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Goes Down Easy
Alison Kent


Jack Montgomery is out of his element. The former covert ops hero is now carving out a living as a P.I., specializing in missing persons. Except the trail's gone stone-cold on the Eckhardt kidnapping just as Jack hits sizzling New Orleans. To top it off, some psychic woman is making wild claims–and newspaper headlines–on his case, no less.Perry Brazille knows her aunt can help Jack–Della has solved crimes before with her unexplained visions. Even Perry herself can glimpse the future, and she is afraid that she and the mysterious sexy Jack will be lovers…soon. What Perry can't see is the kind of future that can build on a hot and steamy fling. One that's set against a dangerous situation that's clearly unraveling…









The shower door opened slowly…


Jack watched as Perry stood there, naked and dripping. Her hair hung in wet hanks to the tops of her breasts. It was jet-black, the same color as her big bright eyes.

Her skin on the other hand was lily-white, a delicate porcelain pale, the only color that of the dark cherry centers of her breasts. He’d tasted her, made love to her, had her mouth on him, but there was something about seeing her like this that wound him up hot and tight.

“I want to know something,” she said, backing up when he started toward her.

He climbed into the shower, breathing deeply of the spice and the steam. “What’s that?”

“The case. What are you going to do next?”

It was hard to take her interest in his business seriously when they were both wet and naked. Jack sighed. “Don’t do this, Perry.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Get involved with me…make this into something it’s not.”

She paused. “Then tell me, Jack. What is going on here?”

“It’s just sex, Perry. That’s all.”

Yet they both knew that was a lie.







Dear Reader,

I hope you’ve read the special Blaze anthology Red Letter Nights (Nov. 2005), and the follow-up book by the fabulous Karen Anders, Give Me Fever (Dec. 2005). In February 2006 watch for another sexy story in our New Orleans–set series, Going All Out, this one by the talented Jeanie London.

This month, however, I’m pleased to bring you the story of Jack Montgomery and Perry Brazille. Perry you met in my Red Letter Nights novella, “Luv U Madly.” And Jack first came onto the scene as the bass player for “the deck” in my 1999 Harlequin Temptation novel, Four Men & a Lady.

The reunion story’s opening chapters found Jack onstage fronting for his band, Diamond Jack. Later, at the picnic and ball game, he talked about his days in military service, about seeing enough of the world. Well, this is where I finally learned more about what Jack had seen and where he’d been. I also discovered what he’d done and what he’d suffered.

Goes Down Easy is the story of two people for whom no other love exists. It also wraps up the tales of the final three of my original four men. I hope you enjoy Jack’s adventure and the great romance he shares with his very own Gypsy woman, Perry Brazille. Please visit my Web site at www.alisonkent.com to learn more about what I’m now writing for my favorite line in the world—Harlequin Blaze.

Alison Kent




Goes Down Easy

Alison Kent







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


This one is for the readers whose letters keep me going and whose daily visits to my blog help keep my feet on the ground and my head out of the clouds. You all are the best.

A special acknowledgment goes to Laurie Damron, who graciously took the time to read this story in its initial incarnation and helped me make it better.

Also, thank you to Colleen Collins and Shaun Kauffman for answering my question about P.I. legalities. Any and all gaffes are my own.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17




1


THE TRAIL went cold in New Orleans the same time as the weather, a double header for which Jack Montgomery wasn’t prepared. Since hired by Cindy Eckhardt to look into the kidnapping of her husband Dayton—chief executive for Eckton Computing and missing since New Year’s Day—he’d reveled in all kinds of heat.

First there was the temperature that had the Gulf Coast in an unseasonably sweaty grip. Next, the series of hot leads that had him hoofin’ it across the state line, from Texas into Louisiana. Finally, the burning in his gut that made him believe this case was going to go down like cream.

But then the tables had turned, flipping him a big fat bird. And now he found himself standing in the middle of Jackson Square, a week into the new year, freezing his ass off and wondering whether he’d be doing better to turn left or right.

It wasn’t that Cindy, the trophy wife nearly thirty years her husband’s junior, didn’t trust the cops or the feds to get the job done, as much as it was her needing to know someone had her back. Especially since Dayton’s heart medication had been found on the ground at the kidnapping scene, and a week into the case the authorities were no closer to a solution than they’d been on day one.

He started walking aimlessly. The sign for Café Eros came into view, reminding him that he was hungry enough to eat a six-foot submarine sandwich. Café Eros, eh? Well, he’d never been one to turn his back on love—even if right now the only affair he was interested in involved his stomach and a whole lot of food.

Burrowing into his hooded sweatshirt, Jack headed for the building’s courtyard. He jogged up the stairs to the small eatery’s second floor, hoping it wasn’t busy, not in the mood for a crowd.

Too much noise interfered with his ability to process information, to analyze, to reason, to think—which was why he and special ops had made such a good fit for eight of his twelve years in the Marines. The missions he had run required secrecy, and communication was often accomplished with hand signals and nothing more.

When hitting a dead end like this one, however, he doubted even total silence would help. What he needed was a sign. But first he needed a sandwich.

At the counter, behind which was painted a mural of a swaggering swashbuckler, Jack ordered a bowl of gumbo and half a muffuletta. When in Rome, and all that. He took a seat at a table decorated with a purple, green and gold Mardi Gras tablecloth and picked up a copy of the Times-Picayune.

He scanned the front page, listening to the smoky jazz playing from the café’s corner speakers—God, he loved jazz—sipping at a hot chicory coffee blend, the warmth of the mug thawing his fingers and doing a good job of heating up the iceberg in his gut. He was not cut out for the cold.

He’d lived most of his life in Texas for that very reason. His three tours of duty were the only years he’d spent away from the Lone Star State. Bring on the heat and humidity; that was his motto. Even the mosquitoes and the ragweed couldn’t drive him away.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for what he’d suffered during his years in special ops—the lack of food, of sleep, of shelter, often of contact with another soul whose native tongue was the same as his. And weather so hot and humid, the air so heavy with moisture that there were days that just breathing had been hard work.

Ending his trip down weather lane, he turned to page two, eating as he skimmed the paper. The coffee was hot and biting, the gumbo steaming with spicy sausage and the tang of tomatoes, okra and bay leaf. At this rate he might dig in and stay for awhile.

Sounded a lot more appealing than admitting he’d screwed up somewhere, and that the job he’d taken at the request of the Eckhardt family was quickly heading down the tubes. He’d been surprised when Becca Nelson, the University of Texas coed who ran his Austin-based private investigation business between classes from her Blackberry, had told him of Cindy Eckhardt’s call.

He had a reputation for finding people who didn’t want to be found. The sixteen-year-old Dallas trust funder who’d wanted to play in a rock ’n’ roll band. The bride from Fort Worth who’d changed her mind on the way to the church. Most recently, the San Antonio bank executive who’d left his position in the midst of a midlife crisis, taking a new name—and a whole lot of his employer’s money with him.

Jack owed much of the notoriety to Becca. She was in the fifth year of her four-year degree plan, having spent thirty-six months working her way around the world before starting school at twenty-one. Since hiring on five years ago when he’d first set up shop, answering an ad he’d placed in the UT newspaper the Daily Texan, she’d made it her mission to get his name out there in an effort to ensure job security.

Hers.

She’d had no problem with the fact that he ran his business out of his SUV, and had taken over converting him to a rolling electronic wonder, crawling around with a tool belt bigger than she was, outfitting the Yukon’s dashboard to resemble a Black Hawk cockpit.

She’d set up the meeting with the Eckhardt family, flooded his PDA with scanned clippings and e-mailed him online stories. Seemed Cindy and Dayton had been loading the car New Year’s morning, heading for the airport and an Aspen vacation, when the kidnapping went down.

With Dayton outside, Cindy had made one last trip into their Hyde Park home, coming out less than ten minutes later to find Dayton gone, the doors of his Lexus wide open, suitcases strewn about.

The police had taken one look at the obvious signs of a struggle, interviewed witnesses who’d seen two masked men in a black Jeep without plates and put out an APB.

Enough of the crime’s details had been in the news that Jack wasn’t surprised things had begun going south. The kidnappers had only to flip on a local broadcast and hear everything the media proclaimed the public had a right to know.

Screw that. Dayton Eckhardt wasn’t the public’s husband or father. No one but the Eckhardt family, the Austin PD and the FBI had a right to anything. And, the way he saw it, in that order—the very reason he checked in with Cindy every few hours, new news or not.

