New Orleans Noir Read online

  The French Kiss Killer has returned

  and has his next target in sight...

  Detective Hunter Bergeron has two goals: find the French Kiss Killer and keep Helena Cosworth from becoming his next victim. Hunter and Helena share a past, and close proximity now only reignites their attraction. But with New Orleans on high alert, giving in to old feelings is a distraction neither can afford. Especially in the darkest corners of the Quarter.

  “I wasn’t interfering with anything and I don’t need your protection. I’m not afraid.”

  Still, Helena laid her phone down on the table in front of Hunter. “I don’t expect the killer to contact me.”

  “Good. Neither do I.”

  “And I’m not planning to go looking for trouble.”

  “Also good because I’d hate to put you under house arrest.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  He was surely bluffing. When he finished with the phone, she walked him to the door.

  Instead of leaving, he held the door open and looked down at her, his gaze burning into hers. He leaned closer until his lips were only inches away from her mouth.

  Old urges erupted inside her, a hunger that she’d thought was lost forever.

  “Stay safe, Helena,” he murmured. And then he turned and was gone.

  NEW ORLEANS NOIR

  Joanna Wayne

  Joanna Wayne began her professional writing career in 1994. Now, more than fifty published books later, Joanna has gained a worldwide following with her cutting-edge romantic suspense and Texas family series, such as Sons of Troy Ledger and Big “D” Dads. Joanna currently resides in a small community north of Houston, Texas, with her husband. You may write Joanna at PO Box 852, Montgomery, TX 77356, or connect with her at joannawayne.com.

  Books by Joanna Wayne

  Harlequin Intrigue

  New Orleans Noir

  The Kavanaughs

  Riding Shotgun

  Quick-Draw Cowboy

  Fearless Gunfighter

  Dropping the Hammer

  Big “D” Dads: The Daltons

  Trumped Up Charges

  Unrepentant Cowboy

  Hard Ride to Dry Gulch

  Midnight Rider

  Showdown at Shadow Junction

  Ambush at Dry Gulch

  Sons of Troy Ledger

  Cowboy Swagger

  Genuine Cowboy

  AK-Cowboy

  Cowboy Fever

  Cowboy Conspiracy

  Big “D” Dads

  Son of a Gun

  Live Ammo

  Big Shot

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

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  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Helena Cosworth—An up-and-coming artist returning to New Orleans to sell her beloved late grandmother’s historic carriage house and the four apartments surrounding the courtyard.

  Hunter Bergeron—A homicide detective determined to keep Helena safe and to arrest a serial killer before he strikes again.

  Mia Cosworth—Helena’s grandmother who had contact with the killer days before she died from a fall.

  Ella Grayson—One of Mia Cosworth’s tenants whose great niece Elizabeth was the most recent victim of the serial killer.

  Alyssa Orillon—A friend of Helena’s and a self-admitted fake psychic who works in the French Quarter.

  Cory Barker—An important member of the serial killer task force, which is supervised by Hunter.

  Eulalie—Cory Barker’s mother, who owns a B and B and swamp-tour business near where Elizabeth Grayson was killed.

  Antoine Robicheaux—A former FBI forensics expert who is volunteering with the task force.

  Pierre Benoit and Connor Harrington—Tenants living in apartments on the carriage house property.

  Lacy Blankenship—A tourist in the French Quarter who bears an amazing resemblance to Elizabeth Grayson, the serial killer’s most recent victim.

  To everyone who loves a south Louisiana mystery. To my great friends who live there and to everyone who has ever longed to visit New Orleans.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Iron Will by B.J. Daniels

  Prologue

  Friday, March 15

  Elizabeth Grayson jerked forward as the car skidded to a slippery stop. The deserted dirt road that had been barely passable before had suddenly disappeared, replaced by clumps of tall grass, deeper pockets of brown water and what appeared to be a wide stretch of swampland.

  Her nerves grew edgy. “Where are we?”

  “Somewhere we can finally be totally alone.” He flicked off the headlights.

  “It’s pitch-black out here,” she murmured.

  “Are you afraid of the dark or of being alone with me?” he teased, his voice deep and sexy, almost melting her anxious vibes.

  “I’m never afraid when I’m with you.”

  “That’s what I like to hear, baby. You always know how to please me.”

  She loved the way he talked to her, as if she were his equal though he was older and much more mature than the high school boys she’d dated back home. The sloppy kisses of teenage boys never thrilled her the way his did. She’d never melted at their touch.

  He killed the motor, then stretched his arm across the back of the seat and slipped it around her shoulders. “This is a favorite place of mine when I need to get away,” he said.

  “Really? It seems so isolated.”

  “I see it as private and a little forbidden,” he said, “but if it makes you nervous, I can drive back into town.”

