Excerpt: Walking the Edge by Sue Ward Drake

Chapter 1 Catherine Hurley clutched her ghost-tour costume close, bracing for the trouble that could smash her flat as roadkill.

Nothing could be as devastating as last time.

Evening shadows darkened the sidewalks, and most of the people on the French Quarter streets this time of day were either coming home or going to work. They didn’t usually hang around at the corner grocery like the guy with longish blond hair and skinny shoulders heading her way.

Lately her baby brother had been staying out of her sight, so something must be up. Cath juggled her bags and the dry cleaners’ hanger, waiting for him to get close enough to read her lips. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d come visit.” Les hitched his backpack higher and hunched his shoulders against the cold. “I don’t have any classes until next week.”

O-­kay. Her held breath swooshed loose. His appearance on her doorstep did not imply disaster. “I’ve got all the fixings for spaghetti if you want supper.”

She handed him one of her grocery bags and pulled him closer to dodge a waiter in a rush to get to his shift.

Her brother still flinched and stared at the guy disappearing around the corner. “What the—­?”

“It’s okay.” Even with his hearing aids, Les did not hear sounds behind him. Cath gave him the hanger from the cleaners and pushed open the wrought iron gate.

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The piano player in the upstairs rear apartment practiced some ragtime, its bouncy beat drifting down to the patio. She unlocked her back door and set her groceries on the kitchen table inside.

“Sorry,” she said and also signed to make sure Les understood the most important word. “I didn’t have time to warn you about the guy running down the sidewalk.”

“The sidewalk?” Her brother hooked the dry cleaning on the fridge handle. “No problem.”

“But you seemed—­” To overreact. She spoke and signed her next words. “Never mind that. To what do I owe this surprise?”

“Last time I heard, there weren’t any laws against surprises.”

“True.” She nodded and signed.

“Right now, I need a place to stay.” Les raised his eyebrows in question. She held aside the bead curtain, and he followed her into the small front room. “The pipes froze this week. Then they broke when it warmed up again.”

A fairly typical New Orleans problem in the city’s old houses.

Les dropped his pack on the couch and stripped off his jacket. “If it’s too much trouble, I’ll find someplace else.”

“No you won’t.” She punched his shoulder playfully.

“Everything’ll be booked now, anyway.” Mardi Gras always brought hordes of tourists to town and jacked the prices sky-­high. Not that either of them had the money for him to stay in a hotel.

“You don’t mind?”

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“Of course I don’t mind.” She signed, “Doesn’t matter.”

Her kitten, asleep in the upholstered chair, woke and stretched. Cath stroked a hand down the cat’s back. “You should have texted me to pick you up after my bus tour.”

Les studied the framed poster on the wall. Which he’d seen many times before. He finally looked at her again and she signed, “Did you understand? I could have come to get you.”

“Yeah. I got that.” He hesitated, a hand at his ear.

“Wait a minute.”

He reached behind one ear to pull off his hearing aid, and she carried the hanger with her dress for tonight’s tour to the bedroom. When she returned a minute later, Les had replaced his battery and now cradled her pet against his chest. “I didn’t call because you have a business to run. You can’t be chasing all over town because your brother’s got plumbers in his apartment.”

“Thanks.” Good to know he appreciated her situation, but Les carefully avoided mentioning the elephant in the room. She’d recently raided their rainy-­day fund to bail him out. If he wanted to stay here, ground rules were in order. She glanced at his backpack and let out a pent-­up breath. Her brother didn’t need rules. He needed to know she would always stand by him. “When do you have to go back to court?”

“Not today.” The kitten climbed to his shoulder and rubbed her chin against his neck.

“When?” She spoke and signed both, not wanting Les to misunderstand.

“Pretty soon.”

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“I hope your lawyer can get the charge reduced. He knows you weren’t dealing, doesn’t he?”

“He better.” Indignation flared in her brother’s eyes.

“But you don’t need to come this time. I’ll be okay.”

If he’d been okay the first time, he never would have been arrested.

They’d been circling the French Quarter for nearly an hour and hadn’t even parked the car, much less made an arrest.

Mitch Guidry raised his window against the hubbub of sidewalk carousers getting a jump on Fat Tuesday.

“Drop me off at the address we got. Let me grab the bail skip while you drive around the block.”

“We never go in without two,” Hal yelled over the roar of a passing tour bus. “Besides, you’re too intimidating to be believable as a meter reader.”

Mitch rubbed damp palms on his thighs, taking in the blue uniform shirt and pants his brother wore. “We’re about the same size. Pull over and give me your shirt.”

“No.” “You really think this ruse will work?”

“Long enough to get you through the door.” Hal stopped beside a sedan and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Lookie what I found.”

Mitch jumped out to stop the traffic behind them while Hal backed the SUV. Nighttime fog poured in off the Mississippi, fuzzing the neon signs of restaurants

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along the street and the headlights of oncoming vehicles.

Visibility low. No wind. High humidity. What are you doing, Guidry? You’re not on duty.

But he definitely had a job to do properly. His three older brothers had made him a conditional member of their Big Easy Bounty Hunters firm. Operative word: conditional.

They’d censured him before. Rightly so. If he messed up tonight, they could turn their backs on him again. Mitch couldn’t let that happen. He needed his brothers and his sweet, elderly aunt more than they would ever know.

Mitch sucked in the reek of stale beer from the bars behind him and guided his brother into the parking space.

Someone slammed his back. He whirled and cocked a fist, stopping only when whiskey-­laden breath washed over him. Slurred words tumbled from the mouth of the drunken college student staggering in front of him.

Calm down. You’re not in Kansas anymore. Or Iraq.

Mitch steadied the kid before pulling out his cell. “I’m calling you a taxi.”

“We’re fiiinnne.”

And he was a horse’s ass. Mitch stowed his phone and held out a couple of twenties. “I’m serious. You need to take a cab.”

The kid’s companion hiccupped. “We got enough.”

“Don’t drive. You hear?” When they nodded, Mitch stepped away and waited while Hal closed the hatch.

His brother pulled on a nondescript jacket. “What were you doing?”

“They looked in need.”

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“You plan on rescuing every drunk you meet?”

“You really want an answer?” Mitch flicked sweat from his temple.

“I can do without one.” His usually too-­ serious brother cracked a smile.

They navigated around the tourists in front of an Italian grocery, then passed through the cayenne-­scented steam coming from a bar serving seafood. Hal glanced at Mitch, grim lines grooving his forehead. “You sick?

You’ve been sweating like a pig.”

Was his brother looking to disqualify him before he could even get started? No, not Hal. They were closest in age and had been great buddies until the accident. Mitch shrugged. “I’m okay.”

The army docs told him he’d probably have post-­ trauma episodes for years. Mitch had them mostly under control, the overreaction tonight his first in months. “I’m not going to let you down, Bro.” Nor Big Easy Bounty Hunters.

Every takedown counted. If he and Hal failed to return this fugitive to jail before their recovery window closed, his brothers’ fledging firm would get a black eye.

Mitch couldn’t afford for that to happen.

“My buddies in the marines say everyone who serves in the Middle East comes home with baggage,” Hal said, continuing to be a know-­it-­all.

“I’m on edge is all.” Mitch had been home nearly three months. Hal had been busy, sure, but they hadn’t talked about Mitch’s duty tours. A nervous twitching in his gut flared again. “This is my first time.”

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“Understood.” Hal glanced at him. “I saw your medals.”

Their elderly aunt had insisted on examining them, but Mitch would just as soon have left them in the box where they belonged. “All they mean is that I can hit a target from anywhere in or out of range, and I know how to score.”

