“Terrific,” he muttered.
The fire escape stairs led to a narrow courtyard littered with empty clay pots, a single upended garbage can and a crumbling old fountain that had long since seen its glory days. Deserted and poorly lit, it was the perfect place for an ambush . . .
“So, do I pass home security 101?”
He closed the door and turned to her. She was standing a few feet away, watching him with those gypsy eyes. She’d taken her shoes off, and he could see that her toe-nails were painted an intriguing shade of burgundy, that her feet were every bit as sexy as the rest of her. And he found himself wishing the kitchen wasn’t quite so small . . .
“You get points for locking the doors,” he said. “Not that any of these locks would hold.”
“That’s a comfort.”
He thought about the courtyard. “You don’t use the back door, do you?”
“Only when I’m in a hurry and need to cut over to Bourbon Street.”
“Points off for that.” He frowned at her. “I don’t want you using the alley at all. At least until the letters stop.”
She bit her lip. “What if they don’t stop?”
Because he didn’t want to make promises he couldn’t keep, he didn’t answer. “I made a list of repairs and other work you need to have done. I’ll contact a locksmith tomorrow and have them replace your locks. I should be able to get an alarm company out here in the next day or so.” He thought of the fishing trip he’d had planned, realized he could make the calls in the morning and be at the cabin by afternoon . . .
“So, just how hard do I need to be looking over my shoulder, John?” she asked.
He met her gaze levelly. “Just be aware, Julia. Your surroundings. The people around you. You need to take this guy seriously.”
She pursed her lips. “Okay. I can do that.”
He knew it was stupid, but he was feeling territorial and a little protective of her. He wanted to believe it was because he’d known her since she was a chubby kid with braces. Because her father had asked him to look after her. Because she was an innocent in a world full of wolves. But if John wanted to be perfectly and bluntly honest about it, he knew that hard edge of territoriality had more to do with the way that suit swept over curves even a saint would have a hard time resisting.
He sure as hell never claimed to be a saint.
But he was smart enough to know that things would work out better for both of them if he put her in somebody else’s hands. He was in no frame of mind to keep anyone safe from anything. He needed some time alone to get his head together and decide what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
He was pulling his notepad from his jacket pocket to make a note about the alarm when the lights flickered and went out. “What the hell happened to the lights?” he growled.
“It’s a fuse. Happens sometimes.”
“Don’t tell me. It’s original to the building.”
“I don’t think they had elec—”
John made a sound of exasperation. “Jesus, Julia, I don’t have to mention that this could be a small security problem, do I?”
“Don’t start yelling at me. I have no control over what my landlord does or does not do.”
“Yeah, well, if your landlord won’t repair the electrical for you, maybe he’ll do it for the city inspector.” He moved toward the sink, where dim light slanted in through the window, only to knock his shin hard against something heavy and sharp. “Son of a—”
“Oh, sorry. I forgot about that bookcase. I’m refinishing—”
Cursing, he rubbed the bump that had come up on his shin. “How the hell do you get your electricity back on?”
“The fuse box is in the storage room. I just need to grab my flashlight and a new fuse and go downstairs to screw it in.”
Annoyed, John shoved the bookcase out of the way with a tad too much force. He could hear Julia moving around a few feet away. The sound of a drawer opening. The shuffle of paper. A resonant click sounded, and then a beam of yellow light cut through the darkness.
When she shone the beam between them to illuminate their faces, a teasing smile curved her lips. “You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”
Not amused, he held out his hand for the flashlight. “I have no desire to break my friggin’ leg on some damn bookcase. I can’t believe you put up with this crap.”
“This building is historical,” she said a little defensively. “Mrs. Langston, my landlord, is trying to preserve as much of it as possible.”
“Preserve her wallet maybe.”
She shoved the flashlight at him. “Be careful on the steps. I wouldn’t want you to fall and break your neck.”
“Funny.” John took the flashlight, crossed the living room and opened the door into the hall. The wooden steps creaked as they descended the stairs. He could hear Julia behind him. Beyond, the shop was as silent as a tomb. Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets, and he could hear the hard ping of raindrops against the roof. At the bottom of the stairs he opened the door to the storage room.
“Where’s the fuse box?” he asked.
“To your right.”
John shone the light to his right in time to see Julia step up to a rusty metal electrical box mounted on the wall. “Don’t tell me,” he said dryly. “It’s an antique.”
“Some people have no appreciation for the ancient.”
“Especially when it’s a pain in the ass.”
“This will just take a second.”
John held the flashlight while she worked off her jacket, draped it over a metal chair, then opened the metal box mounted on the wall and unscrewed the spent fuse. He tried to hold the beam steady on the box, but his attention kept drifting back to her. To the way that sweater flowed over curves he had no right to be noticing at a time like this.
“Do you mind?”
Realizing he’d let the beam stray, John jerked the light back to the box. “Sometime today,” he growled.
An instant later the lights flicked on. Julia turned to him, her expression triumphant. “Good as new.”
“If you don’t mind a fire hazard.”
He spotted her jacket draped over a nearby chair back, and for the first time he had an unencumbered view of her without it. He saw silk flowing over lush curves, the outline of lace and the hint of large nipples puckered with cold . . .
Disgusted with himself, he stepped back, figured now would be as good a time as any to make his exit. He turned off the flashlight and handed it to her. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow and let you know when the locksmith and alarm people will be out.”
“Great. I’ll be here all day.”
He left the storage room and entered the main portion of the shop. Aware that he’d broken a sweat, that he was walking too fast, he headed toward the door. He could hear Julia behind him, but he didn’t slow down. He didn’t want her to ask him to stay for coffee. He didn’t feel like making small talk or reminiscing about old times. He didn’t like the way he was reacting to her, didn’t want to get caught up in the way she looked or the way his body jumped to attention every time he looked at her.
