JEAN-PAUL TOLD HIMSELF to stop.
But his brain refused to listen.
He had wanted Britta for so long now, and she was in his arms, alive and wanting him in return. Hunger burned his veins as she threaded her fingers into his hair, and he forgot about Lucinda and conversation as he deepened the kiss.
Britta was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. Strong. Brave. A fighter.
Yet a tenderness lay beneath her toughness. He tore his mouth away and looked into her eyes, unsure he should continue. “Are you certain you want this?”
“I’ve never wanted anything more,” she whispered raggedly.
Her eyes looked stormy, her breath was erratic and her fingers sank deeper into his hair. She teased his lips apart with her tongue and he dragged her closer, so close he felt her breasts press against his chest. She moaned and darted her tongue along his lips and then down his neck, until he groaned her name.
The one thing he’d learned from his wife’s death was that life could be taken in a nanosecond.
He had to live for the present.
And tonight, for just a little while, he wanted to forget that a killer was out there. That he had failed to stop him from murdering more than once.
That he wanted Britta.
Because as long as she was in his arms, the man couldn’t touch her. No other man could.
One second, logic and reason warned him to go slow. The next, she rubbed her hand down to his crotch and resistance fled. He grabbed her hand and held it to his chest, unable to stand the torture. He wanted to touch her, to taste every inch. And she was driving him wild. Whispering his name. Teasing him with those luscious touches. Pleading with him to take her with fiery eyes.
His body caught on fire with sensation as he walked her backward to the sofa, then he unfastened the top button of her shirt. She kissed his neck while he trailed his tongue down her ear and to the soft swell of her breasts. She yanked at his shirt, practically ripping the buttons free and he pushed it off his shoulders and tossed it to the floor. A sliver of moonlight painted her body in a golden glow. He savored the moment, memorizing the sight of her bare skin as he stripped off her bra and held her breasts in his hands. His mouth came next, hungry and hot, licking and lapping her up, suckling her until she cried out his name. Shivers of anticipation rode through her and she clung to his arms but he didn’t stop. Hunger consumed him, drove him faster and he tore at her jeans, stripping them off as he eased her onto the couch. Her hair was mussed, wild around her face, while her big eyes danced with desire.
He licked his lips at the sight of her bare legs. They went on for miles. Then the lacy panties, black, see-through, they covered nothing. Yet they were still too much.
He peeled them off, licking and teasing her stomach, then down to the insides of her thighs. She quivered and reached for his hands, but he pushed her back on the sofa, spread her legs and buried his head between them. He hadn’t tasted a woman in two years, had never had the desire to eat her inside out, but he did with Britta. She clawed at his arms, then moaned and whispered his name. He drove his tongue inside her, his body hardening as her sweet juices filled his mouth.
She tasted like sweetness and spice. Innocence and sin.
He relished the moment, delving deeper and holding her tighter as her body spasmed its release.
“Jean-Paul…”
He finished licking her moist center, then rose above her, a satisfied man. But only for a moment. His cock twitched, begging for fulfillment, to be inside her hot center.
He kicked off his jeans, threw them across the floor, then crawled on top of her and braced his hands on the couch beside her face. A sultry look darkened her eyes, and she cupped her hands on his butt, then raked her nails downward, pulling him to her. His cock rubbed her belly, twitched again with arousal and thickened more. The waiting was almost painful, the most seductive torture he’d ever endured.
Then she wrapped her bare legs around his waist and kissed his lips. He lowered his hips enough to stroke her folds with his length, then saw her face flame with passion. She wanted more.
His heart pounded as he pushed himself inside her. She was so tight. He hesitated, giving her body time to adjust, then thrust deeper, deeper, all the way inside her wet heat. But she cried out and he stilled.
His gaze swung to hers. Shock hit him in the gut. She felt so tight, as if she’d never been with a man. Impossible. He’d seen her on the street, his brother had said…
“Britta?”
She bit down on her lip and pulled at his hips, embedding him deeper inside her. “Please don’t stop, Jean-Paul. I want you so much.”
He searched her face. Saw a small flicker of pain in her eyes, yet he also read desire mingled there. The questions he wanted to ask had to wait. They were both hurting, yearning, on fire.
If this was her first, dammit he should have taken it slow. Not mauled her on the sofa like a sex-starved teenager. Recriminations raced through his head. What kind of man was he?
