarely on her shoulders.

She slipped out of bed, brushed her teeth, pulled on shorts and running shoes. Spencer would likely sleep until seven-thirty or so. Plenty of time for a quick exploratory run. She’d head out to the highway and get a lay of the land and be back before Spencer demanded his Fruity O’s. But first she needed to let someone know she was leaving. After yesterday afternoon, she wanted the boy to be covered.

She nearly ran into Carter Keene in the kitchen.

“Up early,” he said, dumping creamer into his coffee. He glanced at her briefly before picking up a spoon. “Have you checked on Spencer?”

“He’s in my bed still asleep. Are you the only one up?”

“Yep. I need to get this movie in the can as soon as possible. The studio has another one lined up. Filming in Maine starts in December, so time is of the essence. We’re already behind.”

He looked around as if on a covert operation. She looked around, too, wondering why he overdramatized everything. Then she remembered. He was a director. Hazard of the job.

“So have you made any progress?” he whispered.

Carter hadn’t talked to Ace in over a week, so the report was left to her. “We’ve done background checks on several of the investors of the Goliath movie, but haven’t found anyone indicating a desire to harm you. Mad at you? Yeah. Enough to do something to Spencer or Tawny? No.”

He nodded, his gorgeous blond hair catching the weak sunlight, causing a sort of halo to frame his pretty-boy face. And Annie knew from the rumors surrounding Keene that he was far from angelic. “What about Rudy Griffin?”

“Ace has one of his best guys working on his current whereabouts. From what we’ve learned, Rudy was on location in Oregon when the first note appeared. Right now, we’re not sure where he is.” Rudy was a stuntman who’d been injured on the set of Goliath, a big-budget movie that not only had a lion’s share of production problems, but also tanked at the box office. Carter Keene had earned plenty of disgruntled non-fans on that one, but none more so than the stuntman who accused Keene’s production company of unsafe and substandard practices. His burned arm had inflamed his need to bad-mouth and threaten Carter.

Carter shook his head. “It has to be him. When I found that note, I knew he’d gone off his rocker.”

Annie nodded. “Rudy Griffin made threats, but lots of people make threats. Doesn’t mean they’ll carry through with them. This could be a random crackpot, and we may never find out who sent the notes.”

“But they feel so ominous…and personal.”

“They do. But we may be grasping at straws. Ace will be in touch if there is nothing more we can do. And by the way, I appreciate you not blowing my cover yesterday, Mr. Keene. It’s best I stay hidden for now.”

“Call me Carter, Annie.”

“I’d rather not.” Hadn’t Tawny reminded her of her place yesterday?

Annie could see he liked to call the shots, but he shrugged. “Whatever’s best.”

She nodded, headed toward the back door of the kitchen and peeked out the glass door of the mudroom. Sunlight streamed through the coal-black trunks of the live oaks, throwing golden confetti on the grass beneath. Perfect morning for a run.

Spencer.

Damn. She’d forgotten to ask Carter to send Brick to babysit the door to her bedroom. She turned back around to reenter the kitchen and heard a scream come from the other side of the door.

“Spencer’s not in his bed! He’s gone!” It was Tawny’s voice.

Annie intended to push through the kitchen door and tell Tawny the child was safe in her bed, but Carter beat her to it.

“Hell, Tawny, he’s asleep in the nanny’s bed. Don’t you bother thinking before you start carrying on? You need to try processing something in that brain up there before opening your mouth.”

Tawny closed her mouth and her eyes narrowed. “You’ve always enjoyed my brains, if I recall. Open mouth, too.”

Neither of them saw Annie at the door and for a moment, she felt like an interloper, but didn’t move. Maybe understanding the couple’s relationship would help her with the case. She’d not spent much time with Carter or Tawny.

“Oh, and you’re good at it, aren’t you, sweetheart? That’s what Mick’s been saying.” Carter’s voice held sneer, disdain and hurt.

