“I thought I’d never see you again,” Liza whispered

“Five years, Duke. Five years of wondering.”

Something in her voice must have touched him, as his cool expression gave way to sudden pain. “Whatever I shared with you, it must have been spectacular,” he answered.

Liza stepped closer, all thoughts of safety or caution evaporating, pushed aside by her feelings for the man who stood before her. She didn’t wait for him to kiss her. She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips softly against his. “I’ve dreamed of this moment for five years,” she said, her arms going around his neck.

For a moment, Duke merely accepted her kiss, but then his arms closed around her and Liza gave herself to the pleasure of his mouth on hers.

The soft darkness of the night cloaked them, and Liza felt Duke’s hands grasp her waist. Her heart was pounding, and beneath his shirt she could feel his answering heartbeat.

He eased her away from him and looked into her eyes. His own were glazed with desire.

“Liza,” he said, his voice hoarse, “I remember.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

Your summer reading list just wouldn’t be complete without the special brand of romantic suspense you can only get from Harlequin Intrigue.

This month, Joanna Wayne launches her first-ever miniseries! You loved the Randolph family when you met them in her book Family Ties (#444). So now they’re back in RANDOLPH FAMILY TIES, beginning with Branson’s story in The Second Son (#569). Flesh and blood bind these brothers to each other—and to a mystery baby girl. All are her protectors…one is her father.

Familiar, the crime-solving black cat, is back in his thirteenth FEAR FAMILIAR title by Caroline Burnes. This time he explores New Orleans in Familiar Obsession (#570).

It had been Hope Fancy’s dream to marry Quinn McClure, but not under a blaze of bullets! Are Urgent Vows (#571) enough to save two small children…and a lifelong love? Find out with Harlequin Intrigue author Joyce Sullivan.

With her signature style and Native American characters and culture, Aimée Thurlo revisits the Black Raven brothers from Christmas Witness (#544). In Black Raven’s Pride (#572), Nick Black Raven would die to protect Eden Maes, the one-time and always love of his life. And he’d be damned before anyone would touch a hair on the head of their child.

So if you can handle the heat, pull the trigger on all four Harlequin Intrigue titles!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Familiar Obsession
Caroline Burnes

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Caroline Burnes continues her life as doorman and can opener for her six cats and three dogs. E. A. Poe, the prototype cat for Familiar, rules as king of the ranch, followed by his lieutenants, Miss Vesta, Gumbo, Chester, Maggie the Cat and Ash. The dogs, though a more lowly life form, are tolerated as foot soldiers by the cats. They are Sweetie Pie, Maybelline and Corky.

Books by Caroline Burnes

HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

86—A DEADLY BREED

100—MEASURE OF DECEIT

115—PHANTOM FILLY

134—FEAR FAMILIAR*

154—THE JAGUAR’S EYE

186—DEADLY CURRENTS

204—FATAL INGREDIENTS

215—TOO FAMILIAR*

229—HOODWINKED

241—FLESH AND BLOOD

256—THRICE FAMILIAR*

267—CUTTING EDGE

277—SHADES OF FAMILIAR*

293—FAMILIAR REMEDY*

322—FAMILIAR TALE*

343—BEWITCHING FAMILIAR*

399—A CHRISTMAS KISS

409—MIDNIGHT PREY

426—FAMILIAR HEART*

452—FAMILIAR FIRE*

485—REMEMBER ME, COWBOY

502—FAMILIAR VALENTINE*

525—AFTER DARK

“Familiar Stranger”*

542—FAMILIAR CHRISTMAS*

554—TEXAS MIDNIGHT

570—FAMILIAR OBSESSION*

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Familiar—The feline detective is always ready to help a beautiful woman in distress.

Liza Hawkins—She thought the world ended when her lover disappeared. Now she’s seeing his face everywhere and fears she’s going crazy.

Mike Davis, aka Duke Masonne—He’s come back to reclaim his past and the woman who once loved him.

Anita Blevins—Art critic and general pain, she seems to play both sides of the fence.

Lisbeth Dendrich—Marcelle’s best friend drinks herself into oblivion. Is she guilty of something?

Pascal Krantz—Liza’s agent made her a star. Does his need to control her hide something more sinister?

Kyle LaRue—Duke’s former business partner made a tidy profit when Duke disappeared.

Trent Maxwell—The detective pursues Duke relentlessly. Does he believe Duke is a murderer, or is he part of the setup?

Marcelle Ricco—The socialite led a secret life, and died the day Duke disappeared.

For Sharon Paul, who took in a stray kitty, Simon,

and a stray author, me, and treated us

as if we were her own.

Contents

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 One

Ritzy! That’s the only word to describe this event. Pass the salmon popovers lightly drizzled with dill sauce—save a bonbon with crème de cacao center. This is a party with style and substance. Even if it weren’t for the food, the artwork is excellent. Especially this lovely watercolor of Dumaine Street after a spring rain. See the magnificent little calico kitty sitting on the third-floor balcony. She looks exactly like my Clotilde did when she was a sprite of a kitten.

It must be my advancing age, but this New Orleans artist, Liza Hawkins, looks like a child. But judging by her beautiful paintings, she’s a grown-up. There’s a certain sensuality in the watercolors, and a bit of sadness. Very interesting. As is the woman herself. Those long curls remind me of the tale of Rapunzel, and her long legs remind me of a runway model. The way she pays such close attention to everyone tells me that she’s not the typical egomaniac artiste. Those big brown eyes look as if she’s—haunted. Sad and haunted. I’ll have to keep a close eye on Miss Liza Hawkins. This is her night to shine and I get the feeling she’s about to burst into tears. As a cat who smells a mystery, my whiskers are a-twitchin’.

LIZA HAWKINS WAS ALMOST afraid to glance around the crowded reception room of LaTique Gallery. The drone of conversation bouncing off the historic old brick walls was almost more than she could bear—not the noise, but the fact that so many people had come to the opening of her show. The success of the event was so stupendous that she was terrified it was all a dream. Any moment, she’d awaken to discover she was in her bed on the third floor of the gallery.

Alone.

As she had been for the past five years.

“Liza, darling, the show is superb.”

She turned to speak to Anita Blevins, the art critic for the local newspaper, The Times Picayune. “Thanks, Anita. I’m in shock.”

“You’re on your way to the top,” Anita predicted. “I’ve decided to use a photo of this opening on the section front. I know this isn’t a good time for in-depth questions, so let’s have lunch tomorrow for an interview.”

“Sure.” Liza felt as if her fairy godmother had waved a magic wand. She was thirty-five and had been painting for twenty years. No one had ever predicted success for her—except Duke.

Even the thought of him was painful. She tried to control the frown, but it was too late. She’d been caught in a moment of pain—and her manager was bearing down on her.

“Liza dear, wipe that sour expression off your face and mingle.” Pascal Krantz’s face was a mask of pleasure, but his voice was iron. “I’ve busted my chops to get your show this much coverage. Your pleasant lifestyle is due to the fact that your work is now selling for big bucks. Look, the television cameras are on us. Smile!”

