Книга - Sudden Attraction

Sudden Attraction
Rebecca York











In the darkness, he couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t need the sense of sight to know what she looked like.


He lowered his head, and as his mouth touched hers, he was caught by a blaze of need that radiated to every cell of his body.

They’d gone from strangers to intimates in seconds. Without understanding why it had happened, he wanted her. Right here. Right now. Out in the open.

Those heated thoughts and the pain pounding through his brain almost wiped out his ability to think, but not quite. Somewhere in his consciousness, he understood that what they were doing was dangerous. That knowledge was as sharp and insistent as the desire binding them together.




About the Author


Award-winning, USA TODAY bestselling novelist Ruth Glick, who writes as REBECCA YORK, is the author of more than one hundred books, including her popular 43 LIGHT STREET series for Mills & Boon


Intrigue. Ruth says she has the best job in the world. Not only does she get paid for telling stories, she’s also the author of twelve cookbooks. Ruth and her husband, Norman, travel frequently, researching locales for her novels and searching out new dishes for her cookbooks.




SUDDEN

ATTRACTION

BY

USA TODAY Bestselling Author REBECCA YORK

(Ruth Glick writing as Rebecca York)







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




Chapter One


While Gabriella Boudreaux filled a tray of chocolate eclairs with pastry cream in the kitchen of Chez Emile, she was fighting off panic. When the phone rang, she knew it was for her. With bad news.

As one of the prep staff called her name, she put down the pastry bag she was holding, wiped her hands on her white apron and crossed the kitchen.

The anxious voice on the other end of the line belonged to her mother.

“Gabriella, you’ve got to come home.”

“Mom, we’ve talked about this before. I’m in the middle of getting ready for the evening rush. I can’t drop everything and drive to Lafayette.”

“You have to!”

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s a man stalking me.”

Gabriella’s hand clamped on the receiver. Over the past few years, she watched and worried as she’d seen her mother’s mental state deteriorating. There had been too many instances when Gabriella had hurried home to take care of some emergency or another—only to have her mother ask why she was there.

“I can’t leave right now,” she said. “I have to work.”

“I need you.”

The mom’s pleading tone almost undid her, but she managed to say, “Can you get Paula to help you out?”

The voice on the other end of the line turned petulant. “I don’t want Paula.”

“She’s your best friend. I’ll come home as soon as I can get away,” she answered, thinking that she’d have to spend the night in Lafayette, then rush back to New Orleans to start work again in the morning.

When her mother started crying, Gabriella’s heart squeezed painfully. “Mom, I’m sorry. Truly. I’ll be there in a few hours.”

“That will be too late.”

She looked up and saw Emile Gautreaux watching her. A short, plump man with thinning gray hair, he had been a darling of the New Orleans restaurant scene for more than thirty years. When arthritis and his increasing bulk had curtailed his ability to function efficiently, he had hired several surrogates to populate his kitchen. Gabriella was the senior pastry chef.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later,” she said into the phone.

Her mother’s high-pitched voice still rang over the line as she replaced the receiver in the cradle. Dropping her hand, she took a moment to compose herself before looking up at the man who treated his professional staff like plantation hands.

He was still eyeing her. “Something wrong, chère?” he asked in the deep bayou accent that his customers found so appealing.

“No. Everything is fine.”

“I hope there is not going to be a problem,” he replied with the edge in his voice that he only used with staff.

“I’ll handle it.”

“I hope so.” He gave a curt nod. When he strode over to the stove to taste the shrimp and andouille gumbo simmering in a large pot, she let out the breath she was holding.

She wanted to make her mark in the food world, and despite Emile’s slave driver attitude, he’d provided her with a wonderful chance to showcase her work. She’d received some glowing reviews in the local papers, on food blogs and even one of the airline magazines, but she’d started to wonder if she could have a life and work for Gautreaux at the same time.

She longed to tell him she had to take some personal time this afternoon, but it wouldn’t do her or Mom any good if she got fired and had to look for another job.

She finished the eclairs on automatic pilot, cataloguing her own shortcomings as she worked.

She’d never been the daughter her mother wanted, and Mom had never let her forget it. Which left her feeling more on edge than ever.

Janie Rivers glided over. Janie was also working as a pastry chef at Chez Emile—under Gabriella’s direction—and Gabriella’s intuition told her that the other woman was looking for an opportunity to move up in the food chain.

“Did you get a complaint about one of your desserts?”

“No,” Gabriella snapped. Then softened her voice. “A problem at home.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Yeah, I’ll bet, Gabriella thought, but there was no point in saying it aloud.

“What can I do to help?” Janie asked.

“I’ve finished the eclairs, the chocolate torte and the flourless chocolate cake. I’ve still got to do the lemon sponge, the cinnamon ice cream that goes with the torte and the peach crisp.”

“I can do the ice cream.”

Despite her previous thought about Janie’s career ambitions, Gabriella gave her a grateful smile. “I’ll owe you one.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. We all help each other out when we can.”

When Janie reached out to touch Gabriella’s shoulder, she automatically took a step back, and the other woman dropped her hand.

As long as she could remember, Gabriella hadn’t liked being touched. She couldn’t explain the aversion. She only knew that it usually made her nerves jangle.

“Got to get started on the lemon sponge.” Quickly Gabriella went to the storage bin where the restaurant kept the flour, then brought out lemons, eggs and sugar.

Ordering herself to focus on her work so she could finish up and get out of here, she began grating lemon peel.

But she couldn’t shake the worry that something was different at home this time. Something bad was going to happen, and she was going to be too late.

There was no way to explain the feeling. It might simply have come from guilt or from the abilities that she’d developed in her teens. It wasn’t anything that she could explain—or wanted to talk about, to be frank. But sometimes she caught a glimmer of the future.

Like when little Billy Poirier had wandered into the bayou, and she was sure he wasn’t going to be found alive. Or maybe that had been her fear—not her foreknowledge. Because there was no way to prove it either way.

By the time she packed up some of yesterday’s desserts for Mom and left Chez Emile, it was already late in the afternoon and rush-hour traffic on I-10 was brutal. As she sat in the car, gripping the steering wheel, her sense of anxiety grew.

Drivers weren’t supposed to talk on the phone without a headset, which she didn’t have. Nevertheless, she punched in her mom’s number and listened to the phone ring.

When she heard her mother’s voice, her heart leaped, but it was only the answering machine asking her to leave a message.

“Mom, I’m on my way. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Her stomach was in knots now. Three hours later, when she finally reached the turnoff to the plantation where she’d grown up, she breathed out a small sigh.

If you didn’t know much about the Boudreaux family, you might think they were well off.

Her mother still lived in the nineteenth-century mansion she’d inherited from her parents, but she’d abandoned the whole second floor to save on utilities, and she supplemented her income by renting out furnished cottages on the property. Still, when Gabriella had suggested selling off some of the acreage, her mother had refused.

Mom’s car was in the circular drive in front of the mansion, but another vehicle was pulled up, too.

As Gabriella cut the engine, her mother’s friend Paula Aucoin came rushing down the steps. The expression on her face was a confirmation of Gabriella’s worst fears.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Honey, I’m so sorry. There’s been an accident.”