Certainly not a hero in her eyes….
He pulled away slightly. Stood. But she grabbed his hand. Her fingers suddenly found his cock. Stroked him. His cock pulsed harder, throbbing for release. Tension built inside him, all the way to his soul.
More than anything, he wanted this woman, wanted to be closer, deeper, wanted her harder and faster.
“Please, Jean-Paul. We need each other tonight.”
Her soft plea echoed in his head. Drove him crazy because she was right.
She dropped to her knees on the floor and flicked her tongue across the tip of his penis. A sharp bolt of excitement shot through him. Naked, on her hands and knees, she looked like a vixen.
He wanted to be inside her, coming completely.
He grabbed his pants, removed a condom and rolled it on, his hands shaking. She smiled, sultry and catlike, then pulled him to the rug. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her and traced her fingers over his length, urging his cock to stroke her. He growled and rubbed his length over her belly. Her hiss coaxed him on, making him even more engorged and greedy.
Then he thrust inside her, sucking in a sharp breath as she spread her legs wider to take him in. His pulse raced with desire and he pounded her harder, sliding his hands beneath her hips to angle her so he could grind deeper. Hungrily, he kissed her neck, then lower, teasing her nipples with his tongue, biting and sucking until she cried out, mindless with pleasure. He moved faster, stroking and building the rhythm, faster and harder, deeper, then more. Over and over until they were one, dancing together, making love. Over and over, until his body stiffened and shook with tremors.
She whispered his name. He moaned hers in return.
Together they climaxed, their bodies jerking and quivering out of control. He was lost in the intensity of the moment. Lost to stop his emotions from rocketing through him.
Lost as to how he’d ever tell her goodbye.
But he would when the case ended. He’d go back to his job. She’d go back to her life. He’d never marry again. Never fall in love.
And he knew Britta wouldn’t cling to him. Wouldn’t ask him to change or give up his job.
She’d accept that it was over.
But tonight…he pressed a kiss to her neck and rolled them to his side where he could take his weight off her. Where he could hold her all night. They lay there, panting and stroking, murmuring words of lust, whispering their pleasure. Finally, the air grew cool and he stood and carried her to bed, then wrapped them in the covers.
He fully intended to show her a romantic night. Prove to her that a man could make slow love to her. That he didn’t have to be an animal and take her on the floor.
The gift she’d given him was as pure and unselfish as any a woman could give a man. He didn’t deserve it.
But she’d given it to him anyway.
He would find the man who was after her and take him apart limb by limb. To hell with his job.
If the man hurt one hair on Britta’s beautiful head, he’d kill him with his bare hands. He’d even give up his badge to protect her.
* * *
BRITTA’S BODY TINGLED with the aftermath of their lovemaking. She’d never thought she’d be able to share her body with a man as she had with Jean-Paul. They had made love three times now and it was only midnight. She wanted him again.
But guilt splintered the euphoria that had spread through her limbs. Jean-Paul had needed her tonight and she needed him on the most elemental level. But she also needed him on another level.
One that she had no right to ask.
She had to confess the truth.
But would she lose what little respect she’d gained from him?
Still, Jean-Paul didn’t deserve for the town to look down upon him. And she couldn’t continue lying to him and keeping secrets.
He nuzzled her neck, then propped two pillows against the headboard for them and looked down at her. His eyes searched her face, his expression probing.
“Why did you let me believe you were experienced?”
His gruff voice skated over her nerve endings, arousing, but his question cut straight to the issues at hand.
She finger-combed her hair and tugged the sheet up to cover her bare breasts. Renewed tension filled the air, this time threatening her newfound closeness with the man beside her.
“I…don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it was easier than trying to explain.”
He angled himself sideways, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so intimate she wanted to cry.
Damn, she never cried. Not over a man.
“Britta?”
She twisted the sheet in her fingers, her heart thumping. God, she didn’t want to ruin this moment. She wanted it to last forever.
He covered her hands with his, pried them loose from the sheets, then kissed her fingers. “Trust me. Tell me the truth.”
She blinked back emotions. Took one look into his eyes and her heart swelled in her chest. She was in love with Jean-Paul Dubois. She had no idea when or how it had happened. She had known better than to let her heart get involved.
But she had lost herself to him anyway. Maybe the first time she’d seen him.
