Chapter One

 

 

Etienne Delacour crossed to the far end of his office and stood before the fireplace. “Good evening, Amalia.” He had commissioned the portrait as a gift for his now deceased wife on her twenty-second birthday. After he’d presented it to her, he had hung it in what he considered the most prominent location in his home. Amalia was where he could look up from his desk and gaze upon her throughout his day.

He smiled as he recalled how pleased she was the first time she saw it hanging there. That pleasure lasted a mere three days. His smile faded, replaced by a stoic, unemotional expression.

The focal point of the room was a pale comparison to the place within his heart the woman he had once cared for held. A place she no longer wanted to occupy. Truth be told, he was ready to let her and her memory go. She was right. It was time.

Closing his eyes, he rummaged through his emotions and analyzed what feelings he still harbored for Amalia. Guilt. All he found was guilt. He held onto the blame for her untimely and brutal demise.

Had he put off the meeting with his brother Ivan’s representative, he would have been with her when a mob of pitchfork-wielding humans caught her in town. He would have slaughtered them all, and she would be alive.

Instead, he had laid his wife to rest and exterminated every person guilty of harming her. Slowly. Painfully. Since that day, he had endured with nothing but an oil painting and his memories. A masterpiece it may be, but the portrait provided pitifully little solace.

Damn Ivan and his machinations.

Mercifully, Cade Le Beau had come upon the scene, though not soon enough. He hadn’t been able to save Amalia, but he had held her and comforted her until the end. Cade had then carried her in his arms, walking the entire five miles to the mansion, to return her body to him. Etienne was thankful for his kindness and would be forever in Cade’s debt.

Her death robbed him of the only woman, other than his mother, who had ever loved him unconditionally. Knowledge of the pain and agony she suffered was all that remained. Were it possible, he would have died in her stead. Unfortunately, there was no way to change history. No way to give her back the life she should have lived.

I forgave you a long time ago, my love. Amalia’s voice whispered through the room.

Shock stilled his heart. With her words of forgiveness, he found he was finally able to release the weight of his condemnation. Lightness filled his chest. He sucked in what felt like his first deep breath in a century.

Etienne reached up and touched the likeness of her face. “Thank you. And don’t worry,” he said to her image, “I will open myself to the possibility of love. I promise.” It was a promise he had made to her in Savannah. He never broke a promise. Once he gave his word, he was honor bound to keep it.

He turned and walked to the small stepladder sitting before his floor-to-ceiling library. He picked it up and set it below the portrait and climbed the few steps. In this position, he was face to face with the exact likeness of Amalia. The artist he had commissioned captured her flawless beauty in great detail. So much so, it could have been a photograph. But that technology had yet to be invented when she was alive.

Though he’d tried, he’d never been able to bring himself to remove the painting. Now he found he could. Sighing, he gripped the frame with both hands, lifted the painting from the wall, and descended the ladder. There was no point in leaving it there any longer.

He carried it to the attic where he stored possessions he didn’t have the heart to sell or give away. She was a beautiful addition to the works of art that never saw the light of day. He stepped back and gave it one last look. She was moving on to a new and better existence; one where she would be more than masterful strokes of oil on a canvas.

Etienne inclined his head to her image. “Goodbye, Amalia.” He draped the painting with a protective sheet, turned on his heel, and locked the door.

 

 

Ivan Delacour’s head jerked up, and the report he was reading slipped from his fingers. Something significant just happened in his brother’s life. Scowling, he narrowed his eyes at the grainy photograph of his hated sibling. If ever he felt the slightest inkling of mercy, he looked at the photograph and the impulse faded. At least the bastard was good for something.

He should have drowned his twin in the fountain when they were three and alone in the garden. Ivan smiled as he imagined his mother’s anguished expression at finding her precious Etienne face down in the water. But alas, a twinge of guilt had stayed his hand and spoiled the opportunity.

“Dmitri!” he bellowed and waited for one of only three men he trusted at his back to appear before him.

A dark-haired, dark-eyed male flashed into the room. “Yes, my lord?”

“That bastard is up to something. I need you to be my eyes and ears in New Orleans. I want daily reports. Something big just happened, and I want to know what it was.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Take the royal aircraft, and have Nikita rent a house for you. Long-term. We have no idea how long it will take to unearth his secrets.”

Dmitri bowed low. “Yes, my lord.”

Ivan waved his hand at the door. “Go. I expect your first report in twenty-four hours.”

