Chased by Moonlight

Prologue

A LOW RUMBLE.

At first she thought it was a motorcycle on one of the distant streets.

She continued to walk without worries, keys in hand, still smiling over a joke one of her friends had told just before she left the club. She tried to remember the punch line so she could retell it when she went home for dinner this weekend. Something about a farmer with a gallon of paint and an old lady carrying a chicken . . . She totally sucked at jokes. Her dad, who had a slickly perfect delivery, was fond of saying that the only thing with worse timing than hers was her ancient Volvo.

She drew in a deep breath of night air to chase away the fuzziness from her last drink—some fruity creation that guy at the next table had sent over in hopes of an invitation. But it was girls’ night out, and some rules couldn’t be broken. Only estrogen-bearing bodies were allowed at the table. She’d smiled her thanks, hoping he’d catch her at the door to get her number. But he’d been distracted by a very short skirt on the dance floor, and they’d been necking back by the johns before she’d even left. Oh well. That timing thing again.

She crossed Decatur and headed toward the parking lot where her dented Volvo sat in the darkness. The main lot had been full when she arrived after work, forcing her into the overflow boonies. She didn’t mind the walk. The breeze coming off the Mississippi was cool on her arms and face, a treat after the sticky afternoon heat.

Her heels crunched on gravel as she left the paved area of the lot. She could hear the water and the lonesome sound of a big barge moving upriver. The muted revelry of New Orleans was behind her, but where she was headed, alone in the dark, it was silent. Except for her footsteps and the sudden deep vibration of that strange rumble again.

What was that? It sounded like the growl of some big dog.

She glanced over her shoulder and quickened her step, even though she didn’t see anything in the deserted lot. Probably a hungry stray nosing around the overflowing trash cans, warning her off.

She should have asked one of the girls to walk with her. But she loved the spicy fun of the Quarter, and had never felt afraid after dark before.

She let out a breath of relief when she reached her car. Dim light from the other section of the lot cast her reflection in the car window, a pretty young woman—with something huge, dark, and indistinguishable rising up over her shoulder.

A squeak of alarm escaped and her keys hit the gravel as she turned, pressing back against the car. She was confused, then relieved by the sight of a man standing there. Because that’s not what she’d seen in that brief, terrifying second, looming behind her with eyes red and gleaming.

No more fruity drinks! The vow pounded frantically on the e-ticket amusement park ride her pulse was taking.

He was tall, dark, and good-looking in a ruthlessly arrogant manner, and nicely dressed in black business casual. Not someone out to snatch her purse.

He smiled slowly with nonthreatening charm, his voice deep and pleasant. I’m sorry, Sandra. Did I scare you?

Hearing him speak her name in that warm conversational tone made her relax. Was he someone from the media looking for a quote? Oh, man, she didn’t look like she’d had one too many, did she? Her dad would kill her. Or was he someone her father had sent to watch over her? She’d told him time and again it wasn’t necessary. But with her heart hammering frantically along her rib cage as if knocking out a tune on a xylophone in a marching band, she wasn’t about to question his wisdom now.

She expelled a nervous little laugh and admitted, Just a bit.

Just a bit? Then I’ll have to do better than that, won’t I?

Still smiling, he gave her keys a kick, sending them spinning under the Volvo.

It took a slow, stomach-rolling second for the danger to register. He wasn’t one of her father’s employees. He wasn’t from the press. And he was after something more than pocket change.

Her glance flashed about the lot, but they were very, very alone—just the two of them beneath the dark light pole. Then she noticed the broken glass from its missing globe littering on the loose gravel.

What do you want? she whimpered breathlessly.

I want you to play a game with me, Sandra. You run; I’ll chase you.

She stared at him, eyes round and bright with incomprehensible terror. He looked so normal, so trustworthy.

I’ll even give you a head start.

W-what? she stammered, not understanding. Until his smile widened, revealing horribly sharp canine teeth. And his eyes glowed, hot gold and red.

Run!

She screamed and bolted, slipping on the gravel to her hands and knees, where the jagged rocks cut her soft skin. Shrieking madly, she expected to feel his hands grabbing at her, those teeth tearing into her. But he waited, giving her time to scramble up, her blood trickling slick and warm, her breath sobbing from her.