Whoa. Carter thought Tawny was messing around with the lead on the production, the wickedly debauched Mick Manners, who was playing the deranged killer in Magic Man.

“Oh, you’re listening to someone other than yourself? You’re telling me the great and mighty director actually realizes there are other people in the world besides himself?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tawny shrugged. “You figure it out ’cause I got better things to do. By the way, after we wrap, I’m taking Spencer up to Mama’s for a visit.”

Carter snorted. “Why? So he can learn how to shuck corn and make crystal meth?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m going to teach him.” Her voice sounded venomous and offended. She took a steadying breath. “I promised Mama I’d bring him. She’s been stressed about Teri leaving Braden with her and going off with some guy from Georgia, so I thought I’d go up and make her feel better. She’s having to take care of Braden all by herself.”

“You haven’t sent any more money to Teri, have you? That won’t help her.”

Tawny put her hands on her hips. “You know very well I cut her off after the Fourth of July incident. I’m just paying for some stuff for Braden. That’s it.”

Annie felt a pang of sadness for Tawny—nothing like family putting their hooks in and looking for a free ride. She took a step back, holding the door with the flat of her hand, letting it close slowly so she remained unseen. But her not-so-stealthy action caught Tawny’s eye. The actress raced across the room and pulled the door back before Annie could escape. “What the hell are you doing? Hiding?”

Her words were accusing. Jealous. Oh, no.

“I’m going for a run, but I forgot to ask Mr. Keene if Brick could keep an eye on Spencer.”

Tawny’s hair was knotted and there were circles under her eyes. She gave Annie a disdainful lip curl then looked back at Carter. Her gaze held a question. “Maybe you better do your job and take care of my son before you pursue other activities.”

Ouch. The woman thought she’d caught them in flagrante.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Carter said from where he’d sunk on the old-fashioned banquette in the breakfast nook, but Annie didn’t miss the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. He liked her jealousy. “Annie passed through to let me know Spencer was safe in bed so no one would worry. That’s all.”

Annie stood stock-still, knowing she made for an easy target. She looked at Tawny, refusing to duck her chin or make any excuse. “Mrs. Keene, I’ll check on Spencer again before I go, but I’d like to go for a quick run before starting his day.”

Carter nodded. “Of course, that’s fine. I’ll tell Brick to keep an eye on him.”

Tawny echoed with “Fine.”

Carter refocused on his wife. “Be on location at eight o’clock sharp. Oh, and call Linda so she can work some makeup magic. The camera picks up every line and wrinkle, and we’ve got night scenes, long day coming up.”

Annie pushed through the kitchen door but not before she caught the pain in the actress’s eyes. Tawny was a prima donna extraordinaire, but Annie didn’t like seeing the hurtful words the couple threw at one another, not when she’d seen the photographs scattered around the Hollywood Hills mansion of two people truly in love. Happy, laughing, loving couples were hard to find amid celebrity. Tawny and Carter Keene seemed to have had it.

At one time.

Annie decided to peek in on Spencer again. He still slept, and Brick already skulked in the hall, so she slipped out the side door and set off down the drive, the gravel crunching beneath her running shoes, the air already heavy with moisture. Sweat sluiced down her body before she hit the highway. By the time she’d gone a mile, her breathing was ragged and her legs heavy. Louisiana in September might kill her.

She rounded a curve, intending to do another mile even if she ended up with a toe tag, and nearly crashed into Tawny’s former roommate and current best friend, Jane McEvoy.

“Annie,” Jane breathed, leaning over and grasping her knees while gulping in deep breaths.

Annie stopped and mopped sweat out of her eyes, surprised the woman had remembered her name. They’d only met once. “Morning, Ms. McEvoy.”

“Jane, please. And it’s killer out here, isn’t it? I’ve been here for almost a month and I still can’t get accustomed to the humidity.”

Annie glanced down the highway in the direction from which Jane had come. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Marathon,” the woman panted, pulling the breathable tank from her torso. “I’ve been training for months around the shooting schedule. Beau Soleil’s ten miles from the motel where the rest of us are staying, so it’s a perfect training run here and back.”

