The Passion Of Sam Broussard

“The building’s mainly brick and the hose jockeys got there fast, so the damage was mostly confined to Geneviève’s apartment. Over time, the place traded hands, then was boarded up for over a decade. A developer named Lassiter has started renovations. He lent me the keys so I can get in.”

“The building’s close by?”

“A couple of blocks.”

“I’ll ride along if you don’t mind,” Sam said, and caught the look she shot him while they cruised through an amber light.

“For a man who’s supposed to be headed to Colorado for vacation, you don’t seem like you’re in a hurry to get there.”

What Sam was in a hurry to do was find some answers. For two and a half years he’d immersed himself in his job, working nonstop while guilt and bitterness ate a ragged hole in his gut. He’d gone through the motions of a cop, believing there was nothing left of himself to put into the cases he worked.

Then he recovered the .45 Colt and felt a spark, the echo of the fire-in-his-belly he hadn’t felt about the job in years. And believed was lost to him forever.

Now, he felt an almost urgent need to find out every detail about the case the Colt was connected to. And the investigator in charge.

Out of the corner of his eye, he studied Liz’s profile, both angular and soft. He had no explanation for why his system churned with the inexplicable need to protect her. All he knew was he wasn’t going anywhere until he found out why.

“Let’s just say I’m more curious about your murder investigation than in a hurry to get to Colorado,” he said.

“Suit yourself.”

“I usually do.”

Liz flexed her fingers against the steering wheel. In the car’s close confines she was aware—too damn aware—of the heat from Broussard’s body, of his nearness, of his scent seeping into her lungs. Why wouldn’t the man just leave? Already she could feel her energy flagging from all the hours of sleep she’d missed over the past two weeks, thanks to Dream Lover. The last thing she felt prepared to deal with was her libido’s off-the-chart reaction to a man who at times seemed remote to the point of being cold. Which, perversely, made her wonder what it would take to warm him up.

At least he didn’t see the need to make idle chitchat while she wove through the heavy downtown traffic. Instead he used the time to call his partner. The call obviously went to voice mail, and Liz listened while he relayed the information about J. D. Temple. Broussard ended the call after asking his partner to run local checks on the convicted burglar, then get back to him.

Seconds later, Liz whipped the car into a space across the street from a four-story brick building. A skeleton of scaffolding had been erected spanning its entire front. Two men were on the scaffolding, installing a pane of glass in one of the upper window frames.

“When you told me the building was on the direct route between the bus station and a homeless shelter, I envisioned some sort of hovel,” Broussard said. “This place looks good.”

“Thirty years ago this area was leaning toward shabby,” Liz said before opening the driver’s door. When she rounded the hood to where Broussard waited, she added, “There’s a revitalization of the entire downtown going on now.”

Inside the building, the air carried the scent of fresh paint with a trace of sawdust.

“Lassiter said all of the interior work is done except for carpet installation,” Liz said as she bypassed the elevator and headed for the stairs.

“What floor did Geneviève live on?” Sam asked, keeping pace on the staircase beside her.

“Fourth.”

“You have something against using that elevator?”

“Just want to get some exercise.” And avoid putting herself in as many small, potentially intimate settings with him as possible. Sliding him a look, she anchored her sunglasses on top of her head. “Having a problem keeping up, Broussard?”

“I’ll let you know if I do, Scott.”

At the top of the staircase they both paused. There was a closed door on each side of the landing.

“Which apartment was Windsor’s?” Sam asked.

“On the left.” Turning, Liz pulled the key ring out of her pocket and approached the door to the apartment where Geneviève Windsor had lived and died.

With each step, Liz felt the air around her turn hotter. Staler. The scent of sawdust and fresh paint was replaced with the smell of mold, dust and years of cigarette smoke and sweat.

“Broussard, do you…smell something?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded far away.

“Fresh paint.” He gave her a swift glance. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

“Yeah…I’m fine.” The strange odor grew heavier, suffocating. She felt sweat sheen her forehead.

Taking tiny breaths through her mouth to try to lessen the cloying smell, Liz jabbed the key in the dead bolt and grasped the doorknob.

Instantly heat seared her palm. Pain shot up her arm as she jerked her hand away. Her tote bag slid off her shoulder and landed with a plop on the floor.

“I can’t…” She swayed suddenly, surprising them both.

“Steady.” Sam clamped his hands on her shoulders. She’d gone deathly pale, and beneath his palms she felt as limp as if every bone in her body had melted.

“I’m…fine.” Liz made a weak attempt to pull from his grasp, only to wobble against him.

“Whoa.” Sam steadied her. “You look a long way from fine.”

“Air. Just need…fresh air.” Head spinning, she jerked from his grip, intent on heading for the stairs.

Her knees began to buckle. She stumbled sideways against the wall.

“Hey!” Sam caught her upper arms as she swayed.

“I’m fine.” She struggled to pull back from him. “Fine.”

His mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes sharp with concern. The realization swirled in Liz’s brain that he’d gazed down at her with the same fierce look once before. But that was impossible.

“You damn well don’t look fine.”

With that, Sam swept her into his arms and headed down the stairs.

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