Midnight Masquerade Read online

  Another hesitation, then a resigned murmur. “I'll call you later, son. There's something I have to do first, and it can't wait until daybreak."

  * * * *

  Stephen Flynn found himself where he never expected to be, at the front door of a huge mansion in the lush Garden District of New Orleans. He'd always known the address. He'd even driven by it a time of two just to have a look see. But this was the first time since learning the truth that he'd been motivated to make contact.

  The sound of his knocking echoed inside. After a long beat, he'd almost convinced himself that no one was home, that he'd made a mistake, that it wasn't too late to run back for the safety of the old Volvo he'd parked out front.

  But for his son's sake, he stood his ground, waiting until the big front door opened.

  "Yes?"

  "Do you know who I am?"

  "I know you. To what do I owe this singular pleasure?"

  "My son ... your heir ... he needs to learn the truth. He's in some kind of trouble. Will you help?"

  Silence, then a soft, “You only had to ask."

  Chapter

  Nineteen

  What the hell am I doing here?

  He couldn't come up with an answer until the door cracked open for a peek then swung wide.

  She was standing there in the oversized tee shirt and bulky socks, her hair in a tangle and her eyes groggy from lack of sleep.

  And she looked so damned beautiful his heart dropped right to his insteps.

  "Just wondering if you were doing anything for breakfast."

  She squinted at her watch. “It's two in the afternoon."

  "Seemed like breakfast time to me."

  "I've got some coffee I can put on."

  "Sounds good."

  She shuffled away from the door, leaving it open for him to follow. He took a slow, deep breath and crossed the threshold into a commitment he'd had no thought of ever making until just this very minute. He locked the door and trailed her into the sunny kitchen where he appreciated the way her shirt swayed against the back of her thighs with each step.

  Call girl ... cop. What the hell did it matter to him, anyway? It wasn't the profession he'd fallen for so hard he couldn't seem to pick himself back up. She was the only thing he could think of when he'd woken from the misty nightmare. Hers was the only opinion that mattered when he considered the irreparable damage to come when the truth of it hit the papers. He felt sorrow for what his father would suffer, but it was true terror he experienced when he thought of this woman's rejection.

  He'd been alone all his life, scrapping for everything he'd managed to hang onto. He'd thrown it all away once on his insecurities and fondness for a high-living, party-hearty lifestyle. He couldn't let his fear of the truth cost him a greater loss this time.

  She was rummaging through the painfully inadequate ice box when he came up behind her.

  "I thought I had some eggs in here somewhere."

  She straightened when his hands slipped under the hem of her shirt to rest on her hip bones.

  "Forget the eggs,” he muttered in a voice so low and rough-edged with want he didn't recognize it as his own. “I need to hear you say you love me."

  God, had he said that out loud? He felt her stiffen. Slowly, she revolved within the circle of his hands, then simply looked up into his eyes, her own as warm and welcoming as deep green island waters.

  "I love you, Nick."

  Her fingertips touched to the black stubble of his unshaven jaw, moving lightly to sketch along his lower lip.

  "Will that do for an apology?” she asked with the tease of a smile.

  "No,” he told her gruffly. “But it will do for now."

  His arms cinched up around her, enfolding her with a possessive tenderness until they were pressed full length to one another. That simple contact felt more fulfilling than sex with any other woman. They stood toe-to-toe, heartbeat to heartbeat for a long moment, too absorbed in the sensations to move or ask for more. The elemental closeness was enough.

  "I want you to stay away from them,” he said at last, emotion grating on that demand like coarse gauge sandpaper. “They're dangerous and scary people."

  "In my profession I deal with dangerous and scary people all the time."

  "Not like them, Rae. I don't how to explain it. There's something wrong there at the Noir, with those women, with Anna Murray."

  "I know.” Her reply was little more than a whisper against the open throat of his shirt.

  "I mean really something wrong. When I go in there, my skin creeps. I've never had that feeling before. And another thing ... It'll sound crazy."

  "Try me."

  "In that tape of the four of us, Anna Murray is missing, as in doesn't photograph. How weird is that?"