Annie nodded. Jane was okay. Much better than Tawny, but then again, Jane was a serious character actress appearing as an extra on police procedurals and the occasional big-screen film. With a wholesome look and a trust-inspiring demeanor, Jane was also frequently cast in commercials. As a close friend to the Keenes she’d snagged a part as the killer’s girlfriend. Something about being whacked in the first scene only to reemerge at the end of the film as the mastermind who faked her own death.

Annie checked her watch. No time for another mile. “I can’t handle that much running. Gotta get back to Spencer. Good luck with getting your miles in.”

“Glad he was found yesterday. Scary, huh? He’s such a rascal. I’m not surprised he slipped off. Tell him I’ll bring him a lollipop when I get a break. I promised him one when he beat me at Candy Land last month.” Jane straightened and glanced in the direction of Beau Soleil.

Annie nodded. “I’ll do that.”

“We should catch up. Maybe drinks in town? Tawny might come if Carter or that crazy lady will watch Spencer.”

“Sure,” Annie said, knowing Tawny would rather hang out with a leper than with the nanny.

“I’m so bored out here,” Jane said with a shrug, as if that explained why she was so hard up for company. “All the other girls on the film are twentysomethings who spend their time banging the crew. Although there is this one gaffer who’s to die for, but he’s such a baby. Okay, TMI. I’m heading back. I’ll call the house later.”

Jane set off back toward the motel, which sat right outside the city limits of Bayou Bridge. Annie had studied the map of the area, noting the bayous, tributaries and low marshland surrounding the small town. She needed to do some snooping around the production site, and Jane had given her a perfect reason for dropping by the motel if she could get some time off. Several members of the film crew worked directly for Carter’s production company and she’d told Ace she’d try to get a feel for how they regarded the Keene family. This tentative friendship with Jane would be her ticket into that world. So drinks would work.

She headed back to Beau Soleil, sucking wind and praying she wouldn’t crumple on the highway. The occasional car passed her, along with plenty of huge pickup trucks with dual exhausts and mud-splattered flaps. One passerby gave her a wolf whistle. She refrained from flipping him off.

By the time she made the gate to the mansion, she was done. She gulped air as she crunched down the long, winding drive at a slow walk. The cemetery appeared as she rounded the corner and she shivered despite herself. Her grandmother had claimed to have second sight and the ability to commune with the dead. The sudden prickly feeling had to be a leftover freakazoid gene rearing its ugly head.

The sound of a car behind her had her scooting off the road and checking over her shoulder. Gray government car.

Nate Dufrene.

Her heart took a gallop that had nothing to do with the run she’d just completed.

He slowed beside her.

She stopped.

“Wanna ride?”

“I’m almost there. And I’m pretty sweaty. Wouldn’t want to get your seats wet.”

His gaze traveled down her body and up again before meeting her eyes. The look was leisurely, not perfunctory, and his checking-out of her sweaty body made her throat tighten and awareness ignite in her blood. “I don’t mind.”

Her mind screamed get your butt back to the house and leave sexy Nate Dufrene the hell alone. Her libido, however, told her to take the candy the man offered and climb into his car like a naughty little girl. Damn, it was hard to ignore candy like Nate.

“If you don’t mind,” she said, walking around the car and pulling open the passenger door. She sank inside and angled one of the vents onto her face. Nate turned the AC on high and shifted into gear, rolling slowly toward the historic home where he’d been raised.

The car smelled like plastic, mingled with the slight scent of citrus cologne that suited the man sitting next to her. She inhaled, sucking in cool air and Nate Dufrene. Both were good.

“You run often?” he asked, casting an inquisitive look her way.

“Three or four times a week,” she said.

“You look like you could run circles around me.” He drove really slowly. On purpose? Or did he hide pawpaw tendencies behind his gorgeous brown eyes and lumberjack body? Maybe he wanted more time with her?