Unfortunately, so many of the particulars had been leaked that the kidnappers were no longer even a blip on the radar. If anything, they were burrowed deep underground. Three days and counting, the police were down to zero leads and were still waiting for a ransom demand. Jack had lucked out with the New Orleans connection—especially since the feds had turned up nothing much in Louisiana beyond rumors that a psychic was involved.

Dayton Eckhardt had started Eckton Computing in the Big Easy before market conditions—property taxes, salaries, the value of a square foot of warehouse space—had sent the start-up to Austin a year ago. Eckhardt had left behind more than a few disgruntled employees—not to mention, rumor had it, Dayton’s disgruntled mistress.

One of the ex-employees Jack had interviewed thought she’d seen Dayton at a Christmas party in the Quarter. That made no sense, but it was the only scrap Jack had, and he held on tight. There had been no activity on Dayton’s cell phone since the kidnapping, and none on his personal or corporate e-mail accounts. At least nothing outgoing. There had been plenty of incoming, and most of it junk. Even that had been analyzed by the Eckton tech working with the Austin PD. So far, nothing but ads for erectile dysfunction meds and spam mail promising live sex via webcams.

Jack was more into having fun with the real thing. Or he would be, one of these days. When he found the time. When he found the woman. When he found a reason to look for either instead of spending his time looking for strangers who’d vanished without a trace. Instead of looking to find himself.

His life had been in flux for a while, the transition from special ops to civilian PI tougher than he’d anticipated. Six years ago at his fifteenth high school reunion, after catching up with his friends who’d made up “the deck”—he’d been the jack, Quentin the queen, Heidi the joker, Ben the ace, Randy the king—fitting back into real life had seemed a doable prospect.

The three-day reunion had been a hell of a party. He’d stood onstage at The Cave Down Below—the warehouse club booked for that Friday night—looked out at the four friends who’d been his high school anchors and choked himself up, barely recovering before belting out Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA.”

He remembered sitting on a picnic table next to Heidi the next day, and telling her about not wanting to hit eighty and wonder how he got there. Or what happened during the years in between.

And even though he’d been tired of traveling the world, he hadn’t been quite ready to settle down. He’d continued to drift for a couple of years after the reunion, living on the road and out of his duffel bag for the full tour that he’d fronted for Diamond Jack, the band he’d put together once his discharge had come through.

Music had been a huge part of his life for as long as he could remember. His days playing bass in “the deck’s” high school ensemble had been one of the best times of his life. He’d learned about belonging. About true friendships and human nature, about faults and flaws and royally freaking things up—which was exactly what he’d done after graduation.

And here he’d gone and done the same thing now. No, dude. You didn’t. You’re just stuck with the big stinkin’ pile of crap left by everyone who worked this case before you. Telling himself that was a whole lot easier than buying it as the truth.

Truth held position number one at the top of Jack’s culpability barometer. And not the ask-me-no-questions-and-I’ll-tell-you-no-lies sort of honesty he’d witnessed too often, but balls-to-the-wall-or-die.

If knowledge was power, then truth was omnipotence…and was why Jack nearly sputtered gumbo across the newspaper when he flipped to page fifteen, and the headline halfway down leaped out.

Psychic Della Brazille to consult on Eckhardt kidnapping

What the hell?

Oh no. This wasn’t happening. He wasn’t having his case all mucked up by a scammer out to fleece a family already on the edge. After the hurt he’d seen during his years in special ops, the anger, the pain—and having to learn to live with it all—there was no way he’d let anyone latch on like a leech to his case.

Especially not a con artist more interested in fifteen minutes of fame than anything resembling reality—or truth.



PERRY BRAZILLE GROANED at the headline, thankful the story had been buried on page fifteen rather than splashed across page one. Della so did not need to see this newest mention connecting her to the case. The stress she was under was already making her sick.

She’d been bombarded by the media, by former employees of Eckton Computing, by the Eckhardt family—all of them seeking answers she didn’t have to give. But the biggest stress came from the visions themselves. Visions which had started weeks ago and plagued her ever since.

That was how it had been with Della from the beginning, Perry mused, hiking up her calf-length skirt’s yards of navy twill and climbing onto the stool behind the counter in Sugar Blues. Her aunt never saw things in her dreams, or as gentle imaginings.

What she saw instead came as flashes. Harsh and jolting. Migraine-inducing. Blasts of intense color and heat and dizzying sound, each flash more draining, more agonizing than the last. It was an affliction which she’d suffered all of her life.

Della was, in fact, upstairs sleeping after hours of excruciating pain. And Perry intended to see that her aunt—her last living relative, the woman who, though only eighteen years older, had been Perry’s mother for most of her life—slept as long as she needed to.

That was why she was at the shop’s counter now. Della had three appointments for evening readings that needed to be rescheduled. Two were with old clients who would hate the delay but, being devoted to Della, would totally understand.

The third appointment was with Claire Braden who was new to Sugar Blues and the world of psychic readings. Claire was one of Perry’s neighbors at Court du Chaud. The “hot” court had been christened as such when occupied by Captain Gabriel Dampier, now the resident ghost.

Longtime occupants of Court du Chaud were well-versed in the legend of the pirate and his band. Perry had never seen him herself, but both Tally and Bree Addison, the twins living in numbers one and one-and-a-half, had shared stories of their sightings.

Perry’s experience was with a ghost of a different color—a blues singer named Sugar Babin who’d fallen (some said been pushed) to her death down the stairs of the very building that served as Della’s place of business, and had been her home for all of her life. It had been Perry’s, too, for many years.

At least Sugar only haunted the stairwell between the bottom step and the top, singing of love gone wrong in her smoky Nina Simone-like voice. And here Perry had always hoped there would be no PMS in the afterlife.

She dialed Claire’s office number, and when the other woman picked up, said, “Hey, it’s me. Della’s not feeling well, so I’m going to have to reschedule you, okay?”

“Of course it’s okay. Wait, no. Don’t reschedule. Just cancel. This reading was all your idea anyway, remember?”

Using the appointment book’s pen with the cobalt blue feather, Perry drew a line of tiny X’s through Claire’s name, thinking of another of their Court du Chaud neighbors, Tally Addison, who’d recently come to Sugar Blues seeking help. “It was a suggestion, not an ultimatum. Tally left after her visit with her mind more at ease. I thought Della might do the same for you.”

“Tally’s problems were with Court du Chaud’s ghost, not a man who wants to elope instead of spending money on a wedding.” Claire was obviously still arguing with her fiancé of one month about their upcoming spring nuptials.

“Randy still being a cheapskate?” A funny turn of events, considering the way he’d tossed money around before meeting Claire.

“I only plan to get married once in my life. I’d like the full designer gown, doves, balloons and ribbons package, ya know?” Claire sighed. “I think I liked Randy better when he believed money could buy happiness.”

“No, you didn’t. You just happened to be in the driver’s seat then. Now he’s keeping you on your toes.” Though Perry was quite sure that Claire’s toes were the last body part Randy had on his mind.

Claire’s sigh filled the void in the conversation. “I suppose he’s worth it.”

“Oh, stop it already,” Perry said, drawing little O’s above the X’s. “You know he is, and if you don’t, well, send him my way.”

“No can do, girlfriend. He bakes me cookies.” Claire laughed as if nothing more needed to be said.

And Perry supposed nothing did. She didn’t know a single female who wouldn’t dig on having a man with culinary skills that went beyond throwing burgers on a grill and popping the top on a beer can.

She certainly would, though she didn’t see it happening since her life had always revolved around women. A choice she’d made too many years ago to count. “I’ve still got room in my freezer if you have more you need to unload. Never can unload too many cookies, you know. At least from a calorie/wedding dress perspective.”

Claire laughed a second time. “See? Eloping would get me out of that worry. I could wear blue jeans, and all would be right with the world.”

“Wait. Back up,” Perry said as the bell over the shop’s front door chimed. She glanced up to see a man shove back the hood of his navy hoodie before disappearing into the shop’s aisles. “I thought you didn’t want to elope. That you wanted to know what Della could tell you about your wedding.”

“I did, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“Fickle, much?” Perry asked, straightening on the stool to peek over the bookcase that ran like a divider down the center of the shop. She saw brown hair flecked with bits of blond and a touch of gray at the man’s temples. She also saw long, long, long lashes that made her want to cry with envy.