Liza obediently smiled up at her manager. “Thanks, Pascal. I do appreciate it. It’s way beyond all expectations. Look at the people. How did you get Delta Burke and Gerald McRaney to come?”

“They live right around the corner. Everyone likes to support a talented artist, Liza. I just had to make sure they realized how talented you are.” His hand squeezed her arm. “And you are talented. The problem is that you don’t believe it.”

Liza nodded. She hated to talk about herself. “Thank you for arranging this. And the way the pictures are displayed is beautiful.”

“You have your friend Eleanor Curry to thank for that. She recommended the artistic director for the show. And here the Currys are.” He stepped back as Eleanor and Peter walked up.

“At last,” Eleanor said, giving Liza a hug. “The paintings are incredible, Liza. Simply beautiful. I knew from the first time I saw your drawings in college that you were destined for great things. And now I can tell everyone you were my college roommate.”

“It’s a dream come true,” Liza said. She was staring at her longtime friend but shifted her focus to Eleanor’s handsome husband, Peter Curry. “I understand the black cat came with you.” She pointed to Familiar, who was on a chair perusing the buffet table.

“He heard there was good food,” Peter said. “We tried to leave him behind, but—”

“The television cameras love him!” Pascal said. “I couldn’t have thought of a better ruse myself. Let him be. He’s welcome to all the food he can eat. And the way he wanders around viewing the paintings. It’s almost as if he were capable of judging art.”

“I wouldn’t want to try to stop him from eating,” Eleanor said with a laugh.

“He’s the cat who was responsible for bringing you and Peter together, isn’t he?” Liza asked. Her old roommate had been far luckier in love than she had. Eleanor and Peter’s marriage had resulted in a beautiful daughter, Jordan, and a strong family unit. And Liza hadn’t been told, but it seemed to her that Eleanor had a very telling glow. They’d have plenty to talk about when the gallery opening was over and they could have some privacy.

“Yes, Familiar was the instigator of our relationship,” Eleanor said dryly. “He’s, shall we say, unusual.”

“Bring him with you Friday. We’re scheduled for lunch, aren’t—” Liza’s gaze was drawn by sudden movement outside the gallery windows. LaTique was located on St. Ann Street in the French Quarter, not exactly the most lively part of town. Though the raucous Bourbon and Royal streets were only a few blocks away, St. Ann was basically residential. The building she occupied was three stories, a narrow structure with her gallery on the first floor, her studio on the second, and her apartment on the third.

“Yes, Friday at Napoleon’s,” Eleanor confirmed. “I want to hear all about your career, the future, the museums and galleries where your paintings are now hanging. You’ve come into the homestretch of success, Liza, and it’s about time.”

“Yes.” She heard her friend’s kind words and immediately sought a change of subject. Her success was phenomenal—and troubling. Instead of the total satisfaction she once expected upon achieving success, she’d found emptiness.

At one time, she’d been driven to paint the street scenes of New Orleans that had recently made her the darling of art patrons. Now, though, the watercolors were less important. Her artistic passions were something else, something darker. Something that she had to keep a secret even from her oldest friend, Eleanor Curry, who’d come all the way from Washington, D.C., for her opening.

A dark flicker of a moving shadow outside the front window of the gallery caught her attention once again. Her heart rate tripled, and she felt the flush of blood to her skin.

“Liza darling, your friend was saying that she wanted to purchase the painting of the young girl in the rain puddle.”

Liza felt Pascal’s strong fingers pressing into the muscles of her arm. She knew she was drifting away, fading from reality and entering her own private hell, but she couldn’t stop herself.

The flicker of movement came at the edge of the window again. Her attention sharpened even as she tried to combat it with rational thought. It was only her imagination. This gallery opening, this event, was something she’d planned long ago. Five years ago. With Duke Masonne. But how the plan had changed. Now she was alone, and though the success was all hers, it was a lonely price to pay.

“Liza, are you okay?” Eleanor’s brown eyes were narrowed with concern.

“Yes, of course.” Liza tried to focus on the party. But again someone standing out in the shadows moved. The glint of a white face flashed in the light spilling from the big gallery windows facing the street.

Liza’s heartbeat grew painful. It was insane. Duke had been gone five years, but there was something about the shadowy face that reminded her of him—made her hope it might be.

She felt her palms begin to tingle and the unpleasant sensation of perspiration on her brow.

“Liza?” Eleanor’s voice came from a long way away.

“I—” What could she say? Don’t pay any attention to me. I saw my ex-lover who disappeared five years ago. I’ve been seeing him around town lately, standing in dark alleys, outside Grizaldi’s when I go for groceries. I’m beginning to catch glimpses of him through the hanging bundles of elephant garlic and peppers at the French Market.

“Get a chair.”

She heard Pascal’s order and felt her body being pushed into a chair. But her attention remained on the window. The lighting outside was poor. It could have been a figment of her imagination. Or her mind slipping toward madness. At that thought, her heart rate increased even more. She felt the room spinning.

“Ice. Bring some ice and a cloth,” she heard Eleanor say.

But she couldn’t answer her, couldn’t reassure her that she was okay, just a little woozy and terrified.

“Don’t do this now,” Pascal whispered in her ear. “We can’t allow this show to fall into a dramatic tragedy. Your work will be overshadowed by the drama of your behavior, Liza. Pull yourself together and stop whatever this is.”

Pascal’s words almost penetrated. She could feel her heart slowing, feel her lungs expanding as she was finally able to draw in a deep breath.

And then she looked out the window.

The light from the gallery spilled clearly across the features of Duke Masonne’s face. The hair was longer, the face leaner, more lined. But it was Duke.

She pushed Pascal back with a movement so abrupt she almost made him fall. In an instant, she was on her feet, the elegant black heels she’d purchased just for this event clacking on the Italian-tile floor. In five long strides, she was pulling open the door, the bell jangling madly as she dashed out into the street.

“Duke!” she called out. “Duke!”

Far at the end of the block, a young couple turned and stared at her. Other than that, the street was empty.

She felt a presence at her feet and looked down to find the cat standing beside her. “He was here,” she said aloud. “I don’t care what they say, I saw him. I’m not losing my mind. I’m not.”

A spring breeze teased the skirt of her black dress, and Liza found that she simply couldn’t return to the party. She stood on the street, the empty street, and forced her lungs to draw air in and out. She’d made a fool of herself. This was the one night when her behavior was critical, and she’d run out of her own gallery, her own party, as if she were a madwoman. The terrifying thing was that she was beginning to believe she might be completely insane. Her manager hadn’t said as much, but Pascal had been worried enough about her lately to begin recommending a visit to a psychiatrist.

“Liza?”

Eleanor’s soft voice and her gentle hand drew Liza back from her dark thoughts.

“Come back inside with me,” Eleanor prompted.

“I can’t,” Lisa whispered. “I’m such a fool.”

Eleanor gave her hand a comforting pat. “A fool is a long way from what you are. Now come inside. Everyone’s worried about you. The best thing is to walk back in, give a smile, and then I’ll say you have a migraine. I’ll see that you can escape upstairs.”