“One of them has a purple ribbon.” Hal raised his brows. “You could have told us you’d been wounded.”

“We’ve all got battle scars, but yeah.” Mitch ran a hand over his short hair. His throat clogged. He swallowed but the pain only strengthened. “That was a rough op.”

“At least you got out alive.” Hal dropped to tie a shoe beneath one of the old-­style lanterns dotting the Quarter.

“Remember, your skip is going to be violent. He knows he’s hiding.”

“That figures.” His older brother took his mentoring job seriously, but he didn’t need to worry. Mitch had passed the bounty hunter course and planned to make his first arrest by the book.

His brother turned at the next corner, and they entered the French Quarter’s quiet residential streets.

Cold mist pushed at their backs and swirled past.

Visibility would be plenty worse soon. Mitch patted his pockets, making sure he’d remembered his flashlight.

“Hope we’re done before this stuff gets worse.”

“We’ll be in and out in ten minutes, tops.” Hal slicked a hand over his dark hair and waited for a car to pass before crossing the street.

Ten minutes would be the best-­case scenario, but Hal

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wouldn’t have said that if he didn’t have confidence Mitch could perform. The knots tying his gut finally came undone.

Shutters covered the windows of the houses bellied up to the sidewalk. The sounds of traffic on the main arterial road faded. Hal stopped a few feet from the Creole cottage where they’d earlier located Mitch’s fugitive.

A gate closed off the alley that led to a courtyard and gave street access to tenants living in the rear. A small garden filled the wedge of visible lighted patio. No one who could be collateral damage appeared to be around, and Mitch gave his brother a thumbs-­up.

“There’re lights behind the front shutters,” his brother whispered. “He’s inside.”

Supposedly, his bail skip holed up with a girlfriend.

Mitch braced a hand on the Victorian-­style porch of the neighbor’s house. “What if the woman is here?”

“I’ll keep her out of the way.” Hal positioned himself at the bottom of the cottage steps. “You ready?”

Mitch unzipped his jacket to reveal the T-­shirt identifying him as a bail recovery agent and went through his mission prep like a batter at the plate. A fist press against his upper lip. A shake to loosen his hands. He plastered his back against the front of the house and nodded.

Hal knocked.

Seconds passed. The gleam of reflected light on the knob disappeared as the door opened. Running shoes appeared on the threshold. Mitch tensed.

“Gas company.” His brother flashed an old security badge. “We were informed of a problem at this address.”

“Who is it?” A woman’s warm alto voice called from

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inside. Mitch clenched his jaw. He’d have to watch out for her.

“Wait a minute.” The door closed.

Adrenaline ebbed. Mitch whispered, “We got some wrong intel?”

Hal shrugged and leaned forward to call through the door. “Utilities. I’m here to turn the gas back on.”

The knob clicked and a sliver of light reappeared.

“You have the wrong apartment,” the male at the door said. “Check the mailboxes.”

“Wait.” Hal stowed the ID. “What’s your name?”

Mitch held his breath. They needed to confirm their fugitive’s identity before they entered.

“My name?” The speaker paused, and Hal nodded.

“Les Hurley. Why?” Hal stepped down and Mitch vaulted the steps. The door under his hand banged against the inside wall. Hurley staggered back before Mitch even touched him. A quick glance around the room revealed a couch against one wall.

An overstuffed armchair. A cluttered coffee table. Colored beads hanging in the doorway to a back room.

A woman’s pretty face flashed in his peripheral vision before disappearing. Hurley tripped over the coffee table, tumbled onto the couch.

The front door banged shut behind him. “You’re under arrest, Lester M. Hurley.” Hal’s voice couldn’t have been calmer. “Cooperate and you won’t get hurt.”

Hurley sprang to his feet and vaulted the overturned table. Mitch clamped a hand on his shoulder, but Hurley spun out of his grasp and sprinted into the back room.

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Mitch swept aside the bead curtain and charged after his skip.

The mahogany-­haired beauty huddled near the fridge on his left. The shock on her delicate face barely registered as Mitch rounded the table and caught Hurley against the counter. The guy twisted away. Lightning quick, Mitch pinned the smaller man against the stove and locked fingers around a wrist. He could kill a man with his bare hands, but lethal moves weren’t allowed.

Bounty hunters had to bring a fugitive in alive.

“What is this crap?” Hurley twisted against Mitch’s thumbs, his longish blond hair flying. With more force, Mitch body-­ slammed the bail skip, twisting a wrist behind his back and pushing aside something heavy on the stove. He reached for the cuffs.

Flame licked at his hand. Mitch shoved the struggling fugitive in the direction of the sink. Hal needed to get over here. Now. “Let go of him,” the woman yelled. “He can’t hear you.”

“Stay out of the way, lady,” Hal yelled. “Or else—­” “You can’t just come busting in here.” A female hand reached past Mitch and flipped off the burner. “This is a private home.”

“Stand aside, lady.” Hal held up a copy of the bail piece. “This gives us authority to arrest. Recognized by the law.”

Something stung Mitch’s arm. A blade glinted in Hurley’s fist. “Back off.”

Mitch yanked the wrist he held high behind his skip’s back. His fugitive shrieked. “Give it up. I got you beat.”

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“You’re hurting him.” The woman again. “Let him go so I can sign to him.”

Mitch barely heard what she said, couldn’t focus—­“Ouch.”

Hurley had kicked out with both feet. Now he slipped from Mitch’s grip and dashed outside.

Mitch lurched forward, banging his head on the open door. His boots slipped on some kind of grit and he grabbed for support.

Soft, warm skin slid under his grasp. The most spectacular blue eyes he’d ever seen glared at him, but Mitch held on to her gaze as if to a lifeline.

“Do you mind?” Her low, sultry voice whispered through him.

Mitch blinked and let go of the woman’s slender arm.

“Didn’t you see the skillet?” She waved a hand at the stove. “I’m making dinner.”

“Bon appétit.” Mitch lifted a corner of his mouth, and her pretty face flushed. She stepped away, and he plunged outside after his fugitive.

A spotlight on the patio cast deep shadows into the corners. A dog yipped inside a rear apartment. Big jars with cascading vines standing at either corner were too small to hide behind.

Mitch hugged the corner of the house so as not to present a target. His stupid fixation on the redhead had cost him too much time. Hurley could have already escaped. Or he could be standing only a few feet away in the back entrance alley, his knife ready. Mitch held still, but the shush-­shush of someone breathing didn’t carry back to him. Dammit.

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He drove a fist into the vinyl siding. An old war injury spread agony across his back, and he swallowed back another curse. Keep looking. Don’t think about failure.

Hal came up behind him. “I’ll check the other side.”

Mitch played his light down the alley. A clump of ferns grew in the elbow of one of the many pipes hugging the old house. Nothing else. No one else. He raced to the street gate and scanned the empty sidewalk.

“I demand an apology for barging into my house.”

The redhead stood close behind him, but he hadn’t even heard her creeping up on him.

In the narrow confines, he barely had room to turn around without brushing her, but he managed.

Producing more aggro for his shoulder. “If this is not your private alley, you have no jurisdiction. I’m the one being insulted.”

“In-­insulted?” She scowled. “How do you figure that?”

Light from the street fell on her pale face and flushed cheeks. He caught a powder-­fresh scent. She clutched the sides of a robe together, and he admired her slender neck. Perfect for nuzzling. Not by him. Not now.

His flashlight beam shone down the alley to the swaying leaves of the banana trees at the back of the patio. He stepped forward. She didn’t retreat, and his legs now pressed against hers, making certain body parts grow heavier. “Turn around and go back.” Don’t make me swear like my old sergeant.