Dmitri flashed from the room, leaving Ivan to his dark thoughts, plots, and plans.

 

 

Willamina Witt, nicknamed Billie or BJ when she was a child, and her three friends, Teresa Andersen, Helen Jones, and Karen Hall strolled down Decatur Street. Four best friends, new to New Orleans and the French Quarter. Like many freshmen at Tulane University, they were eager to check out the nightlife.

Billie along with Karen trailed behind Teresa and Helen. The sidewalk was congested to the point they had to work their way single file through the crowd.

Out of nowhere, the sensation of ice-cold water ran down Billie’s spine. Someone was watching her. Trying to look natural, she touched Karen’s arm to get her attention. She didn’t want to alert their watcher to the fact she knew he was there.

“What?” Karen asked as she turned.

When Willa gave her the I just felt something look, she stiffened.

“Ah-ho, you have that look on your face. You felt something and that always means trouble.”

“I’m not sure. But I think we’re being watched. Why would we be singled out in a crowd as large as this?”

Karen shook her head. “Are you sure it’s not something you ate? It could be heartburn. Personally, I’m voting for the heartburn because triggering your Spidey-sense never ends well.”

Billie shot her a look. “Yes, I’m sure. And for your information, my firehouse burritos don’t give me heartburn or set off my alarms.”

Karen snorted. “The way you load them with jalapenos and hot sauce, I’m sure they set off something.”

“Hey, now. No one badmouths my burritos.” Billie shivered and looked around. “I just felt it again.”

For as long as Karen could remember, Billie had possessed an innate ability to sense things. Billie’s strange Spidey-sense freaked her out until she learned to trust her friend’s instincts.

Karen turned her attention to the people surrounding them, trying to see what Billie was sensing. Out of the corner of her eye, movement at odds with the crowd caught her attention. A well-dressed man, someone no one would suspect, rushed toward them.

Dread held Karen frozen in place. His scrutiny was just a bit too focused, and it creeped her out. The man shouldered his way through the last few people between himself and Billie. The way Mr. Creepy fixated on her friend’s purse exceeded extreme, to say the least. Before Karen could yell a warning, he tried to yank the handbag from Billie’s shoulder.

The force of the attack threw Billie to the sidewalk. Somehow, Billie managed to hang onto the strap with one hand. The uneven sidewalk scraped and bloodied her knees, ripping the hem of her skirt. Still, she held on.

Mr. Creepy backhanded her hard and yanked again. “Give me the purse, bitch, or I’ll cut you.”

Billie snarled at the man and jerked back, trying to pull the strap from his hand. Karen knew there was no way that bastard was getting Billie’s favorite purse.

As his free hand went for his back pocket, Karen jumped on his back and pummeled him with everything she had. She might as well have been a flea for all Mr. Creepy noticed.

What felt like an eternity, lasted mere seconds. Funny how time stretched when you were in danger. Just as Billie’s fingers slipped and the mugger turned to make a run for it, a tall, wide-shouldered man leapt from the doorway where Billie had fallen.

Karen jumped from the mugger’s back as the stranger jerked him away from Billie.

Billie noted an intensity to her hero’s eyes like a flame blazing in their depths that wasn’t quite normal. The man looked as if he could undoubtedly kill her attacker and not think twice about it. But she sensed he wouldn’t go to that extreme unless provoked.

Billie slumped wearily and watched in astonishment as her hero fought her attacker with skills he’d obviously acquired through a crap-load of experience. A blade flashed in the waning sunlight but never gained purchase.

Her hero captured the mugger’s wrist and squeezed until he cried like a little girl and dropped the weapon to the sidewalk. Then he slammed the man back so hard, the attacker bounced off the brick exterior of the restaurant before collapsing in a heap at her hero’s feet.

The wail of sirens cut through the excited, frantic voices that blended into a single incoherent din.

Billie gratefully accepted Karen’s outstretched hand. Her shaky legs wouldn’t get her upright without assistance. She noticed Karen eyeing the mugger and her hero as she helped her to her feet. Once standing, she brushed the dirt and filth from the sidewalk off her clothing.

The man who had saved them turned his head slightly, only enough to address them over his shoulder, but still keep his attention on the mugger.

“Were either of you ladies harmed?”

“No. I don’t think so,” Billie answered in a shaky voice. “A little scraped and bruised but nothing life-threatening.”

Teresa and Helen broke through the crowd with frantic expressions on their faces.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?” Teresa cried, examining Billie as thoroughly as any doctor would.