Still, the guilt…the other girls’ lives rested on her head. All because she’d selfishly protected herself.
So she had to tell him the truth. But she couldn’t look into his eyes. Instead, she lowered their hands, stared at their entwined fingers and prayed that he could forgive her.
“When I was a little girl,” she began, “my mother…she worked as a dancer at one of the clubs in town.” She heard his breathing, but refused to look at him or she’d lose her courage. “I saw her turn tricks, give herself to earn money. I…hated it, but I loved her. She was doing what she had to do, she said, to take care of me.”
He didn’t comment, but she remembered his reaction to their conversation at the House of Love. Still she had to finish.
“When I was twelve, my mother joined a religious cult.”
His fingers tightened on hers. “The one that Justice’s family belonged to?”
She nodded. “Maybe. I swear, Jean-Paul, I didn’t remember him. I didn’t know him at all.”
“But he remembers you.”
Because of what she’d done. “My mother and I weren’t there long.” She paused, recalling her mother’s excitement over joining the group. “My mother thought the group would be our salvation. She would become one of the reverend’s wives and it would get her off the streets.”
“One of his wives?” Jean-Paul asked.
“Yes.” Britta shivered, remembering the disgust she’d felt when she’d realized the truth. “The cult had a lot of odd practices.” She expounded on some of the rituals. “Polygamy for one. They were afraid of the gators, so they offered sacrifices to them just as the people did in medieval times. The women were submissive, taught to share their husbands. And the young girls and boys went through a rite of passage as they aged. At sixteen, a boy chose a girl to become his first wife.”
“At sixteen?”
She nodded, lost in the past. “Any girl thirteen and older was up to be offered. They built a big bonfire, dressed the girls in virginal outfits and presented them to the boys. The girls were also bathed earlier, anointed with body oils, made to smell sensual to entice the boys to choose them.”
Jean-Paul cleared his throat. “You were one of them?”
She heard the censure in his voice. Glanced up and saw his eyes darken to a stormy hue. “Some of the people came from witches’ covens. They chanted and concocted spells to ward off evil.”
Jean-Paul’s jaw tightened and he released her hand. She stared into the darkness as he rose and went to the window and stared out. If she finished her story, he would look at her differently.
He already was. She sensed him pulling away from her. Felt the anger radiating from him. The condemnation. Knew that he’d never want her again.
She drew her legs up beneath the covers. Wrapped her arms around her knees and curled into a knot. She had once been so small she could roll herself into a ball. Make herself disappear. Become invisible. She wanted to do that again.
Run. Hide. Make herself like a little piece of dust in the sand. But she had to finish now. Had to finally own up to what she’d done, to the bad girl inside.
Because her confession might help him find the killer.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL’S JAW ACHED from gritting his teeth. He’d wondered about Britta’s past. Had guessed that she’d grown up on the streets, that her mother might have even been a hooker.
But he’d never suspected that she’d traded her daughter for a safer existence, a way to get off her back. And she’d agreed to a polygamist relationship?
Why? Had she thought one night a week with a man more appealing than a night with twenty johns? He supposed the deal seemed sweet. But at the expense of marrying her daughter at thirteen? Forcing her into sex?
No wonder Britta didn’t trust any man. God…
But she gave herself to you.
What had he done to deserve such an honor?
“Jean-Paul?”
Uncertainty laced her voice. He had to hear the rest. But it pained him to know how she’d been treated, that no one had loved her or taken care of her.
“Go on. Please.”
He tried to bottle his reaction, but anger coiled inside him. She’d tucked her legs up and leaned her head on her knees. She looked impossibly small, as if she might disappear under the covers any second, never to come out again. He couldn’t imagine her childhood and hated the people who’d hurt her. Her mother included.
“A few weeks after we went there, they had one of the ceremonies. One of the boys, Porter Tatum, the reverend’s son, he chose me.”
“What happened then?”
Britta rocked herself back and forth, her features strained. “When his father took my hand to make me go to him, I told him no. And then I ran.”
She hesitated and he started to go to her, but his cell phone rang. He glanced at it as if it was a rattlesnake, then back at Britta. She looked so pale and sweet, had trusted him with the truth. He could see the anguish on her face.
“Do you know what happened to this guy Porter?”
“I thought he died in that suicide pact.”
Jean-Paul silently cursed. He’d search for the son’s name.