“Probably less than it seems,” Claire was saying.

“How so?”

“Well, for example, if I were to have a baby, I wouldn’t want to know its sex in advance.”

“Hmm,” Perry said, more interested in her customer than in Claire’s attempt at logic. If only the stupid bookshelf were five instead of six feet tall. “Are you and Randy already talking about kids?”

“Please! It’s way too soon for that. We’re still learning what we can about each other.”

“Besides your shared cookie fetish?”

Claire groaned. “I swear. I’m going to be an elephant before we ever set a date.”

“Maybe, but Randy’s a good guy.” Perry smiled to herself, returning the plumed pen to its base. “He’ll be there through thin and through thick.”

“Ha! A comedian in every crowd.”

“I was raised by a woman who sees things she shouldn’t be able to see. I have to get my laughs somewhere.”

“God, Perry. I can’t even imagine a lifetime of dealing with that. I would think it would be so…I don’t know. Frightening?”

Perry shoved a hand through her hair, pushing the wild corkscrew curls away from her face. She had never talked to anyone about growing up with Della, about Della having to deal with the truth of her visions. Having to deal as well with both of their fears that the aftermath might one day debilitate her, leaving Perry alone again and too young to cope. Frightening was only a part of it.

“That. And interesting.” To say the least, which was all she could say for now. “I’ve gotta run. Are you sure you want to cancel?”

“Definitely,” Claire said, and Perry could almost hear the other woman nod. “But let’s do dinner one night this week.”

“Cookies for dessert?”

“What else?” Claire asked, laughing and adding, “I’ll call you,” before ringing off.

Once she had, Perry was left with no reason to stay at the counter. And even if she’d had tons of work to do there, curiosity would still have gotten the better of her. It wasn’t every day a man who looked like the one an aisle over walked into the shop.

She climbed down from the stool, closed the leather appointment book and stored it on end next to the cash register she locked out of habit. Then, smoothing down her skirt and the hem of her paisley-print poet’s blouse, she hooked the key ring on her index finger and went to check him out.

He was well worth checking out. The hint of gray had fooled her from a distance; he was no older than his late thirties, she guessed. He wore jeans and Reeboks with his hoodie. The neckband of a white T-shirt showed above the eyelets where the drawstrings hung loose.

He stood studying a display of ground marble and resin figurines representing the twelve astrological signs, designed by a local artisan. He held a Taurus bull in one hand, an Aries ram in the other. Perry wondered if she should read anything into his selections or just let it go.

She nodded toward the figurines. “Those are one of our most popular items. The artist has made quite a name for herself here. A true hometown success story.”

He didn’t glance up right away. Instead, he silently returned both items to the antique cherry cabinet. Then he turned and stared down at Perry until she was certain she would never again be able to breathe—she who had never been susceptible to the buff and chiseled type.

His eyes were gray, a dark pewter with silver specks. Up close, his lashes appeared even longer than they had from a distance. His eyes were amazing, gorgeous—as was his denim-and-cotton-covered build—but his expression scared her to death.

“May I help you?” she asked when the silence had gone on for too long.

“Della Brazille?”

Uh-oh. “Who’s inquiring?”

“Me. And I’m here to make sure you keep your hocus-pocus fingers out of the Eckhardt kidnapping.”



RED AND BLACK. Welts and bruises. Cuts and scrapes and raw purple skin. An arm. A hand. A missing finger.

The ring. It should be there. A class ring. A sports ring. Heavy and gold. It had been there before.

The watch remained. Platinum links. Multiple dials. The edge of a sleeve.

Torn, not cut, and stained with a rust color that had once been blood. Nothing more. Nothing else.

Only slices of light, crosshatched shadows, herringbone in yellow and blue. And so much watery, fluid green.

Della opened her eyes and sat up, pulling the bed’s periwinkle chenille coverlet to her chin. She blinked slowly and let out a breath of relief. The pain was gone. She felt empty, spent…strangely weak and fragile.

Forty-eight years old and she ached like an ancient crone. It was enough to make her laugh. Except laughing would expend energy she didn’t have to spare.

She scooted to the side of the bed, tugged down the hem of her fine lawn nightgown, and sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the mattress while picking up the bedside phone and dialing the NOPD.

“Operations.”

“Detective Franklin, please.” She waited thirty seconds before he came on the line.

“Franklin.”

“Book. It’s Della,” she said, and hurried on. “They’ve cut off his finger. He was wearing a ring. A college bowl ring maybe? I can’t say.” She tucked the coverlet tighter. “I can only see the shape. The edge of the insignia.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“He’s still wearing a watch. And I think I see ropes.”

“Della.” Book’s voice was firm, caring. “Hang on to it. I’m on my way.”




2


“EXCUSE ME?”

Jack was pretty damn sure he hadn’t stuttered. But just to be certain…

He pulled from his back pocket the newspaper he’d folded to the headline and dared her to deny her meddlesome ways. “The case is my business, got it? My business. Not yours.”

She didn’t even glance at the paper. She crossed her arms over her chest. She said nothing.

She was an intriguing little thing. Looked a lot like a gypsy. Black curls hanging in a cloud around a heart-shaped face. Big dark eyes and a bow of a mouth that meant business. About five foot eight—though the way she was staring him down, he wouldn’t be surprised if she thought herself ten feet tall.

“Well?” he finally asked. She’d obviously gone mute.

“Well what?” Her eyes flashed.

A reaction, though not much of one. He’d have preferred an admission or a denial. Either one would make it easier to gauge his next step. “Are you going to back off or not?”

“Let’s see.” She held up one finger after another, counting off her list. “You’ve been sarcastic, rude, demanding. You’ve come into my place of business and ordered me around, not even bothering to tell me who you are. And you want me to back off?”

Hands now at her hips, she shook her head, summing up the situation with a loud snort and an even louder, “Get the hell out of here.”

Jack sighed, rubbed a hand over his forehead where the ache that had started three days ago in Austin remained.

“My name is Jack Montgomery,” he said, returning the newspaper to his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He showed the woman his driver’s license and identification card. “I’m a private investigator.”

She barely even glanced at his ID. “Good for you. But you’re in the Big Easy now, cher. Those won’t even get you a bowl of gumbo.”

His Texas card. Stupid. His Louisiana paperwork was in his computer case out in his Yukon, but she didn’t give him time to explain. She turned and started to walk away. He didn’t even think.

He reached out and grabbed her upper arm. “Della, wait.”

She jerked free, glared over her shoulder. “I’m not Della.”

What?

“I’m Della.”

At the sound of the second female voice, deeper, almost musical, Jack looked up. Standing behind the shop’s counter at the foot of the staircase that opened there, stood the most stunning woman he’d ever seen.

She was older than the one he’d mistaken her for, but he doubted she’d yet reached fifty. She was slender and barefoot, dressed in what looked like silk pajamas in gold and black. Her hair, a dark honey brown, had been pulled up into a knot already tumbling loose.

Her skin was a translucent porcelain, and he was so glad he wasn’t saying any of this out loud because he sounded as fruity as one of the Queer Eye TV guys. Or so he imagined, since he’d never seen their show.

More than anything, though, he found himself caught by and unable to look away from her eyes. They were large, the irises purple, her expression serene even while he swore her stare was scrambling his brain like so many bad eggs.

“She does that to everyone.”

He blinked, looked back at the gypsy. “What?”

“Della is my aunt, and you’re not the first man she’s turned into a drooling fool.”

“I’m not drooling,” he said, swiping the cuff of his sweatshirt over his chin.

“Perry, Book is on his way over,” Della said, heading toward a beaded curtain hiding a door at the rear of the shop. “I’m making brunch. Spinach omelets, I think. Bring your friend.”

The beads gave off a tinkling singsong sound as they settled. Neverland. No. La-la land. That’s where he was. The funny farm. Where life was beautiful…

“Are you coming?”

This from the same woman—Perry—who’d ordered him off the property minutes before. “I thought you wanted me out of here.”

She twisted her mouth as if she couldn’t decide between smiling and snapping. Like a turtle. Clamping down on his nose and tearing it right off his face. “I do. But obviously Della doesn’t.”

“And she always gets her way?” He’d seen her. He didn’t doubt for a minute that she did.

“You’ll be able to figure that out for yourself soon enough.”