Liza’s relief was so deep and quick that even she had to laugh weakly at her pathetic response. “Promise? I just can’t stay there any longer.”

“Migraine is the perfect excuse.” Eleanor hesitated. “Just as long as you and I both agree that we have to get to the bottom of the real problem here. We can lie and say you have a headache, but we have to fix whatever is really wrong.”

Liza started to reply, but her voice broke. She finally turned and looked into her friend’s troubled brown eyes. “God, Eleanor, I don’t know if I can fix it. What if I’m going insane?”

“I doubt that,” Eleanor said stoutly. “I’ve known you for a very long time, Liza. You were never in doubt of who you were or where you wanted to go in life. I think maybe that success has caught you unprepared. It is terrifying to suddenly discover that your dreams have come true. Lots of people have trouble adjusting. That’s what you’re going through—a scary adjustment period.”

Liza clung to the possibility. “Do you really believe that?”

Eleanor put her arm around Liza’s shoulders. “I do. But first things first. Let’s go back inside, smile and show everyone that you’re fine. Then we’ll escape. Okay?”

“Okay.” With Eleanor’s support and the black cat at her heels, Liza steeled herself against the trauma of reentering the gallery. She met the expectant faces of her guests with a smile.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “My head.” She reached up to touch her temple, aware of the black humor associated with such a gesture. To children, such a gesture meant someone was “touched in the head.”

“It’s a migraine,” Eleanor said. “Liza used to have them in college. Blinding pain, you know. The terrible, terrible stress of being so talented and being the center of attention.” She said the last lightly.

“Yes, sudden success can be traumatizing,” Pascal Krantz added as he came to Liza’s other side. “I should have expected this. Liza is so shy and retiring. All of this attention, why it’s just too much!”

“Yes,” Liza agreed. She gave Pascal’s arm a squeeze. He’d picked up perfectly on Eleanor’s cue, and she could see clearly that soon she’d be able to escape the party, to retire to the privacy of her third-floor apartment. Pascal and Eleanor would make it okay.

“Liza’s sensitive to light,” Eleanor said. “I’m going to put her to bed in a dark room and call the doctor.”

Before anyone could say anything further, Eleanor led Liza to the small elevator at the back of the gallery.

“A million thanks,” Liza whispered.

“Thank me by getting to the bottom of this,” Eleanor answered.

THE ELEVATOR DOOR is about to shut, but a fast black cat can make it. Whew! Thank goodness I dropped that extra pound I gained at Christmas. Another sixteen ounces and I would have been a crushed kitty.

So I’m headed up to the artist’s lair. How exciting. And even better, the color is returning to Liza’s face. For a minute there, I thought she might actually have seen a ghost.

What did she see? By the time I got to the street, it was empty. But she saw something. Or she thought she did.

Now as a student of humanoids, I’d say that Liza thought she saw something terrible. She had the look of a person who’s witnessed a tragic accident. A wreck. A fire. A kidnapping. Something truly awful.

Yet she ran toward it. Which tells me that her expression and her actions are at odds. There’s a medical expression for such behavior—conflicted. The only analogy I can come up with is a cat who sees a dish of grilled grouper, wants to eat it, then spits at it and runs away. In other words, a very sick kitty. Then again, artists are known for their erratic behavior.

I shall withhold judgment until further investigation, which I’m about to conduct right now. While Eleanor puts our little painter to bed, I’m going to inspect her digs.

MIKE DAVIS RAN HIS FINGERS through his hair. He needed a haircut in the worst kind of way. And he missed his cowboy hat. At the thought, he felt an odd homesickness. Funny, when he’d first taken the job at Gabe and Rachel Welch’s ranch, the Circle C, he’d never anticipated that he’d come to call the ten-thousand-acre spread home.

It was a home of harsh realities, in weather and in the heart. For the past five years, he’d worked every fence line, herded the cattle, birthed the calves and trained the horses. It had become home.

And now he was over a thousand miles away, in the spring humidity of New Orleans, Louisiana, wandering the streets like a…what? A ghost? A man without a home or identity?

Mike glanced in the mirror. He’d grown accustomed to seeing the reflection of his features, though truthfully, for the past five years, he’d hardly had time to stop and look at himself. Looks didn’t matter much on a cattle ranch. Not for a man, a cow or a horse. It was a life where skill and talent counted for everything. Good looks—and Mike had been told by more than a few cowgirls that he had some nice features—were just an extra blessing.

But he might as well have been the phantom of the opera or the hunchback of Notre Dame, based on Liza Hawkins’s reaction to him. He terrified her. And if it wasn’t because of his looks, then it had to be because of his actions.

He turned away from the mirror with a growing sense of frustration and took long strides across the room to the painting he’d just purchased. He’d saved most of his wages for the past five years—plus, he had uncanny luck at poker—he could afford to live well, for a while. Liza Hawkins’s painting had been irresistible. It was a watercolor so filled with afternoon light that he felt as if he’d lived the moment. He knew exactly the shade of terra-cotta that would show through in the old brick dampened by rain and then dazzled by sunlight. He knew the crooked texture of the bricks used as roadbed and the intense green of the shrubs. He knew that scene. But how did he know it?

More importantly, how did he know the artist, Liza Hawkins?

From the pocket of his jeans he drew out the worn business card. Liza Hawkins, artist. 225 St. Ann. New Orleans, Louisiana. It was the only personal possession that had been on him when he woke up in a North Dakota hospital five years before. He’d been found, beaten into unconsciousness, in a boxcar at a small train depot. Three days later, he’d regained consciousness in the intensive care unit of Dola County Hospital. From there, fate had taken hold of him with a benevolent hand.

He replaced the card and continued to examine the painting, moving slowly around his rented apartment until he’d visited all five of the canvases he’d purchased in the past five months. All were Liza’s, and all depicted French Quarter scenes that somehow seemed to Mike to be a part of his personal history.

That was why he was in New Orleans—to find his past. He wasn’t certain he was in the right city or the right state, but it was the only place he knew to start.

The sharp ring of the telephone drew him out of his thoughts. When he answered, he felt his face melt into a smile.

“Rachel,” he said, instantly picturing the elderly woman who’d seen him in the hospital and somehow found it in her heart to want to help. “I’m fine,” he reassured her. “Perfectly fine.”

“Bristo’s been standing in the corral looking out toward the range,” Rachel Welch said. “He’s pining for you, Mike. We’re missing you, too. It’s calving season and we’re feeling the pinch.”

Mike’s smile increased. Rachel Welch was using both barrels to make him feel bad—his horse and the fact that all hands were needed during calving season on the ranch he might one day inherit.

“You know I’d be there if I could. I have to finish this. I want to be certain I’m the man you and Gabe think I am—the man you treat as your son.”

There was a pause. “You think you have to finish it,” Rachel said slowly. “Mike, whatever you were in the past, you are a son to me and Gabe now. Whatever you did, it doesn’t matter to us. I’ve never known a better judge of a man than Gabe Welch. You’ve won his respect, Mike. And his heart. That’s what matters, not a past that you can’t even remember.”

“It matters to me,” Mike said slowly. “I don’t even know my real name.”