“Not until you leave.” Her hand loosened, and she accidentally flashed cleavage. “We can pretend I’m seeing you out. Southern manners and all.”

That accent of hers belonged more to California than

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to any southern state, but his tightening groin didn’t give a shit. Nor did his resolve. He lowered his voice to a purr.

“You really should go back to the patio.”

She frowned. “Why?” “Nothing over there but the garbage cans,” Hal called a moment before his silhouette appeared at the opposite end of the dark alley.

Mitch leaned close to her ear. “If you don’t want Hal searching your house, you need to stop him.”

“But, I…” “You got him?” Hal started toward them.

“Wait.” Mitch waved his brother back and raised his eyebrows at the female in his way. “We’re coming out.”

She huffed out a breath but spun around. In the lighted patio, Hal glanced from her to Mitch, his mouth turning down. “You missed him.”

For now. The beauty crossed her arms, but Mitch shooed her away. “We’re finished. Go inside.”

He caught his brother’s arm and jerked his head toward the shrubs and banana trees. “The skip might be lurking.”

Hal waded through one side of the garden, Mitch, the other. Their twin beams hit a high brick wall without revealing a soul. Some Quarter landlords embedded broken bottles atop property walls to keep out thieves, but Mitch didn’t see any here. He stowed his light and backtracked to the patio. “Hold the trees away, Hal.” “I still want an apology.” The female wildcat pounced.

“I told you to go inside.” Mitch judged the height of the barrier. A running leap took him to the top, and he hauled himself up.

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“What are you doing?” The woman’s pale face appeared in the shadowed shrubs below.

“Fulfilling your deepest desires.” Mitch smirked.

“Like the Southern gentleman I am.”

A multistory masonry house faced the parallel street on the other side. A swimming pool stretched past the converted servants’ quarters on one side of the patio. A soft snick drew his attention to the half-­glassed door on the rear of the main house. With no side alleys here, this must serve as the street exit for the rear tenants. Or fugitives coming over this wall.

“I’m going over,” Mitch said to Hal. “Meet me around the block.”

Mitch dropped to the ground and raced along the pool. The doorknob turned easily, and within seconds he’d covered the inside hallway and stepped onto the street. Running footsteps faded into the night, and a flash of blond hair disappeared around a corner. Mitch reached the same intersection seconds later only to find empty sidewalks stretching in three directions.

Hal panted to a stop beside him, then pointed toward the street on the right. “I’ll go this way. You go straight.”

Mitch held up a hand. “We need to stick together, protect each other’s back.”

“Who’s been a bounty hunter longer?” Hal crossed his arms. “Huh?” “You have,” Mitch said, but tightness pinched his chest.

“Let’s each circle a block and meet back here.” Hal moved off in his chosen direction.

Mitch crept down his deserted street, sweeping a

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glance along both sides. He jogged another block without any better success. He brought his gun up, rounded the corner onto Hal’s street, and halted. Halfway down, a dark shape sprawled on the sidewalk.

The thing inside clawed up his throat. Mitch raced down the block and dropped beside his brother. “What happened?”

Hal lay face up, a hand pressed to his shoulder. His eyes cracked open. “He got past the vest.”

Mitch removed Hal’s bloody hand and pressed his clean handkerchief to the wound. Hal inhaled with a rasp. “How… How bad is it?”

Hal needed to go to the hospital. Yesterday. Mitch switched hands on the compress and fumbled for his cell.

“You’ll definitely need stitches.”

This was on him. Didn’t matter that Hal had separated them. If Mitch had done his job in the first place, they would already have Les Hurley on his way back to jail.

Nobody would be bleeding.

The phone case bit into his palm as he raised the cell to his ear. His fugitive would not get away. He would catch Hurley and make him pay.

Cath rubbed her jaw but her teeth remained locked tight.

She’d always thought her brother could talk to her about any problems, but he’d lied to her. Big time. He hadn’t been forced out of his apartment by broken water pipes.

He’d been hiding from these bounty hunters.

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“Who’s the guy who charged out of here a minute ago?” Her next-­door neighbor, Rhonda Owens, walked into the patio, her waitress apron dangling from one hand.

“He nearly knocked me over bursting out of the gate.”

“Not surprised,” Cath muttered. “He was in a hurry.”

But he wasn’t the bounty hunter inflicting the most damage. As if nearly catching himself on fire and scaring her to death wasn’t enough, movie-­star Handsome had to throw a stone in the equilibrium she worked so hard to maintain.

The ripples still lapped at her edges, and her nerves still hummed from the aftereffects of his legs pressing hers. She sought the skin where he’d wrapped his fingers.

He’d relaxed his hold immediately, but he hadn’t let go because… She didn’t know why. The whole thing had been weird.

And she’d reacted without thinking things through first.

“Houston calling. Earth to Cath.”

Rhonda tilted her head, a puzzled expression on her face, and Cath took a deep breath. “Are you talking about the one masquerading as the gas repairman?”

Her friend gaped. “There was more than one?”

“Unfortunately.” What were the chances this was all a bad dream? “The guy you saw…?”

“I don’t know what he wore. He whipped past me so fast I barely had time to determine his sex.” Rhonda pulled keys from her wrist clutch and waggled her eyebrows. “You’re not dressed. Does this mean what I think it means?”

“That I’m taking in customers and this guy couldn’t

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wait to get away from me because I’m so inept?” Cath cinched her belt. “You know me better than that.”

Though she could admit to a certain clumsiness in the relationship department. For which she’d already paid dearly.

“Don’t you lead a tour tonight?”

“Yeah. I better get dressed.” Cath held open her kitchen door. “You want some spaghetti sauce? I made enough for a crowd.”

“I really shouldn’t.” Her friend’s mouth turned down.

“I’m trying to diet.”

“Why?” Cath opened a cabinet to search for a storage container. Rhonda already had a great figure. More voluptuous than her on top, but a perfectly flat stomach. “You’re already a smaller size than me except you know where.”

“Even short people need to be in proportion.” Rhonda patted her hips.

“I used ground turkey.” Cath placed a plastic container on the counter and stuffed a handful of dried pasta in a clear bag. “Take all you want. Bon appétit.”

Now she was quoting her hunky bounty hunter.

Her bounty hunter? Where had that come from?

He looked yummy and had set off butterflies inside.

She had priorities, though, and they didn’t include men like him.

Les had lied to her, yes, but her heart clenched at the way the bounty hunters had treated him. He’d managed to escape when she’d opened the door, but he wouldn’t be safe for long. She pressed a fist to her lips. Please don’t let this be the last time I ever see my baby brother.

Chapter 2 Couldn’t she catch at least one break tonight?

Another chill rode down her spine and sank its spurs.

Cath traced the outline of the weapon underneath her costume skirt before glancing over her shoulder.

Neither the man carrying a plastic grocery bag in each hand nor the one communing with earphones while leading a ball of fluff on a leash paid her any mind.

Beyond them stretched nothing but empty sidewalk.

Who did she think would be back there, anyway? Les? Those intimidating bounty hunters?

The tall, arrogant one with the nimble comebacks probably thought she’d tried to delay him, but she doubted anything would have deterred those guys for long. By now they’d have caught Les, and her brother would be frantic. He might not even think to tell those brutes about his hearing loss.

They wouldn’t listen, anyway. They’d just overpower him. Les might lose his aids. Would the bounty hunters notice and give them back? If he didn’t have his aids…

She gripped her shawl until her knuckles ached.

Several couples waited for her Crescent City Haunts ghost tour at the end of Pirate’s Alley, one dancing to the jazz from down the street.

Two children ran up, followed by their parents.