It was exactly what he wanted—personal access, an in—yet he couldn’t make himself take the first step. He’d been battling strange feelings about the case since taking it on.

And these two women weren’t doing a damn thing to settle the uncertainty. They were, in fact, making things worse.

Making things…weird.

Perry took a step toward the door through which Della had disappeared, holding aside the strands of blue beads. “C’mon. You don’t want to miss Della’s omelets. And I know you’re not going to want to miss comparing notes with Book.”

Jack tensed at the twist of the be-careful-what-you-wish-for screw. “Who’s Book?”

“He’s a detective with the NOPD.” Perry gave the screw one last tightening turn. “And he believes every word Della says to be the truth.”



DETECTIVE BOOK FRANKLIN parked his unmarked car in the alley where a small courtyard backed up to Sugar Blues. He’d met Della Brazille right here two years ago, and nothing about his life had been the same.

He didn’t know anyone who was a bigger skeptic or cynic than he was, and so he had a hard time explaining to his co-workers—he didn’t have anyone outside the force he called a friend; he’d tried, but nobody understood a cop’s hours and drive but another cop—why he jumped when Della called.

He shouldn’t have jumped. He shouldn’t have believed in her sight, or believed her visions meant anything, that they were more than nightmares or a fertile imagination seeking attention.

He lived in New Orleans. He’d run into plenty of psychics fitting that bill.

Straightening his tie as he made for the kitchen door, Book couldn’t help remembering the first time he’d seen her here at the back entrance to Sugar Blues. There’d been a break-in and murder in the next building over, the security there no better than here.

She’d been sitting on the wall of the central fountain, soaking wet, wearing a silky camisole and thin drawstring pants. No shoes, nothing beneath. As if she’d pulled on the clothes without thinking of anything but what she’d seen. Hell, she might as well have been naked, wearing clothing that was plastered to her skin with the temperature in the forties.

When she’d told him about it, he’d thought she was relating details of a dream. Or that she’d been stoned out of her mind and tripping.

Perry had arrived minutes later, bundled her aunt up and, in the kitchen over hot coffee for him and herbal tea for both women, had explained Della’s gift of sight. He’d taken careful notes, still doubting he was doing more than recording a bunch of BS.

But the BS has paid off. Della had seen specifics about the perps’ flight and spree that had followed. It had been enough for Book and his partner to use in their ongoing investigation. It had been enough to help them eventually nail the bastards’ theft ring.

It had been enough to make Book believe.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to have a certain reporter’s throat once he was finished here. Della’s work on the Eckhardt kidnapping wasn’t yet public because there wasn’t yet an official case. Not in New Orleans anyway. She wasn’t even positive it was Eckhardt.

She’d come to him with what she’d seen, and he’d taken the information and made the Texas connection himself. No one else in operations should have known about his inquiry. Meaning, Book had a big, fat internal leak to patch.

He knocked; through the inset glass he saw Perry wave him inside. He pushed open the door without even turning the knob, a knot forming in his stomach.

“I thought you were getting that fixed.” As independent and intelligent as they were, the Brazille women were not so good with down-to-earth priorities. He’d get someone over here later today.

“Good morning, Book. I hope you’re hungry.”

At the sound of Della’s voice, he turned, his attention shifting away from Perry and the door. Della stood grating cheese, her back to the room. Beside her, a man Book had never seen before leaned against the counter.

Perry made the introductions. “Detective Book Franklin? Jack Montgomery, private eye.”

Cripes. And the day just kept going downhill.

He shook the hand Montgomery offered—a firm grip that went on seconds too long as the other man took Book’s measure. He did the same. Neither spoke, and it was Perry who finally ended the standoff with a muttered, “Oh, good grief.”

At that, Della laughed and glanced over. “Jack is here for the same reason you are, Book.”

He cursed beneath his breath. “I was hoping you hadn’t seen the paper.”

“She hasn’t,” Perry hurried to say.

“Of course I have.” Della sealed up the block of cheese in its container and handed it to Jack. “And, no,” she added as he returned the cheese to the fridge. “Jack didn’t show it to me. It was part of what I saw this morning before I called.”

“You saw the headline. But not the actual paper.”

Della nodded at Montgomery’s rhetorical statement. Book shoved his hands to his waist, his coattails flying like bat wings behind him, instead of grabbing the other man and tossing him out on his ear. “Perry, do you mind giving me a few minutes alone with Della?”

“Sure. Jack and I will wait in the shop.” She headed for the door.

Jack didn’t move. “I’d like to stay, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah. I mind. Police business.” Cocky upstart.

“Why don’t we eat and then talk, Book?” Della asked, whisking a bowl of eggs.

Book reached over and turned off the flame beneath the omelet pan. “No, we’ll talk now. And we’ll talk alone.”

He waited for Perry and Jack to leave the room before he looked to Della again. She stood in the corner where two of the aqua-tiled kitchen’s countertops formed a right angle, and her expression told him he wouldn’t like what she was going to say.

“You should have let Jack stay. He might have information you can use.”

She was right. He didn’t like it. “Does he?” he asked, his gut tightening.

“He might.”

“But you don’t know.”

“Contrary to popular belief, Book, I don’t know everything.” She pushed away from the corner and crossed in front of him, making her way to the table.

She smelled like a field of flowers, something warm and purple and soft. He followed her, took the chair beside hers, staying close. “Tell me what you do know.”

She related to him the same things she’d said on the phone earlier. This time, as he took notes, he pressed for specific details. On the ring, especially.

He’d get a sketch done and canvas area pawnshops to start. Nothing that took a lot of time away from his legitimate cases. Nothing that would get him written up for coloring outside the lines. Again.

“What is your department saying this time?”

“Not much.” He didn’t know why she asked when she already knew.

“Book, tell me the truth.”

He closed his notebook, capped his pen and returned both to his coat’s inside pocket. “We’re not officially on this case. There hasn’t been enough evidence to warrant our involvement.”

“You’re here on your own then?”

He was here because of her visions. But he was also here because of her. “It’s no different than any other time.”

She shook her head slowly. Tendrils of hair fell to curl around her face. She hooked her bare feet on the rung beneath his chair and leaned toward him, reaching out with one hand, pulling it back before he could wrap up her fingers with his.

“I never meant to be a burden to you. To cause you trouble at work, or with your peers.” She laced her hands in her lap, looking up at him as if he were the only one with the answer to her prayers. “I hope you know that.”

He shrugged, blowing it off because he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought when it came to his dealings with Della. All that mattered was that she came to no harm. “It’s no big deal. I’m more concerned with you staying safe.”

Her laugh was as light as a breath of fresh air. “I’m not in any danger. I never have been.”

“In the past, no. But this time your name is in the paper.” He was going to skin alive one particular big-mouthed leaker—especially since the leak was nothing but gossip.

He’d never talked about the Eckhardt case or about Della’s newest visions. The leak made operations a laughingstock. “I’m sorry that happened. I can see the scum is already oozing out of the woodwork.”

She laughed again and sat back. “You’re talking about Jack, I presume. Though I’m quite sure he said he came from Texas, not out of the woodwork.”

Book’s mental gears whirred too loudly for him to process more than the facts. “He’s from Texas?” Eckhardt was from Texas.

“I believe Perry said Austin. The man’s family hired him. Apparently, they’re quite unsatisfied with the progress being made through police channels.”

Montgomery showing up here like he had gave further credence to what Della had seen. Yet it still wasn’t enough for Book to open an official case. Unofficial, he could manage. “I suppose I should talk to him.”

Again, Della leaned forward. “You had the chance, you know. Before you ran the poor man out of here.”

“I don’t like the thought of you becoming a victim. Of you being exploited.” He didn’t like the idea of a lot of things when it came to Della Brazille. The biggest one being the way he hadn’t yet harnessed his balls and told her how important she was to him. “Finding Montgomery here on top of finding that headline this morning has not made for the best start to the day.”

“I know what you need.”

Oh, but she had no idea. It always left him stymied, how she could see violent crimes but never the soft spot in his heart.

Still, he shifted in his chair so that no personal space remained between them, so that when he breathed in, it was her scent filling his lungs.

“Yeah? What’s that?” he asked, his heart beating so hard in his throat he couldn’t even swallow.

“You need brunch.” She patted his knee as if he were a child, then got up to finish cooking.

All he could do was sit there and battle the urge to walk out the door.