But he knew if she asked him to stay, he would . . .
He reached the door. Vaguely, he was aware that Julia had gone behind the counter. That she was humming a tune, and he could still smell the sweetness of her perfume. He twisted the knob, tugged open the door. The cold, wet air registered at about the same time as the realization that the door hadn’t been locked.
He was trying to decide if he should give her a quick education on all the things that could happen to people who didn’t lock their doors when her scream stopped him dead in his tracks.
FOUR
Julia didn’t scare easily. She wasn’t particularly squeamish
or skittish. She’d never even been afraid of bugs or rodents or any of the other creepy things that launched most people into panic mode. But the sight of the knife stabbed into the book and surrounded by the stark red of blood sent a scream pouring from her throat.
She scrambled away from the counter just as John burst back into the shop. “What is it?” he snapped, but his eyes were already on the counter.
Julia pointed, surprised to see her hand shaking. “Someone . . . must have come in while we were upstairs.”
He crossed to the counter. “What the hell?”
Taking a calming breath, she moved closer and stared down at the macabre sight in utter disbelief. Someone had driven a nasty-looking knife through the center of a book and dribbled what looked like blood all over the cover and surrounding countertop. The serrated blade had gone through both the front and back covers and penetrated the wooden counter beneath.
“My God,” she murmured, but her voice was high and tight. “What do you—”
John’s gaze met hers, his eyes flat and dangerous. “Did you lock the front door after your father left?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“It wasn’t locked.” He glanced toward the rear of the shop. “Stay put. Don’t touch anything. I’m going to check the back room.”
Sudden understanding dawned: the intruder could still be in the shop. Julia’s heart began to pound. She watched John move soundlessly down the aisle and disappear into the storage room. Still not sure if she was frightened or angry—or maybe a little of both—she glanced down at the book. A shudder moved through her as she took in the length of the knife, its stainless blade stained with bright red droplets. The cover of the book had been slashed multiple times, as if the culprit had been in a frenzy. It almost looked as if the book was bleeding . . .
Leaning close, she was able to make out the title on the spine, and a second, deeper chill barreled through her.
A Gentleman’s Touch
by Elisabeth de Haviland.
“Oh, my God.” Dread and a pristine new fear unfurled inside her. For a moment Julia couldn’t catch her breath. Pressing one hand to her stomach, she leaned heavily against the counter. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She’d been so careful. How could anyone know?
“The storage room is clear. The back door was locked.”
She turned to face John.
“They must have come in through the front door,” he said.
“That’s impossible because I locked it.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Of course, I am,” she snapped. “I live in the French Quarter. I always lock my doors.”
He didn’t look convinced, but she gave him credit for not pressing her. “Any idea who might have done this?”
She glanced at the chilling scene on the counter, then looked away, shook her head. “I can’t imagine.”
“Who has a key to this place?”
“Claudia and Jacob. My landlord. My dad.”
“Jacob again, huh? His name keeps coming up.”
“You can be suspicious all you want, but there’s no way he had anything to do with this.”
He removed the pad from his jacket. “I need his contact information.”
“Why? What are you going to do?”
“I’m not going to send him a goddamn Christmas card.”
“John, I don’t think—”
“Julia, for God’s sake, I’m not going to rough him up. I’m just going to talk to him. Now, give me his phone number and address.”
Realizing the smart thing to do at this point was cooperate, even if she disagreed with him, Julia walked to her desk, pulled out a memo pad and jotted down Jacob’s address and phone number. She crossed to John and held the piece of paper out. “Be nice to him. He’s a good kid.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what everyone said about Ted Bundy.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Who’s joking?” He took the paper and slid it into his pocket without looking at it. “I need your landlord’s number, too.”
Making a sound of exasperation to cover the fact that she was still feeling shaky, Julia recited the number from memory while he jotted it on his pad. “Don’t be rude to her. She’s old and sweet.”
“As long as she cooperates, we’ll get along just fine.”
Shaking her head, Julia looked toward the counter, the ghastly sight sending a shiver through her. She simply couldn’t reconcile herself to believing someone she knew was doing such a thing.
She jumped when he set his hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”
“I’m . . . ticked off more than anything.”
One side of his mouth curved. “Ticked off is better than hysterical.”
“Yeah, well, you can relax. I don’t do hysterical.” She couldn’t stop looking at the book. “For God’s sake, is that
blood
?”
He grimaced. “Smells like it.”
“Where would someone get blood? I mean, he could have . . . It could be hum—”
“For all we know he could have gotten it at the neighborhood butcher. We can have the police test it.” His eyes narrowed. “It took some strength to get that knife through that book and into the countertop.”
“It’s almost as if he was in a frenzy.”
“Or a rage.”
Unnerved by the thought, Julia rubbed her hands over her arms. “Who would do something like this?”
“Evidently someone who’s unhappy with something you’ve done. Some perceived wrong.” He tilted his head slightly, as if to get a better look at her. “Any idea what that might be?”
She forced her gaze to his. “None.”
He stared at her, his eyes probing with an intensity that unnerved, but she held his gaze. For a moment, the only sound came from the rain pinging against the window and the quickened beat of her heart.
After a moment, John looked away and focused his attention on the book. “There’s something wedged between the pages.”
On impulse, Julia reached for it, but he stopped her by grasping her wrist. “Don’t touch it,” he said. “If it’s blood, it’s a biohazard. Plus, we don’t want to contaminate any possible evidence.”
She looked down where his fingers were wrapped around her wrist. His grip was warm and surprisingly reassuring. His skin was dark against hers, and for a moment Julia couldn’t look away.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“Yeah, well, I’m not used to finding bloody books on my counter.”