Give it your all, Sandra, he taunted as she sped away, dropping her purse. Hoping he’d stop to look through it.

But he wasn’t interested in her spangly bag. He was appreciating the tangling whip of her long blond hair, watching her tight little butt work the snug seat of her capri pants as she wobbled on ridiculously high heels. The scent of her fear was as rich and potent as any perfume. Delicious.

He could taste her already.

I’ll be right behind you, he added with a mocking chuckle.

She ran soundlessly, saving her breath.

Following her frantic race through the lot and down the sidewalk with his unnatural stare, his smile returned, sharp and fierce. Because she was headed not toward the lights, where she might have found the safety of her own kind, but into shadows, where she foolishly thought she might hide.

Silly girl.

Then he chased her.

One

THE RING OF HER cell phone dragged Charlotte Caissie from a very delicious dream. She scowled, trying to ignore the unwelcome summons intruding into her private world.

Go away. Leave a message.

Finally the ringing stopped.

Concentrate.

The breath sighed from her as she was skillfully coaxed back into the moment.

Oh, that’s it, baby. Right there. That’s the spot.

Chills of sensation skimmed across her flushed skin—and the phone began to ring again with shrill impatience. While her flesh was more than willing to ignore it, her well-trained mind was already lured to distraction.

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

As her hand unfisted from sleek dark hair, a low voice came from under the covers.

Don’t answer it.

The request was punctuated by her body’s greedy shuddering, but her hand was already on the phone.

Caissie.

Cee Cee, I need you to meet me on the Moonwalk.

Babineau, I’m right in the middle of something. Her testy, breathless tone resulted in a long silence on the other end. But having had to suffer through the details of her partner’s new marriage ad nauseam for the last eight months, she didn’t care if he was shocked. And if you don’t let me get back to it right now, I’m going to have to injure you badly. I am officially off the clock and unavailable. Got it?

Sorry, but the chief asked for you in particular.

She groaned, both in objection and delight as a chain of hot kisses moved slowly up her belly. Where? It was hard to hear his answer over the roar of her blood. Her back arched into a sensuous bow, then slumped to the mattress again. I’m on my way. She threw the phone and then said gruffly, I’ve got to go.

Her clever and oh-so-generous lover came up on his elbows, annoyance ill-concealed. I thought we were already on our way to a very different destination.

Being dragged from his bed, particularly at this suspenseful juncture, was the last thing she’d envisioned for the morning, too.

Her tone clipped tight, her manner all-business. Duty calls. And it’s not like we haven’t been on this particular journey all day yesterday and most of last night.

A cool distance seeped into his expression, and his voice grew brittle. Excuse me, detective. I thought you were enjoying the ride. My mistake.

She returned his fierce, unblinking glower for a long minute, then with a laugh toppled him over onto his back, coming up astride him.

I love it when you pout, she murmured against the firm set of his mouth.

I’m not pouting. I’m being indignant. But his lips relaxed too quickly under hers to be convincing. "All right, I’m pouting. And in a minute, I’ll be begging. I have no shame where you’re concerned, sha. Don’t go. Please."

She brushed her fingertips over the sharp angles of his face, adoring the strong, compelling lines. How easily she’d become addicted to him, to this. Once she’d surrendered to the drugging pleasures of his touch, she found it difficult to remember why she’d resisted him for so long.

She did a mental balancing now. Sex or murder? How was a girl to choose? He wasn’t making it any easier, with that slow drag of his fingertips over the curve of her torso. Don’t make this harder than it has to be, she warned shakily.

His eyes crinkled with wicked amusement. It couldn’t be much harder than it already is. Are you sure you can’t show pity for my unfortunate state and spare a few more minutes?

I’m surprised you can still muster up a . . . complaint, let alone move. She grinned. You are an insatiable beast.

You say that like it’s a bad thing.

She pressed a quick kiss on the tip of his nose, then rolled out of bed while she still had the willpower. She heard his heavy moan of resignation as she said, I’ve got to swing by my apartment to feed the pigs, shower, and grab some clean clothes.

You can shower here.