  "Not in photos, not in mirrors. Not so strange at all ... considering."

  He leaned back and studied her features warily. “Considering what?"

  "What she is, what most of the other women at the Noir are."

  "Unnatural.” That explanation came to him with a sudden clarity. He looked to her for confirmation. “That's it, isn't it? What are they?"

  "Vampires."

  His hands fell away from her. For a moment, he could only stare. Then he issued a soft laugh and a wry, “I picked a hell of a time to stop drinking."

  "Sit down, Nick. I'll make coffee."

  As the strong brew filtered down into the pot, Rae watched her guest soak up the news. He slumped on her sofa, his head back, his eyes closed. She almost would have believed him asleep if not for the agitated tapping of his fingertips on his knees. She was familiar with his distress. It had kept her awake until just before he'd arrived.

  Vampires. Who would have thought...

  "Here. Careful, it's hot."

  He sat up and took the mug gingerly. “Thanks. Is it just me or do you expect to hear Rod Serling's voice-over at any minute?"

  "It's not just you."

  She sat on the other end of the couch, facing him with her feet curled under her. He looked a mess. He looked great.

  "Are you going to be all right with this?"

  He shrugged. “Oh, hell yes. What's the big deal? I'm from the heart of voodoo country, cher. My mind is wide open to possibilities. You know, the funny thing is, I'm not all that surprised. Imagine that."

  "That's not the worst of it, Nick."

  His heavy brows soared. “It gets better?"

  "They want you because your family somehow ties into them."

  "And here I thought it was because of my dynamic tort feasers.” He sipped his coffee and focused on the dark liquid as if he could read his fortune there. “I should have known it was too good to be true. It was more than I deserved."

  Sensitive to his brooding, Rae pushed her bare toes up against his blue jeans and crunched them to knead his thigh. His free hand covered them, his thumb lightly massaging the sensitive curve of her instep. Then he glanced at her.

  "Tied how?"

  She told him everything Marchand had revealed to her, then went on to describe how a fugitive from the French Revolution had assembled and led a supernatural tribunal against rogues of their own kind.

  "And didn't this seem a bit out there to you?” he asked when she finished.

  "I wanted Zanlos. I was ready to believe anything."

  "Even in me?"

  "Especially in you."

  She climbed up to her knees and took his coffee cup from him, setting it on the floor before straddling his lap. Her fingers laced behind his head as their gazes communed for a long moment.

  "I didn't think you were in this line of work anymore,” he complained mildly as his thumbs grazed down her rib cage.

  "You inspire me to take on new hobbies."

  She leaned down to taste his mouth, sampling the richness of Columbian beans and the silkiness of his tongue. Without sitting back, she whispered against his lips, “I want us to survive this. Are we, Nick?"

  "That's always been my plan."
<
br />   They ended up in her bedroom, naked and entwined, touching, kissing, tasting, enjoying as if each experience was all they'd ever get. As well it could be.

  She kissed and nibbled and chewed and sucked on his swarthy skin, at the rough burr of his whiskers, on his earlobes, his shoulder, his flat male nipples—until his husky groan warned he wouldn't take much more of this sweet abuse. Finally, he gave her a toss onto her back so he could pin her to the bed between the brace of his hard thighs and strong arms. Not that she couldn't have escaped if she wanted to ... but why the hell would she want to?

  He kissed her long and languorously, all but swallowing her tongue until she moaned for a saving breath. Then, up on his elbows, he searched her face, his eyes dark-centered to the point of blackness and so intense she could feel his stare to the soul.

  "A cop, huh? I'll be damned. Handcuffs and night stick and everything?"

  "Yep. I can get them out some other time, if you'd like. And we can play cops and lawyers."

  He chuckled, the deep vibration creating a naughty sensation where the heaviness of his erection prodded her belly. Slowly, the sense of play evolved into a fierce need to give and take satisfaction. A feeling so big it hurt expanded within her chest.

  "I want to grow old with you, Nick Flynn."

  "That's my plan, too."