WHAT PERRY WANTED most of all was for Jack to go away. He disturbed her, and she did not like being disturbed. Especially when, after living a rather disturbing life, she was finally feeling the calm of things going her way.

She stood at the register in Sugar Blues, having just rung up a customer. It seemed a good place to stay, what with the long, glass-topped counter between her and Jack. Because now that the two of them were alone, her senses were ringing high and loud.

He closed the book on Reiki training through which he’d been leafing and made his way to the rear of the shop. Of course, she had to notice his walk, how he moved, all lanky and long and loose. She wasn’t supposed to notice that about him, and she sure wasn’t supposed to like it.

She sighed, obviously having listened too much to Sugar singing the blues, waxing eloquent about the handsome men who’d broken her heart. Jack stopped at the counter and picked up a tiny gold incense burner. Funny how he always had to have his hands on something, stroking, fondling.

Perry groaned, catching the forward progression of her thoughts one stroke too late. “If you break it, you’ve bought it.”

“Yeah,” he said, running his thumb over the Buddha’s belly. “I saw the sign on the door. Do you really sell enough of this crap to stay in business?”

“Do you insult everyone you meet or is this special treatment only for me?”

“I just say what comes to me.”

“Open mouth, insert foot?”

He shrugged. “Guess that’s one way of looking at it.”

She barely managed to keep herself from rolling her eyes. “But not your way.”

“Sorry, no,” he said, returning the burner to the counter and reaching for her blue-plumed pen.

She moved it out of his reach before he could grab it. “Do you think you could limit your touchy-feely habit to items you’re going to buy?”

He laughed then, the sound deep and resonant like that of a bass guitar, one that vibrated through her, tickling, taunting, one she knew she was going to have a problem with if he stayed around for long.

Or not, she amended moments later, when he said, “There’s nothing about this place that I buy. Horoscopes and healings and protection charms? What a bunch of—”

“A bunch of what?” She bristled further, not quite sure why she was letting him get to her when his opinion was one she’d run up against too many times to count. “A bunch of crap? A bunch of, what did you call it earlier, hocus-pocus?”

“You’re going to tell me it’s not? That you believe—” he glanced at the cover of the book and read the copy “—I can learn how to create an electromagnetic balance all the way to the cellular level in the physical body? Just by taking a couple of classes?”

She pruned her lips, then forced them to relax. “I believe there are many things not easily explained by conventional reasoning.”

“Let me guess. You’re a big X-Files fan.”

This time she gave in, rolling her eyes. “Just my luck, stuck entertaining a smart-ass.”

“Smart enough to know the difference between what’s real and what isn’t,” he said, a brow going up and drawing her gaze to his lashes again.

“You think Detective Franklin would be here if Della’s visions were fabricated? If he didn’t have proof that what she sees is real?” Gah, but she hated finding intelligent minds closed.

“You tell me.”

“What, and waste my breath? I think I’d rather show you,” she said, having heard the faint croon of a female voice drifting down the stairs behind her.

He snorted. “I’ve been around the block, sister. I’ve pretty much seen it all.”

“Ah, but have you listened to it?”

“Listened to what?”

Perry narrowed her gaze. “If I let you come around here, do you think you can keep your hands to yourself?”

The words left her mouth before she could stop them.

His eyes flashed, specks of silver bright in the deep dark gray. He let his gaze drop from her face to her shoulders before she glared and moved behind the cash register to hide.

He laughed again, shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and walked his lazy, loose and lanky way around to where she stood.

“Better?” he asked, once he was close enough to touch…if only she had the guts to reach out.

What would be better would be to start this day over and not have him show up to disturb her. “Yes. Now listen.”

She backed toward the staircase and motioned him forward. Wariness in his expression, he did as she asked, stopping when she held up one hand.

“Listen,” she whispered, standing on one side of the stairwell opening as he stood on the other. “Tell me what you hear.”

He propped a shoulder against the wall and hung his head; she leaned into the corner, her hands stacked behind her.

The days just ain’t the same…

The walls of the stairwell that rose to the second floor were brick, and on them hung framed photos of Sugar. At clubs in the old Storyville district, performing with Jelly Roll Morton and Johnny Dodds.

The sun hangs low and hangs dark…

More Sugar Babin memorabilia remained stored in the attic. LPs and costumes. Even her famous gold cigarette case and gnarled walking stick.

The nights never end, never fade…

Perry didn’t know how Jack—how anyone—could deny the interaction between this world and those that lay beyond, when hearing Sugar sing.

Black is the color of my heart…

Nor did she understand why he wasn’t saying anything. “Well?”

Still staring down at the floor, he shrugged. “Your aunt left a radio playing?”

“No.” Perry shook her head. “That’s Sugar.”

“Another aunt?”

“This used to be where she lived. This building. She was a famous blues singer.”

“So you pipe the music into the shop for old times’ sake.”

“No. That’s Sugar singing.” She waited and waited, but his expression never changed. “She died after a suspicious fall down the stairs. These stairs,” she added, pointing.

“Then the piping’s about exploiting the legend?”

It took all her control not to stomp her foot. “Jack, there is no piping. That singing you hear is Sugar’s ghost.”




3


WHAT A LOAD of hooey. “You’re kidding me, right? A ghost?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t hear her.”

“I hear music.” He shrugged. That much was true. “It doesn’t mean I buy into any ghost story.”

Perry sighed and closed her eyes. “I should be used to this by now. I don’t know why I let it get to me.”

“Hey, it’s got to be good for business.” Jack backed up against the wall, keeping his hands in his pockets since she seemed bothered when he used them. “Adds to the woo-woo flavor of the place.”

Perry pushed away from the corner and paced the length of the counter twice before she stopped to face him. “Believe or don’t believe. It’s no skin off my nose that you’re lacking an open mind.”

His mouth twisted to the right. “Guess I played hooky the day they passed out the gene.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you played hooky several days in a row.”

That made him smile. “You think?”

“Yeah. I do.” When she tossed back her hair, the strands of colored crystals dangling from her ears twinkled, speckling her cheeks with dots of blue and gold. “You missed good manners day, for one.”

“Actually, that gene’s only loose.”

She gave him a measured glare. “There’s a toolbox on the floor of the pantry.”

“Thanks. I’ll see what I can do about tightening it up before I head out.”

“And when will that be?”

“I was hoping for brunch, at least.” He wasn’t really, considering he was still burning up inside from the gumbo. He just wasn’t ready to leave. “And maybe more time with your aunt once the detective is through.”

“I doubt she’ll be able to tell you anything useful. Her visions aren’t exactly newsreels.”

“What are they?”

Perry boosted herself up onto the stool at the cash register. “It’s hard to explain. Even to believers.”

“The listening gene?” When she arched a brow, he went on. “I was there that day. It was handed out at the same time as the one for paying attention.”

Her smile was slow to come but when it did, Jack felt as if he’d been poleaxed. It wasn’t even about her mouth—though she did have a great one that sent his mind south—as much as it was about her eyes.

They were deep and dark, more black than brown, and they were sucking him down in a hurry. They were eyes he could drown in, dangerous and dazzling, which his experience told him meant deceptive as well.

“In that case, all I can tell you is that she sees flashes,” she said, the smile fading. “Bits and pieces of clothing. Or a location. The last time she helped Book, she saw chickens.”

O-kay. “Doesn’t sound like a lot of help.”

“Oh, but it was,” she insisted, crossing one leg over the other. “The chickens she saw are only raised at two area farms. The police were able to close in quicker with that one bit of information added to what they already had.”

Interesting. And legit enough that he could easily check it out. But he still wasn’t buying the ghost. “Close in quicker on what?” When she hesitated, he prodded her with, “What was the case?”

She hopped down from the stool, turned to the counter and began to straighten the chains on a display of jeweled silver pendants. “It was infanticide, and it was ugly. If you want details, you’re going to have to check newspaper archives.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Fine. Just don’t say a word about it to Della. She doesn’t need to relive any of that.”

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. “I won’t. I promise. Pinky swear and everything.”

Her hands stilled on the pendants, and it took a minute for her to respond. When she did, it was to turn slowly and face him, to wrap her arms around her middle, to take him in from head to toe—twice—and say, “I’m not so sure I want to make a pinky swear with you.”

“Why not?” He pulled his hands from his pockets, hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, drawing her gaze.