The phone trilled again. He had to answer it. He connected the call, wishing he wasn’t a cop. He wanted to go to Britta and hold her. Love her again. Tell her he’d never leave her.
Instead, he answered the phone. “Dubois.”
“Jean-Paul, it’s Damon. Listen, we have a warrant for that photographer’s place. Apparently, two women filed stalking charges against him in Savannah last year. He was showing his artwork there around the same time as the murders in the city.”
Adrenaline surged through him. If Teddy wasn’t the swamp devil, maybe it was Howard Keith. And tonight, they might find the evidence to put him away.
* * *
ONE SECOND BRITTA and Jean-Paul had been making love.
Then she’d told him about her past and seen the disgust on his face.
The phone call had been his excuse to leave her. But he would have done so anyway. His perception of her had changed. Was tainted. And he still didn’t know that she was a murderer. She had to accept that. His leaving was inevitable.
It had only been a matter of time.
She tugged the robe around her, feeling cold and alone. Maybe Howard Keith was the swamp devil and they could end the madness.
Then she and Jean-Paul could go their separate ways.
Pain knifed through her, yet she forced herself to stand tall. A heartbeat later, the landline phone jangled. Britta frowned and checked the caller ID. Unknown.
She paced to the window and stared out into the dark night. Three o’clock. No one knew where she was. Jean-Paul was on his way to Keith’s house. And she sensed that the killer was getting ready to strike again.
The phone trilled again. Five more times. A solicitor wouldn’t be calling in the middle of the night. Jean-Paul had said he had her calls routed to his house. The cops would be tracing it.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the handset. “Hello.”
“I have another girl, Adrianna.”
She closed her eyes, biting down on her lip. Not another one.
“If you want to save her, then meet me.”
“Where?”
“I’ll let you know.”
The phone clicked before she could reply.
Rage and fear rode through her in waves and Britta screamed at the walls.
She had to help Jean-Paul stop this guy. If only she knew who the girl was.
She had to call Jean-Paul.
And tell him what? That the guy had someone else? She had no information to give him. He’d spend the rest of the night going nuts, searching the bayou. And blaming himself.
She had to do something. This was all her fault.
Shack. Maybe one of his girls was missing. It was the only lead she had. She grabbed the clothes Jean-Paul’s sisters had given her and dressed in the jeans and shirt. But what about a car?
Desperate, she called a cab. Ten minutes later, she was heading into town. She’d make Shack call all his girls. Show the sketch of Teddy and Howard Keith around.
And when she saw Jean-Paul again she had to finish her story. He had to know about the man she’d killed.
Maybe Cortain would know where Reverend Tatum’s son was. If he had survived.
A cold dread washed over her. She’d suggest a trade. It was a dangerous move, but another woman’s life was at stake.
And Britta had to save her.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL HATED TO LEAVE Britta alone but they might have a lead. The photos the killer had sent Britta were taken from a camera just like Howard Keith’s. So far, they hadn’t pinpointed that it was the same camera but the information would earn a search warrant.
Damon met him at the man’s home, a small apartment off the corner of Bourbon Street.
“He’s inside,” Damon said. “I don’t think he knows we’re coming.”
“Good, we can use the element of surprise to our advantage.”
Damon rang the doorbell and Jean-Paul prayed that Britta would be okay alone. No one knew she was at his place. He’d told her to stay put. But he couldn’t wait to get back to her.
The door swung open and Keith stared at them with his one good eye. “Detective Dubois?”
“Yes. And this is Special Agent Dubois from the FBI.”
“A relative no doubt,” Keith said with a wry grin.
Jean-Paul nodded. “We have a search warrant for your premises.”
The man’s thin face turned sullen, but he stepped aside. Jean-Paul and Damon strode in, anxious to begin the search. Keith’s apartment was in a warehouse that also housed his photography studio. They were connected by double doors.
A thorough search of his bedroom and den turned up little. No swords or scepters. No red lace teddies. No religious paraphernalia. No masks of Sobek.
Frustration gnawed at Jean-Paul, but he refused to give up. If something was there, they’d find it.
He moved on to the studio. Studied Keith’s art. Photos of women hung on the wall. Dozens of Britta on the street. Some in her office. Some in her home. All candid shots. Some of her in her bedroom in her nightgown. One of her climbing from the shower, wrapped in a bath towel.