Her throat clenched, but she managed to say, “It’s bad, right?”

“It looks like Marian fell down the steps. I’m sorry. She’s dead.”

Gabriella struggled to take that in. “But … but she never goes upstairs.”

“I know. That’s why it’s so strange. She was worried about something, and she called me. When I got here, she was sprawled at the bottom of the steps, unconscious.”

Gabriella gasped. “She called me. I … I couldn’t leave the restaurant. I …” Her voice trailed off as terrible guilt assaulted her. “She wanted me to come home.”

“It wouldn’t have done any good. I think she called me right after she talked to you, and I came straight over. I’m right here in town, but when I got here, she had already fallen.”

Gabriella nodded numbly. The explanation didn’t help. All she knew was that she should have dropped everything and come home.

“Where is she now?”

“The LeBlanc Funeral Home. She’d written me a letter about what she wanted to happen after she died.”

Gabriella swallowed hard, thinking that she should have been the one to get the letter. But Mom had relied on Paula more than her own daughter.

“Come in. Sit down and have a cup of coffee.”

She was torn. She should go to the funeral home, but she sensed that Paula wanted to talk to her, so she allowed the older woman to take her into the kitchen. It was at the back of the house, and the breakfast room looked out over weedy gardens and a slow-moving bayou.

She stood for a moment, breathing in the familiar scents. Fried bacon. Strong Cajun coffee. This was where her love of cooking had been born. First she’d helped with mixing batter and stirring soup. Then she’d started following recipes on her own. Her relationship with Mom might have been troubled, but the kitchen was one place where they had connected.

When Gabriella walked to the coffeemaker on the worn Formica counter, Paula waved her toward the table. “Sit down. I know you’ve had a bad shock.”

“So have you.”

“I’ve had some time to absorb it.” Paula got down mugs and poured two cups of the strong coffee that Mom must have made that morning.

“Your mother was so proud of you.”

Gabriella looked up in surprise. “She was?”

“Yes. She’d talk about your career all the time. About how the famous Emile Gautreaux relied on you.”

“She didn’t say that to me.”

“It was hard for her to … reach out to you.”

“Why?” Gabriella asked, curious to get Paula’s take on their relationship.

“When your father was sick, she wanted to spend as much time with him as she could. After he died, she felt like she’d lost her connection with you.”

Gabriella had been only three years old when her father had been diagnosed with stomach cancer, and her mom had thrown herself into nursing him. When he’d died a couple of years after that, Gabriella had felt as if her mother was a stranger, and they’d never been able to reach across the breach.

“She considered herself a failure for not being closer to you,” Paula said.

Gabriella raised her head in shock. “But I always thought that was my fault.”

“I guess Marian had the same feelings. Too bad the two of you didn’t communicate better.”

“I …”

“I’m not blaming you, child. It was on her as much as on you. Maybe more. The adult is the one who’s supposed to take the lead.”

Paula brought two mugs of coffee to the table, both with cream and sugar. When she sat down and stirred her coffee, Gabriella had the feeling there was more she was going to say.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A couple of months ago, your mom rented the Cypress Cottage to a man named Luke Buckley.”

“Yes, she mentioned that. She was glad of the extra income. He wasn’t any trouble, was he?”

“You mean complaining about stuff? I don’t think so. But I think she regretted having him on the property.”

“Why?”

“I think she was afraid of him.”

“Why?” she asked again.

“She said he was secretive. I tried to tell her that maybe he just wanted to keep to himself. He could have lost his job or his wife for all we knew. Who can say why a man moves into an isolated cottage in a new location?”

“Because he’s hiding from the law?” Gabriella asked, putting a different spin on the speculations.

“I don’t know, but I do know she kept going on about him. He was stony. Aloof. Abrupt. He was always in there working on the computer. And there were papers scattered all over the place. When she’d come in, he’d hide them.”

“Hide them?”

“Well, gather them up. And there was something about him that she just didn’t trust.”

“Did he have a lease?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she thought he was all right at the beginning. Or … you know … she was …”

Paula let the sentence trail off, and Gabriella was sure her mother’s friend was referring to her recent mental problems, although she wasn’t willing to come out and say it.

Gabriella glanced out the window toward the Cypress Cottage. “Should I be worried?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But you might want to watch out for him while you’re here. You know, keep the doors locked.”

“If he’s so much of a loner, I probably won’t run into him.”

“Maybe, but you’ll have to deal with him eventually. I mean, now he’s renting from you.”

Gabriella nodded, realizing that she’d inherited this property and would have to decide what to do with it.

“How long are you staying here?”

“Just a few days.”

“Your mom would want you to get back to your career.”

Gabriella made a soft sound. Her career. She’d made it the most important thing in her life. Until today.

If it wasn’t for her ambitions, she might have stayed home, but then what? Work as a short-order cook in Lafayette? That wasn’t why she’d gone to the Culinary Institute of America in New York state, then come back to Louisiana to look for a job in the best restaurants in New Orleans. Creating wonderful food gave her a satisfaction nothing else did. Or it had.

“I’d better get to the funeral home,” she murmured.

“Your mom didn’t want to be a burden to you, so she had everything spelled out—before …” Again Paula stopped.

“But I’m going over there anyway.” Gabriella stood and carried her coffee mug to the sink. “Thank you for being here.”

“Just tell me if you need anything.”

“Thanks. I will.”

BEING CAREFUL NOT TO STEP ON anything that would make a crunching noise, the man watching from the shadows of the trees saw Gabriella Boudreaux hurry back to her car. Probably going to the funeral home.

He waited another minute for the other woman to get into her vehicle. When they had both driven away, he made a satisfied sound.

With the two of them gone, he could finally have a smoke. He was starving for one. After quickly using his pocket lighter, he took a deep drag on the fag, grateful for the nicotine rush. He’d broken the habit out of necessity in prison. As soon as he’d gotten out, he’d started again.

While he smoked, he reviewed the day’s events. The old lady had darted upstairs, and he’d followed, knowing that if he pushed her down, the daughter would come running home.

He was an expert at digging into people’s backgrounds, and he knew that she was one of the children from the Solomon Clinic in Houma.

It had been set up to help infertile couples conceive children, but that was only a cover for something else. The guy who’d hired him had wanted to know what had happened there. Not the covert purpose, the unintended consequences.

The doctor had kept records of his activities, of course, but those had been destroyed in a fire long ago.

A few people in Houma had talked to him about the clinic. Which was how he’d gotten Marian Boudreaux’s name.

She’d been a good place to start, but his real objectives were the children, like Gabriella. She was the one he really wanted, out here in the country, where there was more privacy and little chance of her screams being heard.




Chapter Two


Gabriella was already wiped out by the time she met with Burt LeBlanc from the funeral home.

He’d gone to high school with her, although they hadn’t known each other well. She hadn’t been really close to anyone, except one girl named Julie Monroe. It was as if she and Julie were on the same wavelength, although she wasn’t sure what that meant exactly. They’d spent time together, until Julie had moved away in their sophomore year, leaving Gabriella feeling more alone than ever. Because she’d never been great at making friends, it had been easier to keep to herself than to try and work her way into any of the established groups.