Her throat worked as she swallowed. “With that hands-on thing you have going, I’m not sure you can keep it to just a pinky.”

She believed in ghosts and psychics and whatever the hell rune stones were, but the idea of holding his hand was too much for her? He took one step forward, offered her his little finger without saying a word.

He could tell by her hiss of breath that she was as bothered by his dare as by the thought of making physical contact, yet he was certain that what bothered her most of all was the quirk in her makeup that wouldn’t let her walk away.

Thing was, it got to him, too—her hesitation, her unease—but in a way he’d bet cold hard cash was the polar opposite of hers. Even more so, however, he was caught off guard by her eyes and her mouth, and the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had looked him over with such intensity.

She took a step toward him and lifted her hand, pinky extended. An inch and no more separated their fingers. At least an inch of actual, measurable space. What couldn’t be measured was everything else keeping them apart. The unspoken words and the private thoughts and the truth of this step they were taking.

Then, before he could say anything or form another thought or even define what this particular truth was, she hooked him, her finger grabbing his and pulling tight. He grabbed harder, holding her there even when she gave a half-hearted tug for freedom.

“See?” She glared. “I knew you couldn’t keep up your end of the bargain.”

“Remind me again of the terms,” he said, close enough to see the spattering of freckles on her nose that she’d powdered away.

Close enough to smell the herbs in her shampoo, the coffee she’d had in the kitchen, her skin. “I’ve totally forgotten what—”

A loud crash came from the rear of the building—breaking glass, a thud—followed by Della’s sharp cry, the detective’s sharper curse and the whack of a door bouncing open on its hinges.

Perry nearly took off Jack’s arm as she jerked her hand free from his and ran through the beaded curtain toward the kitchen.

He was right behind, and he heard her gasp when she stopped. He also came close to mowing her down. His hands on her shoulders steadied them both as they stared at the scene that had her shaking.

The back door stood wide open, the window shattered, shards of glass scattered across the floor. Detective Franklin was nowhere to be seen, while Della was in the process of boosting herself up onto the counter beside the sink to rinse blood from her foot.

“Oh, my God, Della.” Perry rushed forward, broken glass crunching beneath her ankle boots. “What happened? Where’s Book? Are you all right?”

“There. On the floor.” Her hand shaking, Della pointed to the kitchen table. Jack saw what appeared to be a brick wrapped in newspaper. “Book said to leave it. He ran out to look for suspects.”

“Why would anyone throw a brick through our window?” Perry’s voice vibrated with anger and righteous concern. “Let me look at your foot.”

Della turned on the water, sucking in a breath. “I jumped to dodge the brick, lost my balance and misstepped. I’ll be fine. But I’m quite sure when Book unwraps it from the newspaper, we’ll find this morning’s headline inside.”

“Someone is taking the story seriously,” Jack said, feeling powerless when he was used to being in charge. “Where’s your broom?”

“The closet next to the pantry,” Perry said, waving him in that direction. “This is going to need stitches.”

“Book said not to touch anything,” Della insisted, though that didn’t stop Jack.

“He can sweep up the glass,” Book replied, coming back in through the door and snapping open his handkerchief. “I want to bag the brick and the paper in case we luck out and pick up any trace.”

Trace? On something as innocuous as a broken window? Jack wondered how deeply the detective thought this case ran. Or if his attention was also personal.

“You think someone involved in the kidnapping is trying to keep Della out of the picture?” Perry asked, pulling a first aid kit from the drawer next to the sink.

“At the very least,” Book said, dropping the brick into the paper bag Jack handed him from the pantry and turning to Della. “A patrol car’s on the way. The officers will interview for witnesses. I want to get this bag to the lab, and the sooner I get it there—”

“Go, Book. Do what you need to do,” Della said, grimacing as Perry wrapped her foot in gauze. “Perry can take me to the clinic to get this taken care of.”

“Let me lock up the shop,” Perry said, hurriedly heading that way. “Kachina is scheduled to come in today at two. We’ll just close up until then.”

“Kachina?” Jack asked.

“One of my employees,” Della said, holding her injured foot in her lap as she waited for her niece to return.

Detective Franklin crossed the room, wrapped his arm around her and helped her down. “I’ll have one of the officers stay here until you get back.”

“No need,” Jack said. This he could do. “I’ll stay and get started on prepping to replace the glass.”

“Jack, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” he said, cutting Della off. “I want to.”

“This way he’ll have a legitimate excuse to snoop,” Perry said, walking back into the kitchen, keys jangling in one hand. She stared at him, daring his denial.

He didn’t give her one. All he said was, “The only thing I’ll be snooping for is the toolbox. Which I remember you telling me was on the pantry floor.”

“Listen, Jack. How about measuring to replace the whole door?” the detective asked after a telling pause. “The hinges and knob are shot. The wood is warped, and the whole thing is barely hanging on the frame.”

“Not a problem.” Jack swept the glass into a dustpan, dumping it into the trash. Perry was right, even while she was wrong. The repairs would give him a reason to hang around, which would give Della—hopefully—incentive to talk. “I’ll pick up what I need when everyone’s back.”

“Jack, I can’t ask you to do that,” Della protested as both Book and Perry helped her to the door.

“You’re not asking me to do anything.” He stored the broom in the closet, pulled out the canister vacuum to give the floor a thorough once-over, raising his hand in an answering farewell to Book’s nod of thanks.

Then he turned his attention to Perry, who had lingered behind. “I won’t leave the kitchen while you’re gone. I won’t answer the phone. I won’t snoop in cabinets. I won’t touch a thing but the door.”

He laughed to himself at the suspicious look with which she left him. But she truly had nothing to worry about. Getting the door replaced before nightfall would take all of his time. Besides, he’d much rather get the goods he needed directly from the women involved.

Especially the wild-haired gypsy.



HAVING SETTLED DELLA INTO her room’s chintz-covered chaise lounge with a pot of tea, a romance novel and a pillow beneath her foot, Perry headed back to the kitchen to check on Jack’s progress.

Three hours after leaving, she and her aunt had arrived home from the clinic—Della with eighteen stitches across the ball of her foot—to find him anxious to hit the hardware store. Giving him directions to the store she used, Della sent Jack on his way with her credit card, then called the manager to tell him to expect him.

Jack’s having arrived in New Orleans driving an SUV meant Perry hadn’t needed to find a truck to borrow, or wait to have the store deliver the new door—not to mention the fact that his being in the right place at the right time meant no exorbitant bill for emergency labor.

Jack Montgomery was turning out to be handy to have around, and she wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Her father had been the only man she’d ever had in her life, and she’d lost him when she was ten. She’d come here to live with her aunt after her parents’ death, and Della had ignored her childish whining and constant pleas to send her to public school.

Instead, her aunt had honored her parents’ wishes, and Perry had spent the next eight years attending an all-girls private academy. After graduation, she’d taken a few courses at Loyola University, but never felt as if she and higher education made a good fit.

Hardly a revelation, considering the instruction she’d received from Della. Growing up under her tutelage was like sitting and learning at a master’s feet—the main drawback being the social isolation and the lack of opportunities to mingle with men.

Stepping from the stairwell into the shop, Perry found herself puttering behind the counter instead of returning to the kitchen—a classic case of avoiding the man she’d left there. At least she was honest in not trying to fool herself that it was anything else.

She hated her obvious attraction to Jack because she wasn’t sure what to do next. The men she had dated while attending university classes—boys, really, weren’t they?—had given her a rather lopsided look at the opposite sex. Dating for them had been about how far they could get her to go.

With her aunt being a veritable French Quarter legend, Perry had earned the status of trophy lay once her name had become known. Even more humiliating had been finding out that because she wasn’t laying anyone, she was ranked number one on the campus virgin watch.

And that was funny because she’d lost her virginity the summer before her freshman year to the only good man she’d ever known. Gary had not seen her as anyone but who she was. He’d loved her. He’d made love to her. He’d taught her about herself, things she could never have learned from her aunt because they were all about her enjoyment of sharing her life—and her body—with a man.

They’d spent a wonderful six months together—the best she’d even known. But then a job offer had taken Gary, who’d been eight years older, to Seattle. They were at different places in their lives, he’d told her. Devastated, she’d risen to the occasion with a surprising maturity, reminding him of her obligation to Della keeping her in New Orleans and wishing him all the best while her heart crumbled.