Ones that exposed the vulnerability on her face.
Keith was definitely talented. He could look at subjects and capture the secrets in their eyes.
But did that make him a killer?
He dug through the files of photographs. Found dozens of other women Keith had watched. Probably stalked. Some clothed. Some nude. But no photos of the victims or murders were among them. Did he have another hiding place?
“Search his computer,” Jean-Paul told Damon.
“I’m on it. What about trophies?” Damon asked. “Find anything?”
Jean-Paul frowned. So far, they hadn’t noticed anything missing from any of the girls. Unusual.
An hour later, and they’d gotten nowhere. Except Keith had a negative attitude pertaining to beautiful women. He hated them. Wanted to show the ugliness that lay below the beauty.
Because so many women had rejected him.
His admission substantiated Jean-Paul’s belief that Keith fit the killer’s profile, but he needed evidence. So far, he could hold him for twenty-four hours, but unless someone came forth and filed stalking charges, he’d have to let him go.
“We’re confiscating your photos and computer files,” Damon told Keith. “And you need to come with us for questioning.”
“Do I need a lawyer?” Keith asked.
“Did you kill those women?” Jean-Paul asked.
Keith shook his head. “No. I only take photographs, Detective. If I want to expose a woman’s ugly side, all I have to do is catch her at the right moment when her guard is down.”
“You mean when she thinks she’s alone in her apartment or bedroom,” Jean-Paul snapped. “When you’re invading her privacy.” The realization that the man had watched Britta in her private quarters, had photographed her nude in her bathroom stepping from the shower, at night in her bed, turned his stomach. “You’re nothing more than a peeping Tom, you bastard.”
Keith smiled, revealing crooked teeth. “I am an artist.”
“How did you get those shots?” Jean-Paul asked. “You have a telephoto lens or did you break into her apartment and watch her?”
Keith’s good eye fluttered. “I want a lawyer.”
“Let’s go.” Damon jerked the man’s arm. “Maybe you’ll feel more like talking once you sit in jail for a while.”
Jean-Paul ground his teeth as they left the man’s apartment. They needed more evidence and Keith knew it. Their only chance of making a murder charge stick was if Keith confessed to the crimes. But Keith was too cool a number to do that.
Which left them back at square one—with absolutely nothing.
Britta’s story about the cult ran through his head. The connection to Cortain. The boy she’d said had chosen her.
He and Damon would review all the articles about the cult and that suicide pact. He’d check on Porter Tatum. Maybe they’d find a picture of the boy. Damon’s people could run it through a program to age the boy and they might get an idea of what he looked like now.
It was a long shot, but they had to pursue every angle.
* * *
“WHAT IN THE HELL ARE you doing here, Britta?”
Britta stood tall, refusing to let Shack intimidate her. “There’s another woman missing. I wanted you to check your girls, see if it might be one of them.”
Shack gestured toward his cohort, a shorter black man with fists the size of melons. The man nodded and left the room, hopefully to do as she’d requested.
“Look at the sketch of these men. Pass it around, see if any of your people recognize the man. Maybe he’s a client.”
Shack’s diamonds glittered beneath the dim lighting as he accepted the flier. He glanced down at the drawing of Teddy and narrowed his eyes, then cracked his knuckles. “I don’t recognize him, but I’ll check with my girls. You think this man might be the one killing the girls?”
“I’m not sure. But the police want to question him.” She explained about the porcelain dolls and the girl Debra. “The other man is a photographer. He has an odd display where he features women’s eyes. Calls it, ‘The Windows of the Soul.’”
“Sounds like an interesting character.”
Britta shivered, but the sound of a girl crying reverberated from a back room and she stiffened.
Shack rapped his knuckles on the table. “Time for you to leave now, Britta.”
“Not yet.” She gestured toward the door. “I want to see her.”
“Stay out of my business, Britta.”
“I can’t do that, Shack. Not when a girl is in trouble.”
“I’ll take care of her.” He stood, towering over her. “Now leave or one of my guys will show you out.”
Britta shook her head. “How old is she?”
“I don’t answer to you. And you know it.”
“A teenager? Thirteen, fourteen maybe?”
“Old enough to know she didn’t want to live at home with mommy and daddy.”
“Not old enough to make those decisions wisely,” Britta said. Remembering her own brush with Shack and his enticing invitations to join his business years before, Britta pushed past him and headed to the door leading to the back.