“Mike Davis has worked here for five years. It’s a good enough name.”

“Rachel, I tried to move on. You know I did. But I can’t go forward until I know my past.”

“I told Gabe he shouldn’t have put you on the spot about the ranch. I told him just to make out the will and leave it all to you without telling you. None of this would have come up.”

Mike hesitated. There was a certain amount of truth in Rachel’s accusation. He’d settled into ranching, acquiring the skills and the tremendous knowledge it took to keep cattle alive and thriving through the cold North Dakota winters. Figuring ways to stretch grasslands and outwit droughts. In the long days of hard work, he’d found satisfaction and managed to keep concerns about his past at bay. But when Gabe had pulled him aside and told him that he was heir to the Circle C, Mike had found himself up against the wall of his unknown past. He couldn’t allow Gabe and Rachel to hand everything they held precious and dear over to him until he was certain his past wouldn’t impact his future.

“The ranch is part of it. But eventually, I would have had to learn the truth.”

“Cowpatty!”

“Rachel,” Mike admonished gently.

“Listen to me, Mike. The past can be like quicksand. It can pull you down into darkness. You and I both know there’s a reason you don’t remember. Whatever it is, you left it way behind. You have a good life up here. I’m afraid if you keep digging and digging, you’re going to find something that—”

“I have to know the truth.” Mike’s grip on the phone increased. “Don’t you see? If I can’t face the truth, I’ll always see myself as a coward, as a man who couldn’t face up to the consequences of his past.”

“Have you talked to the artist woman?”

“Not yet,” Mike admitted. Even the mention of Liza Hawkins made his stomach tighten.

“Well, get on with it. Just go up to her and ask her point-blank.”

Mike nodded, then realized Rachel couldn’t see the gesture. “I will. It’s just that whenever she catches a glimpse of me, she acts terrified. I went by her gallery tonight, and she was having a big party there. I was looking in the window and she saw me. Rachel, it was like she hated me.” He didn’t have to ask the question that tormented him. What if he’d hurt her in some way?

“If you’re going to confront the past, then do it and get back up here. I know you’ll run out of money eventually. You’ll come home to us.”

“I will,” Mike promised. “I certainly will.”

“Be careful, Mike,” Rachel added. “Already I hear a change in your voice. It’s my biggest fear that you’ll end up caught in the web of the past. Leave the darkness behind you, son. Come on home and work on the new life you have with me and Gabe.”

Chapter Two

At Eleanor’s direction, Liza leaned back against the sofa and accepted the cup of steaming hot tea. “Do you think I ruined the party?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“‘Ruin’ is too strong a word. Let’s say that we didn’t answer all the questions, and judging from the look on Ms. Blevins’s face, she doesn’t intend to let what happened tonight drop.” Eleanor took a seat beside the sofa. “And I have a few of my own to ask. What’s going on, Liza? You were never a person given to drama and scenes.”

Liza wrapped her hands around the cup and stalled for time to think through her answer. During the past five years, she’d become more and more isolated from everyone who cared about her. Painting had become her life, her only outlet. Her life had spun out of balance, leaving only her work and her desperate longing for the man who’d disappeared five years before.

She wasn’t close to anyone, not even her parents. In those few years, she’d managed to alienate her artist friends in New Orleans. The blame lay on her, she knew. No matter how she’d tried to shake off Duke’s disappearance, it had consumed her life. There wasn’t enough left to maintain friendships. Eleanor was the only person left who’d known her for any length of time. Liza knew if she decided to come clean, Eleanor was the person she had to trust.

“Remember Duke Masonne?”

Eleanor sat up a little taller. “How could I forget him, Liza? You were in love with him. You were going to marry him. And then he disappeared.” Eleanor’s voice was sharp.

“Yes.” Liza saw the anger in her friend’s eyes. Whenever she broached the subject of Duke Masonne, her friends had one of two reactions—they hated him because they felt he’d dumped her and skipped town or they pitied her because they thought he was dead, the victim of foul play. Eleanor obviously preferred the first theory.

“That was five years ago, Liza. The cops closed the case on his disappearance. As far as everyone is concerned, he’s dead.” Eleanor waved her hand around. “You’ve moved on since then. You’ve become a celebrated artist with enough money to open your own gallery.”

Liza sat up. “You never thought he was dead, did you?”

“My thoughts don’t matter. He’s dead to you. Five years, Liza. Even if he is alive somewhere, there’s no excuse for a man who abandoned the woman who loved him and never had the decency to tell her goodbye or let her know that he was safe—”

“I saw him tonight.” Liza saw Eleanor’s reaction, though her friend attempted to mask her shock.

“Really, Liza,” Eleanor said, rising to her feet. She bent over and felt Liza’s forehead. “You don’t feel feverish.”

“I saw him outside the window. That’s why I jumped up and ran out.”

Eleanor looked as if she’d been slapped. “You saw Duke Masonne?”

“I’ve been seeing him for the past few weeks.”

“Seeing him?”

Liza met her friend’s gaze. “Catching glimpses of him. He’s been hanging around the gallery. Sometimes when I go to buy groceries, he follows me. He’s here, in New Orleans. And he’s alive.”

Liza pulled the comforter up around her, suddenly feeling cold, though the night was warm. A gentle breeze ruffled the curtains in the room, sending them swirling like dancing wraiths. The idea was as chilling as the expression on Eleanor’s face.

“I’m not losing my mind,” Liza said, forcing herself to sound more confident of that fact than she felt. “I really saw him.”

“And he’s stalking you.” Eleanor let the words hang. At last, she leaned forward and grasped Liza’s shoulders. “Listen to yourself. Can you hear what you’re saying? Duke would never come back to New Orleans, not after the way he deserted you. He left you fearing for his safety, wondering if he was injured or dead. There’s no coming back from an action that cruel and despicable.”

Liza closed her eyes briefly. This was the reaction she’d expected, but not the one she’d hoped for. Just this once she needed an ally, someone to help her. She wasn’t imagining things. Duke Masonne had been standing outside the window of LaTique Gallery. He’d been there not an hour ago, and two days before that. And a week before that. It was almost as if he wanted to come inside but couldn’t bring himself to try.

“I need help,” Liza said softly. She opened her eyes. “Will you help me?”

Eleanor’s hands slowly slid from her friend’s arms. “What can I do?”

“He’s here and he’s alive. I have to know what he wants.”

“If that’s the case, think it through. He left you wondering for five years. Yes, your career has skyrocketed. Yes, your talent has grown. Yes, you’re about to become an international success. But have you had a date in five years? Have you established any relationship with a good man? Have you had an ounce of fun in all this time?” Eleanor held up a hand. “The answer is no. A big no. Because that man left you in emotional limbo, a hell of doubt and worry and pain. If he is here—and that’s a big if—the only thing you should give him is a kick in the pants.”

Liza took a deep breath. “Everything you say is true. I am moving forward, though. I have been seeing someone. It isn’t serious. Not yet, but it could grow. Maybe.”

“Who?”