Burt LeBlanc, who’d inherited the business from his dad, greeted her as if they’d been buddies.

She shook his hand, getting through the physical contact the same way she was getting through everything else.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said in the deep, reassuring voice that he must have cultivated.

“Yes—thanks.”

“Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured toward one of the padded leather chairs across from his broad desk. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

“No, thanks,” she answered as she lowered herself into one of the chairs.

“I read about your pastry chef career in that airline magazine.”

She blinked. “You did?”

“Yes. Very impressive. People in town were talking about it.”

Again, she was surprised that anybody in Lafayette would take notice of her.

After relaxing her with a little more small talk, Burt addressed the arrangements that her mom had spelled out—in an envelope full of instructions that she’d given him several years earlier.

“Your mom wished to be cremated, like your dad,” he said. “There’s a place waiting for her in the columbarium, next to him.”

The columbarium was a building with rows of little vaults along the walls. Putting Mom next to Dad made sense, particularly because it appeared that the space was already bought and paid for.

“All right.”

Burt consulted some papers on his desk. “And, of course, there’s to be no viewing and no funeral.”

Gabriella stared at him as she struggled to take that in. “What?”

He tapped one of the papers. “She didn’t tell you that she specified a memorial service—six weeks after her death?”

“No. Did she say why?”

“She wanted the shock of her death over, and …” He paused for a moment. “And she felt it would be less expensive. The lead time would give you a chance to prepare some of the food yourself if you wanted to. She thought you could make some of those pecan pies she loved.”

“Uh, yes.”

Lord, Mom had certainly gotten into micromanaging the event.

Gabriella left the funeral home feeling light-headed. She’d braced to deal with her mother’s friends. Now she had plenty of time to get ready for the service. And to plan what she wanted to say.

Her mother always had been detail oriented. She must have obsessed over all this before she started losing her grip. Or had she already felt her mental state deteriorating, and she’d hurried to write down these instructions while she could still think clearly?

Gabriella made a small sound as she realized the implications of Mom’s carefully considered list with its wealth of details. Her mother had been forced to deal with a daughter who didn’t always follow the parental script. In death, she had the upper hand—at last.

BY THE TIME GABRIELLA returned to the plantation house, it was after sunset. The gathering darkness contributed to her feeling of being utterly alone. Neither Mom nor Dad had brothers or sisters. Which meant no aunts and uncles or cousins. It had been a small family, and it would die with her because she wasn’t going to get married and have children.

Did that make her feel sad? Or relieved? She was too off balance to know.

Glad that she had left some lights on in the house, she hurried up the steps to the front door. But walking into the hall was like a sudden shock to her already frazzled nerves.

When she’d come through here with Paula, she’d been focused on her mom’s friend. This time she was alone, and when she stood looking up the steps, an inexplicable feeling of terror swept over her, making her reach out and brace her hand against the wall as she struggled to catch her breath—and scrambled to make sense of what she was feeling.

Her mother had fallen here. The impact of Mom’s death was hitting her again, which was why her temples were suddenly pounding. However, she knew deep down that her attack of nerves wasn’t just from the accident.

Paula had said her mom had climbed the steps and fallen. But why had she gone up? To get something? Or to run away from someone? Or both?

Gabriella couldn’t shove away the notion that another person had been here and something evil had happened in this hallway.

Her speculations immediately went to the tenant—Luke Buckley. Mom had been afraid of him. What if he’d come over here and attacked her?

But why?

Maybe he didn’t have the rent money. They’d gotten into an argument, and he’d killed her …

“Stop it,” she muttered to herself. “You’re just letting your speculations run wild because this is the worst day of your life.”

She clenched her fists, sure that Mom’s sudden death and her own feelings of guilt were making her jump at shadows.

What did she really believe? Nothing she could prove. Not without some evidence. If she went upstairs, would she find anything suspicious? Or was there something incriminating in Cypress Cottage?

She gritted her teeth as she imagined herself spying on Luke Buckley. What if one of Mom’s friends caught her doing it? People in Lafayette already thought she was a little off. Which was one of the reasons she’d known she didn’t want to stay in town once she had graduated from high school.

She’d fled her childhood reputation for being weird by going across the country to culinary school then moving to New Orleans, and she didn’t want it back.

But nobody was here to observe her now. Could she start with some kind of psychic impression of what had really happened in the hall—then back it up with evidence? She focused her attention on the stairs, trying to bring the past few hours into focus. Mom had been here. She’d fallen to her death, but had she been alone?

Gabriella put everything she had into trying to bring back the scene. Even as she focused on her mother in the hall—with someone, she silently wondered if she was sending herself on a fool’s errand. No matter how much you wanted to, you couldn’t see the past. Could you?

She’d never tried anything like that before, but she sensed that the scene was hovering almost within her grasp. Shadowy figures flickered at the edge of her vision. Her mom and a man?

She closed her eyes, straining to bring the vision into focus. Yes, she saw her mom, a look of fear on her face as she rushed up the stairs, trying to get away from the stalker. Gabriella saw him only from the back. Or was she making it all up?

Probably.

Struggling with frustration, she tried to see his image from a different angle. Maybe she could have done it, but a massive bolt of lightning struck nearby, so bright that she saw it through her closed eyelids.

It was followed by a clap of thunder that shook the house.

As the thunder rumbled, the lights flickered out, plunging Gabriella into inky, disorienting blackness.

She pressed her back against the wall, suddenly alarmed by the darkness, just like when she’d been little and Mom had insisted on turning out the lights at bedtime. At night, she’d always imagined ghosts from the past coming back to claim this house. Even the toys on her shelves took on sinister shapes, and the closet door had to be closed before she could even think about sleep.

In adulthood, she’d talked herself out of those juvenile fears. But in her fragile emotional state, the sum of her childhood terrors came rushing back to her as she stood in the darkened hallway.

“Stop being ridiculous,” she ordered herself. “The lights are just out. There’s no bogeyman lurking around the corner.”

But she couldn’t deny why she’d come here in the first place. Mom had called her in a panic, talking about a stalker, and there was a man living right on the plantation property who could be up to no good.

With her heart pounding, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark. The moon was up, and a small amount of light came through the windows on either side of the door.

When she could see well enough, she crossed the hall and turned the lock on the door. Then she started for the kitchen to get the flashlight that Mom kept in the utility drawer.

Was there anything she could use for a weapon?

They’d never kept a gun in the house, but maybe she should have something with her, like a hammer.

SHE MADE IT TO THE KITCHEN as fast as she could in the dark and opened the utility drawer. The flashlight was there, but when she tried to click it on, the batteries were almost dead. Only a feeble light came from the bulb, and she clenched her fist on the shaft, then shut it off again. All it would do would tell someone where she was, not light her way.

Now what?

Go up to her old room? Or was it better to get out of this house, where she already felt spooked?

Luke Buckley was living in Cypress Cottage. But there were two others on the grounds. Water Iris was the closest. She’d feel more secure spending the night over there than here.

Wishing she could see what she was doing, she fumbled through another drawer and found the wad of spare keys that Mom kept. In the dark, she couldn’t even be sure they were the right ones, but that was the best she could do at the moment.