One of Shack’s men grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her.
She glared at him, knowing he could kill her if he wanted.
But the crying girl needed her and she would find a way to help her. If she didn’t, this girl might end up as another casualty on the street. Another victim of the swamp devil or a psycho just like him.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL FELT LIKE pounding the wall in frustration. Instead he paced his office.
Howard Keith refused to cooperate and had called a lawyer. Jean-Paul and Damon had reviewed the articles about the cult, the suicide pact and Cortain. According to all their information, the reverend’s son was thought to have died in the suicide pact but there was no conclusive evidence.
His phone jangled and he checked the digital display. Antwaun. He clicked to answer, “Jean-Paul here. What’s up, little brother?”
“I located that pimp you wanted to talk to. Shack.”
“Yeah?”
“You won’t believe this, Jean-Paul, but guess who just went in to see him?”
“I’m not in the mood for games, Antwaun. If you have something, tell me.”
“The Berger woman.”
Jean-Paul’s throat closed. Britta? God, what was she doing there?
He’d left her in bed, naked and sated. Scared, too, although she wouldn’t admit it. And he’d told her to stay put.
“Jean-Paul, are you there, man?”
His brother’s voice hurled him back to reality. “Yeah. Where are you?”
Antwaun recited an address in the low-rent district and Jean-Paul headed to his car. He had to get to Britta. Find out why she’d do something so foolish. She was in danger, for God’s sake. And the killer picked his girls off the streets.
Did she have a death wish or what?
Anger spurned him forward and sent him racing toward the pimp’s place. He took the corner on two wheels, his heart pounding as he steered into a side alley and parked. The warehouse building had been divided into apartment units. The street was dark, the smell rancid.
Antwaun met him outside at the corner. “She’s been in there about half an hour.”
“I don’t understand what she’s doing,” Jean-Paul said.
Voices echoed from the steps. Jean-Paul stepped into the shadows and waited. A big burly black man stepped outside, his hand folded around Britta’s arm.
“Get lost,” the man bellowed. “And if you mess with Shack’s girls again, you’ll be sorry.”
Britta raised her chin, angry. “I’m not leaving without the girl.”
Jean-Paul and Antwaun exchanged curious looks, then Jean-Paul stepped forward. “What’s going on?”
The burly man cut his gaze down to Britta, then his right hand inched toward his back pocket.
“Police. I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Jean-Paul warned.
Antwaun circled the man and patted him down. A smile flickered on his mouth when he held up a .45. “You have a license for this?”
The guy glared at Antwaun but released Britta and stepped away. “Look, man, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Then don’t threaten Miss Berger again.”
“No problem.” The man sent him a sour look but backed away.
Jean-Paul turned to Britta. “What in the hell are you doing here? I told you to stay at my house.”
“The killer called after you left. He has another girl.”
Jean-Paul knotted his fists. “Why didn’t you phone me?”
“I thought I’d see if one of Shack’s girls was missing. If we had a name, it would be easier to find her.”
Antwaun glanced at Jean-Paul, but he ignored his brother’s curious look.
“Was he any help?” Antwaun asked.
Britta shrugged. “He’s checking with them. I also showed him the sketch of Teddy. He’s going to pass it to the girls. Maybe they’ve seen something that will help us.”
Jean-Paul moved closer to her, then reached for her arm. “Dammit, Britta, I told you to let me handle things.”
“I was trying to help.”
“How?” Anger hardened his tone. “By getting yourself killed?”
She licked her dry lips; a soft rain was beginning to fall. “Shack wouldn’t hurt me.”
Jean-Paul indicated the gun Antwaun had confiscated and the guy who’d been manhandling her.
Britta winced. “I’m all right.”
Jean-Paul tugged at her hand. “Let’s go.”
Britta dug in her heels. “Not yet. I’m not leaving without the girl inside.”
“What girl?”
“She’s a runaway,” Britta said. “I have to help her.”
Jean-Paul’s gaze locked with hers, then shot to Antwaun’s. His little brother was studying him intently, but he ignored the questions in his eyes. He finally understood Britta. She had been lost herself, had almost ended up on the streets. Now she hid behind a bad-girl disguise while she helped others.
His throat swelled with emotion. He started to speak, then had to clear his throat to get rid of the knot. “Show me where she is and we’ll take care of her together.”