The temptation was almost irresistible, just as he intended. Picturing suds and steam and more hot sex, she smiled wryly. I’m afraid that would be counterproductive.

It would save time if you’d leave some clothes here. At her sudden look of panic, he added silkily, I promise not to wear them.

They hadn’t discussed that step. Actually, they hadn’t discussed much of anything. They’d only ventured from their den of lustful pleasures to forage for food. Caught up in the right-now, instead of the week later where the rest of the world waited, she hadn’t felt words were too important. Not when he possessed so many other delectable, nonverbal communication skills.

Bringing clothes over sounded suspiciously like setting up housekeeping, and alarms and whistles protecting her personal space rang. She said carefully, We’ll talk about that later.

Whenever you have the time, detective. What happened to your week’s vacation? I had plans for every minute of it.

A warm tingle spread through some very well-satisfied places as she imagined what else he might have had in mind. A long, X-rated, clothing-unnecessary week of sensation and relaxation with the only person she’d ever wanted to share such things with. Didn’t he realize she was as angry about losing any of that precious time together as he was? But one of them had to be reasonable, and he was too busy pouting. A dark, smoldery pout that had her heartbeat kicking up a notch. She was too new at the complexities of a relationship to know when it was better to run like hell rather than to attempt an explanation.

Apparently the department cannot continue without me for more than one day. She started pulling on her crumpled clothes with rapid efficiency under his brooding regard.

Neither can I.

The deeply pitched sentiment gripped her emotions like a fist. It took a phenomenal amount of determination to continue buttoning her shirt.

Seeing that he wasn’t going to sway her, he said mildly, Tell your partner I’ll be making good on your threat.

What threat is that? she asked, strapping on her weapon.

To injure him badly.

She glanced over at the long, powerful figure stretched out beneath well-rumpled Egyptian cotton sheets. His black hair was endearingly mussed and spiky, his unshaven cheeks smudged with morning shadow, but his stare was level, still and unblinking. For a moment, a reminder of who he was, what he was, and what he was capable of, shocked through her with a nasty little jolt. Dangerous. Deadly. A predator no longer answering to anyone.

She hesitated. Was he serious?

He showed his teeth in a wide, possible smile. Just kidding.

Was he?

You’d better be. She released a cautious breath. I don’t want to break in a new partner any more than I want to break in a new boyfriend. I’ll see you later?

Oh, you can count on that. He stretched, arms over head and toes reaching for the opposite wall, the movement strong and as lazily sinuous as that of some big, powerful animal. Which, technically, was exactly what he was. I might as well go to work, too, he grumbled, since you’ve managed to suck the illicit enjoyment out of my day. I’ll stop by your apartment so you can tell me what was more important than sharing this bed with me.

She couldn’t imagine anything running even a close second to him, so in a moment of tangled vulnerability, she let down her guard. That was the best one-day vacation I’ve ever had in my life. You’re amazing.

Thank you. His mouth curved, his smile smug, his gaze warming. My pleasure.

She took one step toward him, then caught herself. It was madness to want him so much. A nearly uncontrollable madness. Time to run like hell.

I’ll see you soon.

SANDRA CUMMINGS, TWENTY-TWO, single, a business student at Tulane. Apparently she went to a club off the Square with a group of friends. She left about one thirty and walked to her car alone.

She should have known better. Charlotte looked at the plastic-draped form, frustration roiling. Why hadn’t she known better? One too many drinks? The invulnerability of youth? How could her friends let her just walk out into the night by herself? What had they been thinking?

Unfortunately she had a pretty good idea what they’d be thinking when they heard the news. They’d be thinking it was all their fault. And then they’d have to learn to live with it. Lesson learned too damn late, and now just another grim statistic. Stupid kids, she muttered almost angrily.

She glanced around, her cool, dark eyes efficiently detailing the scene, imagining it the way it would look late at night—not the way it did now, skirted by police tape and obscenely visible to those beginning to crowd behind it. After midnight it would be isolated, empty in favor of the jazz and dance-club party scene closer to the Square. A lonely, shadowed place to die. No place for a twenty-two-year-old student to be lying under plastic.