“Trent Maxwell. He’s a New Orleans policeman. But I have to know what happened to Duke. Maybe if I find out the truth, I can put this behind me. Eleanor, you didn’t really know Duke. He wasn’t the kind of man who would deliberately hurt me. I…I don’t know how to make you see it, but you have to believe me. What we had was very much like the love you and Peter share. It was real. If I can’t believe that, how can I ever believe in anyone again?”

Eleanor stood up and began to pace the room. “What do you want me to do?”

“Help me find him.”

“And then?”

“I only want to talk to him.”

“I don’t know.” Eleanor came back around the sofa to face her. “I’ll talk it over with Peter. But I want a promise from you.”

“Anything.” Liza felt a surge of hope that was the most promising emotion she’d allowed herself in five years. “What?”

“You’ll go and talk with a professional, a psychologist.”

Liza’s immediate reaction was to reject the idea. She wasn’t insane. She hadn’t imagined the man outside the window. But she saw the iron in Eleanor’s eyes. “I don’t think this is necessary, but I’ll agree. If you help me.”

Eleanor nodded. “I have to go back to Washington. We left Jordan with Peter’s folks, and I’m due for a doctor’s appointment.”

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” Liza asked.

“Yes, I think I am.” Eleanor’s hand strayed to her stomach and her smile was small but joyous. “I have to go back to D.C. In the meantime, though, I’ll leave Familiar here with you. He’s rather extraordinary. And to be honest, if Duke Masonne or his look-alike is snooping around here, Familiar will deal with him. When I return, we’ll settle this once and for all.”

“You’re leaving the cat?” Liza looked at the black cat that was scampering around the room.

“Don’t ever underestimate him,” Eleanor said. “He’s the best detective working the business.”

“And people think I’m suffering from delusions,” Liza said softly. She was rewarded by a smile from her old friend.

“Point taken,” Eleanor said. “Now Pascal gave me this sleeping pill for you. He said it would only relax you, and I want you to take it.”

Liza made a face. “He has more pills than a pharmacist.” She obediently opened her mouth and took the pill and glass of water Eleanor offered.

“I’m going back downstairs to help with the party. Just relax and try to rest. I’ll take care of everything.”

Liza caught her friend’s hand. “Thank you, Eleanor. I’ve been alone for so long, I’d forgotten what it feels like to have a real friend.”

“I only hope I’m doing the right thing.”

I HAD A WONDERFUL little snoop around Liza’s establishment. Very neat. First floor, gallery, second floor, studio, and at the tip-top, her home, complete with a second, secret studio. I am gravely concerned.

To all the world, Liza is a watercolor artist, a woman who captures the spirit and soul of New Orleans in the wash of color, the fragility of beauty that comes from age and light and the fine details of a scene. But there is another Liza, another side to this complicated woman. A very dark side.

She has secret drawings in her secret studio, all pen and ink, all of one man. I have no doubt that this is the missing Duke Masonne. He may have been gone for five years, but he’s been very much a part of Liza’s life. There must be over a hundred drawings of him.

The only good thing I can say is that I have no doubt of what he looks like. Though many of the drawings are shadowy, a strange portrayal of his face half in light and half in dark, I could spot him in a lineup in a split second.

He is, indeed, a handsome man. Striking, even. But what truly stirs the fear in my heart is the way Liza has created a shrine to him. I mean, her little secret room is so full of him that it seems there’s no room for anything else. And I know enough about humanoid psychology to realize that such an obsession is a long, long way from healthy.

I was on the street with Liza and what I saw was emptiness. There was no one around. Not even the hint of someone. Not even a lingering trace of an odor.

Eleanor has generously offered my help in this case, but for the first time in my career as a supersleuth, I don’t know if I’m the cat for the job. I realize I’m smart, capable, highly trained and incredibly intuitive, but Liza may need the help of a doctor, not a detective. The only thing I can do is keep my sharp eyes open and my sensitive ears attuned to the sound of a visitor. If this Duke guy is out there, I’ll nail him. And he can answer a few questions that have waited far too long to be addressed.

The only positive thing I found was a half-finished picture—not watercolor or pen and ink but acrylic—so very different from anything else she’s done. There’s a sense of fantasy to it—a robbery in progress depicted from the point of view of a bystander. And the loot being stolen is a painting. Bright colors, a sense of whimsy. If this is the new direction her work is taking, perhaps she’s going to leave her dark memories behind. Then again, if she’s seeing this Duke Masonne in every shadow and behind every bush, it doesn’t seem to me as if she’s ready to step out of the past.

Ah, her sleeping pill is taking effect. She’s one beautiful woman, and so childlike with that long blond hair falling over the sofa and onto the floor.

If this Duke is alive, why would he abandon a woman like this? That’s the question I somehow have to make her consider. Was he a criminal with a secret life? Did he get into some kind of trouble? Was he killed? Five years and no one has an answer. Now that seems more than a little strange to me. I suppose there’s just so dang many humanoids running around the planet that it’s impossible to keep up with every single one.

Now I’m going to do a little more snooping while Miss Renoir sleeps.

THE AFTERNOON HAD GROWN warm, and Mike slipped out of his jacket and carried it over his arm. The French Quarter was bustling during what he’d come to view as a typical Friday morning as tourists made one more attempt to seek out the delicious food and the flavor of the old Quarter.

He’d had a restless night, endlessly going over Liza Hawkins’s expression when she’d seen him in the window. The predominant emotion had been fear. But beneath that, there was something else. Something that made his own body respond in a way he’d long forgotten.

She was a beautiful woman, and desire for her would not have been unusual. There was more to it, however. Desire and something electric. They had a past, of that he was certain. What kind of past, though? That was the question.

He was tempted to stroll by her gallery again, but thought better of it. He’d frightened her badly. Chances were she had someone on the lookout for him.

For several weeks he’d confined his activities to shadowing her. He knew her daily habits, the place she bought her groceries, the restaurants she frequented, dining mostly alone. Except for the tall blond man. A cop. He was a plainclothes detective—Mike hadn’t had any trouble finding that out. Trent Maxwell was well known in the French Quarter.

The first time he’d seen Liza with the cop, he’d felt a stab of jealousy so visceral he’d felt his hands clench into fists and his body tense for action. It had been a gut reaction and he’d been able to control it. But he hadn’t been able to explain it. Not to his satisfaction.

He felt things for Liza Hawkins, but he didn’t understand why. The answer was buried in the past, and today he’d decided to stop watching and start getting some answers.

He picked up a Times Picayune newspaper and hurried back to his apartment. The article about Liza’s opening was on the front of the art section, a splashy story with several photographs that lauded Liza’s talent and her “meteoric rise” to success.

Anita Blevins was the art critic whose byline headed the story, and Mike picked up the phone, dialed the paper and waited for the switchboard to connect him with the critic. Her voice was stiff, cultured and impatient, just as he’d anticipated.

“My name is Mike Davis and I just read your article on a New Orleans artist, Liza Hawkins. I’m interested in collecting some of her work, but I wondered if you might have more details about her.”

“I’m not the woman’s biographer,” Anita Blevins said sharply.