Britta gripped his arm, her voice soft and pleading. “Jean-Paul, please, if she sees the cops, she’ll run. Let me do this my way.”
“She doesn’t have to know who I am.”
Britta hesitated. “Then just stand back and let me do the talking. If she agrees, you can drive us to Miss Lottie’s.”
Miss Lottie?
“Yes. She helped me. She’ll give her a place to stay. Help her get on her feet. Maybe convince her to call her parents.”
The same Miss Lottie who’d taken Britta in years ago. She must have been her salvation. He wanted to thank her personally. If she hadn’t helped, what would have happened to Britta?
The reality of their situation sobered him. What would happen to her if he failed her as he had his wife and the other swamp devil victims?
* * *
BRITTA APPROACHED the girl with caution. She looked hungry, dirty and terrified.
Shack had protested, but when Jean-Paul intervened and pulled his badge, he had become resigned.
“I can’t go back home,” the girl whispered. “My parents…I can’t face them.”
“What’s your name?” Britta asked.
The teenager’s green eyes appeared huge in her slender face. “Please…”
“I won’t call your folks right now,” Britta promised. “But please, just tell me your first name. I want to help you.”
The girl’s chin quivered. “It’s…Carol.”
Britta smoothed a strand of blond hair behind the girl’s ear. She had a half-dozen earrings crawling up and down her lobe, a hickey on her neck and bruises along her jaw. No telling what atrocities she had suffered so far.
“Okay, Carol, that’s a start.” She smiled and took the girl’s tiny hand in her own. “My friend, Jean-Paul, and I, are going to drive you to another friend of mine’s. Her name is Miss Lottie. She’s someone really special.”
“She takes in girls who work on the streets?”
Britta barely suppressed a shudder. “Yes and no, sweetheart. She’s not a madam. She gives you a place to stay. Some meals. A clean start.” Along with counseling and advice. If Carol’s parents were worth calling, Miss Lottie would figure that out. Britta had no desire to put her back in an abusive home or throw her to the wolves of foster care.
Carol pulled her ratty sweat jacket around her trembling frame. “But she’ll think I’m awful. I’m not cleaned up.”
Britta put her arm around Carol’s shoulders and helped her to stand. “Honey, Miss Lottie has seen everything. She can’t be shocked.”
“How do you know?”
Britta’s chest squeezed. Jean-Paul was watching. She hated to reveal any more of herself. Because Miss Lottie had not had a prim existence herself. Another reminder that she and Jean-Paul were worlds apart.
But Carol needed the truth. The very reason Britta had put herself out here now. The very reason she would continue to do so when Jean-Paul Dubois went back to his perfect family and hero status in the town.
“Because Miss Lottie took me in a long time ago, honey.” Britta hugged Carol. “She was the best friend I’ve ever had.”
Jean-Paul was polite but quiet and he allowed Britta to coax the girl into the car. She tried to read his thoughts, but he’d slammed that ironclad mask of control over his face.
A deep-seated anger darkened his eyes when he saw Miss Lottie’s shack. Britta should have warned him that the housing wouldn’t be fancy or up to the Dubois standards. But it had sufficed for her and it would for Carol for the night.
Miss Lottie had connections to folks who helped young girls like Carol. Some were social workers who abided by the law. Others worked underground to help women and girls start over if they needed a new life or identity. The arrangements were made in private. Britta never asked. She just delivered the girls to Miss Lottie and trusted her to do the rest.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL DIDN’T ASK questions as Britta escorted the young girl to her friend’s house. But his cop instincts urged him to find out the girl’s last name. Who her parents were. And how to contact them.
They must be worried sick.
He drummed his fingers on the dash, his hands beating a staccato rhythm like the rain pounding the sidewalk. It was almost dawn and another girl was missing.
He had no idea who.
And Britta and he were at odds again. Two people who’d slept together who didn’t know how to scale the walls that stood between them. He wanted to tear them down but anger and bitterness toward the people who’d hurt her kept him tied in a knot.
Britta hugged the elderly woman at the door, then rushed through the rain to his car. He gritted his teeth, aching to take her in his arms.
“Thank you,” she said softly as she shut the door.
“We should call her parents,” he said gruffly. “They’re probably out of their minds with concern.”