What was so special about her that the chief called me back in? She glanced at her partner, alerted by his edgy evasiveness. Not much made Alain Babineau fidget. He was the epitome of cool and calm under even the most grisly circumstances. Together they’d seen all the ugly, shocking reminders of what man was willing to do to his fellow man in the name of anger, jealousy, madness, or just plain business.

She’s Simon Cummings’s youngest daughter.

Cummings? She’d met the aggressively proactive mayoral hopeful at several professional functions. She’d liked his firm, hard line against crime. A coincidence?

Something uneasy moved in Babineau’s face as he bent and pulled back the plastic. I don’t think so.

She stared down at the partially nude and viciously mutilated body of Sandra Cummings, seeing the signature MO. She didn’t need to wait for the pronouncement of cause from the medical examiner, Devlin Dovion. She recognized the work.

Fangs and claws.

Do you want to drive or shall I? Babineau asked softly.

LEGERE ENTERPRISES INTERNATIONAL had its business office in a renovated warehouse along the wharf, close to the pulse of its many interests. And many of those interests had been under attack by Simon Cummings. His campaign had stepped up considerably since Jimmy Legere’s death and the assumption of power by his long-time bodyguard, Max Savoie.

Savoie was an unknown quantity. Despite his highly visible stance at Legere’s back, he’d stayed in the shadows as a silent, simmering threat to any who would dare cross his mentor. He literally hadn’t existed on paper until Legere’s high-priced lawyer arranged for the necessary documents to allow him to take control.

How he would run LE International, and his ability to retain his hold on the far-flung and allegedly illegal ventures, was the topic of much debate. Dangerous debate. And though the head that wore the new crown was uneasy, one wouldn’t know it when looking at the sleek businessman seated behind a huge teak desk.

Detectives, what can I do for you this morning?

In unspoken agreement, Cee Cee remained quiet while her partner, Alain Babineau, squared up to ask questions. From the backup position she could study the elegant Savoie, looking beyond his beautifully tailored gray Armani suit and immaculate grooming to the sharp-edged killer he’d been until a few months ago. The aura of potential violence still shimmered about him, despite the careful composition of his ruggedly compelling features. Knowing how much more was hidden behind the steady arrogance of his stare had Cee Cee dreading the confrontation to come.

That, and the fact that she was sleeping with him.

We’re investigating a murder, Mr. Savoie. A young woman was attacked at her car, chased down the Moonwalk, overpowered, raped, and killed.

Max never blinked. How unfortunate. And this relates to me how? Do I know her? Does she work for me?

Her father was Simon Cummings. Get the picture now?

Still out of focus. Fine-tune, please.

Her throat was torn out. It appears as if some of her internal organs were . . . eaten.

Ah. Are you asking if I suddenly got a craving for young coed and decided to go out for a snack?

Did you?

A cool smile. No. I’m afraid my girlfriend doesn’t approve of me assaulting and devouring other women. She’s funny that way. I try my best not to irritate her unnecessarily, even though she doesn’t seem to have a problem irritating me. Nor do you, apparently, Detective Babineau.

So you won’t mind telling me for the record where you were between one and two this morning.

I was at my home. In bed. Handling an urgent personal matter. I was not alone. His stony stare never deviated from Babineau’s. Did you need proof, detective? I’m afraid I don’t have any Polaroids or video for documentation. Is that something you think I should consider doing, for future reference?

Alain Babineau was a straight shooter, a good cop, and a tough one without being a hard-ass. His unspoiled good looks could have sold anything from toothpaste to boxers with his blue eyes, dimples, and compact athletic build. He was protective of his partner in a way that made Savoie grateful and uneasy at the same time. They would never like each other, because of the woman and the badge that stood between them.

And your time can be vouched for all night?

Yes. Every delectable minute of it.

Cee Cee frowned. Max’s gaze flickered to her for an instant, registering puzzlement, before returning to his interrogator.

Any other questions, detective, or would you like to gut me right here to see if any pieces of Ms. Cummings come spilling out on my carpet?

I don’t think I could get a warrant for that. But his scowl said he wouldn’t be above asking for a sample of his stomach contents. Can you deny that Simon Cummings has been causing you and your organization a considerable amount of trouble lately?

No. He’s a tolerable nuisance. But then again, so are you, detective, and I haven’t killed and eaten you.