“You look fit enough,” she said, glancing out the window. No sense in trying to sound flirty. That had never been her game. Besides, she shouldn’t have climbed in the car with him, shouldn’t have gotten close enough to drink in his clean smell and seductive voice.

“Oh, yeah? Maybe we can go for a run together,” he said, as the house came into view.

Her body tightened unwillingly as thoughts of other things they could do together flitted through her mind. She glanced at him, unable to help herself and shrugged as though his presence wasn’t affecting her at all. Which it so was. Lord, what was wrong with her? Goal: prove to Ace she could do a phenomenal job as an investigator so she could make more money and get better assignments. Barrier: hunky detective.

“Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘maybe’?” Nate asked, swinging into the gravel parking area out front. “Because I’ll be around. I think keeping an eye on the Keene family might be something our department needs to consider in light of the threats they’ve received.”

“Really? Figured we left danger back in L.A., so I doubt it’s something the local authorities need to worry about. I’m sure you have much more exciting things to pursue.” She reached for the door handle, but his big hand on her arm stopped her. His touch was warm, even on her heated flesh.

“Just a second,” he said.

She glanced at him, not able to read his expression or his eyes. “Yeah?”

“What did you say you did before becoming a nanny?”

Alarm uncurled in her belly, choking out the weird sexual energy that had been humming for the past few minutes. “A real-estate agent.”

“With what company?”

“Why? You looking for a house in the Valley?” she asked, jerking her arm away. “I worked as a real-estate agent for several years in Nevada. What’s it to you?”

“You lived in Nevada?”

No. “Yeah. Are you checking up on me or something?”

“Why so touchy?”

She gave him a dead stare. “I don’t like people implying I’m a liar.” Even if she was one. This undercover gig was hard to keep up around a guy like Nate. He seemed to smell bullshit from a mile away. She’d have to be extra careful to not let her guard down around him. Or anything else.

“I didn’t imply you were a liar.”

She arched an eyebrow and climbed from the car. “I’m not an idiot. You implied all over the place.”

She didn’t wait for him to say anything more. She needed to get away from him. Get a shower before she had to pour Spencer’s cereal and play happy nanny for the day. Hopefully, Ace or his best hound, Jimmy, would break the case by finding the weirdo who threatened five-year-olds back in California so she could go home and pick up another assignment, preferably something that didn’t involve watching SpongeBob twelve times a day. But until then, she’d do what needed to be done, even if it meant lying her ass off.

Nate stared at her as she gave herself a mental pep talk. He didn’t turn off the engine and he didn’t follow her, which was probably a good thing. She felt way too vulnerable around that man. What was he doing here anyway? Didn’t he have a job to do? Something more important than skulking around Beau Soleil implying she was something other than she was?

Her thoughts tripped over each other as she walked around the flowered path toward the kitchen door. She’d grab a yogurt smoothie before she went up to her bedroom.

Nate’s mother met her on the path.

“Did I see Nate pull up?” The woman looked worried.

“Yeah, he actually gave me a ride.”

“Good. He needs to see this.”

For the third time that morning, apprehension flooded her. “What?”

“Someone left a present on the back doormat.”


CHAPTER FIVE

NATE STARED AT THE dead bird lying on the sisal mat. A folded piece of paper lay beneath the fanned wings framing the missive with grotesque flourish.

“Who would do such a thing?” Picou asked, staring down at the poor creature. The mockingbird’s soft gray head was flung back with beak open, giving a tragic appearance.

“Did you touch it?” Nate asked his mother, glancing to where she stood with lips pressed together, arms crossed as if warding off a chill, which was ironic since the day felt smothering already.

“Of course not.” Picou sniffed. “I watch Law and Order.”

He nearly smiled. “Good, Mom, good. I’m going to go back to the car to grab my kit and call this in. Stay here and don’t touch anything. Where did the nanny go?”

Picou shrugged. “Inside? Maybe to check on the boy?”