Allowing herself to dwell on what might have been with Gary, or later, on the bets being made behind her back, had been a waste of time. University had been the same, and so she’d moved on. For ten years now, she’d managed Sugar Blues, a full circle that brought her back to a life spent in the company of women—not such a bad thing, she supposed. Della didn’t seem to have suffered for living her life alone.

Then again, she had definitely been filled with joie de vivre since Detective Book Franklin had arrived on the scene. Strange, but Perry had always thought Della shied away from relationships because of her gift—not because she hadn’t found a man to hold her interest.

And, of course, that brought Perry’s mind back to Jack. She stopped futzing with the layout of the counter’s incense cones and took a deep breath, forcing her feet to move. She walked into the kitchen to Jack bearing the brunt of the door’s weight on one shoulder.

“Hey, there you are,” he said. “Could you hand me that hammer?”

“Sure,” she answered without thinking, adding, “The claw or the ball pin?”

“Either one’ll work,” he said, taking it from her hand with a wink. “Gotta love a woman who knows her way around tools.”

She ignored the double entendre. “This is a do-it-yourself sort of household.”

“You live here, too, then?”

She shook her head, leaned against the counter nearest the doorway, shivering a bit from the breeze. “I used to. Not anymore. I have a townhouse near Jackson Square.”

“Hmm. I was down there earlier.” Whack! Whack! “Ate lunch at a place called Café Eros. Actually, that’s where I picked up the newspaper.”

Did she dare tell him? It wasn’t like she was unlisted or anything. “Actually, that’s where I live. The Court du Chaud. The café sits at the entrance.”

“Small world, huh?”

Too small, she wanted to say. But she didn’t say anything because as he lifted the old door free, she was caught by the ripple of muscles across his back.

He’d pulled off his hoodie since his return from the store and was now working in his T-shirt and jeans. The heavier garment had covered his upper physique; the white cotton T-shirt covered it in a way that was all about showing it off.

When he reached up, the shirt went with him, baring a strip of skin above his belt. Not more than an inch, maybe only a half, there at the small of his back. It was enough. She forgot to breathe for so long that her lungs burned when she finally filled them.

She was so out of her league.

“I can always leave,” she said, hoping he’d agree. Please let him agree. If she stayed even a few minutes longer, it was going to be too long. It was going to be too late. “If you have the place to yourself, you can work without being distracted.”

“I’d rather you stay.” Whack! Whack! “I like the way you distract me.”

No, no, no. After that infamous pinky swear, flirting from this man was one thing she did not need. “If I distract you, it will take you longer to get finished. If I leave you alone, you’ll be done and out of here in no time.”

He turned then, resting the door against the frame. His T-shirt had hiked up in the front as well. The strip of skin bared there was just as sleek and tight as the other, only this one was marked down the center by a line of dark hair.

“Is this about protecting your aunt? Or is there another reason you want me out of here?” He stepped away from the door, crouched at the toolbox left open on the floor. “It’s obvious you think I’m here to hurt her. Or use her. Which I’m not.”

Perry hopped up to sit on the counter. “You came in guns blazing. Whether or not you meant to hurt her isn’t the point.”

Jack’s mouth twisted. “Bad first impression, huh?”

“Oh, yeah.” She nodded. “So bad.”

“Well,” he said, picking up a paint scraper, discarding an awl. “I’m doing my best here to make amends.”

She remained silent, and that caused him to look up from where he’d been searching through the tools.

His eyes glittered. The shadow of his beard appeared darker from this angle. Dark and sexy, giving him an edgy sense of heat. It was a look that was predatory—not one she’d expect in a handyman.

Then again, that’s not what he was, was it?

“Della is the only family I have. Protecting her is what I do.” And it wasn’t a need to protect based on some misplaced sense of failing to keep her parents safe.

Perry didn’t know what she’d do if she lost Della.

Jack got to his feet. “There’s nothing wrong with being protective. I may be skeptical about ghosts and psychics—”

“Skeptical or disbelieving?”

His expression spoke before he did. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

“And you don’t think that hurts her?” This is what no one seemed to get. Della didn’t spend her time casually tossing around her visions like discount coupons for anyone interested in what she was selling.

Her visions were who she was. Rejecting her gift equaled rejecting her.

And Perry knew exactly the hurt that caused her aunt, no matter Della’s stiff upper lip.

Jack turned back to the door, knocking loose chips and clumps of decades-old paint. “I’m not a physical threat. Whether or not I buy into what she says she sees—”

“Jack! This isn’t about what she says. It’s about what she sees. Do you not get that? It’s real. The police have been able to use her visions. That’s also real.”

He threw the scraper at the toolbox; it clattered across the kitchen floor, but she doubted he even noticed. He was busy with the old door, picking it up and hefting it outside where she heard it splinter across the courtyard.

She started to jump down from the counter, was stopped when he swung out of the doorway toward her and blocked her with his hands on the counter at her hips.

His chest heaved. His pulse throbbed at his temples. The tendons in his neck stood in sharp relief, and she swore his nostrils flared.

She didn’t know this man at all, yet she didn’t feel the least bit afraid. Only curious as to what her words had set off inside him.

“Listen to me, Perry. There is only one thing here that’s real,” he said, his tone harsh, his words measured. He held her gaze for several long seconds. She didn’t flinch, and he held it still.

But then the tic in his jaw lessened, and the sense of imminent explosion faded away. He dropped his gaze from hers to the charm she wore around her neck. And when he spoke again he did so with a bit of a tremor in his voice.

“The only thing real right now is that I’ve got a door to fix and not much daylight left to do it. So, yeah. You’re right. It’s probably best if I finish up without you around to distract me.”




4


JACK ENDED UP spending the night in his sleeping bag on Della Brazille’s kitchen floor. Perry had left him alone to finish the door as he’d requested, never breathing another word.

She’d stayed in the shop until closing time—he’d heard her chatting with customers and with the woman he supposed was Kachina—returning to the kitchen around seven to make soup and sandwiches for herself and her aunt.

She’d carried the meal upstairs on a tray, leaving him a sandwich in the refrigerator next to a bowl of soup.

He hadn’t even known they were there, had only found them when he’d decided to scrounge for a bite, and took the offering as a sign that she’d forgiven him for blowing up at her earlier in the day. He certainly hadn’t meant to, and had only exhaustion and frustration to blame.

He owed Perry an apology. He’d deliver it tomorrow, having stayed the night because he couldn’t get the door lock to hold. He’d fought the deadbolt until after midnight, but needed tools neither he nor the Brazille women had on hand. Detective Franklin had been right about the state of the door, but the building’s brick walls weren’t so shabby.

Besides, the new door needed a coat of paint, and he’d have to check with the owners on that tomorrow. If he ever saw either one of them again. If they even let him stick around to finish the job. If they didn’t decide he was only staying to snoop, and kick him to the curb.

He shouldn’t have gone off on Perry the way he had. Didn’t it just figure that the anger he tried to keep buried would come back to life in a haunted house owned by a psychic? One who used her supposed visions to help the police—and whose niece Jack wouldn’t mind sharing his sleeping bag with.

He couldn’t help it. Ever since that ridiculous pinky swear, all he could think about was her eyes. Okay. Not so much just her eyes. Her mouth was an equally big part of his lust. He wanted to kiss her, but not half as much as he wanted to feel her mouth on his body.

She’d noticed his hands-on habit, commented on it more than once. What she didn’t know—couldn’t know—was how much he ached to have a woman’s hands on him. It had been a long time since he’d spent enough time in bed with a woman to give her the chance to touch him. Usually he was in and out and on his way before he had a chance to think.

He wanted to feel Perry’s hands, her long, strong fingers, her palms, the nails she kept short. But lying here on his back, his head pillowed on his stacked wrists, staring up at the kitchen ceiling with sweat slick on his skin, was not the time or place to be working himself up. Especially since what he wanted from her went beyond the physical.

Her loyalty to her aunt said a lot about the woman Perry was. He had yet to learn much more, but he liked that particular detail—even if it was a big part of why, as long as he was here, he knew they’d continue to butt heads.

So far, Perry had seemed unwilling to consider that he might have a reason to doubt what she held to be the truth. And since he wasn’t exactly in touch with his feminine side and prone to blurt out his feelings, well, they’d have to figure out how best to come to a meeting of the minds.

Because it had to happen. What he wanted to know was how Della Brazille was connected to Dayton Eckhardt. And he wasn’t leaving until he got the answers he’d come to New Orleans to get.