They locked testosterone-fueled stares for a long moment, until a clearly irritated Cee Cee stepped between them. Her demand held a crisp neutrality.

Did anyone in your employ, with or without your knowledge, undertake the intimidation of Ms. Cummings in order to dissuade her father from continuing his vendetta against your businesses?

Cold green eyes slashed over to meet hers. Are you asking if I authorized the rape and murder of an innocent young girl because her father was annoying me? Is that what you’re asking, Detective Caissie?

When she refused to clarify the question, his mood grew glacial.

The answer is no. This interview is over. If you have any other questions you can contact my attorney. I’m sure you know your way out.

I’ll say this for you, Savoie, Babineau stated in a parting shot. You certainly are a quick study. You’ve gotten comfortable real fast behind that desk. Just remember where fast and clever got Jimmy Legere.

Without moving a muscle, fury vibrated through the new top thug on the block. I’ll remember. Detective Caissie, a word.

Charlotte wasn’t fooled by his smooth manner. He was in a dangerous coil of temper, ready to strike. Still, she nodded to her reluctant partner and remained behind. She began with cautious impartiality, hoping to quickly defuse the situation. I’m sorry for that, Max. You know it’s just part of the drill. I can’t help that you top our list of the usual, or rather the unusual, suspects.

But that wasn’t what concerned him.

What was that look for, Charlotte?

Her competent cop expression puckered with confusion. What look?

When Babineau asked about us being together all night, you made a peculiar face. I don’t understand. Explain it to me.

She confronted him directly. I woke up about quarter to two. You weren’t with me.

What do you mean?

You were gone. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I went back to sleep.

But you’re thinking something of it now.

Of course not.

She was lying; he could practically hear the wheels in her cop brain whirring. His features registered the shock of it briefly before the impenetrable glaze returned. You think I climbed out of the bed I was sharing with you, came into town to have forced sex with someone else after you’d been supplying it so generously for the previous thirty-six hours, killed her, made a meal of her, came back, washed up, and was all warm and ready to make love to you again?

How awful he made her sound. It was awful. She felt awful, but trying to defend herself would have only made things worse.

She couldn’t help remembering the past bodies she’d seen. She couldn’t change the fact that she knew what had torn them into pieces. Who had torn them into pieces.

He came toward her with a purposeful stride. She held her ground, her heart pounding. She’d never been truly afraid of him, of what he was and what he could do, yet subconscious caution shivered through her soul. He came as close as he could without actually touching her, until she could feel his heat, his strength, his intensity. There was no man alive that she would let do that without thrusting up barriers to protect her space.

But then, Max Savoie was no man.

He asked softly against her ear, How could you let me put my hands on you if you believed that for even an instant?

His fingertips rested on the backs of her arms. And she flinched.

With a low oath, he turned away. Leave, Charlotte. Just go.

The toneless quality of his voice scared her. Max? she asked softly, plaintively.

What a monster you must think I am. How can you stand me?

Max. She reached for him but he shied away, returning to the other side of his desk. When he looked at her again, his face was without expression.

Don’t keep your partner waiting, detective. I’m sure you have more important places you need to be.

Charlotte returned his gaze for a long, controlled moment, her stare flat and ungiving. He knew she wouldn’t just slink away. Not with all that fierce, prideful arrogance that both fascinated and infuriated him. Didn’t she realize she could destroy him with just a subtle shift of her expression, a betraying flicker he always prepared for that would plunge from desire to disgust? But she kept her features neutral—those bold, exotically beautiful features that could crush a man’s courage with purposeful viciousness or conceal a vulnerable world of pain behind hard onyx eyes.

She abruptly broke her rigid stance and strode to the door the way she did everything, with a take-no-prisoners certainty.

After the door closed behind her, he let his breath out in a shaky spasm. He quickly took another one, deep and strong, to get on top of all the turmoil writhing around inside him. He’d deal with that later. For now, he had to take care of business.

He pressed the intercom on his desk. Francis, come in here, please.

Francis Petitjohn was Jimmy Legere’s cousin and had supposed himself the heir apparent to the fortune he’d helped make. Finding out that Jimmy had passed his