Gradually the rest of her customers arrived, including the travel writer her office manager had mentioned. Cath

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introduced herself and checked their names against her master list.

“Everyone’s here, so let’s get started.” She beckoned for them to follow her past the small garden behind the cathedral. “Who believes in ghosts?”

Half raised their hands, and Cath tilted her head.

“How come? Have you seen any?”

One man had felt a burst of cold air while walking through an old house with a tragic history. Another who’d stayed overnight in a plantation upriver mentioned creaking floorboards and the clank of swords.

She extended her hands to indicate the old city around her. “The French Quarter has been lived in for three hundred years. Some early inhabitants still linger.

For you ghost doubters, I bet you’ll come away from our walk believing. At least a little.”

The sound of pounding feet drew everyone’s attention to the man running toward them. She urged her customers closer to the entrance of Pere Antoine Alley, but the jogger stopped under a street lantern right in front of her.

Her blood sizzled. She’d seen this tan windbreaker, this dark cap of hair, and the body probably capable of two hundred push-­ups before breakfast. Exactly forty-­ five flipping minutes ago. Like metal to a magnet, her body veered into his force field until…his fierce gaze pinned her with a laser-­tag blast.

Cath staggered under the impact, the earlier butterflies fluttering back to life. He stood as still as the wrought iron fence behind him, his big hands hanging

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beside powerful thighs. For now. Any minute he could spring into action.

Within seconds of busting into her apartment, he’d barged past her and pushed her brother against the stove.

Then when Les bolted out the door, this guy had followed in a heartbeat.

No, she needed to back up the reel.

They’d stared at each other for a Guinness-­record-­ setting second then, and now his whole body seemed to hum like a live wire. He’d found her brother inside her house. Did that mean he could he arrest her, too?

Her throat closed up, and a clamp squeezed all the air from her lungs. She braced, waiting for him to grab her hands and lock on cuffs.

A cough from one of her group jolted her.

The clock on her two-­hour ghost tour continued to tick, and she had to make sure the travel website guy would have nothing but raves.

“Listen…” Cath raised a finger to her lips. “If you’re quiet, you can sometimes hear a man singing.”

The tourists followed her down the flagstone walkway. She turned around to speak again but slammed her mouth shut. Of all the gall.

The hunky bounty hunter stood front and center.

The hard angles of his features cast a pattern of light and dark across his face, and danger flashed from him in neon lights. For one insane moment when his body had brushed hers in the apartment alley, she’d sensed he might kiss her like the prince waking up Sleeping Beauty.

He’d awakened something, all right. Cath squared her

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shoulders and cleared her throat. “Excuse me, this is a paid tour.”

“Is it too late to join?” His rich baritone melted into her hungry pores like chocolate sauce on a sundae.

Days. Weeks. Months too late.

Not for a minute did she believe him to be a rabid fan of haunted houses or an avid collector of ghost stories, but she needed all the dinero she could earn to pay for Les’s lawyer. She eyed the bounty hunter. “Would you like to buy a ticket?”

“You take plastic?” His long—­ sensual—­ mouth lifted. Her back stiffened at the masculine assurance in his smile even as the heat coming off him poured into her private places.

“Of course.” She took his card. They were conversing like polite strangers, not people who’d been forced to interact under extreme conditions. She wanted to know what had happened with her brother, but she couldn’t ask in the middle of her tour. “I didn’t say anything at the time, but you can pay now for your previous tour, if you like.”

“My previous tour?” The confusion in his eyes disappeared when he realized she meant his earlier visit to her apartment. He shrugged, all friendly-­like. “I can always contest the charge if it’s not correct.”

Of course he would. She keyed his information into her phone sales application.

“Nah. Consider it lagniappe.” Cath turned to her tourists and explained the old New Orleans custom of grocers giving customers a little something extra.

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Handsome would likely never know if she charged more than normal, but she prided herself on running an ethical business. “What’s over is over.” Please.

One eyebrow rose. “Are you sure about that?”

Positive. She lowered her head to avoid the sight of his disturbing physique. “If you give me an email address, I’ll send you a receipt.”

“No need. I’m good.”

Good at his job? Good at flirting? Good in bed?

Or all three. She handed back his credit card. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Mitchell Guidry.”

“Mitch.”

“I doubt we’ll ever be on a first-­name basis, Mr. Guidry.”

“You underestimate me.”

She was coming to see the truth in that.

He tucked his wallet into military-­style cargo pants.

The movement settled his zippered windbreaker over a bulge at his side. More of a cylindrical shape, really. Her throat filled with desert sand. Mitch hadn’t pulled a gun in the house, but he could have used this on her brother later. An image of Les, blood dripping over the hand clutched to his…

With shaky fingers, she caught a strand of hair back behind her ear. Every single customer—­even the kids—­ stared at her. Blood rushed to her face like a racer accelerating the last few feet to the finish line. She spun on her heel and paced deeper into Pere Antoine Alley. “We might need to stand a little closer to the cathedral to hear him singing.”

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Her group obediently trailed behind her. As did Mitch Guidry. Usually when she got a name for someone, she could pigeonhole him. Like a human free-­floating ion, Mitch eluded classification, but after she found out his motives for coming, she’d know how to handle him.

“Who are we supposed to hear?” The mellow baritone she recognized but did not love broke through the sound of muffled footsteps. “I need some guidance.”

Would he take any? He hadn’t earlier. She clutched her costume closer. “Everyone, allow yourself to become sensitive to the invisible presences all around. Let yourself sink into the zone, so to speak, and you will hear the spirits.”

She flicked a glance toward Mitch. “In this case, you’re listening for the ghost of Père Dagobert, the much-­beloved priest of the church of St. Louis originally located where this cathedral now stands.”

Mitch edged around one side of the group to stand only a few feet away. Her pulse spiked. He looked about to grab her, and she retreated.

Her boot heel caught in a crack and she teetered.

His hand shot out to steady her. Sparklers skyrocketed along her nerves, repeating over and over like images on a video console. Game ready. Game ready. Game so ready.

Mitch Guidry had the longest eyelashes, and those creases at the corners of his dark eyes and… No, no, no.

She didn’t care about his eyelashes or any of his other physical attributes.

His hands held her arms firmly, the rub of hard calluses ridiculously seductive.

Those dark eyes. Those incredible eyelashes. The

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scratched record replayed in time with the bubble machine.

Cath tugged her arm free and smoothed her hands down her hips. “Thank you. You’re such a gentleman.”

That sounded polite enough. Formal enough. Don’t-­ touch-­me-­again-­even-­if-­I’m-­tripping enough.

“I aim to please.” One corner of his mouth twitched.

“I’m sure you do.” If he really wanted to make her happy, he would walk away. Only problem there would be she’d never find out what he wanted.

“I thought ghosts hung around because of some unfulfilled desire.” Mitch gazed at her. Plenty of unfulfilled desire lingering there.

Too bad. Cath rubbed her sweaty palms together. He could roast in hell before she’d touch him voluntarily.

“Or do they return out of revenge?” His jaw stiffened.

He was angry now? After she’d gone against all her urges and treated him politely? “You think they’re looking for closure?”

“Why not?” Mitch lifted an eyebrow. “Everyone else usually is.”

Mitch would have already gotten closure with his bounty after putting Les back in jail. A vise closed around her throat. What was happening with her brother?

Why hadn’t she gotten that one allowed phone call from him?

Her other customers listened avidly, and she made the most of Mitch’s comment. “Some ghosts do want revenge, or so the stories go. But this is only speculation.

Who knows what the spirits feel? Who knows why Père Dagobert sings?”