Billie saw Helen’s focus jump from her to the men, and then her friend’s eyes narrowed menacingly. Billie elbowed Karen, then nodded at Helen.

Karen grabbed Helen’s arm, and in a quiet voice, she warned, “Don’t do it. The police will be here any second. This isn’t the time for a brawl. Come on, Helen, let it go.”

Typically, Helen had an even temper. In actuality, she was a timid, empathetic person. So much so, her parents sent her to a martial arts school to gain confidence. Years of training in the dojo instilled the badly needed self-esteem and also taught her how to fight. She also learned never to use her training to initiate an attack. But the defense of self or loved ones? Oh yeah, that was allowed. Threaten her friends or family and kiss your ass goodbye.

There were more than a few boys back home who could tell tales that would curl your hair. The idiots were continually harassing one of Helen’s friends to egg Helen on, sure that once they got her to fight, they would be able to take her and claim bragging rights. Helen didn’t lose. Ever.

Their hero nodded to the open doorway of the bar. “Why don’t you ladies go inside and take a seat. I’ll join you in a minute. The police will want a report, and in my opinion, you would enjoy a stiff drink more than an interrogation.”

Billie groaned as Teresa studied her knees like she was ready to do major surgery. She pressed her fingertips around the edges of the wounds and agreed with their hero. “Good idea. Let’s wait inside and see if we can get your knees taken care of.”

Billie rolled her eyes. Sometimes Teresa took her desire to be a general practitioner a bit too far.

“Yeah, okay.” She followed her friends toward the door. She wanted to thank her hero, but she had the feeling he wanted her out of sight. Her gratitude could wait.

One last glance at her attacker revealed her hero’s rage-darkened eyes. His gaze was fixed on her torn skirt and bloodied knees. Billie watched as his grip tightened on the mugger’s throat. The last thing she heard as she disappeared into the cool interior of the restaurant was gurgling and sputters.

The instant she took a seat at the bar, Teresa launched into full doctor mode. She ordered the wait staff around like she owned the place. In seconds, she had them rushing after soap, water, and a clean cloth. Billie had to hand it to her friend; she knew how to take charge of a situation.

About five minutes later, the crowd dispersed. The police cars pulled away with the mugger in the back seat, and her hero sauntered through the door as if nothing had happened.

Richie Majors gave the one called Billie a smile as he walked around the end of the bar and tucked a bottle opener into his back pocket. “Are you all right, cher?” he asked as he reached across the bar to shake each of their hands. “I’m Richie.” One by one, the ladies introduced themselves.

Richie turned his attention back to Billie and waited for her response to his question. He was concerned she may be more injured than she let on.

He watched her glance around to make sure no one was listening, then lean toward him. “It all happened so fast. One second, we were walking down the sidewalk, and then suddenly, I was yanked off balance by my purse strap. Thank God, you came when you did. The asshole had a knife. He could have hurt someone.”

Heat warmed his cheeks. She looked at him like he was a superhero and that embarrassed him. It was time to shine the spotlight on something else.

“How about that drink to calm your nerves? And if you’re interested, I can give you a few safety tips. Please, don’t let this incident color your opinion of the Quarter. Believe it or not, muggings rarely happen around here. Violent crime is usually reserved for the seedier parts of town. Sure, pickpockets are common, but straight-up mugging is very unusual.”

“Okay, I’ll take a kamikaze,” Billie said. “I just had my life flash before my eyes. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

Richie chuckled and mixed her drink. The other ladies had soda. He wondered if it was from frayed nerves or if they always ordered soft drinks.

“You said you had advice for us?” Helen asked.

“I do. With a few changes, you will be much safer than you were today.” Richie held up his hand and ticked off his suggestions as he said them. “Whenever possible, carry the essentials in your pockets. If you must carry a bag, hold it in front of you, not beside you or behind you. If you choose to carry a purse, take all unnecessary items from it, and only take what you need. Regardless of what you decide to do, make sure to leave any extra credit cards and IDs such as Social Security cards at home. And never store personal information on your cell phone.

“If you stop to eat or have a drink, keep your purse in sight at all times. After the sun goes down, stay to well-lit sidewalks and roads. And never walk alone at night. I promise that if you follow these suggestions, you’ll have a lot less trouble.”

“That doesn’t sound so difficult,” Teresa said, nodding.

“Sure, we can do those things,” Karen agreed.