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Authors: Jenna Mills
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closer, until just a fraction of an inch separated them.
"Would you taste like lies?" he murmured, "or like sin?"
She sucked in a sharp little breath and lifted her eyes to his. "The truth," she whispered, then stunned him by lifting her hands to his chest and giving him a good solid shove. "I would taste like the truth."
God help him, he laughed. "We'll see about that," he drawled. Then because he didn't trust himself to stay, he turned and walked to the door, pivoting before leaving. She stood with her back against the armoire, its dark finish highlighting the lack of color in her cheeks. A swing of dark hair curtained her face.
Cain steeled himself against the stirring deep within. "A word to the wise. Little girls who play with fire get burned."
She didn't so much as flinch. "I haven't been a little girl for a long time."
He refused to let himself smile. "Touché" was all he said, then he walked away.
Renee stood that way for a long time, with her back to the armoire, staring at the empty hallway. Her heart thrummed a painful rhythm. Shock seared her throat. Cain had been gone for fifteen minutes, but she could still feel the heat radiating from his body, like the first blast of summer air after a long cold winter.
She had to be more careful. She could not let the man realize how deeply she responded to him. Falling under Cain's spell invited consequences more dangerous than she was willing to risk.
Swallowing hard, she turned toward the armoire and looked into the mirror, searching for any trace of the woman she'd once been. The woman who'd loved blindly, foolishly, without reason or caution. The woman who'd been confronted with evidence that shattered her world.
The woman whose life had ended one hot, sticky night eighteen months before.
Shaking, she crossed the room and slammed the door, then grabbed the phone from her purse and punched a familiar number.
"Gran," she said when the cherished voice answered, the voice of the woman who had loved and protected and healed her. Slowly, she sucked in a deep breath, then let it out. "It's me … Savannah."
CHAPTER FIVE
New Orleans, Two years earlier
H e warned me to leave him alone. He warned me to mind my own business. He warned me to stay away.
The good detective might as well have thrown open his doors and invited me in, spread out his secrets like gourmet chocolates on a fine silver serving tray.
I, in turn, warned him to watch his back. Savannah Trahan doesn't run scared, I informed him, and I don't take no for an answer. Unless, of course, no is the answer I want.
There is no faster way to lure me in, than to try to shut me out. My brother calls me nosy. My editor calls me a Pulitzer prize in the waiting. The police detective who thinks I'm trying to sabotage his investigation calls me dangerous.
They're all right.
With the hour pushing toward midnight, I work my way down Royal Street, toward an antique shop where an informant waits. I dressed with care, making sure I look neither like the reporter I am, nor the call girls who come out to play after the sun goes down. In jeans, a black turtleneck and my brother's old bomber jacket, I blend in perfectly.
Of course, in a town like New Orleans, that's easy to do. Anything goes here, and usually does. Sometimes being here, working for one of the local affiliates, still feels like a dream.
And to think it all started because of my fascination with urban legends.
At first the wild claims that kept appearing in my e-mail box seemed about as likely as syringes found in movie theater seats or identity theft through hotel key-cards. God knows every time I opened e-mail, my inbox overflowed with scams and hoaxes.
The Russian Mafia in New Orleans? As if.
But the e-mails kept coming, and along with them details. Very, very specific details.
Reporters love details.
Organized crime targeting the Big Easy is nothing all that startling. This is Louisiana, after all. Greased palms are practically
"Would you taste like lies?" he murmured, "or like sin?"
She sucked in a sharp little breath and lifted her eyes to his. "The truth," she whispered, then stunned him by lifting her hands to his chest and giving him a good solid shove. "I would taste like the truth."
God help him, he laughed. "We'll see about that," he drawled. Then because he didn't trust himself to stay, he turned and walked to the door, pivoting before leaving. She stood with her back against the armoire, its dark finish highlighting the lack of color in her cheeks. A swing of dark hair curtained her face.
Cain steeled himself against the stirring deep within. "A word to the wise. Little girls who play with fire get burned."
She didn't so much as flinch. "I haven't been a little girl for a long time."
He refused to let himself smile. "Touché" was all he said, then he walked away.
Renee stood that way for a long time, with her back to the armoire, staring at the empty hallway. Her heart thrummed a painful rhythm. Shock seared her throat. Cain had been gone for fifteen minutes, but she could still feel the heat radiating from his body, like the first blast of summer air after a long cold winter.
She had to be more careful. She could not let the man realize how deeply she responded to him. Falling under Cain's spell invited consequences more dangerous than she was willing to risk.
Swallowing hard, she turned toward the armoire and looked into the mirror, searching for any trace of the woman she'd once been. The woman who'd loved blindly, foolishly, without reason or caution. The woman who'd been confronted with evidence that shattered her world.
The woman whose life had ended one hot, sticky night eighteen months before.
Shaking, she crossed the room and slammed the door, then grabbed the phone from her purse and punched a familiar number.
"Gran," she said when the cherished voice answered, the voice of the woman who had loved and protected and healed her. Slowly, she sucked in a deep breath, then let it out. "It's me … Savannah."
CHAPTER FIVE
New Orleans, Two years earlier
H e warned me to leave him alone. He warned me to mind my own business. He warned me to stay away.
The good detective might as well have thrown open his doors and invited me in, spread out his secrets like gourmet chocolates on a fine silver serving tray.
I, in turn, warned him to watch his back. Savannah Trahan doesn't run scared, I informed him, and I don't take no for an answer. Unless, of course, no is the answer I want.
There is no faster way to lure me in, than to try to shut me out. My brother calls me nosy. My editor calls me a Pulitzer prize in the waiting. The police detective who thinks I'm trying to sabotage his investigation calls me dangerous.
They're all right.
With the hour pushing toward midnight, I work my way down Royal Street, toward an antique shop where an informant waits. I dressed with care, making sure I look neither like the reporter I am, nor the call girls who come out to play after the sun goes down. In jeans, a black turtleneck and my brother's old bomber jacket, I blend in perfectly.
Of course, in a town like New Orleans, that's easy to do. Anything goes here, and usually does. Sometimes being here, working for one of the local affiliates, still feels like a dream.
And to think it all started because of my fascination with urban legends.
At first the wild claims that kept appearing in my e-mail box seemed about as likely as syringes found in movie theater seats or identity theft through hotel key-cards. God knows every time I opened e-mail, my inbox overflowed with scams and hoaxes.
The Russian Mafia in New Orleans? As if.
But the e-mails kept coming, and along with them details. Very, very specific details.
Reporters love details.
Organized crime targeting the Big Easy is nothing all that startling. This is Louisiana, after all. Greased palms are practically
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