  And because the hugeness of those emotions scared her, she broke the somber mood by toppling him onto his back once again, pressing his wrists into the mattress while she stretched out full length atop him.

  "Umm, cop stuff. I like it when you play rough."

  "Then hang on, big boy. Things are about to get bumpy."

  * * * *

  He came awake suddenly and completely, not sure what had startled him from his lethargic slumber. Rae was curled up, not next to him, but around her pillow on the edge of the bed. She was snoring softly, and he would have found that adorable except for the sense of anxiousness settling on his chest like a VW bus. Panic surged when he couldn't draw a decent breath. Finally, he stopped fighting it and let himself relax, taking shallow pulls of air until the tightness lessened. He'd suffered from similar attacks of anxiety right after his mother left them. He'd wake up alone and frightened and unable to breathe. He'd cry out silently for his mother's touch and, amazingly, inexplicably, she'd be there, her soft voice whispering for him to close his eyes, the feel of her caress on his rigid face. Even the scent of her perfume lingered, sometimes clinging to the pillowcase and his pajama top until morning.

  But of course, she'd never really been there with him. He had been alone and lonely and aching for love so badly he'd created it within his imagination.

  But he wasn't imagining it now. It wasn't Rae's light floral scent filling his nose or her urgent voice that reached out to him.

  "She's gone."

  Rae muttered when he shook her shoulder then she, too, was fully awake in the dark room. The sun had set while they slumbered.

  "They've got Naomi."

  She didn't question how he knew. “I'll put out some calls."

  He started tugging on his clothes. “Meet me at my place. I've got to pick up a safe-deposit key. Then I'm all yours. I'll do whatever you say."

  She grabbed him about the neck, kissing him hard enough to cut his inner lips against his teeth. “You be careful. I won't lose you."

  "That's a promise."

  He ran the blocks to his hotel. The oppressive mood seemed to translate to the atmosphere as storm clouds gathered above the hilltop building, sending out sheets of lightning to dazzle across the heavens. The old building, the threatening clouds scudding behind it—it was a scene right out of Ghostbusters. A cold gust of wind blew down the drive as he climbed upward, burning his eyes with grit and increasing his effort to hurry. By the time he reached the entrance, he was gasping. He pulled open the door and stepped inside the crisp climate-controlled back lobby just as the sky tore wide open in a torrent of rain.

  From where he stood waiting for his elevator, he had a clear view down the long glass hall leading to the newer portion of the hotel. The glass began to fog from the abrupt temperature change outside. That was understandable. What he couldn't figure was why a thick mist began to rise out of the floral carpet at the far end of the hall. As he stared, mesmerized and bewildered, the fog took on a human shape, that of a woman. Though he'd only seen her once, briefly, hers was a face indelibly imprinted on his soul.

  The young mother on I-10 just an instant before his car hit her.

  "No, it can't be."

  He looked away long enough to stab at the UP button. When he reluctantly glanced back, she was still there, a wraith swaddled in New Orleans mist. There was no mistaking the heavy odor of decay that came only from the swamps. But how could that be in the middle of a posh Washington, D.C. hotel?

  And as he watched, as stiff and still as one of those cypress stumps mired and dying in the muck, the figure approached without seeming to move, carried down the slight incline of the hall on a steady avalanche of vapor roiling toward him.

  His breath plumed in short, savage bursts as a deathlike cold seeped about him.

  The ding of the elevator had him leaping nearly out of his shoes. He jumped inside the empty car and frantically jabbed the Close Door button. He didn't draw a breath until they slid together soundlessly, expecting a skeletal hand to reach between them at the last second to part the way to the horror of his past. With a gentle jolt, the car started upward. He sagged against the far wall, chest shuddering as he watched the numbers climb toward his floor.

  Always before, she'd come to him wrapped in dreams. Never like this, as an apparition while he was wide awake. Closing his eyes, he struggled to control his heart rate as its beats seemed to pinball erratically around in his chest. Ghosts couldn't harm him. The harm had been done all those years ago when he'd put his car in gear and burned rubber. The harm had been done when he hadn't said no to those last few glasses or yes to a place to sleep it off. He'd gotten a rare second chance, yet he couldn't make the most of it until he settled his debt with those past mistakes and let the chips fall where they would.