After slipping the set into her purse, she headed for the back door. On the porch, she looked toward the cottages, barely making out their shapes in the darkness. Water Iris was on the extreme right. Cypress was on the left. And Crepe Myrtle was between them. That would put some space between her and Buckley.

All were blacked out, and she couldn’t even discern the shape of a car parked in front of Cypress. Maybe Luke Buckley was away. Or sitting in the dark plotting murder? He’d taken care of the mother, and now he would finish off the daughter.

Acknowledging that her fears were making it difficult to think rationally, she descended the steps, then headed across the yard to the cottage. It hadn’t started raining yet, but the wind was blowing the trees, sending leaves flying across the lawn.

In Gabriella’s long ago memories, the grass had been well tended by a gardening company that did yard work in town. Mom had given up that service after Dad had died. For a few years, she’d tried to keep up the grounds around the house herself. But that had gone by the wayside, too, and now the grass was choked by weeds and needed mowing. She stumbled several times into what had formerly been flower beds, then finally made it to the cottages. But as she approached Water Iris, she had the sensation that someone was stalking her—like they’d been stalking Mom.

She started running, but before she’d gotten more than a few yards, a figure sprang out of the darkness at the side of Crepe Myrtle, grabbing her and pulling her to the ground.

A scream rose in her throat. Before it reached her lips, it choked off as large hands grabbed her throat. A man’s hands.

At his touch, a confusing welter of impressions and sensations assaulted her.




Chapter Three


In a blinding instant, Luke Buckley knew he had made a terrible mistake. In the darkness, he’d seen a shadowy figure sneaking across the lawn and been sure it was a Mafia hitman sent to murder him.

Instead, it was Gabriella Boudreaux, who had as much right to be here as he did.

But he hadn’t known who she was until he’d pulled her to the ground. He loosened his hands from her neck, intending to let her go and apologize.

Except that he couldn’t take his hands off her. And he couldn’t put any coherent words together. Not yet. Because in the moment of grabbing on to her, something strange happened. Her mind had opened to him in a way that knocked the breath from his lungs and made his heart start to pound.

At least he was able to open his fingers and make the hands that had gripped her neck move to her shoulders.

“Sorry,” he managed to whisper. Or had he even spoken the apology aloud?

His head swam as her memories leaped into his mind.

He saw her as a little girl being scolded for making a mess in the kitchen by a younger version of the woman who had rented him the Cypress Cottage. He saw her in high school squirming away when a boy crowded her into her open locker and tried to corner her there. Wandering alone into the bayou and sitting on a fallen log to get away from a town where she had never felt comfortable. Then later, more satisfied with her life, taking culinary courses and icing a chocolate cake.

Overlaying it all were the most recent, sharpest memory and the emotions swirling around it. Her coming home to discover that her mother was dead.

He cursed under his breath, feeling her pain and also her confusion at what was happening between them now.

As her memories assaulted him, his own memories were streaming into her mind. Especially one particularly vivid scene.

The reason why he was on the run.

Three months ago, he’d been at his computer, working on the book that had gotten him into so much trouble.

He’d heard a noise and turned to see a man with a gun standing in the doorway of his little office.

“You’re finished with that writing project,” the man growled. “Get up.”

Luke got up slowly, reaching under his desk for the fire extinguisher he kept there. As he straightened, he pulled the trigger, spraying the man in the face. The guy choked and clawed at his eyes. Luke lunged forward and clunked the heavy canister down on the man’s skull.

When the assailant went still, Luke reached for the phone cord and used it to tie the man’s hands behind his back. Then he wound packing tape around his ankles and reinforced the phone cord with more tape.

By the time the guy’s eyes blinked open, Luke was holding the gun.

“Rudy Maglioni sent you?” he growled.

The assailant sneered. “Like I’m going to tell you.”

“What happens when you have to go back to him and explain that you failed? Or will you have to skip town?”

The only answer was a string of curses.

Luke grabbed the man’s hair, yanking his head up and using more masking tape to gag him. His heart was pounding, but he began methodically gathering up the papers on his desk.

He unplugged his laptop, took an already packed duffel bag from the closet and walked out of the room, forcing himself not to run when he wanted to dash to his car.

His attention was brought back to the present as he heard Gabriella gasp.

With the memories—his and hers—came physical sensations that walked a line between pain and pleasure. He scrambled to explain it to himself and could come up with nothing beyond the violence of the encounter.

“Gabriella.”

In the darkness, he couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t need sight to know what she looked like. Dark-blond hair cut short. Light eyes. A delicate nose. Tempting lips that drew him with an intensity he had never felt before—much less imagined. He lowered his head, and as his mouth touched hers, he was caught by a blaze of need that radiated to every cell of his body.

They had just met. Met? Not exactly. In his haste to protect himself from another mob attack, he had struck first without knowing who she was.

Yet they’d gone from strangers to intimates in seconds. Without understanding why it had happened, he wanted her. Right here. Right now. Out in the open.

And she wanted him. He knew it by the way her lips moved over his and by the desire reverberating through her mind. Those signals were as clear to him as their shared memories.

He gathered her close, rocking on the weedy grass, frustrated by the layers of clothing separating them. He wanted her naked. In a bed. This would have to do.

Those heated thoughts and the pain pounding through his brain almost wiped out his ability to think, but not quite. Somewhere in his consciousness, he understood that what they were doing was dangerous. That knowledge was as sharp and insistent as the desire binding them together. And the pain in his head.

And she understood, too. He felt her wrench her mouth away, felt her push at his shoulder to free herself.

“No,” she gasped. “We can’t.”

Strange as it sounded, in that frantic moment, he knew he had come close to having his brain explode.

Oh, come on!

Even as he dismissed that notion, he rolled away from her, panting, his head spinning. Still, he was as aware of her as he was of himself. He heard her breath coming fast and sharp. Felt the beating of her heart, although that should be impossible.

He couldn’t label what had happened. Not the psychic … exchange of information. Or the swell of desire. Or the conviction that they skated on the edge of disaster.

Not yet. Maybe never. He was too shaken by the whole encounter. And the worst part was that he knew what she always struggled to conceal—how alone she felt. And she knew the same thing about him.

Both of them had learned to bury that innermost truth but not when someone had invaded your mind.

Invasion? Was that the right word? What the hell had happened?

She broke into his thoughts, speaking in a shaky voice.

“Luke Buckley,” she said. They were meeting for the first time, but she knew his name. “The man who rented Cypress Cottage.”

“Yes,” he answered, knowing her mom could have told her that much. But that didn’t account for her absolute conviction that it was him.

And, unfortunately, she zeroed in on a fact that he needed to keep hidden. “That’s not your real name. You’re …”

“Don’t say it.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

He clenched his teeth. The whole situation was so damned weird that he wanted to shout a string of curses, if that wouldn’t have made things worse.

This wasn’t the way he would have wanted to meet anyone. Particularly not this woman who—what? Who had connected with him in ways that he still could hardly believe.

He heard himself say, “We have to talk.”

He was sure she wanted to refuse, for a whole host of reasons, starting with the way he’d thrown her to the ground, but she answered with a small sound that signaled acquiescence.

