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  Into the Fire by Jessica Hall

  Sable Duchesne is rescued from a burning warehouse in the New Orleans French Quarter. But another body is found in the rubble--the body of the favored candidate for governor of Louisiana. Evidence points to murder...and Sable is the only witness.

  Handling the case is detective J. D. Gamble, the wealthy Creole who broke Sable's heart ten years ago. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't tell him her real reason for being in the warehouse--or her relationship to the man who died in the fire. To avoid becoming the next victim, she must earn J. D: s trust--while sparks of pent-up passion threaten to consume them both....

  ONYX

  Published by New American library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  First Printing, March 2004

  Copyright © Sheila Kelly, 2004

  ISBN 0451411307

  Printed in the United States of America

  Prologue

  June 23, 1974

  What the hell am I doing here?

  Marc LeClare hauled himself up out of the mud and swiped at the front of his clothes. Something that looked like dried spider guts had gotten tangled around his fingers until he shook it off and saw it was only some bedraggled Spanish moss. The stench of marsh scum filled his nose as the last of the sunlight glimmered through the dense canopy of juniper and oak. Soon it would be dark, and he was alone.

  Alone, lost, and madder than a stepped-on snake.

  Louis Gamble and his fraternity brothers would be parked out on the interstate, all of them laughing at him and drinking the rest of the beer.

  Marc wiped his filthy face on the sleeve of his equally filthy jacket. "This time, they die."

  Part of it was his own damn fault. His roommate had pulled plenty of stunts like this on him since they'd been at college, and he should have realized something was up when they roared past the city limits sign into the back country. But he'd been pissed at his mother for insisting he set a date for the wedding and at the same time harping at him for quirting the football team. The two beers Louie had helped him chug hadn't helped.

  Drink up, drink up. Your mamma and your little girlfriend will never know.

  Louis had convinced everyone to pile into his van for a road trip, and then had driven west, into the backwoods, down dirt roads, past truck stops and boat shacks. Marc hadn't cared. Even when the van had died in the middle of nowhere, he hadn't gotten suspicious.

  Too much beer, not enough brains.

  Damn, I thought I checked the oil last weekend. As always, Louis had kept a perfectly straight face when he'd turned to him. Get out and pull the stick, Marc. I swear, if there's a speck of black, I'm gonna set this piece of shit on fire. His friend had waited until Marc had walked to the hood before Louie had slammed it into reverse and gunned the engine, sticking his head out the driver's side window to hoot at him. Still thick as a damn brick. See you later, LeClare.

  He should have stayed on the road; they'd come back in a few hours. They always did. But tonight he didn't feel like waiting, and then he'd seen a light shining in the swamp. He'd been drunk enough to think a light meant a house, and maybe a telephone that he could use to call Louis—and then he'd lost the light, and couldn't find the way back to the road—

  Something crackled behind him. He swung around, fists ready. "Shit, Louie, where have you assholes been? You are in serious fucking trouble, leaving me out here in the middle of—"

  It wasn't his roommate, but a young girl, standing on the edge of the shadows. She stared at him with enormous, dark eyes.

  Big-eyed because she'd heard every filthy word he'd just yelled. "Uh, hi. Sony, I thought you were—I didn't mean to scare you."

  The girl stayed where she was, and watched him. Mud stained her small, bare feet, but her shabby dress was clean. Sweat darkened the too-long fringe of dark hair over her eyes; the rest was caught back in a short ponytail. An empty crawfish trap dangled from her right hand.

  Marc's gaze went from the trap to the buttons just below her collarbone. Judging by the curves straining the sides of the buttonholes, she could be anywhere from thirteen to sixteen years old. What he couldn't figure out was why he had the sense of knowing her. Almost as if they'd met before, but not quite. It wasn't all that comfortable a feeling, either.

  She noticed the direction of his stare and took a wary step backward.

  "Wait." Afraid she'd disappear, he started up the bank toward her, slipped, and nearly ended up facedown in the muck again. "Wait, shit! Hold on, I need some help."

  "You lost, boy?"

  Coach Lewis had called him boy. You ain't no quarterback, boy. Best thing you could do for this team is to take your dainty white Creole ass on out of here.

  He lost his footing and rapped the side of his head against a low-hanging willow bough.

  "Goddamn it!" He grabbed his head, which felt like it was ready to split, then glared at her. "What the fuck do you think?"