Britta ran a hand through her damp hair. She looked exhausted and worried. And so damn beautiful he wanted to hold her. But he had to convince her that she couldn’t go running off in the night, confronting pimps and their bodyguards, putting herself in danger, forgetting that a killer was out there. Targeting her—maybe next.
“Jean-Paul, trust me this time. If Miss Lottie decides that Carol’s parents are worth calling, she’ll do everything within her power to reunite them.”
“Everything except call the damn police.” Frustration sharpened his voice. “For God’s sake, Britta, hundreds of girls go missing every year. The system is clogged with them. If she’d cooperate with us, it would make our jobs a hell of a lot easier.”
Britta’s eyes shimmered with rage. “Yeah, but the cops would send them back. Some of their homes are horrible, Jean-Paul. The parents, they’re the reason the girls run away. They don’t deserve to have them back.”
“But the others—”
She cut him off. “I told you to trust me this once. Miss Lottie will get to the truth. She’ll do what’s right.”
He wanted to trust her. And he did trust that she wanted to help this girl.
Dammit. He had pegged Britta wrong from the beginning….
His phone buzzed, and he read Damon’s number, then connected the call.
“Jean-Paul, listen, I may have found something. Meet me at Reverend Cortain’s house.”
Jean-Paul pressed the gas pedal. “I’m on my way.”
* * *
THE EARLY MORNING FOG rose through the bayou like misty rain above a grave. The bayou stretched beyond, the backwoods filled with the mysteries of the night. Rain drizzled onto the ground, making the Spanish moss droop with its weight. Britta’s shoulders sagged with despair. She had to confess the truth.
But she couldn’t find her voice for the deluge of dread that filled her.
“Damon’s meeting us at Cortain’s to question the reverend. If the killer is from the cult where the suicide pacts took place, then Cortain may know who he is. Or he may be Cortain himself.” Jean-Paul pulled up to Cortain’s house, then cut the engine. “He already has a God complex. And his background and history fit the profile. The suicides could have sent him over the edge.”
She touched his hand wanting to explain, but his brother pulled up in a dark sedan. Damon’s look turned to ice when he saw her with Jean-Paul.
Jean-Paul climbed out, then started around to her side but she climbed out herself, her stomach knotting as the three of them rushed through the rain up the porch steps.
“What did you find out?” Jean-Paul asked.
Damon shot Britta an odd look but the door opened, cutting off his reply. She felt as if she’d just walked to her own trial and had already been judged and declared guilty.
Reverend Cortain stood in the doorway, a black and gold cape billowing around him. Images of Brother Tatum flashed before Britta’s eyes. His haunting voice had chilled her to the bone. And when she’d realized that he intended to sacrifice her in a medieval ritual, she’d been terrified.
Cortain greeted them with a smirk on his face. “What can I do for you?”
Jean-Paul introduced his brother and Damon spoke up. “We need to talk to you about your brother-in-law’s death.”
“Really?” Reverend Cortain’s gaze pierced Britta. “So you’re finally going to confess and ask forgiveness for your sins?”
Britta bit her lip, but Jean-Paul grabbed the reverend’s arm. “Cut the bull, Cortain. You feel guilty for those suicides? Did you push your brother-in-law to kill himself first, or did you kill him so you could take over his clan and gain his power?”
Reverend Cortain’s gray eyebrows furrowed. “Me?” A nasty chuckle reverberated through the air. “You’ve got your facts wrong, Detective.”
Britta’s heart clenched as Cortain leered down at her.
“Your girlfriend here, she was the who murdered my brother-in-law. If you don’t believe me, ask her yourself.”
* * *
HE SMILED AS HE STUDIED the woman.
She was terrified. Trembling. All tied up and waiting for him to begin. Mardi Gras had finally come.
But this woman was not his type.
No, it was time to take Britta.
And he had the perfect plan. The way to hurt Dubois for interfering. For turning his Adrianna into the whore she should have been for him.
Laughter bubbled in his chest. All these years and Britta had remained uninvolved. Had kept her identity a secret. The truth about who she was a lie.
But hell was about to break loose for her. And they would meet again.
He unpocketed his phone and clicked the detective’s number. Wished he could be a fly on the wall to see the man’s face when Dubois learned who he had kidnapped.
But at least he’d get to hear the pain in Dubois’s voice when the detective learned that his sister’s life lay in his hands.
And that if he wanted her back, he had to sacrifice Britta.