Too Wild to Hold (11 page)

“But he doesn’t know my aunt.”

“Doesn’t he?” Ruby asked, smiling slyly. “He convinced her to let you go into some private bedroom with him last night, and I’m guessing that was no easy task.”

If Special Agent Dawson expected Claire to look away in embarrassment, then she was sorely mistaken.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Back down, buttercup. I’m not judging you. I’m just reminding you that your aunt was supposed to make sure you didn’t go upstairs with
anyone,
but Michael is incredibly persuasive. And he’s good at what he does.”

Claire listened intently, trying to pick up snippets of Michael’s end of the conversation. His steady tone soothed her nerves. His short, pointed questions resulted in a phone call that lasted no more than three minutes and ended with Michael handing the phone to Ruby despite Claire’s objections.

“Stay on the line with her, Ruby, but get on the road and drive out to her place. Use your own phone to let the local office know I want immediate surveillance until we can move her to a safe location.”

“Move her? Safe? What’s going on? I want to talk to her,” Claire insisted, but Michael had already shuttled her aside and Ruby wasted no time in doing what he’d asked.

“Your aunt will be fine,” he said, though she couldn’t imagine how he could make such a claim when he’d just sent an FBI detail to her house.

“Then why does she need protection?”

“The man who called your cell phone said something very odd before he hung up. I’m not taking any chances with her safety.”

Claire yanked her arm out of his hand. “What did the bastard say? Tell me.”

But despite her demand, he didn’t answer her question until Ruby had pealed out of the parking lot and he’d pulled and checked his weapon. “He said Josslyn was busy, only he pronounced the word oddly. Like this—bizz-ee. And he repeated it that way. Twice.”

“How else do you say
busy?
”

Michael had her arm again. This time, he propelled her into the cemetery and she decided not to fight. He didn’t strike her as someone who would waste time or follow leads that weren’t important. Even with dark glasses shielding his eyes, she could tell that he was scanning the area with precision, hesitating only a moment before deciding to go immediately to the right, in the opposite direction of the jazz funeral parade.

“He emphasized the
i
sound and drew out the
z,
” Michael explained.

“Maybe he has an accent.”

He continued running up and down the rows of above-the-ground crypts and vaults, stopping when he caught sight of something fluttering across from them. “Or maybe, he was sending us a message.”

As they approached the mausoleum, Claire stumbled as if someone had slammed a two-by-four across the back of her knees. In front of a monument to the Bizzey family—the last recorded death being 1876, the year after Paulette began her affair with Joaquin—was a vase filled with fresh-cut, blood-red roses.

And fluttering around the base was a black silk scarf emblazoned with the letter
Z.

O
NCE AGAIN
,
THE
sticky heat of the New Orleans night caught him unaware. He traveled around the country for his job all the time, but the first couple of days away from San Francisco always made him a little nostalgic for the chilled nights and fog. He inhaled deeply, amazed at the sweet, sultry scents of this part of the city—so different from the French Quarter where Claire lived and worked or the swampy marshland where they had first met.

Even out of sight, she was never out of mind. Not because their cases had now irrevocably intersected, but because she’d somehow wound her way into his soul.

The tiny courtyard in between the cottage door and the back gate was about the size of the yard outside his condo. In other words, it was only about a fourteen by fourteen foot square of lush grass and fragrant vines that clung to the brick wall separating this former servant’s quarters from the grander property next door. With the mossy branches of a live oak hovering above, the sky was nothing more than the occasional swatch of darkening blue. He suddenly wished he smoked so he had a reason to be standing outside, away from Claire, thinking about anything else but her.

And the case—one that was dead in the water until the Bandit made contact. Michael glanced down at his father’s ring and resisted the urge to slam it against the stone wall. Was the damned thing working? He needed a strong dose of inspiration right now and the ring wasn’t giving him squat.

Behind him, Claire’s shadow flitted by the kitchen window. When he’d left her ten minutes ago to check the perimeter, she’d been methodically opening and closing the cabinets, pantry and refrigerator. She’d said she was hungry. That she’d throw something together for dinner.

But Michael knew better. He and Ruby, whom he’d embedded inside the house, might get something to eat in the end, but cooking instead of ordering in was just a way for Claire to expend energy while she figured out how to ask him for one more thing he couldn’t provide.

Immediately after the phone call from the Bandit, she’d wanted to see her aunt. He’d denied the request, opting instead to spirit Clarice to relatives in Houston, accompanied by an agent from the New Orleans office. If the Bandit knew to call Clarice, he could also use her as leverage against Claire.

Then Claire had asked to go with him back to
Nouvelle Placage,
to make sure Josslyn was really missing, and if not, to search through her things for any clue about where she might have gone. Instead, he’d ordered her into protective custody and had her brought here. The Bandit had known about their meeting with Josslyn. Either he had some connection to the woman or he’d eavesdropped on their conversation in the secret garden.