Made sense. Yesterday had proven the boy’s mother wasn’t exactly the most responsible person on the face of the earth, so Annie’s instinct to find and secure the child was good.

His mother looked a little spooked, but that was to be expected. Dead birds and presumably threatening notes brought back bad memories—memories that were about to be waded through regardless of the movie people and their harassment problem. He’d read the file on Sally Cheramie early that morning when sleep escaped him—the results had left a wake of acid churning in his stomach. Part of him wanted to toss the file aside, smother the query into his sister’s disappearance, but facts didn’t lie. The woman might be more than a desperate charlatan looking to get rich quick. This inquiry might bite.

He went around to his car, grabbed a kit from the trunk and pulled out his phone to call in the threat. This time it would be official.

He hung up with dispatch and shifted his mind back to the task at hand just as Annie appeared at his elbow. He stopped. “Spencer?”

“Safe with his mother. Both are unaware anything is amiss. In fact, Spencer is modeling his mother’s shoe collection while she’s getting a facial. The makeup artist arrived twenty minutes ago. Might want to question her and see if she saw anything.”

He looked at her. “Oh, so you watch Law and Order, too?”

“You don’t have to watch police shows on TV to use common sense. If someone put the bird on the mat, then Linda, or whatever her name is, might have seen him.”

“Or her.”

Annie glanced sharply at him. “Or her. That reminds me. I did see someone on the highway—Jane McEvoy.”

He gave her a questioning look.

“She’s Tawny’s former roommate and BFF. She might not be involved in this threat thing, but you never know. Could be anyone with a grudge. Or a loose screw.”

He didn’t comment. She was right. If the threats were connected, it could be anyone who’d made the trek from California. He’d start with the production crew and work his way to those closest to the boy, including Annie.

He started walking again, noticing Annie’s steps matched his stride for stride as they approached his mother, who wore a bright caftan along with flip-flops with sparkly doodads on them. She looked a little like a circus fortune-teller, but her purple-blue eyes were grave.

“You can go inside now, Mom. Just use the side or front door so we don’t contaminate evidence out here.” Nate studied the “crime” scene before placing his case on an out-of-the-way table. He opened the kit, aware he carried more than the average detective. His time in med school studying pathology had taught him some tricks that gave him an edge. Or at least he thought they did. He knew his success rate came from good old-fashioned research with a side helping of gut instinct.

“That’s a lot of stuff in there. Do all detectives carry—” she picked up a spray bottle of luminal “—stuff like this?”

He took the luminal out of her hand and placed it back in the kit. “I was an Eagle Scout. I’m always prepared.”

“What’s this for?” she asked, picking up a vial containing fingerprinting powder and holding it up to the sunlight streaking through the overhanging trees.

“Something I may need. Put it back, please.” He pulled out the high-resolution camera and caught a gleam in her eyes. He couldn’t get a handle on this woman at all. She didn’t look disturbed by the dead bird like most women would. He turned and caught his mother crouching beside the note and bird. “Don’t touch.”

“I’m not. Just making sure it’s dead.”

Annie walked over. “Oh, it’s dead, Mrs. Dufrene. Birds don’t lie that still if they’re living.”

Picou rose and took a step back toward Annie as Nate snapped photographs of the bird at several angles. After photographing the entire patio, he pulled on gloves and placed the dead bird in an evidence bag.

“You’re not going to throw it away?” Annie asked.

“You’d be surprised what a lab can do with ‘evidence’ like this. We can learn if the person who did this killed the bird or found one that had died of natural causes. And sometimes we can lift prints or find fibers that might give us a clue to help solve the crime.”

“Oh,” she said. He didn’t miss the fact Annie acted out of character. Since he’d met her, everything had been deliberate, careful and no-nonsense. Now she asked him questions she must know the answer to. Hell, half of America watched CSI. He sealed the bag.

She shifted, pushing back her hair. “So what about security cameras? Don’t you have them?”

“Why would we?” he asked.