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She walked to the base of one of the cathedral towers.

“After France lost the territory to Spain, local citizens threw out the Spanish governor when he arrived. In retaliation, the rebels were killed and their bodies dumped in front of the church.”

Mitch straggled behind the others now, that laser beam of his locked on her. Cath swallowed hard. Maybe if he kept looking at her like that, she’d build up immunity. She sure didn’t have any now.

“In the dead of a night just like this one, the priest brought the bodies into the church.” She leaned closer to her group to whisper. “Defying the authorities, he gave them the holy sacraments so their families could bury them. Some people say he sang beautifully. Listen and see if you hear him.”

Cath tiptoed into the illuminated square to wait for her tour. She couldn’t have asked for a better night for a ghost walk. Gray-­white fog swirled in from the river, muffling the noise of cars and buses and curling around the bronze statue of Andrew Jackson. Even a foghorn on the Mississippi struck the proper eerie note.

She scanned her phone for a text message from her brother. The police would allow him to make contact with family, right? A chill rippled over her. She pulled her shawl closer, but the cold persisted. She turned to see Mitch striding toward her, his jacket flapping open to show off his chest. He’d kept his gaze trained on her ever since he’d joined the tour. But…but… Her pulse sputtered. Had he been the one watching her on the street earlier?

Nobody had been watching then. You checked.

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Mitch stopped in front of her, crossing his arms and bracing his feet apart. He’d be the perfect picture of a soldier if he locked his hands at his side. He stuffed them in his pockets instead, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he bought clothes at an army-­navy store so he could pretend. His mouth twitched. “This is interesting.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Cath blessed him with her best guide smile. “I have to say, though, I don’t appreciate you taking over my tour.”

The edges of his mouth tilted up. “What do you appreciate?”

What did he expect her to say? A hot bounty hunter?

She did appreciate his mouth. The rest of him looked pretty good, too, but a man with an ego like Mitch teased people only for a reason. She’d bet right now he wanted to soften her up. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“Take a shot.”

Cath stepped behind a bench. “How about I tell you what I don’t appreciate?”

She squeezed the cold top rail as if she could absorb the strength of the hard steel by osmosis. “We can start with your controlling behavior. Which is not the most becoming trait.”

He propped a boot on the seat. “I recall unbecoming behavior on someone else’s part.”

He had to be talking about the alley. She twisted her hands in the knot of her shawl. “I just wanted you to leave.”

“And all this time I thought you were demanding an apology.”

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How long did he plan to torment her? How long could she stand his pestering before she lost her mind? “Why did you join my tour, Mr. Guidry?” she asked, bracing for an unpleasant possibility.

“It’s Mitch, remember? Why else would I be here?”

One corner of his wide mouth lifted. “I want to learn more about French Quarter ghosts.”

The sun-­scored creases beside his eyes crinkled with suppressed amusement. How could she have found them so sexy before?

“Please share the joke.” She forced another smile. Two could play the game of softening up. “I could use a laugh.”

“I doubt you waste your time that way.”

Laughing? A giggle bubbled inside Cath at his skeptical look, but she clamped her jaw tight. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Easy.” He tucked his thumbs into his belt, the action emphasizing his trim hips. “There was a magnet on your fridge.”

“You didn’t even look that way.” She shook her head.

“Try another explanation.”

“Scout’s honor.” He saluted. “I never miss anything important.”

Had she missed something?

His shoulders stretched out like the horizon from Lakeshore Drive. Nothing new there. The sleeves of his windbreaker spanned his arms. Nothing to see there, either, but when she swept her gaze back over his chest, a gasp escaped.

Dark splotches covered the bottom of his T-­shirt

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and blotted out most of the words identifying him as a bounty hunter. A faint scent of dried blood reached her.

She pressed a fist to her mouth. Her brother’s?

Her insides panicked. How could this man stand here and have a mild conversation with her? Any kind of conversation? “I told you he wouldn’t hear you.” She crossed her arms. “Didn’t you hear me say that?”

“Seems like I did. So what?”

She opened and closed her mouth, her blood so hot she couldn’t string words together for a moment. “Did you have to hurt him? Didn’t you try and talk to him first?”

A groove pulled his dark brows together. “What are you talking about?”

She gestured to his bloody T-­shirt. “What happened?”

“I think I heard him.”

Cath jerked her attention to the child panting to a stop. Quick, what had he said? Something about the ghost?

She circled the bench and perched on the seat. “You heard Père Dagobert?”

“The pear one.” The little boy nodded so vigorously, his hair flopped in his face.

“Wow. Not many people do.” She grinned and steered the child back toward the cathedral.

Mitch stepped into her side vision, his hands on his zipper, closing off the offending sight. Had he shown her the shirt on purpose? Because he wanted her to be troubled at the sight?

His tactic had worked, but she couldn’t do anything about her feelings now. After answering a few questions from her group, she counted heads and pointed out the

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matching redbrick buildings that flanked the square.

“Look up past the offices on the ground floor, and you will see one of the first uses of wrought-­iron balconies in New Orleans. Wrought iron is hammered out over charcoal fires and is known for resistance to rust, a very important quality in this rainy city. The upstairs apartments are still rented, but you have to know someone important to get one. Oh, and there’s a long waiting list.”

An irresistible force pulled her head around. Mitch’s dark eyes—­were they really black to match his personality or merely very dark brown?—­drilled deep.

Good luck with that.

Mitch continued to watch her with that fake-­neutral expression. She tugged on her shawl, but her ensemble didn’t cover nearly enough under such intense scrutiny.

“Are there any ghosts there?”

Jolted, Cath searched her group for the speaker. The website writer must have been watching her too. All her customers did at some time during the tour. She peered up at the Pontabla apartments. “If there are any ghosts up there, they aren’t authenticated. There is a known ghost in the house I’m going to show you next.”

Cath started down the block, rubbing her arms against the cold fog penetrating her pores. Maybe the weather had nothing to do with her frigid insides. She flicked a glance at Mitch and led the way to a West Indies–­style house. “Let’s turn here.”

She stopped in front of the plaque on the front wall.

“A friend of Jean Lafitte lived here. And some people say they’ve heard footsteps coming from empty rooms.” She

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gestured to the porch of Madame John’s Legacy above.

“Lafitte’s good friend and fellow privateer lived here.

Take a moment to read about this for yourselves.”

Mitch had moved to the edge of the group, and he clasped a hand over his bicep, a muscle jerking in his jaw.

Her heart clenched. Could the blood on his shirt be his?

She went over to him, her knotted stomach subduing the butterflies for once. Unfortunately, they didn’t die.

Not when Mitch’s sexy macho heat surrounded her. “I saw Les grab a knife.” She drew Mitch out of earshot of the others. “Did he hurt you?”

“Surprised you care.” His lips twisted.

“Of course I care.” Good grief. She propped her hands on her hips. “I’m human.”

“Definitely.” His dark eyes raked over her.

A sizzle tracked his gaze. Her heart thumped wildly, and her neck instantly blazed. Did he have to be so obvious?

She’d been told she wasn’t beautiful. Not particularly lust-­worthy either. The look he gave her could be another of his power tactics. Could be? She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “Can’t you tell me? Or do you adhere to a code of honor that forbids sharing pain?”

His eyebrows soared. She must have hit a bull’s-­eye.

“It’s just a scratch. Hardly bled.” He dropped his hand to expose a tear in the windbreaker’s sleeve, a white bandage visible underneath. “I only needed a couple of stitches.”

“That’s good. Glad it’s not serious.” She released a bottled-­up breath. “But your shirt is so…” She needed to ask this somehow, had to know the worst. “Are you ever going to tell me about my brother?”

