Rita Herron - Say You Love Me

But Satan had decided to let him live that night. Death would have been too easy.

Finally at daybreak they’d returned to the camp. Exhausted. He was half-dead.

They hadn’t found Adrianna.

Then his next realm of punishments had begun. He’d bowed his head before the snake pit, the blinding pain swirling him into a vortex of eternal darkness. The clan chanted and prayed for the demons to be exorcised from his body. They’d thought him weak. A traitor. That he had warned Adrianna….

In their eyes, he was a failure. An outcast. He had not survived the trial by ordeal without looking guilty.

Then they had banned him from their presence forever.

Thunder clapped above, drawing him back to the present. He stood on the edge of another clan now, the work of the great Ezra Cortain in progress. The pounding drums echoed around him and the chants began, praising Sobek. Although forced to remain on the periphery, he clasped his hands and silently joined their prayer.

Adrianna might be able to run, but she couldn’t hide.

And she had changed her name, but he knew it, as well as her real one. The Christian one her mother had given her.

The one he would call her when he finally offered her to the spirits.

JEAN-PAUL SILENTLY CURSED his decision to bring Britta Berger to his family’s restaurant. He should have called it a night. Left her at her apartment. Gone back to the precinct.

But once he’d ignored his family’s welfare for his job and his wife had died. He’d never forgive himself. Lucinda’s family hadn’t forgiven him, either.

He had to warn his sisters and mother now that there was a killer preying on women.

A low jazz tune wailed in the background of the diner, wrapping tendrils of nostalgia around him—and a longing for what he’d lost. The comfort of a companion. The feel of a woman’s touch.

Only Lucinda had never been a comfort about his job. She’d hated it and begged him to leave police work.

God, why was he thinking about her tonight?

Because another woman had died and you couldn’t stop it.

“This is the rest of our family!” His maman gestured toward the wall of family photographs above the table, forcing Jean-Paul back to the present as she rattled on. “Jean-Paul is the oldest and of course, always the responsible one, taking care of everyone.”

“Mother—” he growled.

“It’s true.” His mother batted her hand at him, then continued, oblivious to the fact that she was embarrassing him. “See all the pictures of him after the hurricane? He worked day and night, saved women and children. My boy is a local hero.”

Jean-Paul gritted his teeth as she waved past the photo of him and Lucinda. Britta narrowed her eyes, obviously curious about the woman, but she didn’t ask and he didn’t offer the information.

How many times had he questioned his decision? Some men had lost their jobs because they’d left their posts to save their families. He’d saved strangers, kept his job, but lost his wife.

“And here’s Damon, my next-to-the-oldest son,” his mother continued. “Damon works for the FBI. Always the serious one, tough like Jean-Paul, but reserved, a methodical thinker.” Her face beamed with pride. “And this is Antwaun, my youngest boy. He’s hot-headed, temperamental like his papa, unpredictable.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “He’s too quick to jump into things sometimes, but ahh, a good boy at heart, he is.”

“You have a beautiful family,” Britta said quietly.

Her tone sounded so sad that Jean-Paul squeezed her hand beneath the table. A gesture of silent thanks for being so tolerant? The realization that he was sorry for whoever had hurt her?

“Now please, Britta, try some of my famous white-bread pudding.” His mother pushed a dish toward Britta and she accepted it graciously.

“It’s delicious.” Britta sipped her latte. “In fact, everything looks wonderful. And the smells…I’m sure customers are drawn in from the streets because of the tantalizing aromas.”

“Oh, thank you,” his mother gushed. “You must come by for lunch. I work so hard to get the freshest ingredients and Catherine here, Jean-Paul’s youngest sister, she helps me create the desserts.”

“My daughter, Chrissy, likes to bake, too,” Catherine said with a grin. “I think she might grow up to be a pastry chef herself.”

“Yeah, but she usually wears more flour than goes into the dough.” Jean-Paul ruffled his five-year-old niece’s hair and smiled as she popped part of an éclair into her mouth and the cream oozed down her chin.

“So how long have you known my big brother?” Catherine asked.

Britta squirmed in her seat. “Actually we just met.”

Stephanie, his dark-haired sister and the bookkeeper for the café, raised a brow. “Papa said you’re helping Jean-Paul with a case?”

Britta nodded, but refrained from elaborating.

“What is it you do?” Catherine asked. “Are you a detective?”

“Or one of those psychic investigators?” Stephanie asked.

Jean-Paul rolled his eyes. “The festival has everyone’s imagination running on overload, doesn’t it?”

Stephanie shrugged. “I know you don’t believe in anything supernatural, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

Catherine cleared her throat. “That’s right. Just like love. Just because it’s not a tangible thing, doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

Jean-Paul glared at them to stop the matchmaking. They both knew he’d vowed never to marry again, that he had no desire to get involved with another woman.

Britta cleared her throat. “Actually, I’m not gifted or a detective. I’m an editor for a magazine.”

Stephanie’s dark eyes lit up as recognition dawned. “Britta Berger. That’s right. You edit that Secret Confessions column, don’t you?” She stirred sweetener into her coffee. “I love that column. It’s exciting to see the diversity of confessions. Do you have a difficult time choosing which ones to print?”

Britta shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“I met the owner, R.J. Justice,” Stephanie continued. “He’s handsome. I bet he’s interesting to work for.”

Jean-Paul frowned at his sister as he finished his last bite of gumbo. He didn’t want Stephanie anywhere near Justice, but if he told her so, she’d probably make it a point to see the man.

“The magazine, that’s one reason we stopped by,” Jean-Paul said. “We had a murder-rape case today, and the killer sent Britta a photograph of the crime.”

“Oh my gosh, that’s horrible,” Catherine whispered.

“Why did he send it to you?” Stephanie asked.

“I think he wanted me to print it.”

“But we’re not playing his game,” Jean-Paul declared.

His maman looked appalled. “Who did this awful thing?”

“We have no idea who the killer is yet. That means you all have to be careful.” Jean-Paul fixed his sisters with a look that had intimidated cut-throat killers but didn’t faze them. “Absolutely no going out alone at night. Hell, not even during the day.”

“Have you talked to your brothers?” his mother asked.

“Not yet, but I will.”

Catherine tapped her nails on her chin. “We can take care of ourselves, Jean-Paul.”

Stephanie slicked her long dark hair behind one ear and angled her head toward Britta in a conspiratorial tone. “Honestly, our brothers can be so protective it’s nauseating.”

His maman waved a napkin, swatting at her daughters. “You girls listen to Jean-Paul. He knows the streets and works hard to keep us safe.” She turned to Britta. “Your family would say the same thing to you, wouldn’t they?”

Britta nearly choked on her coffee.