“Well, with the disappearance of—I mean, Tawny said—” She stopped herself, looking for the words. “Some families who have suffered tragedies are more protective and plan against other—”

“We’re not paranoid,” Picou interrupted, her tone marginally defensive. “Our daughter was taken and it didn’t matter whether we had dogs, fences or guards on every corner of the property. Bad things happen despite our best efforts.”

His mother’s response didn’t surprise him. Even now, she tried to tell him she was sorry—that Della’s disappearance had nothing to do with him. But it couldn’t erase his mother’s accusations the day Della disappeared. Couldn’t wipe away the way she’d shrieked at him, accusing him of not watching out for his sister, labeling the kidnapping his fault. To a ten-year-old boy, it had been devastating. Picou had spent years trying to apologize.

At times, he felt the emptiness in her words. Felt the unreasonable blame. His mother didn’t want to feel the way she felt. She couldn’t help herself.

“I didn’t mean to offend, Mrs. Dufrene. Just trying to help.”

Nate looked at Annie. “Since you’re in the mood to help, give me your opinion. You think this is related to the threats in California or just a simple prank?” He watched her gaze hit the bag dangling in his hand.

“I’m not sure. Most of the staff and crew know Tawny calls Spencer ‘birdie.’ The whole thing could be a sick joke. No one has tried to hurt him, so it could be someone wanting to get the Keenes’ goat. Someone who wants to use fear against them.”

“Nice thinking, Watson,” he quipped.

“What? You asked,” she snapped, her happy-camper vibe gone. He liked her better serious with her feathers ruffled. Felt right.

“I thought it sounded good.” Picou nodded, her eyes earnest.

Actually it was valid. Someone was using terror as a weapon against the couple. He knew how powerful the love between a parent and child was. Not firsthand. But he’d watched his parents’ marriage unravel with Della’s disappearance and murder. They’d never healed. His thoughts flickered back to the folder. He needed to talk to his mother before word leaked out at the office. Someone, namely Kelli—the bigmouth in the unit—was bound to squeal about the woman asking questions down in Lafourche.

Nate set the bagged bird on the wrought-iron table and turned to Annie. “Did you use this door this morning?”

She shook her head. “Almost, but I went back to talk to Tawny. After that, I checked on Spencer and slipped out the side door. I didn’t see anyone around Beau Soleil, but I wasn’t looking either. The only person up this morning was Mr. Keene and he was in the kitchen fixing coffee. Maybe he heard someone.”

Briefly the idea of Keene staging the threat for press or to suit his own needs crossed Nate’s mind, but he quickly discarded it. Only someone with no soul would falsely threaten his own child for attention. Keene wasn’t a nominee for Humanitarian of the Year, but he didn’t seem to be lacking in love for his son, not to mention he’d tried to keep the threats quiet. No, someone else was playing a sick game with the Keene family.

As far as Nate was concerned, the dead bird on the doormat meant game on. The need to best the perpetrator welled up inside him. “Let’s find out. Is Keene around?”

“His Jeep is.” Annie pointed toward the gravel parking area at the side of the house.

“Grab him for me.”

Annie narrowed her eyes. “Just because I’m the Hispanic nanny doesn’t mean you can order me around. I don’t work for you.”

“Just like his father,” Picou said, putting her hands on her hips.

Nate stiffened. “I’m not like my father.”

Picou shrugged. “You could have fooled me. Annie may work for the Keenes, but she’s a guest in this home. Go get Carter yourself. We’ll watch the crime scene until someone from the department gets here.”

Nate hated being compared to his domineering father, though he knew there was much of the man in him. For one, he looked like Martin and for the other, he had abnormally high expectations of those around him. Hard to fight the need to command and have people jump to fulfill his orders. He’d been called asshole more than once. Just like his old man.

“Sorry. I didn’t intend it as it came out, and it certainly had nothing to do with your ethnic background or gender.”

Annie nodded. “Apology accepted. I’m heading inside to shower and assume my duties, so I’ll tell Mr. Keene you need him.”