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“Your brother?” Honest surprise flickered over his face.

“We even have the same surname.” She smirked.

How could she be glib with her heart beating hard enough to explode? “Tell me what you did to Les.” He straightened as if a weight had rolled off him, but his long mouth thinned. “Not what I wanted.”

She flinched. What did that mean? “Just tell me one thing. Is the blood on your shirt my brother’s?”

“It’s my brother’s.” A muscle jerked in his determined jaw.

“Wait.” She extended a hand but stopped short of touching him. “The guy in the navy uniform is your brother?”

“Your brother”—­he lifted a skeptical brow—­“ knifed him. My brother had to have surgery.”

Oh no. Surgery. Cath swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry.”

“Too bad words can’t heal.” He held her gaze, daring her to contradict him.

“I’m still sorry. Is your partner… I mean, your brother… Is he going to be okay?”

“He lost a lot of blood.” Mitch tensed like a lion about to spring.

“That’s not good.” She grimaced and waited for a fuller explanation, but Mitch remained silent. “Maybe you didn’t realize I asked a question. Is your brother going to be okay?”

His jaw muscle twitched. Mitch definitely didn’t take this injury lightly. She wouldn’t either, but did he have to be so cryptic? “He’s not going to die, is he?”

“He’ll need time to heal.”

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Les had pulled the usual dumb stunts like staying out all night, playing practical jokes, dabbling in drugs.

Stabbing qualified as an assault. Some prosecutor could make it into attempted murder. Getting a plea deal for Les would be harder now. Cold slithered up her arms, down her throat, and ker-­chunked ice into her stomach.

The little boy who’d heard the ghost singing ran down the sidewalk toward her. “Why’s Mr. Lafitte important?

Is that how you say his name?”

“Right.” Her heart thudded at being caught out—­ again!—­and Cath pushed her hands into her pockets in an effort to look casual. She doubted anything could redeem the mess she’d made of this tour, but she would go down fighting. “Jean Lafitte. He was the privateer who helped Andrew Jackson win the Battle of New Orleans in 1815. You know who Andrew Jackson was?”

The child nodded. Beside the boy, Mitch put his hand back on his sleeve, and her stomach pitched with a sudden realization. No question now why he’d joined her tour. He wanted revenge. She gripped the four-­leaf clover at her throat. “There’s another f-­famous h-­haunted house this way.”

She strode ahead, intent on ignoring him, but Mitch caught up and leaned close. “Don’t be nervous, Cath.”

He knew her name! She pressed fingers to her mouth.

That pseudo-­smile returned, lifting one corner of his to-­die-­for mouth. “I looked up your website.”

And wanted to flatter her. She stiffened and kept walking. “I know what you’re trying to do, Mitch Guidry.

Let me save you some trouble. I don’t have a good side, so you can stop looking for one.”

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“Never.” He leaned closer, his warm breath caressing her neck.

She shivered. “You think stubbornness is a virtue?”

“Winston Churchill did.”

“Here’s the scoop. We are not fighting World War II.” She checked to be sure her group still straggled far enough back before facing Mitch, chiseled features, broad shoulders and all. She needed to know the worst.

“I guess you took Les to jail then?”

Give me more than a one-­word answer.

“Not yet.” His jaw could have been carved in marble.

Wow, two words. Not yet, she repeated to herself. Not yet. Her heart leaped. Les had escaped and he was pretty good at surviving, even with his severe hearing loss.

The blue-­and-­white letter tiles in the sidewalk at her feet spelled “Bourbon Street,” the symbol of New Orleans. The city sprawled in all directions, even crossing the river. Her brother could be anywhere. She had to find him. Help him. She’d promised her mother she’d always look after him.

First, she had to give her customers their money’s worth. Next, she’d get rid of this blasted bounty hunter.

She couldn’t let Mitch get even an inkling of her plans, the specifics of which remained a mystery.

She didn’t have a clue where to start.

Yet.

Chapter 3 Mitch leaned a hand against one of the old-­ fashioned lampposts scattered across the French Quarter, drumming the fingers of the other against his hip. Was it his imagination or did the ghost-­tour guide intentionally linger with her customers as long as possible? In the hope he would get bored and leave?

That was so not going to happen.

His mission was to produce one fricking fugitive.

Within seven days. Even less time if his brothers deemed him incompetent and took over.

At the hospital, Hal had urged him to make friends with this woman and gain her trust. Then she’d spill what she knew. How was that going to work, anyway?

She’d thought he’d hurt her brother. Worse than that, the kid had a hearing loss, like his oldest brother, Kurt. Mitch rubbed the twinge in his chest, wishing he’d known this ahead of time. Not that he could have handled Hurley differently.

Mitch hadn’t known about his own brother’s hearing loss in time to make a difference. Hurley had likely adjusted to his disability the same as Kurt now, but Mitch wanted to be the one to find this woman’s brother. Before the police. Before anyone who didn’t understand.

In some way, that might make up for his not being around for Kurt.

If Cath really was his fugitive’s sister, she would protect him to her dying breath. She could still unsuspectingly

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reveal the guy’s habits and usual haunts. Mitch just had to stick to her like the straps on his cargo pants.

Her cheeks flushed a pretty pink from the cold. Fog beading in her hair turned the strands a darker bay color, and he itched to smooth back those plastered to her face. The pixies decorating the pages of the storybook his mom used to read him could have been modeled on Cath. She had the requisite slim ankles and slender legs, legs he easily imagined wrapping around his hips.

She laughed at something a customer said, the throaty sound skating over his raw nerves. Mitch exposed the face of his watch. Her chat session had been going on sixteen minutes now. Added onto the length of the tour, he’d already wasted two hours and forty-­nine minutes.

The last of her tourists finally left in the direction of the French Market coffee and doughnuts stand. Mitch straightened, but the woman in white walked away without a backward glance. No wave. No “good night.” No nothing.

“Wait.” His voice carried loud enough for her to hear, but she only sped up. In another second, she’d disappear into the fog like one of the ghosts she channeled. “Hey, wait a minute.”

He jogged past her and spun around, watching for a feint to right or left. Instead, she slammed into his chest.

His protective vest cushioned the impact, but she hit hard enough for everything inside him to jostle to a halt.

He caught her arms, and the softness of her skin caused his heart to hiccup.

“You okay?” Touching her only made his mission harder. Stop then.

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Mitch dropped his hands but remained close in case she stumbled. Who did he think he was fooling? He simply wanted to stand close.

Her cheeks darkened. Why was Cath Hurley blushing? “That’s the end of this tour, Mr. Guidry.”

“I gathered as much. Cath.” He couldn’t let her file him in the Forget folder. Not after all the attention she’d been giving him during her tour. If nothing else, the incident with their brothers bound them together.

“If you’d like to book another tour, Crescent City Haunts has a cemetery visit tomorrow.” She gestured for him to move aside.

“I can call your office again if I want a recording.” He drummed his fingers against his thigh, not budging.

“I’m merely stating a fact.” She stepped off the curb to go around him. “We do have a cemetery tour tomorrow as well as a repeat of tonight’s.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.” He needed to stay cool.

Not pick a fight.

She halted to stare at him. “Well.” She gulped and sidled two steps. “In that case, I don’t know how I can help you.”

Mitch eased the same distance, hooking his thumbs in his belt in the most nonthreatening gesture he could think of. On Ranger missions, he always let teammates interrogate an enemy for intel. If anyone fell under the hostile label, this slender nymph of a woman did.

Person. He needed to think of Cath Hurley as a completely neuter person.