  The door opened silently at his floor. He peered out, checking both directions. No inexplicable mists, no hovering threat. Key card in hand, he rushed toward his room. As he entered, the flash of the message light on his phone was the first thing he saw, distracting him from throwing the dead bolt. He pressed the appropriate button and expected to hear from Rae. Or his father. Instead, it was the desk.

  "Mr. Flynn, you've received a facsimile. You can pick it up at the front desk at your convenience."

  "Is James working the concierge?"

  "Yes, he is."

  "Ask if he'd bring it up to me, would you please? It's very important, cher."

  The girl at the desk must have known who he was because she got all gooey at that drawled endearment. “Of course, Mr. Flynn. It would be my pleasure."

  He hung up then reached beneath the shade of the table lamp. He'd screwed the safe-deposit key where the shade attached to the base. He removed the topper and the key, pocketing it before rethreading the brass top. From there he went into the bedroom to replace his rumpled shirt with a plain black tee shirt. With it swaddling his hips, half tucked in, his face dark with a day's growth of beard, a desperado looked back at him in the dressing table mirror. Or a desperate criminal.

  He scanned the contents of his room. His designer suits hung neatly in the closet, the appropriate shoes lined up beneath them in orderly single file. Armani, Ricci, Verri, Barbera, Redaelli and Venturi-a whole fricking foreign legion hanging at attention to testify to his success. But how far would the possession of those worldly goods go toward testifying as to his character ... with the law, with the children that poor woman left behind ... with Rae. His whole life had been a hit-and-run with him just one step ahead of the piper and his payment due notice. Tonight he stopped running, and he was as much relieved as he was afraid to accept responsibility for what he'd done. At least it
would be over. The woman's spirit could finally rest. He'd sell all these fine suits and the sports car he had on order and send the money to the woman's family as soon as he had a name to put to her. He hadn't wanted to know it before because it would make what he'd walked away from that much more personal and less like a drink-induced nightmare. Nothing about it had appeared in the papers. He'd scanned them for weeks afterwards. He must have missed the picture in his haste, the picture of that face he could never forget or outrun.

  He shut his closet door and glanced about to see if he'd be leaving anything of value. Chances were, he'd never return to this room again, to these things he'd hoarded to remind him that he'd made it. In the end, that's all they were, just things. And none of them mattered a damn to him. The things that mattered were in Baton Rouge, the few pictures he kept, the postcards to his father he'd fished out of the trash from exotic countries around the globe imprinted with his mother's handwriting. She'd wanted to let his father know where to reach her—just in case he changed his mind. About what, Nick had always wondered.

  A knock at the door pulled him from his brooding thoughts. Glancing through the peephole, he saw the young black man in the hall with a sheet of paper in his hand. He opened the door and nodded distractedly at James's chatter. Taking the fax, he passed the young man a $50.00. James looked down at it agog.

  "Ah, Mr. Flynn, maybe you meant to give me a five but this..."

  "Is what I meant to give you. Thanks, James."

  "Any time, Mr. Flynn. You the man."

  "Yes, I am."

  Nick closed the door and steeled himself for the sight of the woman's face smiling out at him from the full article.

  Young Baton Rouge mother killed in hit-and-run.

  His stomach took a nasty roll. Madeline Rousseau. That was her name. Madeline. She'd been twenty-eight. A dental hygienist going to night school for a degree. Her car had broken down on I-10. As she stepped out to wave down a passing motorist, she'd been hit and killed instantly. The impact had hurled her broken body over the cement and steel guardrails. It was only by a fluke that she was ever found. She was survived by a husband—a man she'd wed right out of high school—and their two daughters. Two daughters growing up without a mother because he'd had to drink to that last toast to his future while irreparably changing theirs. The price of his fancy clothes and fast car wouldn't come close to repaying them. Not even close.