  “No. I don’t want to go back,” she answered quickly.

  All she’d been able to think about for the past two days was seeing him again. She craved his touch and the way her body came alive when he slid his hands beneath her blouse or when he slipped his tongue inside her mouth.

  Unfortunately, their making out had been limited to what they could manage in the back seat of his sports car parked behind a sleazy bar in a part of town she hadn’t known existed until a few nights ago. Even then she’d wanted more, but he’d held back. He’d wanted to wait until everything was right.

  They’d met last Saturday night when Elizabeth had been out with a girlfriend who lived in Metairie. Her friend Melinda had managed to snare fake IDs for both of them before Elizabeth had flown to New Orleans to visit her great-aunt for spring break.

  Melinda had already been tipsy by the time Elizabeth noticed the hunk of a man staring at her. He nodded when they made eye contact but didn’t approach them. When he smiled and left the bar, she followed him outside.

  One h
ello in his deep, sexy voice and she was certain he was the most gorgeous and exciting man she’d ever met. She’d whispered her phone number into his ear as he opened the door to his black sports car.

  He’d called the very next day. She’d thought of nothing but him since then.

  He wasn’t driving the sports car tonight, but a mud-encrusted pickup truck more suitable for the terrain. He pulled a flashlight from the truck’s console and flicked it on as he climbed from behind the wheel. He reached behind the driver’s seat and picked up what appeared to be a blanket.

  Her pulse went crazy. Spring break was almost over. She’d be flying back to Tulsa on Sunday and might never see him again. Her heart would surely break but how much worse would it be if she didn’t have this time with him tonight to treasure?

  Complete privacy. And a blanket. They were surely going to make love. It would be the first time for her to go all the way. He would be experienced. He’d teach her all she needed to know.

  He walked around the truck, opened her door and took her hand. She quivered in anticipation, ready for this in every way.

  Aunt Ella still thought of Elizabeth as a kid and constantly warned her to be careful. As much as Elizabeth had hated lying to her tonight, she’d had no choice.

  If her great-aunt could see her now, she’d be horrified. She would tell Elizabeth she was tempting disaster. The thought intensified Helena’s anxiety.

  “Okay. I can tell you’re not ready,” he said, dropping her hand. “I obviously misread the signs.”

  “You didn’t,” she assured him. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than here with you.” That much was true.

  Taking a deep, steadying breath, she stepped out of the truck. The earth was damp, sucking like quicksand. The grass was almost to her knees, hiding anything that might be crawling beneath it. Like snakes. Or tarantulas.

  He put a thumb beneath her chin and nudged until she faced him. He leaned over and his lips met hers. Desire pummeled her as heated juices seeped into the silky red panties she’d worn just for him.

  She’d be a fool to do anything to spoil this moment. He wasn’t the man of her dreams. She’d never had dreams this good.

  They walked for ten minutes or more, dodging spreading palmetto fronds, clumps of reeds and the exposed roots of cypress trees until they reached the slippery bank of a murky bayou.

  The moon finally peeked from behind the clouds, providing enough illumination that he turned off the flashlight. A few yards farther and he took a different path, not stopping until they reached a slightly higher and dryer area. He dropped her hand and her insides quaked as he spread the blanket.

  He kicked out of his shoes and lay down on his side, his right elbow supporting him so that he could meet her gaze. He opened his arms for her to join him.

  She hesitated and scanned the area one last time. “Are you sure there are no snakes or alligators around here?” she asked.

  “I guarantee you that before this night is over, you won’t be worried at all about snakes, alligators or any other creatures of the swamp. Now undress slowly so I can watch,” he said, an authoritative bent to his voice that hadn’t been there before. By the time she was totally naked, passion enflamed her.

  She lay down beside him, anticipating heaven.

  Instead she fell into the depths of hell.

  Chapter One

  Tuesday, September 18

  Helena Cosworth gathered her luggage from the taxi and walked the short distance to an intricately designed seven-foot-high metal gate. She stood there for a moment, letting the familiarity seep into her tired bones until grief-crinkled memories invaded and dampened her spirit.

  The historic French Quarter carriage house just beyond the gate had been her second home for as long as she could remember. Her mother had died when she was only five.

  Her dad had been an oil and gas executive who went wherever he was needed. If the location wasn’t right for raising a daughter, she went to boarding schools in the States. Even when she lived with him, she spent most summers and many holidays in New Orleans with her energetic, fun-loving grandmother Mia.

  During those visits, Mia had made her the center of her life and the adventure-laden Crescent City was their playground. The zoo, Audubon Park, the bustling Mississippi River, theater, trips down St. Charles Avenue on the cable car, parades galore. And the many hours spent in museums nurturing Helena’s passion for art.