Not a beautiful woman. Women seemed to like him

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but smiling hadn’t cut it with this person. Neither had teasing. Long, heated looks got him nowhere. No matter what he did, her quills still bristled. He had to change tactics.

“That didn’t come out right. My bad.” Mitch flashed her what he hoped she’d see as an apologetic smile. “But I need to ask you some questions.”

“Sorry.”

She expected him to believe that?

“I’m all out of answers.” She stepped up onto the dark sidewalk again.

He rubbed the back of his neck. This woman—­ person—­wore a nonstick surface like the one on his aunt’s skillet. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“I don’t care. Good. Night.” She started toward Jackson Square again, her words like nails in the coffin of their conversation. Interaction. No way in hell did this exchange qualify as conversation.

The click of her heels hammered at the pain that had started throbbing in his head five minutes ago, but Mitch fell into step with her. No pain, no gain.

The idea of a woman alone on the night streets didn’t sit well with him, so he would accompany her no matter what. He drew the line at stepping inside her home again.

One day—­if he was lucky enough to keep this job—­he’d get used to invading an innocent bystander’s privacy.

Was Cath innocent? Didn’t matter. He needed to proceed the way he would through a minefield. She didn’t trust him, and he couldn’t afford to make her more defensive. “We don’t need to go all the way to your place for this conversation.”

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“We don’t need to have it at all.” Cool, crisp, professional. The perfect dismissal. Or so she perhaps hoped. She thought she had him pigeonholed, but she didn’t know him.

“You know.” He waited for her to look at him. “I answered all your questions earlier.”

She flashed him a look, brow furrowed, but didn’t break stride. “When?”

“Outside the pirate’s house.” Mitch shoved his hands into his jacket, took them out, let them swing. How the hell did someone act casual? “Turnabout is fair play.”

“And you would know about that?”

Mitch clenched his jaw. She sure knew how to shoot a guy down. Try. She only tried. He wasn’t falling over dead. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Let’s keep it that way.” A smirk crossed her face. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

Mitch matched her for another few strides in silence.

“You seemed like a decent person earlier.”

“I am.” She stalked straight ahead.

He wanted her to stop and look at him, but he refused to touch her. Her warm aliveness under his fingers would only get him closer to a hard-­on. Completely useless at the moment. “We’ll assume that’s true for now. If it is, then answer me just one—­” “Are you going to arrest me?” she blurted out and came to a sudden stop beneath a row of balconies. If looks could incinerate, he’d be ashes right now.

“Don’t tempt me.” Slapping cuffs on her might get him a little more cooperation, though. “You were harboring a fugitive.”

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“I gathered as much when you forced your way through my front door.” Cath rubbed her hands down her hips, and Mitch’s abs tightened before he could look elsewhere. “I didn’t know when my brother had to be in court again.”

“You would say that.” Mitch crossed his arms. “You’ve been using delay tactics all night.”

She held his gaze, a heat-­seeking missile straight to his groin. “You mean in the kitchen?”

“No, at the gate when I was trying to do my job.”

When her legs had pressed against his. When her scent had clouded his brain. Don’t go there. “The fact remains that we did find our fugitive in your apartment.”

“Don’t you understand? I didn’t know he was hiding.”

Her voice went all squeaky. “I kept asking him about the bail, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. What was I supposed to do?”

“Don’t get upset.” Mitch reached out to reassure her.

She shrank back and clutched her shawl in a death grip.

“I’m not going to arrest you.” You fool. Don’t give up a card you might need to play. He heaved a sigh. “I can’t, but somebody else might.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean like the police?”

Faint footsteps approached. Mitch immediately stepped closer to the buildings and gestured to Cath.

“Let’s let these people pass.”

A couple materialized out of the fog, their bodies becoming more distinct in the spotlight over a nearby patio gate. The guy wound his arm around his companion’s shoulders, holding her close. The woman leaned

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her head against her boyfriend’s shoulder. The twinge in Mitch’s chest sharpened. Someday he’d… Nope.

Mitch sucked in a breath. Because of what had happened in the past and what might happen in the future, he would never be that close with a woman. He was good with that. He had his family, or he would if he caught Les Hurley in time.

Cath shivered and rubbed her arms, and Mitch stripped off. “Take my jacket.” She stared at him, lips parted. “You’d be doing me a favor. I’ve been broiling all night.”

She broke out of her trance to shoo his hand away.

“Broiling? It’s February.”

If she knew they were in the depths of a New Orleans winter, why didn’t she wear warmer clothes? He waved his jacket at her. “You sure?”

“Positive.” She charged down the sidewalk again, calling back over her shoulder, “Don’t worry about me.”

Mitch pushed his arms into the sleeves and caught up to her without breaking a sweat. “I’m not leaving, so get used to me.”

Cath glanced at him when they reached Jackson Square. “I’m fine, and it’s stupid for you to go out of your way to accompany me. I really do have to be somewhere else now.”

Somewhere she planned to meet his fugitive? “I’ll walk you there.”

“You’re wasting your time, Mr. Guidry.” She wiped the sheen of moisture from her face. “I’m immune to intimidation.”

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Oh man, she had this so wrong. His mother had taught him how to be polite and respect others, especially mothers and other females. “That would be counterproductive.”

“Counterproductive?” Her mouth dropped open.

“Then why are you standing over me like some ogre?”

“I am taller.” He lifted an eyebrow, daring her to disagree. “Even with your shoes.”

Her blue eyes narrowed. “You’ve been glaring at me.”

Now who was trying to intimidate? He’d wanted to look elsewhere, but once she’d started talking, he’d been entranced.

“You even grabbed me.” She gestured toward the cathedral. “Over there.”

“Next time remind me, and I’ll let you fall on your face. But for your information, since you’ve apparently forgotten, you are the one who started that discussion about my brother.”

“Is the ‘utility company employee’”—­she made air quotes—­“really your brother?”

Mitch tapped the pocket holding his cell, his gut clenching. He’d left the hospital only after getting Jack to take his place, but he should have a sitrep by now.

“Well?” She gripped the ends of her shawl.

“He’s my brother.” Mitch wanted to wipe the smug look off her face. “So what?”

“Just curious.” She shrugged.

His patience finally pointed to empty. He crossed his arms. “Why don’t I believe that?”

“It’s the truth. Like everything else I’ve told you

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tonight.” She stopped under a corner streetlight, her shoulders drooping.

She looked so worn out, his gut hurt.

Wait a minute. Bounty hunters weren’t supposed to have feelings. Not on the job. They just needed to execute. If she’d tell him where she was headed and why she wanted to lose him, he could ease up.

She studied him. “Why didn’t you ask me your questions before?”

“Before?”

She huffed a sigh. “When you came running up Royal Street to join the ghost tour.”

He’d have saved himself a lot of grief if he had. “You’d already started your tour. I didn’t think you’d want to air your dirty linen in front of your customers.”

Her pretty mouth dropped open.

Gotcha.

“Let’s make a deal.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll take one question if you promise to walk away after I answer.”

Mitch waved her offer away. “You lost your chance.”

She glanced down the block, frowning so hard her beautiful brows almost met. Mitch waited, not sure what she would say next. He’d either fail completely or she’d drop her shield. Her icy blues fixed on him. “Come on.

Ask me.”

“Where would your brother run?”

A laugh exploded from her. A full-­throated, sheer-­ release burst that somehow reverberated inside his own chest. “I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”

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“Why not?” Mitch spread his hands. “He was staying at your place. For at least twenty-­four hours by my calculation. You expect me to believe you never exchanged a word with him in all that time?”