“Thanks.” Nate looked at his mother as Annie headed toward the side door. Picou studied him, a hint of a smile on her lips. He knew then and there she approved of Annie Perez, which both pleased and distressed him. He knew his mother. She’d been throwing women in his path for the past five years, groaning about dying without having grandchildren. She’d be pushing the capable, sexy nanny his way every chance she got. The question was would he be waiting? “Don’t you have something better to do, Mom?”

“No,” she said, folding her thin frame into a patio chair and stretching her arms overhead. “You know I’m fascinated by police work, so I’ll enjoy watching you in action. I won’t have to watch Cold Case reruns this afternoon.”

“Not much to watch, Mom.”

“You trying to get rid of me?”

He drew a deep breath and held it for three seconds before releasing it. His mother was many things, topping out at fascinating, but she also had a childish, bratty nature. He looked at her, and she smiled winningly.

“Actually I’m here because of you.”

“I know. I birthed you.”

He gave her a deadpan stare.

“Okay, not funny, but I am glad you came by to check on me. Gets lonely out here all by myself.”

“With all these people around, I can see you’re starved for attention.” He buried his guilt under sarcasm. He should check on Picou more. It was his duty.

The crunch of several cars sounded in the gravel.

“The cavalry has arrived, so I’ll leave you to it. Come in later and tell me why you’re really here. In the meantime, I’ll hope it has something to do with that adorable little nanny. She’s got spit and fire.”

He heard car doors slam and the voice of Blaine Gentry, the St. Martin Parish Sheriff. “I’d hate to smother your matchmaking plans, but this has to do with Della.”

Picou stopped in the middle of the path. “Della?”

Nate swallowed, wishing he could snatch back his flippant words. Wrong move. Should have waited. “Probably nothing, but a deputy down in Lafourche called me about a woman asking a couple of flag-raising questions. They sent a file on her, but we’ll talk later.”

Sheriff Blaine Gentry tromped onto the patio. “Morning. What we got here?”

Picou muttered “morning” before heading inside. Her shoulders were taut and he didn’t miss the way the sunshine had been sucked out of her. Yeah, talking about Della did that every time.

“A dead bird.”

Blaine’s eyebrows chased his hairline. “You called us out here for a dead bird? Kelli said you found a body.”

Nate stifled aggravation. Along with a big mouth, Kelli was known for exaggeration, one of the main reasons he’d hot-footed it out to Beau Soleil to tell his mother about the query in Lafourche. “And a note.”

Nate’s sometimes-partner Wynn Mouton ambled toward the bird sitting in the plastic bag. He lifted the bag and eyed the contents.

“Wow, you bagged this all by yourself and wrote the date on it, too. Your talent amazes me.” Wynn grinned like the smart-ass he was.

Nate ignored him, walked to the mat and lifted the folded paper, opening it. “Yeah, I can write my name, too, asshole. But you can write my name when you write up the report.”

“The hell I will,” Wynn said, dropping the bag back onto the table. “It’s a dead bird. Why we running lab on it?”

“You owe him, Mouton,” Blaine said, his dark eyes taking in the perimeter. “And this ain’t no regular dead bird. Feels like an iceberg case with lots underneath we can’t see.”

“Ah, hell,” Wynn muttered, absentmindedly rubbing the shoulder he’d had surgery on after falling during a foot chase.

“Take a look,” Nate said, holding the letter toward Blaine but not allowing him to touch it since he wore no gloves. It was regular copy paper with typed words centered on the page. Times New Roman font. Size 12.

“Twisted bastard,” Wynn said, looking over the sheriff’s shoulder.



Birdie, Birdie in the sky

You will pay an eye for an eye

Tell your whore mother to draw a line

Or her precious baby will soon be mine



“A rhymer,” Nate commented, sliding the letter in the bag he held in his other hand. He sealed it. “Anger’s directed toward the mother, so the kid’s a tool.”





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