The wind had picked up, and a few fat drops of rain began to fall.

“We’d better get inside before it starts to pour. Come to my cottage.”

She dragged in a breath. “You’ve got to be kidding. You just attacked me on my own property.”

“And you know why,” he said again.

He understood she was still making up her mind as more drops plopped down.

“You left the plantation house,” he said. “Because you were afraid to be there alone in the dark.”

She didn’t bother denying it or asking how he knew. It was the same way she knew that he’d changed his name when he fled to Lafayette, Louisiana.

“I was going to Water Iris, not to you,” she answered in a strained voice.

“You might as well come to Cypress. I’ve got some battery lights.”

She looked toward his cottage. “They’re not on.”

“They can be.”

Luke waited while Gabriella made up her mind. He knew she had to be going over the scene between them. His throwing her to the ground and fastening his hands around her neck. The opening of their minds to a level of intimacy that should have been impossible. The pressure building inside each of their heads. And the sexual need that had overwhelmed them.

That might turn out to be the final factor that sent her running from him. But perhaps she was pretending it hadn’t happened because she finally said, “All right.”

Wordlessly, he started for Cypress, and she followed a few paces behind him.

FROM THE SHADOWS, George Camden watched and listened, his hands clenched as he cursed the way his excellent plans had just gotten screwed up.

When he’d heard the thunder, he’d thought the storm would give him some cover when he broke into the mansion again so he could grab Gabriella. Then he’d watched her come out of the house and thought, what luck.

He’d been on his way toward her when Luke Buckley had tackled her. There was something strange about him, although George hadn’t figured it out yet. But it looked as if the guy had started to assault her, then changed his mind. Yeah, assault had turned into a pretty heated scene.

He laughed. That was an interesting development.

Too bad the guy had stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong.

But why?

He’d heard them talking. It had been a strange conversation, as if George was only hearing part of it. Which could have been true from the way the wind was howling. Maybe it had carried away words spoken softly, but he had caught that Luke Buckley wasn’t his real name. Interesting.

Did they know each other or not? Part of the time it had sounded as if they did—then not so much.

Or maybe the mom had given the daughter an earful about the renter. Did Mrs. Boudreaux know that the guy was using an alias? Or just the daughter?

As drops of rain hit his head, George narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t signed up for this job to be wet and miserable. However, Gabriella had to come out of the guy’s cottage some time, and when she did, he wanted to be ready.

Lips set in a grim line, he moved cautiously across the lawn, finding a spot under a tree that gave him a little shelter—and where he could still watch the cottage door.

Of course, you weren’t supposed to stand under a tree in a lightning storm, but he’d take a chance on that.

As he huddled in the cold, he played the scene again in his mind. Why had Buckley come out in the first place? Did he suspect someone else was on the property? Or was he just jumpy about something to do with his alias?

One thing was sure: renting a cottage on the plantation had put Luke Buckley in the wrong place at the wrong time—as far as George was concerned. Too bad for him.

LUKE AND GABRIELLA HURRIED onto the porch as the storm finally broke, sending rain pouring down.

“Close call,” he muttered as he opened the door.

When she hung back, he stepped quickly inside and turned on two of the battery-powered lamps that he’d bought after Mrs. Boudreaux had told him the electricity often went out in the middle of a storm.

Gabriella came in after him. As she looked around at the mess he’d made of the living room, he suddenly wished that he hadn’t been so quick to offer the lamps. However, if he hadn’t, she might not have come inside.

He knew she was staring at the epitome of a junked-up bachelor pad. He’d been working, and he’d left papers all over the desk. Books and other research materials were stacked on the coffee and end tables. Sitting on top of them were several plates and glasses that he hadn’t carried to the kitchen area, which was at the side of the room.

Of course, he hadn’t expected company, but still, he should have kept the place a little neater. What if his landlady dropped by?

Well, that wasn’t going to happen, he reminded himself.

He quickly picked up the glasses and plates and ferried them to the sink. Probably he should have hired a maid. But then he’d have to put his papers away. They were confidential, and dangerous, come to that.

He swept them into a pile now, putting them into a desk drawer.

He didn’t want Gabriella poking around his research, for her sake as well as his. The less she knew about the New Jersey mob, the better.

Of course, she’d been poking around in his mind, he reminded himself. Which meant she already knew too much.

Turning, he said, “I’m sorry about your mother.”

“Thank you. Or whatever you’re supposed to say.”

“That works. Why don’t you sit down,” he offered, thinking how lame that sounded.

Without comment, she took one of the easy chairs facing the sofa.

He leaned his hips against the kitchen counter, trying to look as if he wasn’t studying her, seeing in person what he’d only seen in his mind. Her short blond hair framed a narrow face, and her large, expressive eyes were either green or blue. She was staring back, taking his measure with as much interest. He knew his dark hair was too long and that he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Probably he looked like a criminal. Which might be what she was already thinking.

To break the silence, he asked, “Can I get you something? A beer? I’ve got some from the local brewery.”

She pursed her lips. “Okay. Maybe I could use one.”

“Yeah, I guess you had a rough day.”

“Uh-huh.”

It was a strange conversation, two people who should know nothing about each other. But not really. Not when they’d suddenly gotten inside each other’s heads.

Although he wanted to ask, that mind to mind thing ever happen to you before? he hadn’t worked up the nerve yet.

He pulled out two bottles out of the refrigerator and twisted off the caps.

“Do you want a glass?”

“No, this is fine.”

He moved back to the living area and set one of the bottles on the coffee table, then lowered himself to the other easy chair.

Outside the rain pounded down, giving him a feeling of two people meeting at the end of the world, like in the science fiction stories he’d read as a kid. Science fiction had appealed to him, maybe because he’d been disappointed with reality.

They each took a sip of beer.

Although he’d turned on a couple of battery lights, he thought the conversation might go better in semidarkness.

She ran her finger around the outside of the beer bottle before breaking the silence. “What happened out there?”

He winced. “I thought you were sneaking up on me.”

“Lucky you didn’t shoot me.”

“Yeah.”

“That was a gun I felt in your waistband.”

“Yeah,” he said again, pulling it out and setting it on the table between them.

She stared down at it and took another sip of beer before saying, “I didn’t mean—why did you tackle me. I meant—what happened when we touched?”

She’d been brave enough to ask the question. All he could say was, “We read each other’s thoughts and memories.”

“Which should be impossible.” She added, “So the next question is—how did it happen?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.” The silence stretched again before he asked, “Do you have some psychic ability?”

She hesitated. “Not that you could … document.”

“Which means what?”

She raised one shoulder. “It means, there were times when I got a glimpse of the future.”

“Like what?”

“My mom called this afternoon. I knew it was going to be her, and I sensed that something bad …” Her voice trailed off, and she started again, “Something bad was going to happen. I didn’t know she was going to … die.” Her voice cracked, and he could see she was struggling not to cry.

He wanted to cross the room and put his arms around her, pull her close and stroke her back, her hair. But he stayed where he was.

When it looked as if she’d regained control, he said, “And you feel guilty about not dropping everything and coming here.”

“Yes.”

“But you were too far away to change what happened.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

He nodded.