  The lifestyle wasn’t ideal by everyone’s standards, but it worked for them. When her father had died from a sudden heart attack a week before her high school graduation, she moved in with Mia and began her college career the following fall at Tulane University.

  Helena reached to the keypad and punched in the code for the security system Mia had installed a few years back. A twist of the handle and a firm shove and the gate squeaked open.

  Heat and humidity hit like a wave of steam as she stepped inside the courtyard where the day’s fetid air seemed trapped by the surrounding walls. She was quickly revived by the fragrance of night jasmine that overflowed from a huge pot and the cooling mist from the impressive angel fountain in the middle of the spacious area.

  She didn’t even glance toward the four apartments surrounding the rest of the courtyard as she made her way to the bright red door that served as the main entrance to the carriage house. The original, barn-style doors on the front of the house that had once swung open for horses and carriages had been replaced with brick walls and fake, shuttered windows years ago.

  A shudder of emptiness shook Helena’s resolve not to fall into a state of teary-eyed depression. It had been just over five weeks since she’d received the heartbreaking news of Mia’s tragic accident, and although she’d been here for the funeral, the wound of grief felt fresh.

  She opened the door and stepped into the marble foyer. The air conditioner was blasting away. Thankfully, she’d let Ella Grayson know when she was arriving. Ella had been one of Mia’s tenants for years and she and Mia had been fast friends. They’d become closer than ever after Ella’s great-niece, Elizabeth, had been brutally murdered last spring.

  Helena parked her luggage by the door and dropped her handbag onto the antique cherrywood table before flicking on the delicate Tiffany lamp. Illumination climbed the foyer walls in enchanting patterns. Everything looked the same as it had when Mia was alive. Even the citrusy fragrance of the candles she’d burned nightly lingered in the air.

  The property now belonged to Helena—at least until she found a buyer. Giving up the old carriage house would be like giving away a chunk of her soul, but her career was in Boston. She would start her new job with one of the most successful individually owned art galleries in the city on November 1. A few of her paintings already hung in the gallery.

  Helena traipsed across the cozy sitting room with its worn Persian rug, comfortable furniture and shelves filled with books and framed photographs.

  When she stepped into the kitchen, memories attacked full force. She’d had morning coffee at the small, round mahogany table with Mia for as long as she could remember, though when she was young, Helena’s cup was filled mostly with cold milk and a shot of honey.

  They’d sipped the chicory-laden brew from dainty flowered cups while Mia filled Helena’s young head with simple answers to life’s mysteries.

  Like why king cakes had plastic babies hidden inside them and why people riding floats at Mardi Gras always wore masks. And why even rich people ate po’boy sandwiches that needed to be dressed.

  Heart aching, Helena finally walked to the foot of the elegant, curved staircase. The staircase where her grandmother had slipped and fallen to her death.

  According to the medical examiner, a severe brain trauma caused by the fall had likely killed her within minutes. Minutes that she’d been totally alone.

  Helena forced herself to go on, climbing the stairs slowly, s
topping only a few seconds at the landing before making it to the second floor and the bedroom she’d always thought of as her own.

  A pale orchid coverlet and countless pillows covered the four-poster bed. Beyond that, tall French doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked Dumaine Street.

  Helena unlatched the doors, swung them open and stepped onto the balcony.

  Spicy odors of fried seafood wafted through the air and suddenly Helena was starved. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and that was only her usual yogurt and granola. It was nearly seven now.

  There would be time for memories and unpacking later. A beer and a po’boy were calling her name.

  Chapter Two

  Alyssa Orillon rinsed her empty teacup and placed it on the countertop to be carried upstairs to her main living quarters later. The small downstairs kitchen was barely big enough for the mini-fridge, a microwave, a card table and two padded wooden chairs she’d picked up for next to nothing in a used furniture store on Magazine Street.

  The remaining five hundred square feet of the home’s ground floor was dedicated to her cozy waiting room and a private counseling area. Located only two blocks from Jackson Square, she was right in the thick of the tourist pedestrian traffic, though business was slow tonight.

  Not untypical for a Tuesday night. Last weekend’s convention goers had gone home. This week’s hadn’t arrived yet.

  She glanced at her watch. Half past eight. Too early to call it a night—especially since she didn’t open her doors until early afternoon on weekdays.

  Inconveniently, the beginning of a headache was tapping at her right temple. An uneasy feeling had been messing with her nerves all afternoon, the kind of vague sense of anxiety one might expect from a psychic—unless said psychic was a complete and total fraud—like Alyssa.

  Fake, but not a rip-off artist, as some of her competitors were. Alyssa was an expert at giving customers what they wanted. Most people were fairly easy to read if you honed your skills as well as Alyssa had.

 
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