For all the security at
Nouvelle Placage,
the fetishists’ system had not been perfect. Michael had gotten in. So had Claire. The Bandit could have been anyone from a guest to a bartender or a waiter.

So, until Michael knew what he was up against, Claire would remain in hiding. Whether she liked it or not.

And she definitely didn’t like it.

“You done beating yourself up yet?”

Ruby came through the back door, shutting it tight behind her.

“Where’s Claire?”

“Whipping you up a Spanish-style tortilla that’s going to make you wish you’d grown up in Madrid like that
muy caliente
brother of yours.” Ruby came down the steps, rubbing her belly. “Woman has mad kitchen skills. But then, she’s from New Orleans. The ability to make great food is a prerequisite for residency, you know.”

He hardly cracked a grin. He wasn’t in the mood for Ruby’s joking around, even if she was only trying to alleviate the tension that was as thick in this safe house as the New Orleans humidity.

“Shouldn’t you stay inside with her?”

“So you can mope around here all on your lonesome? She’ll be fine for five minutes, Michael. The place is surrounded and I gave her my gun.”

He opened his mouth to object, but shut it again, knowing it was no use in challenging Ruby when she was every bit as stubborn as Claire.

“What did you learn at the plantation house?” she asked.

“Nothing useful.”

“What about the cemetery caretaker? Anything more from him?”

Michael cursed. He’d allowed himself a split second of excitement when he’d been informed that a worker at St. Honoria’s cemetery had reported seeing a strange character just before Josslyn had been taken, but the eyewitness account, while useful, hadn’t brought them any closer to finding the Bandit or verifying that Josslyn had been kidnapped rather than willingly absconded.

“He said he saw a tall guy dressed in a black suit carrying roses around the tombs. Figured him for a family member paying his respects.”

“He couldn’t describe him?”

“He wore reflective shades that might as well have been a mask. The agents also interviewed one of the people from the funeral. She said she saw the dark-suited man talking to a woman who fit Josslyn’s description—he drove away with her in her car. Best we can figure, it was about fifteen minutes before we arrived. It doesn’t make sense that she’d take off with a stranger.”

Ruby snorted. “You think a woman who fucks men—two at a time, from what Claire told me—is overly cautious about her safety?”

“But that’s the thing,” Michael said. “These sexual fetishists aren’t indiscriminate. Most of them don’t get involved unless there are background checks and ‘safe’ words. Getting into
Nouvelle Placage
wasn’t easy.”

“But it wasn’t impossible,” Ruby reminded him. “This guy is smart. He obviously found a way to make Josslyn trust him. I just hope she doesn’t pay for that trust with her life.”

Michael’s phone buzzed and the second he answered, Claire appeared on the porch. Instantly, Ruby sprang into action, shuttling her back inside with Michael tight on their heels.

Claire ground to a halt right inside the doorway, her jade eyes wide and worried. Knowing she would dog him mercilessly until he told her every detail, he hit the speaker function on his phone and held it out so that both Ruby and Claire could hear the report.

“Can you repeat that?” he asked.

“The next door neighbor received a delivery of red roses for Ms. Lécuyer three hours ago,” the agent reported. “They’re from a florist shop two blocks away.”

“Who sent them?”

“A woman who meets your kidnap victim’s description. She paid cash.”

“Note?” Michael asked, nearly covering the mouthpiece when Claire blurted out the same question.

“No message. She told the clerk that Ms. Lécuyer would know what they meant and then she left. There was a man with her, but he waited by the door and didn’t talk to anyone in the shop.”

“Surveillance footage?” he asked, his sharp stare keeping Claire from speaking again. It was bad enough he was sharing investigative information with her—he didn’t need the whole of the FBI to know how many rules he’d broken for her.

“We have it, but he’s wearing sunglasses and a fedora. We’re breaking down the video to see if we can enhance any images or reflections, but so far, nothing. Your missing woman doesn’t seem to be in danger, though.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” he warned. “Keep on it. This is the Bandit we’re talking about. All women anywhere near him are in danger.”

He disconnected the call. As usual, Ruby’s face was impassive, but Claire chewed on her bottom lip, her eyelashes fluttering as she processed all she’d heard.

“At least she’s alive,” Claire concluded.

“Yes,” he replied, keeping the second question,
but for how long?
to himself.

“I want to interview the florist.”

Claire stepped closer into a swath of light from a single-bulb fixture that hung above a small table set for one. Her eyes were glossy, but not red. Dark circles marred her flawless coffee-and-cream complexion and her lips, so round and inviting, were chapped from endless gnawing. For a split second, she allowed him to see the full depth of her vulnerability—her guilt, her fear, her self-recrimination. He wanted to pull her into his arms and thaw her icy terror with his body heat, but he didn’t dare.

Not here.

Not now.

Perhaps, not ever again.