“What about you?” she asked. “I mean have you had psychic experiences?”

He tried to answer as honestly as he could. “I’m an investigative journalist.”

“Working on a book that will blow Rudy Maglioni’s New Jersey mob operation wide open.”

“Yeah. But let’s not get sidetracked,” he said in a tight voice.

“Okay.”

“I always thought that I had better than average instincts for stories. Good instincts for interviews. I’ve got a pretty good idea when someone’s lying to me. I know when I can push them to say more than they intended. I know when letting the silence stretch will make them jump to fill the vacuum.”

“Useful.”

“But nothing like … that thing outside has ever happened to me.”

“So what was different tonight?” she pressed.

“We’re both on edge. I mean, your mother just died, and I …”

“You’re hiding out from the … wiseguys. You’re willing to risk your life to finish the book.”

“Like I said, let’s drop it,” he snapped. “And that doesn’t explain the weird stuff.”

“I guess not.”

They stared at each other.

“I should leave,” she said.

“I wouldn’t advise it. You said you sometimes have an inkling of the future. What if you didn’t want to stay in the house because of … the stalker.”

“What stalker?”

“Come on. That’s what your mom called about.”

She sighed. “Inconvenient that you picked that up from my mind.”

“Like your knowing too much about my damn book. Inconvenient.”

Again, they lapsed into a tense silence.

He was used to letting the other person do the talking, but he ventured, “We picked up all that stuff from each other … when we touched.”

“Yes.”

He shifted in the chair. “We could try it again. See what happens.”

Her posture became more guarded. “There was more than just an exchange of information,” she said in a hard voice. “You wanted … me.”

“It wasn’t exactly one-sided. You wanted me, too.”

She kept her gaze fixed on him as she asked in a hard voice, “Did you do something to me?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Use some kind of voodoo hex?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Okay, maybe not voodoo. What about some kind of hypnosis technique you learned from your vast research?”

He spread his hands. “I don’t have any secret techniques.”

“I’m just trying to figure it out.”

“We both are. And you must know I was as confounded as you by what happened.” He paused a beat before asking, “Did it give you a headache?”

She stared back at him. “Yes. Did it do that to you, too?”

“Yes.”

He wanted to press her for information. No, he wanted to touch her again, badly. And it was almost impossible not to act on the impulse. He pictured himself leaping out of the chair, crossing the room and pulling her into his arms. To get information?

Perhaps, but the sexual component was as strong as the need to explore the psychic link. He had touched her, kissed her, and felt an instant craving like nothing else he had ever experienced. It was as if the two of them had been born to connect.

Well, he might think that, but he didn’t dare say it because he didn’t want to send her running out into the night.

To cool his ardor, he asked, “Did you have trouble making friends with people?”

By the look on her face, he knew the directness of the question had caught her by surprise.

She swallowed. “You know I did. You did, too. We found that out when we touched.”

No use denying it. Most people formed easy relationships. He couldn’t do it because it always seemed that something was missing. Which was probably why he’d chosen his profession. If he couldn’t get close to people on a personal level, he could know more about them than anybody else. Sometimes he dug up secrets that the world needed to know. Or was that putting it in terms that were too grandiose?

“If we have trouble making friends, then what happened tonight?” he challenged.

“I don’t know, but we’re not friends.”

“What are we?”

She moistened her lips, and he had to wrench his gaze away from her mouth. It was more difficult than ever not to cross the room and wrap his arms around her. Something would happen when he did.

“Don’t.”

“You’re reading my mind?”

“Your expression.” She lifted one shoulder as she stared at him.

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want.”

“Isn’t that a standard male line?”

“Yeah, but in this case it’s true. You could make sure I’m telling the truth by touching me.”

“No, thanks.”

When she stood up abruptly, he knew he had pushed the suggestion too hard.

“Stay here.” The command came out more sharply than he’d intended.

“Why?”

“Someone’s out there,” he said in a harsh voice.

“Back to the stalker?”

“Yeah. You’d better sleep here.”

“So you can …”

“Protect you.”

He held his breath while she considered the advice. If she said no, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

Another lie. He would grab her arm to stop her. And then what? Give her another peek into his private fears and longings?

“You were here most of the time. Did you see anyone sneaking around?”

“I was inside most of the time—busy working.”

“But you didn’t see anybody,” she insisted.

“No, but in the absence of proof, I think you have to act cautiously.”

“Like you did when you started writing about Rudy Maglioni?”

“Somebody has to expose him.”

“Why you?”

“Because I’m willing to take the chance.” He could have added that nobody besides his editor would miss him if the mob caught up with him. Changing the subject, he said, “You can have my bed.”

“No, thanks.” She glanced toward the couch. “I’ll stay out here.”

“It’s not all that comfortable.”

“I’ll manage,” she said with an edge in her voice, and he warned himself not to press his luck. She was a woman with a strong will, and he couldn’t force her decision. It had to come from her.

“I’ll get you a blanket.” He hurried into the bedroom and glanced at the bed he hadn’t made in days. Well, maybe her coming in here wasn’t such a good idea.

After pulling the spare blanket from the top of the closet, he returned to the living room. He laid it on the end of the couch and stepped back. He wanted to say that they couldn’t keep from touching each other forever. Sooner or later it was going to happen again.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” he asked.

“Yes. Thanks. And …” She paused again. “Thanks for watching out for me.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” he said stiffly, then added, “You can have the bathroom first.”

“Thanks.”

“Your mom put an extra toothbrush in there.”

“Right. She liked to keep the cottages stocked with conveniences.”

“Yes. I appreciated the food in the cabinets.”

They were getting into inane conversation territory again because they still had no idea how to deal with each other.

Before he said any other dumb lines—or did anything else he regretted—he made sure the front door was locked and bolted, then picked up a lamp and entered into the bedroom.




Chapter Four


Outside in the darkness, George Camden gritted his teeth. Abandoning the protection of the tree, he’d crossed the weedy lawn and gotten as close as he could to the window. He’d been able to see them, but he hadn’t heard a lot of what they were saying because of the damned rain.

After a half hour out there, he was wet and cold, and he needed a smoke. Bad.

He’d been all set to get his hands on Gabriella Boudreaux tonight. Apparently that wasn’t going to happen. It looked as if she was spending the night in the cottage. But not in Buckley’s bed, for some reason.

So why was she there if they weren’t going to do anything fun?

Maybe because her mom had died today. However, if Buckley was smart, he could have comforted her and then offered more than back patting. Despite how he’d acted outside, Buckley must be too honorable for that.

George’s mind circled back to the earlier question. Why was she staying there? Did Buckley think he was protecting her?

If he was, that meant they were worried about someone snooping around. Or worried about someone causing the mom’s death. Or maybe she was just upset about staying alone after coming home and finding her mother had kicked the bucket.

Yeah, that made sense.

The phone in his pocket vibrated, and he jumped, then cursed under his breath.

The only guy who had this number was the Badger, the one who’d hired him to snoop around Houma and find out about the clinic.

The phone kept vibrating as he stepped far enough away from the cottage to avoid being heard.

“Yeah?” he said as he flipped it open.