“But as a journalist with a great degree of talent, as demonstrated in your article, I was hoping you might give me an unprejudiced opinion and a bit of history. Of course, if you’re too busy, I understand.”

“A bit of history?” Anita’s voice warmed. “Okay, a thumbnail sketch. New Orleans artist, watercolorist, single, had a tragic love affair with a businessman, very reclusive and eccentric. Pretty standard fare for artists of all types, I’d say.”

Mike wasn’t the least bit interested in the value of Liza’s work, but he knew that was the tack to take. “Do you believe her work will increase in value?”

“No doubt. Are you an investor or a collector?” Anita’s interest was aroused.

“Both. I collect what I like, but I also like to turn a profit.” Mike was almost surprised at the ease with which the words came. He didn’t remember investing in anything except cattle feed and fertilizer. Or sometimes a good bull. He’d seen hefty returns on two prize Herefords.

“Buy her now. She’s going straight up. And the pictures are a bonus. They are quite beautiful, aren’t they?”

“I think so.”

“Are you a native of New Orleans, Mr. Davis? You don’t have the accent, but then our city is so culturally rich that diversity is almost a trademark.”

“I’m visiting,” Mike said carefully. “Why does Miss Hawkins paint only New Orleans scenes?”

“That’s a good question. When I interview her, I’ll ask. You can read the answer in my profile of her for the Sunday paper.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” He could tell she was about to bolt off the telephone. “You said she was involved with a businessman. What happened?”

“He disappeared. You asked for facts, but do you want supposition?”

Mike’s hand clenched at his side. “Facts are wonderful, but a report with intuition can sometimes ferret out the truth even when it can’t be proven.” Anita Blevins was a woman susceptible to flattery, and he used it without shame.

“There are two theories. Duke Masonne was murdered and the body will never be found or…he was involved in illegal deals on the docks and he disappeared.”

“What did this Masonne do?”

“He imported art and antiques from Europe. Quite the complement to our artist. It was an odd match in some ways, a conservative businessman and an artist. That kind of difference breeds gossip. And don’t think I’m going to repeat any of it. Use your imagination.”

“You’ve been more than helpful. I’ll look forward to your profile,” Mike said.

“You’ve piqued my interest, Mr. Davis. It might be fun to do an article on an investor who collects local artists. What about it?”

“And ruin my cloak of anonymity? Not today. But if I change my mind, I’ll give you a call.” He hung up quickly, hoping the newspaper didn’t use caller identification. He’d been foolish to call from his apartment.

“Duke Masonne.” He said the name softly. At last he had a place to start.

LIZA CLOSED THE SCRAPBOOK and found herself staring into the golden gaze of Familiar. The cat had sat on the arm of her sofa as if he’d guarded her all night long. Incredible, but she did have the strangest sense that she was safe as long as he was there. Either it was that sentiment or the sleeping pill, she wasn’t sure which, but she’d actually slept better the past night than she had in weeks.

Her fingers traced the leather cover of the scrap-book. “It was real,” she said to the cat. “No matter what anyone tries to tell me, the love Duke and I shared was real. He didn’t leave me. He didn’t run off. Something happened. And now he’s back here to explain.”

Even to herself, she sounded pathetic—a woman jilted who can’t accept the fact. If Duke was alive, then he’d left her. Five years. Why hadn’t he called? Why hadn’t he simply said he was leaving? She wasn’t the kind of woman who clung to a man. She’d never been. If he’d asked for his freedom, she would have let him go without a scene or a recrimination. He knew that.

At least she would have been spared five years of hell. Five long years of wondering, of imagining. Of hoping.

She stood up and put the scrapbook on the coffee table. To her surprise, it was almost dusk. Not even Pascal had called to interrupt her sleep. He must be inordinately worried about her, she thought wryly. Normally no one’s problems or concerns came before Pascal’s. He’d been known to browbeat an artist for a commissioned picture while the artist’s mother was dying of cancer.

“I should get dressed,” she said. Talking to the cat was becoming a habit and one that concerned her. Not only was she seeing men who’d disappeared, she was talking to a cat as if he could understand every syllable.

“How about a stroll through the French Market? I’m starving. Maybe we can find some suitable food.”

“Meow!”

“Now that’s enthusiasm. Eleanor didn’t think to leave cat food for you.”

“Grr-rrr-rr-rr.”

“Oh, so cat food is out of the question.”

“Meow.”

She was losing her mind. The cat was talking back to her—and she understood him perfectly. “I’ll take a shower and get dressed. You consider the menu.”

She rushed through her toilet and dressed. When she came back into the room wearing pale yellow capris, sandals and a cotton pullover, she found the cat on the sofa with the telephone book open. His paw was on an ad for soft-shell crabs.

“This is what you want?” She knew it was. “Okay, my fine feline detective. Soft-shells it will be. And I’ll pick up some fresh fruit and vegetables for me. If we’re going to solve this problem, we’ll both need our strength.”

Familiar scampered into the elevator with her and in a moment they were on the sidewalk. She noticed that Pascal had even hung the Closed sign on the door. He’d allowed her to violate one of his cardinal business rules—closing the gallery on a weekday was usually unthinkable, especially after an opening. At the memory of the party and her behavior, a flush touched her cheeks. She had acted as if she’d lost her mind. No matter what she’d seen, no one else had seen it. And people were always looking for a reason to think she was on the verge of a breakdown. She’d given them a fine display. At the corner she bought a newspaper and then headed toward the Café du Monde for a hot beignet and some café au lait. For Familiar she ordered a saucer of fresh cream, which she surreptitiously served under the table to the amusement of several patrons of the open-air café.

The breeze blew off the Mississippi River, which was only fifty yards away, and Liza sipped her coffee and read Anita Blevins’s review of her opening. The story was wonderful, and the reporter had failed to even mention Liza’s strange behavior. She had Pascal to thank for that, Liza knew. He was incredible at manipulating the media and controlling an artist’s image. It was something they’d had several difficult arguments about, but she couldn’t deny he was masterful at it.

She kept only the arts section of the newspaper, leaving the rest for whoever might take her table. Then she signaled to Familiar that she was ready to walk. They headed east, passing the expensive shops of Jackson Brewery with their window displays and the smells of homemade confections and spicy foods.

The French Market was the best place in New Orleans for fresh vegetables, sunglasses, silver jewelry, T-shirts and a host of other objects.

She stopped at a vegetable vendor and selected an eggplant, onions, fresh tomatoes and fresh basil, always aware that Familiar was right at her feet. He was an incredible creature, making himself at home without getting in anyone’s way.

She passed an elderly woman with a display of voodoo dolls, giving the small stick-and-moss figures only a cursory glance.

“Buy one for protection,” the old woman said.

“What?” Liza felt her stomach twist at the words. They’d come so unexpectedly and tapped into her deepest fears. She looked into the old woman’s eyes—cloudy from cataracts.

“You’re in need of protection,” the old woman said softly. “The specter of the past follows you.” She selected a doll dressed in red gingham. “Take this one. Keep it close to you.”

“I don’t need protection.” Liza spoke the words without conviction. Something about the old woman unsettled her.