Despite Ruby’s disapproving glare, Michael laid his palm over Claire’s. Her warmth seeped into his system like a drug, igniting his nerve endings and accelerating his heartbeat so that he was afraid he might lose his composure and pull her into his arms.

Instead, he moved to the kitchen counter and poured himself a cup of strong black coffee. “Our agents know how to interview witnesses.”

“There’s only one florist shop close to my house. Annette’s. I know her. She might tell me something she wouldn’t tell cops or agents.”

He shook his head. “There’s no reason for the florist not to be forthcoming. If there’s anything more to discover, it’s on the security video.”

“I want to see it.”

“You’re not leaving this safe house.”

“But what if Josslyn tried to send a hidden message in her body language or her mannerisms? I’ve met her. I know all about her. I might be able to spot something—”

“No,” he said.

Claire paced in a tight square. Ruby left the tiny kitchen, settling back into her spot on the living room couch. The cottage didn’t afford much privacy, but Michael considered this a good thing. With Ruby there as chaperone, he found it easier to stay in FBI mode and assuage his guilt over how deeply this was tearing Claire apart.

“Why is she obeying him?” Claire asked. “She’s not the kind of woman who follows men’s orders.”

Something the two of them had in common.

“Maybe he threatened her,” he ventured. “Maybe he’d found her long before last night and gained her trust before we showed up. I can come up with a million scenarios, Claire, and none of them are good. No matter how or why Josslyn is involved, she’s in danger. And I won’t let that happen to you, too.”

“What if I don’t want your protection?”

“You’ll have it anyway.”

“Then maybe I’ll leave,” she shot back. “I’m not under arrest. I didn’t ask for your protection. You can’t keep me prisoner.”

Michael closed his eyes and prayed for calm. “No, I can’t. But you’re not a stupid woman, Claire. You know you can’t go off half-cocked with this guy. He knows you. He’ll be counting on you doing what’s right rather than what’s wise. If you do like you always do, you’ll fall right into his hands.”

It took a few beats before she realized what he’d said. Yeah, he’d studied her file before coming to New Orleans. That was no secret. But they’d never discussed why she’d left the force or why she’d opted for the private sector, where no one told her what to do. He knew without her telling him—and this did not please her one bit.

Just as he’d done with the book about his notorious ancestor, Michael had mined Claire’s dossier for bits and pieces about her—the kind of revealing nuggets that people in relationships confessed over time. He’d bypassed yet another step toward intimacy, just like he had behind the screen and in the garden.

But this time, Claire didn’t get anything good out of it except the baring of a painful memory to a man she hadn’t had a chance to really trust.

Michael wandered over to the stove. A cutting board piled with little mounds of onion, garlic and chopped sausage sat on the counter. The scent of spices clung in the air so that his stomach growled.

Claire groaned, then pushed past him and grabbed a metal bowl. She cracked four eggs and started whipping them with the kind of violence she might be imagining she could use on his brains, if she had a chance.

“You don’t have to cook for me,” he said.

She barked a laugh and pointed her eggy fork at him menacingly. “I’ll either cook for you or kill you. Which do you choose?”

He sat down at the kitchen table and unfolded a paper napkin onto his lap.

She turned back to her work. “So how long do you plan to keep me here?”

“Just until we get a clear picture of what the unsub wants.”

“He wants me,” she said, her tone flat.

“Well, that’s the one thing he can’t have. He’ll contact you, eventually.”

“Like with the flowers? The ones without a note?”

“As he grows more desperate to find you, he may try calling again.”

“And you have someone at my house and monitoring my phone?”

He didn’t bother to answer such an obvious question, but her frustrated sigh sounded more like a growl.

“What is he waiting for? I get it that the flowers are part of his sick seduction, but why doesn’t he just call and tell me what he wants? It’s been twelve hours since he took her from the cemetery.”

Eleven, but who was counting? Michael opened his mouth, prepared to discuss his theories and suppositions with her, but he stopped himself. He’d already told her more than he should. She wasn’t his partner. She wasn’t even in law enforcement. She was just the woman he was supposed to protect. Nothing more.

She could not be anything more. Not until this mess was settled.

And perhaps, not even then. Especially not if Josslyn was raped or died because he hadn’t anticipated her involvement.

“You can’t worry about her right now, Claire. Worry about yourself.”

“Why do I need to worry about me? I’m incarcerated by the goddamned FBI.” The sizzle of vegetables hitting the hot oil in the pan forced her to raise her voice. That and the fact that she was totally pissed off. “She’s out there with a madman and no one is looking for her.”

“We are looking, but the evidence that she’s been kidnapped is circumstantial at best. She’s an adult prone to disappearing without a trace. She acted seemingly of her own accord at the florist shop and no one at
Nouvelle Placage
is willing to file a missing person’s complaint.”

“I’ll file the damned complaint!” she insisted. “She was supposed to meet with me and she didn’t show.”

“The cops know all that, Claire. They’re on the lookout for her. But until our unsub makes a move, there’s not much we can do.”