“You haven’t reported in,” the curt voice on the other end of the line said.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“I got a lead on one of the women who was treated at the fertility clinic. I came down to Lafayette to … question her.”

“And?”

He waited a beat before admitting, “She’s dead.”

The curse on the other end of the line had him holding the phone away from his ear.

“I haven’t heard about any murders in the news.”

“Because it wasn’t murder. She fell down the stairs,” he said, stretching the facts. “An old lady tripping and falling isn’t news.”

Again, he waited through a string of curses.

“But she led me to her daughter,” he said, putting the best spin he could on the past few hours.

“What’s the daughter’s name?”

“Gabriella Boudreaux.”

“And you’re going to pick her up?”

“She’s with a guy.”

“Who?”

“Someone named Luke Buckley. He rented a cottage on her mom’s property.”

“I’m paying you good money to get results.”

“I will.”

“If the Luke Buckley guy interferes, kill him.”

Even though he’d already thought of that, he snapped, “So now you’re saying you want the police investigating a murder?”

“Make sure it looks like an accident.”

“If I can.”

“You’d better.”

The line went dead, leaving George wondering what would happen to him if he didn’t fulfill this assignment. Would he be scheduled for an accident? Or would he just disappear?

IN THE BEDROOM, Luke put out the light and looked out the window. He couldn’t see much in the darkness, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was out there in the night. Someone who shouldn’t be on the property.

He was torn between slipping out the back door to investigate and staying inside. Either course made sense.

But he had told Gabriella he’d protect her, and if he went outside, someone else could come in.

Which made the decision for him.

He straightened the covers, then stood by the bed, listening to the sound of running water in the bathroom and then the toilet flushing. He’d been alone for a long time, and it was strange to have someone else in the house.

Finally, Gabriella settled down, and he pictured her lying on the couch. Probably she hadn’t taken her clothes off. He walked to the bedroom door and slipped out without looking in the direction of the couch. After making a quick trip to the bathroom, he returned to his room, laid down on his bed and tried to get comfortable, although he suspected that he wouldn’t get much sleep.

His mind was still processing everything that had happened since he’d thrown Gabriella to the ground.

He’d thought that maybe one of the wiseguys from New Jersey had found him. And he still didn’t know if he was in the clear. What if he had brought trouble to Gabriella just by choosing this plantation as a hideout?

And why had he come here, exactly?

He’d had the whole United States to choose from. Hell, the whole world. But when he left New Jersey, he headed south-west—and ended up in Lafayette. It had felt right to be here. Like the feeling when he decided to go after Rudy Maglioni.

He’d known the guy was dangerous, yet once he’d read about the mobster ordering the murder of a whole family because the father was in the witness protection program, Luke hadn’t been able to walk away from his investigation.

Did being drawn to the right story mean he had some of the same psychic power as Gabriella? Maybe not the ability to see the future, but the ability to set himself on the right course, whatever that meant.

Or was he making stuff up, giving himself reasons to think he was like her in some way?

After stopping in Lafayette, he’d looked at the bulletin board in a local real estate office and seen that the Boudreaux plantation had furnished cottages for rent. There were other places in town he could have selected. Some of them were cheaper, but he hadn’t looked at the others. Because, again, as soon as he’d read the listing, this was the one that seemed right. More than right. He’d felt as if he was on the brink of a discovery that had nothing to do with hiding out.

After weeks in the plantation rental house, he’d thought that he’d made up the notion about finding his destiny here— until tonight, when he’d touched Gabriella. And his world had turned upside down.

Another line of thinking reemerged. If he’d brought trouble to the plantation, he’d have to leave, although the thought of clearing out made his chest tighten. He couldn’t do it. Not until he and Gabriella had figured out why they’d gotten into each other’s minds when they’d touched.

GABRIELLA HADN’T EXPECTED to sleep. But the emotional upheaval of the day finally exhausted her. When she woke just before dawn, she lay on the couch staring at the gray light outside the window and thinking about why she was here instead of at the main house. If she stayed on the couch, Luke would come out of the bedroom, and she’d have to confront him. That would be a hell of a morning after, especially because they hadn’t done anything more than kiss.

They’d both wanted to go further. She couldn’t lie about that. In some mysterious way, they’d exchanged memories. Underlying that was the strongest sexual pull she’d ever felt, coupled with a headache that was worse than anything she could remember.

Usually, she didn’t even like being touched. When she’d made love with guys, she’d gotten drunk first to blunt the edge of her own reluctance. This morning when she thought about the sexual part with Luke, her body reacted. Which was reason enough to get out of here before the man in the bedroom woke up.

She hardly knew him. And she certainly didn’t like being at the mercy of sexual feelings she couldn’t explain.

Really, she should go back to New Orleans. Her mother’s refusal to have a proper funeral had given her that option, but there was something she had to do before she left.

Mom had fallen down the stairs. There had to be a reason why she’d been up there, and Gabriella wanted to know what it was.

And what about Luke Buckley? Did he represent something important to her, something she was trying to ignore?

Because she was afraid to explore it?

She clenched her teeth. She’d always longed for intimacy with someone. Now, here it was for the taking, and she was ready to walk away. Because she was a coward?

No, because she’d set herself on a life course, and she couldn’t imagine simply abandoning her plans on a whim.

That was probably the wrong word, but she wasn’t going to quibble about it now.

Quietly she picked up her shoes and tiptoed toward the door. On the porch, she stood in the chilly morning air, staring at the space between Cypress and the main house.

In the soft morning light, it looked just as it always did these days—in need of TLC. But she could imagine how it would look if she had the money to restore it’s former grandeur.

For a moment, she let a little fantasy run through her mind. She could tell Emile to go to hell. She could take a loan on the house, come back here and fix the place up, then start a restaurant that would be the showplace of Lafayette. She was working as a pastry chef now, but she had the skills to do the rest of it. And the vision. It would be fun to go around to auctions and flea markets buying furnishings. Fun to make the gardens here look beautiful again. And fun to grow her own herbs and vegetables for the restaurant.

But she knew how much work the whole project would take. Really it would be better to have a partner who could handle the business end of it. And who would that be—because she didn’t have any friends good enough to trust as a partner.

The image of Luke Buckley leaped into her mind. She saw again his dark hair, a little too long. His strong jaw. His intense dark eyes.

She made a dismissive sound. Luke Buckley? She had to be kidding. She barely knew the man. And a few minutes ago she’d been talking herself into leaving the plantation before he woke up.

But she did know he had integrity. The mob had tried to intimidate him into dropping his book project, and he’d gone into hiding so he could finish writing before they killed him.

And once it was published, he was thinking they couldn’t touch him because if they did, the whole world would know who had done it.

Which brought her back to the restaurant fantasy. He was a gambler, the perfect …

“Stop,” she ordered herself. You are not going into business or anywhere else with Luke Buckley.

Quickly, she slipped on her shoes, then hurried across the lawn to the plantation house. Her keys were still in her pocket, and she paused to unlock the door, reassured to find that it was still secured. She locked it again behind her, then walked around turning off the lights that had been on when the power had gone off. Finally, she went back to the front hall and started up the stairs.