“Suit yourself.” She replaced the doll. “I see darkness around you. Shadows that spring to life. I can make you a gris-gris to keep the bad spirits at bay.”

“No. No thank you.” Liza started to back away. She felt the cat at her ankles and she suddenly heard him hiss.

Liza looked back toward the vegetable vendors she’d just left. Duke Masonne was standing there, his dark gaze following every move she made.

Chapter Three

“Liza.” Mike spoke her name, but it was too soft for her to hear. He was frozen by her terrified expression. He’d followed her to the French Quarter, hoping that in the open, among the crowds, he could approach her. There was so much to talk about, so much to tell. He’d discovered his identity! And so much more. He’d learned that five years before, Liza Hawkins had been the most important thing in his life.

His first impulse had been to find her, to confide in her. To see if she held the key that would fully unlock his past. But his actions had set up a chain reaction in Liza. He had to get her to listen to him long enough to figure out why he terrified her so. He’d put her old, worn business card in the inside pocket of his shirt. If he could show it to her, make her understand that it was his only link to the past, maybe she would talk to him.

He reached inside his jacket and knew instantly that the motion had been misinterpreted. Liza’s eyes widened, her gaze riveted on the movement of his hand. To his horror, she turned and fled. Bumping into tourists, stumbling over vendors and their wares, she left a trail of destruction behind her as she darted through the French Market and toward the open area of the levee. Scampering after her was a strange black cat.

“Liza!” He found his voice and called after her, but it only seemed to spur her to run faster. She’d assumed he was reaching for a weapon! He knew it, and he realized how foolish his action had been. He didn’t have a choice. If he was going to talk with her, he’d have to run her down. He started after her at a wide-open sprint.

Her long hair fluttered behind her in a banner of flaxen gold, and Mike felt his heart contract. He could almost remember the feel of that hair in his hands, brushing across his face, teasing his skin as he slept beside this woman who was terrified of him. What had he done to her?

In the newspaper articles he dug up at the library, he’d found out more details about his disappearance. Five years before, he’d vanished from New Orleans, his business, and Liza’s life. For several months the police had continued to search for him, but he’d vanished without a trace.

The articles were filled with speculation about his “possible murder.” And the docks were thoroughly searched for his body. Which was never found.

The pieces of the past had begun to slip into place. Mike wasn’t sure what had happened to him—all he really knew was that he’d been severely beaten. His nearly dead body had been found in a boxcar at a train depot in North Dakota, and he’d been taken to the hospital as a John Doe. There, Gabe and Rachel Welch had seen him and given him the name Mike Davis.

For a man who had no memory of working cattle, he took to it like a natural. His hands toughened, and the rest of his body became strong and lean, thriving on hard work. And for five long years he’d spent many an endless night wondering who and what he’d been before he woke up in North Dakota.

He slowed his sprint once he was close enough to Liza to keep her in his sights. He’d decided to trail after her until she was tired. That way, he might have a better chance to explain himself. He had an inkling of what she must be feeling—fear and fury. Unless the newspaper and local magazines had doctored their stories, he and Liza had been deeply in love. For five years she’d lived with his seeming abandonment.

She was only thirty yards ahead of him, running along the levee—running away from the bustling French Market and the tourist area. He knew she was reacting blindly, and that when she realized that she was running into a trap, she’d be only that much more afraid of him. Somehow he had to think of a way to calm her.

She was tiring and beginning to slow. And she’d begun to realize her miscalculation—he could see the panic in the quick way she turned left and right, hunting for a way back. He knew that in the last fading light of the day, he blocked her path.

“Liza,” he called out. “Liza, I only want to talk to you.”

She finally stopped. With what had to be great courage, she swung around to face him, half her face and body silhouetted against the beauty of the spring sunset. She stood on the levee, the west side still awash in the dying light and the east side, where land met river, only a black shadow.

“Who are you?” she called back. “What do you want?”

“I only want to talk.” She was so incredibly beautiful that it almost took his breath away. Her fear was his pain. “I don’t have a weapon.” He held open both sides of his coat to show his chest. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

“Leave me alone.” Her voice broke and he could hear the tears in her voice. “Please, please, just leave me alone. I’m begging you. Quit scaring me. Please…”

Something in her voice struck a familiar chord and he hesitated. He’d loved her once with all his heart. He knew it. He could feel the memory of it. And he was terrifying her. It was wrong. He had to back off and give her a chance to talk to him willingly. He couldn’t just herd her down the levee and corral her as he would a stray cow.

“Liza, I’m going—”

The gunshot rang out and Mike felt the bullet whiz only a millimeter from his head. He ducked instinctively and rolled down the side of the levee toward the black current of the river. It was a steep incline, and he lost control, his body tumbling against the hard rocks that marked the edge of the Mississippi River.

Liza’s scream was a piercing wail of horror and fear.

“Stop!” she cried out. “Stop!”

Another shot blasted the night and fragments of rock exploded only a few inches from Mike’s leg. He forced his body to remain perfectly still. He was hidden in the darkness. As long as he didn’t panic, he was safe. Or relatively so. He listened intently, hoping for that telltale noise that would alert him to his attacker’s whereabouts.

Working on the ranch, Mike had often faced the dangers of nature. To his knowledge, he’d never been attacked by another human being—except that he’d once been almost beaten to death and nearly died in a boxcar. Not exactly something a mountain lion or grizzly would do. The problem was, he didn’t remember any of that. He didn’t remember why someone had wanted to kill him.

But someone did. Someone remembered very well and seemed to have come to finish the job.

Mike wasn’t certain he could swim, but he couldn’t just hunker down and wait for someone to kill him. He slipped into the water and was startled by its depth. With the darkness for cover, his best chance to escape injury or possible death was to swim back downriver. As he let the swift current of the big river take him, he discovered that he could, at least, swim.

LIZA RECOGNIZED Trent Maxwell after the first shot. She’d been relieved to see him until the second shot. It registered on her then that he was firing on a man who was possibly already injured and might be unarmed.

She rushed toward Trent and grabbed his arm, pulling the gun down. “Trent, stop it. Have you lost your mind?” She stared into the darkness where she could only hear the river lapping hungrily at the rocks. “My God, did you kill him?” Her emotions were ricocheting in all directions. She’d been terrified of the man who was chasing her, but she also felt a rushing need to protect him.

“I missed him. Are you okay?” Trent grasped both of her shoulders though he kept his grip on the gun and a wary eye on the side of the levee. “Who was that man? What did he want?”

Liza found that she couldn’t answer. She shook her head and was comforted by Trent’s strong hands as he rubbed her arms. She was suddenly extremely cold. Despite the warm spring night, she shivered violently.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m here.” Trent held her tightly.

Closing her eyes, Liza leaned her forehead against his chest and let the horror of the past few moments wash over and through her.

“It was Duke,” she finally said. “He wanted to talk to me. Are you sure you didn’t hit him?”

There was a long pause while she waited for Trent to respond.

“Duke Masonne?”

Though he made a sincere effort to hide it, Liza heard the skepticism in his voice.

