Heather Graham - Blood Red

One of the trumpet players was a huge, handsome African-American man. As he played, his eyes lit on Lauren, and she offered him a nod of respect. Strangely, he kept watching her solemnly until he had passed her.

As soon as the funeral had moved on, people began to mill around on the sidewalks again, and cars followed slowly, until they could turn onto a different street.

Lauren found herself listening to the sad dirge until the funeral march was but a hint in the air, and the laughter on the street and sounds of a corner rock band overshadowed what had been. Then she gave herself a shake and hurried into the next store.

She saw T-shirts, voodoo potion boxes, alligator heads, votive candles and holders, but no sign of Deanna.

Nor did Heidi appear.

She walked back into the store where Heidi had been looking at the hat. Neither of her friends was there.

Irritated, she took out her cell phone. She tried Deanna’s number first and got her voice mail. The same thing happened when she tried Heidi’s number. Cursing silently, she left her a message, too.

She didn’t want to go far; they had to be nearby somewhere. But after going in and out of a dozen shops, cafes and restaurants, her level of aggravation peaked, and she gave in to the heat and her own weariness and opted for a table near the street at the last café she checked and ordered a giant iced tea.

While she sat, she drew out her sketch pad, but before she could start working on a street scene, she found herself staring at the sketch she had made of the fortune teller the night before.

“You ruined the whole party, you know,” she said softly to the sketch. The woman was still striking, everything about her unusual, from the remembered color of her skin to the bone structure of her face.

“Talking to yourself?” someone said.

She looked up, startled, wariness slipping through her.

Their handsome neighbor from cottage six was standing by her, a pleasant smile on his face.

She didn’t answer; she was torn between suspicion and an inexplicable desire to engage in conversation. Okay, maybe not so inexplicable. He was exceedingly attractive. Tall, everything in proportion, muscular without being musclebound, with rugged features that were classically appealing and entirely masculine. She even liked his scent, and felt oddly drawn to move nearer to him.

I would actually like to get to know him, she admitted to herself.

And then another voice chimed in. The truth was that he scared her. And maybe he scared her just because she felt such a strong sense of attraction to him.

Would she have been so afraid if it hadn’t been for what had happened in the Square, the crystal ball and the illusion of genuine danger?

“Wow,” he murmured, and she realized that he was looking at her sketch. “That’s magnificent.”

“I don’t know about magnificent,” she murmured, embarrassed.

He never actually asked if he could join her, and she never suggested that he do so, but he drew out the chair across from her anyway and sat down.

She was glad, she realized. She liked having him there, liked talking with him. Liked feeling his eyes on her appreciatively.

And yet she was still…wary.

Scared.

Something wasn’t right.

“You’re quite an artist,” he said.

“It’s a living,” she replied.

He flashed her a smile. A very attractive smile. “Not everyone is good enough to make a living at it.”

“I’ve been lucky.”

“Are your friends artists, too?”

“Yes. Artists, graphic designers.”

“You do logos, fliers, that type of thing?” he inquired politely.

“Yes, and ad layouts and so on,” she agreed.

She didn’t want him to leave, she realized.

What the hell was it about him that appealed to her so strongly? She wanted to touch him, make sure he was real, stroke the contours of his face, feel his heart beat under her palm.

He tapped the table near the sketch. “I’ve seen her. It’s an incredible likeness. There’s a touch of magic to her, and you’ve captured it.”

“Thanks.” She hesitated. “So you…know her?”

He shook his head. “I saw her when I was walking around. She’s so unusual, so arresting, that you feel compelled to look at her. You’ve caught all that in this sketch.”

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“So you all had your fortunes told?”

“Yes.”

“And?” His tone was teasing, his smile captivating.

And yet, despite his teasing tone, did she sense a note of seriousness behind it? Did he suspect that she had seen a strange vision?

Of course not.

“We’re all going to live long, happy lives,” she lied.

“Wonderful So where are your friends now? Did they get lost in New Orleans?” he asked, a slight frow creasing his brow, though he still spoke lightly.

“They’re not lost,” she said, then added, “I’ve simply misplaced them.”

“Worrying nonetheless,” he said

“It’s broad daylight, and there are tons of people around,” she countered.

A waitress came by. “I’d love a tea, too,” he said, then looked at Lauren. “May I buy you lunch?”

“I should really wait.”

“Until your misplaced friends are located?”

She turned her attention to the street momentarily, then looked back at him. She was startled when he set a hand over hers. Pinpricks of sensation seemed to leap like fire across her flesh, pass into her bloodstream and balloon at the center of her being like a flow of lava. She was tempted to pull her hand away, then realized that would be far too indicative of her feelings.

She stared at him instead, slowly arching a brow.

Suddenly his expression grew serious, and his tone matched it when he spoke. “Please, you may think I’m insane for saying this, but I promise you, I’m not. I’m afraid that you and your friends are in danger here.”

Yes, there had been more to his earlier question.

“Oh, please,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment against her disappointment that he’d turned out to be a loon. “Not this again.”

All she wanted now was for him to go away. She’d been far too tempted to give in to the appealing fact that he seemed to find her interesting, attractive. To be pursuing her. Because she wanted to be pursued.

What she didn’t want was this feeling that something was lying beneath every word he said, that he didn’t actually want to be with her and was just plain crazy.

“Again?” he asked sharply.

Irritation filled her, along with an uncanny sense of fear. “The fortune teller gave me the same line of bull. We’re here for a bachelorette party, Mr. Davidson. Pure and simple. Heidi is about to get married, and the three of us have been planning this trip for ages. I can’t imagine why you—a stranger—would want to ruin it for us.”

He was quiet, leaning back. She could read little from his expression, because his sunglasses suddenly seemed as dark as night. She knew she should just ask him to leave her alone.

Somehow, she couldn’t.

He was still touching her hand, but that wasn’t what was stopping her. It was simply his presence that she couldn’t resist.

“I swear to you,” he said very softly, “I want nothing more than your complete safety.”

“I’m not in any danger.”

“Yes, you are. You saw this morning’s headline.”

She shook her head, a chill snaking through her. “Does that mean every single woman anywhere near the Mississippi River is in danger?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, please!”

“There’s a killer working the area,” he said with such assurance that she felt an ever greater sense of being encompassed of ice, despite the heat of the day.

“Are you a cop?” she asked sharply.