He had just closed his eyes and was drifting off when he heard the beaded curtain between the shop and the kitchen jangle as someone walked through. Since no one knew he’d made himself at home in the kitchen, he sat up.

And as soon as he saw the dark cloud of Perry’s hair turned to a bright blue-black by the light from the sink’s window, he made himself known. “Perry, don’t freak. I’m camped out by the door.”

The tray of dishes she was carrying didn’t even rattle when she set it on the counter. “I thought you might be. Your SUV’s still outside.”

Why was he not surprised? “You’ve been watching for me to leave?”

“Not for you to leave. Just watching.” She set the plates and bowls in the sink, rinsed and dried the tray.

He thought about getting to his feet, helping out, seeing if he could steer the conversation where he wanted it by showing her that he was as handy when it came to doing dishes as he was with replacing doors.

But then he thought better.

She’d been watching to see if he’d left. She knew that he hadn’t, and yet here she was. Not scared, not running away. He hadn’t forgotten about that pinky swear made behind the counter in Sugar Blues, and was pretty damn sure that was a big part of Perry being here now.

Here in the dark, in the middle of the night, with no one else around to talk her out of anything. And so he stayed where he was and waited to see what she had on her mind. In another minute, she surprised the hell out of him by joining him on the floor.

Resting against a wall of cabinets, she pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them. She was wearing a full skirt again, this one printed with the reds, yellows, oranges and browns of autumn. Gold threads outlining the leaves sparkled where they were spun.

She cleared her throat, breathed deeply. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this except that it’s what I had wanted to tell you before.”

When she paused, he shifted to sit straighter. “I’m listening.”

“I almost think it’s easier to talk to you in the dark,” she said, laughing so softly he strained to hear.

He tried to set her at ease. “I’ve been told I’m hard on the eyes.”

“Then you’ve been lied to,” she replied without hesitation. “You are very…disturbing. You make me forget what I’m trying to say.”

He filed away the ammunition to use later, waited for her to go on.

“Here’s the thing, Jack,” she said, when she finally did. “I’ve lived with Della since I was ten years old. I’ve seen how she suffers because of this gift.”

“Physically?”

She nodded. Her face remained in shadow; he saw the movement in the light through her hair. “Killer migraines that exhaust her for days. And then there’s the worry over the meaning of what she sees. Whether or not a life might be lost if no one can make sense of her visions.”

“Does that actually happen?”

“We have no way of knowing.”

Made sense, he supposed. “If there’s nothing she can do or control, then it seems like a waste to worry.”

“A waste of what?”

He shrugged, uncertain how far beneath the surface the ice in her voice ran. “Her energy? Her time?”

“Della’s not like that. She’s not so…cruel.”

“It’s practical, not cruel.”

Again with the shake of the head. “I knew you wouldn’t get it.”

He wasn’t being hardheaded on purpose. It was just that he didn’t put stock in what he couldn’t see, what he couldn’t touch. “Try me. Start from the beginning. You said you went to live with Della when you were ten.”

“Yes. After my parents’ death.”

Wow. Not good. “That must’ve been tough, losing them both, being so young.”

She tugged her skirt tighter over her knees. “It was. I was pretty confused for a while. But Della had always been a big part of my life, almost more like my older sister than my father’s younger one.”

“Anyone else in the family…special?”

“You mean psychic?” she asked, when he bobbled the word. “Your true colors are showing, Jack.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide them.” Honest enough. He was who he was and knew quite well where he’d come from, what experiences had made him, which ones he would always regret. “’Course I doubt they’re as bright as that skirt you’re wearing.”

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

Was that what he was doing? “I was just saying—”

“You were not saying. You were totally avoiding having the word psychic come out of your mouth.”

“I believe in what I can see, what I can hear and taste and smell and get my hands on.”

She gave a snort. “Especially that hands part.”

He wasn’t going to deny it. “You grew up exposed to your aunt’s visions. I wouldn’t expect you to do anything but defend her.”

She cocked her head to one side, let go of her knees and straightened out her legs beside his. “And what were you exposed to growing up? What happened to close your mind so completely?”

Life, he wanted to say. Deception and lies and bone-deep betrayal. Instead, he tossed back the top of the sleeping bag. He wanted to see if she would move away without the barrier between her legs and his.

But she stayed where she was, waiting, and he ended up giving her some of what she wanted to know, leaving out what he knew about cruelty. “I was exposed to baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and the United States Marine Corps. And my mind, as far as I can tell, is wide open. Not sure I’d still be here, otherwise.”

Her bracelets jingled softly as she toyed with the fabric of her skirt. “I thought you were here because of the door.”

“I thought you were here to do dishes.”

“They’ll still be there in the morning.”

“So will the door.” And since they were on an honesty roll…“What’s the relationship between your aunt and Dayton Eckhardt?”

That brought her head up. “Why do you think there is one?”

“She’s seeing him.” He shrugged. “Or at least things related to him.”

Perry’s snort told him what she thought of that. “She saw things related to last summer’s killings. That didn’t mean she had a relationship with the psycho.”

Jack still wasn’t buying it. “The headline was designed to put her in the limelight. Why?”

“Unwanted limelight, and how should I know?” She raised her voice. “I had nothing to do with it.”

He pushed harder. “The brick, then. Why would anyone feel the need to warn her off?”

“Maybe because they don’t like her being in the limelight, either.”

More like they didn’t want the kidnapping in the limelight, and the headline gave them the connection to Della. That connection was the key. The big fat who, where, when, how and why. “We’re dealing with two separate elements here.”

“How so?”

“The brick is an obvious warning. What I want to know is, why the headline? Who would benefit from Della’s exposure?”

“A reporter looking for a scoop?”

“But there’s been no hard evidence of Eckhardt crossing into Louisiana. The authorities in Texas are still operating under the assumption that they’ll find him on their side of the state line. Unless…”

“Unless what?” she prodded.

“Unless the reporter knows better.” Jack grabbed for his duffel bag, pulled out a flashlight and the newspaper.

He scanned the story that was nothing but the facts of the case gleaned from the ongoing investigation in Texas, coupled with a larger profile of Eckton Computing’s roots in New Orleans, and the industry buzz about a new software system that would blow competitors away.

“Do you want me to turn on the light?” Perry asked.

He shook his head. “No, this is fine. This reporter, Dawn Taylor. The name ring a bell?”

“Not at all, but I’ll ask Della in the morning.”

Morning. Crap. It was the middle of the night. He’d been about to head to the Times-Picayune offices. He stored the paper, waited to switch off the flashlight. “I’ll go talk to Ms. Taylor before I pick up your paint.”

“Paint?”

“For the door. I’m assuming you’ll want blue?”

She gave him another soft laugh in response. “I’ll have to ask Della about that, too. I don’t live here anymore, remember?”

But she had lived here once with the woman who’d raised her. No wonder she seemed perfectly at home. “Do you stay here often?”

“Not really, though I still have a room upstairs. Lately I’ve been here a lot, but that’s because of Della not feeling well.”

“Guess that puts a strain on the business.”

She laughed at that. “Only because we have to scramble to reschedule her appointments. Trust me. Della’s clients are that loyal. They’ll wait. In the meantime, the shop does a great business, and Kachina has her own fanatical following.”

She paused, and when he didn’t respond, she went on, chuckling beneath her breath. “Welcome to N’Awlins, Jack Montgomery. You’re sleeping on the kitchen floor of a woman who’s a local legend.”

A state of things he would never understand.

“Though you know,” Perry continued, scrambling to her feet, her bracelets tinkling, her skirt sweeping over him and the floor. “There is a single bed you could use. It’s around the corner and down the hall from the bathroom. In the utility room.” She held out her hand. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”

He took her hand, not needing the help, just wanting to touch her, and stood. “It’s better that I stay here. The door lacking a lock and all.”

She waved off the offer. “Book has a patrol car making extra rounds, you know.”

“And you know it wouldn’t take a lot of brains to watch and time a break-in,” he said, still holding on to her hand.

She seemed to realize it at the same time, and her fingers stiffened. She pulled free, though with a hint of reluctance, and walked through the dark room to the sink where she washed the dishes she’d left there.

Jack watched her, the unhurried movements of her hands in the running water, the light from the moon spilling through the sink’s window and giving him a better look at the tank top she wore.




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