GEORGE CAMDEN WATCH ED from the shadows of the trees as Gabriella Boudreaux crossed the scraggly lawn, then climbed the stairs and walked into the plantation house.

He’d gotten a little sleep in his car, then come back to check the cottage. Gabriella had been in the cottage. Now she was alone and unprotected. Nice of her to give him an opportunity to get her alone.

Had she ended up sleeping with the Buckley guy? Or did they have a falling out? That was more likely because she was in a tearing hurry to get away from his place.

The front door of the plantation house had been locked, but George had already figured out another way to get in. The house, like most of the ones in this low-lying area, had a raised basement. It had been a simple matter to remove the glass from one of the windows and put it back in place so it looked secure.

Waiting for a few minutes to make sure Gabriella wasn’t coming out again, he circled the building, then ducked under the overhang at the edge of the basement area. The window was just as he’d left it. Careful not to make any noise, he lifted it out and set it along the wall. He’d laid a small outdoor end table on its side near the window, like somebody had thrown it there and forgotten it.

After righting the table, he placed it under the window and climbed up, then inside. Again he’d positioned a convenient piece of furniture—an old chest—where he could use it to climb down.

Inside, he stood listening for a few minutes. As far as he could tell, Gabriella hadn’t heard him. He wasn’t sure where she had gone, but he knew this was going to come out differently than with the mother.

LUKE HEARD GABRIELLA GET UP. He heard her tiptoe across the living room, heard the front door open.

She was sneaking out, and in a way he couldn’t blame her, but he wasn’t going to let her disappear so easily.

When he ran to the window of the cottage and looked out, he saw her crossing the lawn to the plantation house. To get her stuff and leave?

He was about to go back for his shoes when movement in the stand of trees to the side of the house made him freeze. A man emerged, checked to see that he was alone and looked toward the house. When he started to look back toward Cypress Cottage, Luke ducked to the side of the window.

Peering out again, he saw the intruder start for the house—not for the front. Instead, he circled around and disappeared from sight under the overhang of the raised basement.

Not good.

Luke had thought someone might be out here last night. It looked as if he had been right.

Was it a mobster? More likely someone interested in Gabriella because he’d gone after her and not come to the cottage. But it was clear that the guy was up to no good.

Otherwise he would have gone up and rung the doorbell.

AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, Gabriella paused. Nobody much had been up here in years, and the smell of dust was heavy in the air.

If she wanted to turn this place into a restaurant, the first thing she’d have to do was give the house a thorough cleaning.

“Forget the restaurant fantasy for now,” she muttered as she looked one way down the hall and then the other. Finally, she couldn’t resist peeking into her old bedroom.

It was the way she’d left it when she’d gone away to chef school. The curtains were drawn, making the light dim, but she could still see posters of kittens and puppies on the walls. How sappy!

But as a teenager, she’d related better to animals than she had to people.

In the hall again, she paused for a moment, unsure which way Mom had gone on her last trip up here. Too bad there wasn’t enough dust on the floor to leave a trail of footprints.

Probably her best bet was Mom’s old room. She stepped inside, looking around at the faded spread, the limp curtains, the antique furniture that was still in excellent shape.

Her gaze went to the dresser. People kept all kinds of intimate stuff in dresser drawers, but then when they died, someone else would poke through their possessions.

Like she was planning to do now.

After a moment’s hesitation, she began searching the drawers. They held only a few articles of clothing and costume jewelry that her mother obviously hadn’t been wearing lately.

Some dresses hung in the closet. All the clothes could go to one of the charities in town when Gabriella had the time to sort through them.

More interesting to her was the top shelf of the closet, which held several of the sturdy, rectangular boxes that department stores used to give away before they went to the cheap, fold up kind.

What was up there? Maybe what Gabriella was looking for.

She dragged the boxes down and took off the top of one, seeing a stack of papers. The next one held family photographs.

Not so secret. But maybe the secrets were mixed in with the normal stuff.

She was taking out a picture of Mom and Dad as newlyweds when the strong smell of cigarette smoke on clothing made her turn.

A man stepped into the doorway, his gaze fixed on her. He was tall, with dark hair, gray eyes and a predatory expression that sent a chill up her spine. Except for the look on his face, he was rather ordinary. A guy who could blend into a crowd.

Had she seen him before? Maybe, but there would have been no reason to remember him.

Her heart lurched inside her chest. “Who … who are you?” she asked stupidly.

Instead of answering the question, he said, “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

“What do you want?”

“Shut up and do what I tell you.”

Arguing was pointless. She thought about screaming for Luke’s help. But he was too far away to hear. Could she get around the guy? Probably not. What about locking herself in the bathroom? Could she make it there before he grabbed her?

Her heart was pounding as she contemplated her options.

The man narrowed his eyes, pulling a gun from the waistband of his slacks. As he pointed it at her, he pulled a pair of handcuffs from another pocket.

“You’re going to put them on.”

She stared from the cuffs to the gun and back again, struggling to control her terror and thinking she should never have left Cypress Cottage on her own. Luke had been worried that someone was on the property. Apparently he’d been right, and she’d been too wound up in her own concerns to credit the warning. Well, that and the need to put some distance between them.

The man walked across the room, still holding the weapon pointed at her, then tossed the handcuffs onto the bed near her. “If you don’t want to get shot, put them on.”

All sorts of horrible thoughts raced through her mind. She remembered what she’d learned in self-defense classes. If someone took you out of your environment and had control over you, you were probably going to end up dead.

Mom had already ended up that way, and suddenly she thought—had this guy pushed her mother down the steps? And would he shoot now?

If the man used the gun, would Luke hear? Or was he still sleeping?

One thing she knew for sure—she wasn’t putting on the handcuffs. Not willingly. He’d have to knock her down first, maybe knock her out.

When the cuffs landed near the boxes, she pretended to follow his directions, seeing him relax a little. But instead of clicking them onto her wrists, she threw them at him as hard as she could, already ducking as she scrambled to get out of the line of fire. A shot whizzed over her head, and she knew that he hadn’t been bluffing.

Now what? The bed was between them, and she heard him cursing as his footsteps came toward her.

There was nowhere to go. The window was behind her, but it was locked. And if she made a dash for it, he’d shoot her in the back. But maybe she could get into the bathroom and climb out the window onto the portico roof before he battered down the door.

“Bitch,” the intruder snarled as he came around the bed.

This time she picked up the dusty throw rug and threw it at him.

He started coughing and slapping at the covering, apparently having trouble dislodging it with the gun in his hand—and also having trouble breathing through the dust.

Good.

But how long would the rug stop him?

Her only way out was across the bed, and she leaped onto it, listening intently for sounds behind her.

She knew he had finally gotten the rug off because his cursing was less muffled. She was almost to the edge of the mattress when he clamped his fingers around her ankle, preventing her from fleeing.

“You’re going to be sorry about this,” he growled as he pulled her across the bed.

She started kicking at him with her free leg, desperately trying to inflict damage while she struggled to get away.

When he whacked her shin with the side of the gun, she gritted her teeth and kept kicking.

The sound of pounding feet in the hall made them both look up.

Her back was to the door, but what the man saw made him turn her ankle loose and dodge back, aiming the gun at whoever was in the doorway.





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