“I told you I’d seen him. Now I’ve spoken to him.” She couldn’t see Trent’s features in the darkness, but she could feel his body tense.

“Let’s head back to the lights,” Trent suggested, his arm around her shoulders and his hand on her arm. He pulled her hard against his side.

“Maybe we should…call someone,” Liza said, uneasily conscious of the fact that in protecting her, Trent had fired his weapon and very likely put himself in line for disciplinary action.

“Who should we call?”

She wasn’t certain. Not the police. Who? “An ambulance?” she offered.

“I didn’t hit him. I’m positive. If I’d wanted to, I would have. By now, he’s downriver. And judging from your last experience with Duke Masonne, it’ll be another five years before you see him again.”

Liza felt as if she’d been slapped. “Trent—”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That came out wrong. I was trying to put a humorous light on what just happened. Let me tell you what I saw—a man chasing after you with his hand not clearly visible. When I got closer, you’d both stopped and you were begging him to leave you alone. He was doing something with his jacket. I couldn’t see from behind, but I was afraid he was pulling out a gun, so I fired. Close enough to let him know I meant business but with room to spare.”

“You missed him deliberately?”

“I didn’t have a reason to shoot him. I just wanted to make your Duke Masonne look-alike hit the road. Did he say anything else? Some clue as to who he was?”

“Like what?” Liza felt the first traces of her temper. Trent was behaving as if she’d made up the entire incident, treating it as some flight of fancy or some sick way to handle delusions. “You saw him, Trent. You shot at him. It was Duke. Don’t act like I’m having a hallucination or a nightmare. He was real. He was right there.”

As they continued walking, Trent let the silence grow for a moment. “I saw a man, Liza. It was dark, and I was far enough away that I didn’t get a clear look at him. But I heard you ask him to leave you alone and then beg him. Whatever he wanted, whoever he was, he’s a man who needed to know that when a lady requests to be left alone, he should oblige.”

Liza started to protest further, but she knew it was useless. Even if Trent had seen Duke, it would be hard for him to accept it. The accepted version of Duke Masonne’s disappearance was that he was dead.

They’d made it back to a busier part of the levee, and in the distance Liza could see the bright lights of the French Market. She was suddenly aware that the black cat was no longer with her.

“Familiar.” She turned and whirled, but the cat was gone without a trace.

“What?” Trent said.

“The cat. Did you see him?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t see a cat.” His smile was wry. “I’m not much good to you today, Liza. I didn’t recognize Duke and I didn’t see your kitty. You might have to trade me for a model with better eyesight.” He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “But I did see you, and when I saw how frightened you were, I wanted to hurt that man, whoever he was.”

Liza felt the brush of his fingertips on her skin. His touch was amazingly gentle, as it had always been for a man who lived such a rough-and-tumble life. In the two months she’d spent time with Trent Maxwell, he’d been an absolute gentleman. If she could have willed her heart to respond to him more fully, she would have.

“I can’t undo the evening, but I can treat you to a wonderful dinner with some nice wine. You look so tired. It just makes me want to take care of you.”

Liza swallowed. She wanted to say no. All she really wanted was to return to the levee and try to find a trace of Duke. She wanted physical evidence that he’d been there. That she’d seen him. That he was real.

And he was. Flesh and blood, not some apparition. He’d spoken to her. And he’d frightened her beyond rational thought. Why? What was it that she was so afraid of where Duke was concerned?

“Liza, what about dinner?”

“That would be lovely,” she said, forcing a smile. Trent was trying hard to become important in her life. He was a patient man who would defend her with his life. She knew she could do a lot worse.

“Maybe I should go back and look for the cat,” she said, turning toward the river. She almost hoped that Duke would climb up the side of the levee and approach her now, where it was light and where there were other people who could see him clearly.

“There wasn’t a cat in sight. He’ll show up when he’s ready. You know how independent cats are.”

“Eleanor Curry left him with me. What if he’s lost?”

“You aren’t going to find that cat unless he wants to be found. I’ll help you hunt tomorrow.”

Liza felt a flush of anger. Trent was trying to be helpful, but… “Maybe I should just go home,” she said softly.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now. You’ve had a bad scare. What about Renaldo’s? You like Italian.”

“Fine,” she agreed because it was the easiest thing to do. And because she didn’t really want to go back to her home and spend the night alone.

WELL, OUR APPARITION HAS physical form. He’s the spitting image of all of those drawings hidden away in Liza’s secret studio. Duke Masonne. The missing link in Liza’s past. Well, well. He’s a living, breathing humanoid with one helluva breaststroke in the mighty Mississip. I hate to abandon Miss Renoir, but I think my case will be better served if I follow this character.

I’ve deduced that he knows Liza, which indicates to me that he has a lot of explaining to do. Five years is a long time to be gone for a pack of cigarettes, as the old saying goes. But in the fading light of dusk, I could detect a few changes in the physical exterior of our missing hero.

He’s lost twenty pounds and toughened up. Where he used to be a desk jockey, he now makes a living in the elements. He’s lost that polished, citified look.

And from the expression on his face when he looked at Liza, he doesn’t mean her any harm. The plot thickens.

So where has he been and what’s he doing back in New Orleans? Those are questions that will be answered only when I track him down. Which is exactly what I’m going to do.

I suppose those soft-shell crabs will have to wait. Just breathing this river air makes me want to wrestle a catfish to the deep fryer.

I hear him swimming. He’s strong. Good endurance. Pretty soon, though, he should be climbing up the levee. Yep, here he comes. Not exactly the happiest humanoid I’ve ever encountered.

I’ll just bet he’s wondering who took two shots at him. A question I’d also like answered. He was obviously some friend of Liza’s. Her current romantic interest, I’d guess. A man who carries a gun and uses it, so that makes him a law officer in all likelihood. He wasn’t in a hurry to leave the scene of the shooting, so he must have reason to believe that if he’s questioned, he has the right credentials.

Well, here comes the long-departed Duke Masonne. The river has left him chilled and dripping. So I’ll follow him home and see what clues I can dredge up from his hideout.

If he’s up to no good, then I’ll have a chance to set up a few traps for him before he can do any more damage to Miss Renoir. I’d say she’s been hurt enough.

I hate to leave her without a hint of where I’m going, but perhaps I’ll be able to deliver the goods on this guy. In the meantime, I have to say he’s interesting. He’s walking around dripping wet and acting as if it were an everyday occurrence. He’s so good at it that he isn’t even drawing attention. Hmmm. I’ll have to study his technique. He just blends right in. And we’re headed down Toulouse toward the heart of the French Quarter. The sun has gone down, the moon is out, and it’s party time in “The City that Care Forgot.”

Wow! I don’t think Eleanor would like it if she knew I was traveling down Bourbon Street. Jazz, strippers, tap-dancing juveniles, and tourists all drinking that strange red drink in those tall glasses. I believe they’re called Hurricanes, a New Orleans specialty. Man, humanoids partying en masse.

At last, though, we’re turning down a quiet street. Pretty ritzy. So old Duke has some dough. Audubon Place. Very chic. I think maybe I’ll have to take a look in his refrigerator before too much more time passes.

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