She wiped her eyes, smudging her mascara, and took a breath. “Like I said before, my baby brother doesn’t tell me half the things I need to know. But even if I knew where he was, I wouldn’t tell you.”

She thought that was a legitimate answer? “Why not?”

“You’ll arrest him and throw him in jail.”

Damn straight. “I’m taking the dregs of society off the streets. Putting criminals where they belong. Behind bars.”

“He’s not a criminal.” She crossed the street.

“He’s a wanted fugitive. Same thing in my book.”

Mitch clenched his jaw so tight, the hinge hurt. Hurley had a hearing loss. A few years ago, he would have been called disabled. Mitch ran a hand over his head. Terrible word. Terrible condition, but dammit, the kid still needed to obey the law. So did his sister.

Her pace slackened all of a sudden. One hand dove into the pocket of her dress and extracted a buzzing cell phone.

Hot damn, he’d been right to hang around after all.

“Your brother?”

“I don’t know.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not telepathic.”

“Just with ghosts, huh?”

She ignored him to tap on the screen and lift the device. “Hello?”

Mitch studied the balconies wrapping the houses across the street, one ear listening for her voice. The brush of her shawl against his arm released her scent. His

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body tensed. If merely standing beside a woman could light his fire, he needed to get laid. Bad. “I’m coming home now.” Cath wandered into the empty street, shoulders hunched and a finger plugged in her free ear. Mitch followed her, watching and listening for vehicles.

Despite the late hour, vehicles still swished through the night several blocks away. Mitch hadn’t seen much traffic on the back streets earlier, but the area wasn’t off-­limits.

A car could tear around the corner at any minute. Sure enough, a set of headlights beamed down on them now.

Mitch held up a hand to stop the driver, waving thanks once Cath disconnected her call and scooted to the sidewalk. Fast. She lifted her skirt and ran flat out.

He trotted to catch up with her. “What’s happening?”

She didn’t spare him a look or a comeback. “Was that your brother?”

“No, someone else.”

The fog hadn’t reached this far into the Quarter, and the music from the bar across the intersection pulsed clearly in the night. Several couples stood outside, sending cigarette smoke their way. Cath coughed and dashed to the opposite side of the street. “Goodbye, Mr. Guidry.”

Mitch caught up with her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” She waved him off. “Go away. I don’t need you anymore.”

She never had. The need came from him. His gut told him Cath Hurley could make or break his future. “You’re no good at lying. Give it up and tell me what’s going on.”

She didn’t answer, didn’t even look his way. Within

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45

minutes, they reached her block. She halted so unexpectedly in the shadows of a balcony, Mitch had to backpedal.

“I thought she said there was a light on.” Cath stared at her house cloaked in darkness. “Why don’t I see any through the shutters?”

Her whispered shock pinched his shoulders. Did she expect her caller to be inside?

Music came from the bar three blocks away now, but nothing else had changed here in the last few hours. “You didn’t have any lights on earlier.”

She stared at him. “I turned them off when I left, but how do you know that?”

“I came by here first before catching you at the tour.”

Mitch planted his feet, his gaze steady on the front of her house. Something didn’t seem right, but he couldn’t pinpoint what.

Cath dashed across the street with her key.

Mitch vaulted the steps and blocked access.

She tapped his arm. “If you don’t mind.”

“You’re not going inside until I check things first.” He held her off and splayed his fingers on the wood. The door drifted open.

They could have been at the mouth of a cave. Total blackness gaped at them from within. A pair of night-­ vision goggles would sure come in handy because the chill rippling over him had nothing to do with the frigid night.

Cath caught his gaze and shrugged. “Maybe he’s already gone.”

“Assumptions are dangerous.” He tucked her tighter behind him. “Let’s not take that chance.”

46

sue ward drake

Snick. Crack.

“What was that?” She lifted a hand to her cheek.

Whatever it was, was too damned close. Mitch’s throat closed. If he hadn’t pulled her away, he’d be making another 911 call this minute. A slice of exposed wood shone against the weather-­darkened door. “Someone shot a splinter off the jamb.”

“Les doesn’t have a gun.”

“He could have found one and come back.” Mitch visualized the interior of her house. Couch on the right.

Coffee table in front narrowing the path to the kitchen with the beaded curtain. He’d noticed another doorway on the left behind a stuffed chair. A bedroom?

Cath tugged on his sleeve. “But he’s not violent.”

“I’ve got a bloody T-­ shirt, remember?” Mitch whispered.

Her gaze dropped to his chest.

“That wasn’t an ordinary firearm.” Hired guns or soldiers on secret missions used a noise suppressor. Either Hurley had armed himself with one or they were dealing with a stranger—­and a damned good shot.

Mitch would clear the house the same as he had mud huts in the Sandbox, but he needed to act fast to catch the shooter off guard. He sent Cath his sternest glare, one she should instantly understand. There was no time to argue. “Find someplace to hide. Quick.”

She took off. Gun in hand, he crashed the door back against the wall and entered her house. “Surrender. I’ve got you covered.”

A solid kick closed the door behind him. Mitch swept

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47

the room with his weapon before crouching behind the armchair. “You’re corner—­” He shut his mouth. Hurley wouldn’t understand.

Yeah, but this could be someone else.

Mitch waited for his vision to adjust. The room gradually took on a gray dimness. He crept around the furniture, ready for an attacker to jump out in front of him.

No one did.

The doorways to the kitchen and the bedroom made blacker squares against the gloom of the front room. The intruder could have fled or could be lying in wait. Clear the house first.

The scuff of a shoe broke the silence. In the bedroom.

Mitch flattened against the wall next to the doorway.

With his SIG in both hands, he waited another second, then entered in a crouch.

A blow smashed his gun hand. His weapon clattered to the floor. His lungs filled with the stench of musk a nanosecond before a beefy arm clutched his throat in a headlock.

He had only two minutes. Then he’d run out of air.

Training propelled him onto autopilot. He gouged at his attacker’s eyes with one hand. Groped for the guy’s balls with the other and squeezed. A scream nearly deafened him, but the arm around his neck loosened, allowing Mitch to tuck. Mitch slammed an elbow into the guy’s gut, swung a leg back between his attacker’s, and dropped him to the floor.

His attacker rolled and lashed out with a boot. Gut-­ punched, Mitch banged into the wall. A bullet punched a hole above his head. The air swished, and the gunman fled.

48

sue ward drake

Mitch struggled to his feet, his breaths coming in gasps.

The colored beads in the curtain glimmered. Four steps took him into the kitchen and the cold night air blasting through the open back door. He raced outside and around to the alley like he had only hours ago. This time the iron bars of the gate at the other end slowly swung closed.

His pulse leapt. Cath was out there. Alone.

Unprotected.

The gate clanged shut in his face. Mitch turned the cold brass knob and stepped onto the sidewalk to glance around. Where did she hide?

He started to call out to her but stopped. No running footsteps echoed in the silent street. That meant the intruder could be out here, too, hunkered down to wait him out before slipping away. Where?

Across the street stood the two-­story house where he and Cath had regrouped. Next door, a high wall ran along someone’s sealed-­off courtyard to the end of the block.

Typical of the French Quarter, no gardens or bushes anywhere along the narrow sidewalk. The entrance doors of the grocery on the closest corner offered no hiding places. Neither did any of the other houses—­except the dark Victorian porch next door.

Mitch snuck along the sidewalk. The earthy smell from flowerpots along the railing filled his lungs. A movement in his peripheral vision sent his pulse spiking.

Was someone lurking up there? In the dark rear corner?

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49

With his gun at the ready, Mitch tested each step before settling his full weight.

“Don’t move.” The shadows jumped in front of him.

“Or I’ll blow you away.”

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