  She tensed, shifting her grip on the trap. "I think your mama needs to use a whole lotta soap on that mouth of yours. 'Bye."

  "Hey, don't go." He lifted a hand, then dropped it. "Sorry—I'm sorry. I've had a lousy day."

  "Do tell." She studied him, and her frown eased a notch. "Where you come from, boy?"

  Her funny, singsong way of talking made him inspect her again. Could she be a Cajun? He'd heard his mother say they were worthless and ignorant and stole whatever wasn't nailed down. But this girl didn't look stupid or criminal, just poor.

  "My name's Marc. I'm from the city." Guilt prodded him as he realized how he must seem to her—a big, dark guy covered with mud who used swear words in every other sentence—so he stayed put and tried to sound harmless. "What's your name?"

  "Genevieve."

  "Nice name." Like a princess from a fairy tale. "You live around here, right?"

  "Oui."

  Better and better—she knew her way around, then. "Can you show me how to get out of here?"

  She thought about it, long enough to make him start itching with fresh sweat. At last she swung a hand toward the trees. "This way."

  He followed her through the hip-tall weeds, away from the riverbank and up into the trees. What was she doing, running around out here near dark? Setting crawfish traps? He picked up the pace as she got farther ahead of him, but not knowing the uneven ground the way she did made it impossible to catch up.

  "Ginny, wait up—you're going too fast."

  She stopped and waited until he caught up. He thought he heard her mutter something about city boys before she asked, "What're you doing out here in the Atchafalaya anyway?"

  Feeling and acting like a horse's ass is what. "My friends thought it would be a good joke to get me drunk and dump me out here."

  "That's not funny." She took his arm and tugged, guiding him around a dark-leafed plant. When he glanced back he saw it was a huge clump of poison ivy. "You don't act drunk."

  "Takes more than a couple of beers to do that." Her hand seemed so small on his sleeve. All her nails were short and bare, trimmed straight across as if someone had clipped them with a pair of scissors. She smelled faintly of soap and sunshine, and made him realize how bad he must stink. "How old are you?"

  "Seventeen next month." She cocked her head to one side. "You go to college in the city, Marc?"

  "Yeah, I'm in my sophomore year." He hated it. "I'm nineteen."

  "My cousin Darel's nineteen." She made a gesture toward one side of the bayou. "He doesn't go to college, but he never gets lost."

  "I've never been in the swamp before." Feeling defensive, he swiped at his jacket again. "You live with your cousin?"

  "No." She pointed past a pair of oaks at a faint, glowing ligh
t. "That's my house up there."

  As they got closer, Marc saw that the house was little more than a clapboard shack. It sat a few yards off a smaller branch of the Atchafalaya, huddled under a pair of ancient, gnarled oak trees. How could a whole family fit in such a tiny place? The utility shed in the back of his house was bigger.

  "You live with your parents?"

  "Oui. Papa traps and fishes, and Mama sells bait for the fishermen who come. So do I." Her expression changed as she watched him. "What, you don't like fish?"

  He tried to imagine his elegant mother selling bait. Not even if someone drugged her. "I like it fine." He glanced at the house, and thought of the other few rumors he'd heard about Cajuns on the bayou. Some people said the men shot first and asked questions later. "Is your dad going to be pissed—uh, upset—to find me with you?"

  She shook her head. "You haven't done anything wrong. Papa will take you back to the city."

  Marc hoped so. He didn't want to get shot. Didn't want his mother getting wind of this mess. He also had to take care of Louie and his frat brothers. Big-time.

  Yet all those troubling thoughts slowly slipped away as the last rays of sunlight touched Genevieve. She had white, flawless skin, the kind that made her eyes seem almost black. And her hair... God, her hair was gorgeous.

  No girl he'd ever known looked like her. Sounded like her. Smelled like her. She was as exotic and out of place as a butterfly in a garbage dump. That sense of knowing surged inside him again, but this time it came with heat and wanting. If his hands hadn't been so filthy, he would have touched her.

  "Will you come with us?"

  "Into the city?" She laughed a little. "Why?"

  He found a clean spot on the side of his jacket and wiped off his hand before he took hers. She had little calluses on her palm, but her hand was sturdy and strong. That was when he knew, just as surely as if he could see into the future. They were meant to meet. Meant to touch.

  She was the one.

  I'm going to marry this girl. "I'd like to talk to you some more."

  Chapter One

  Today

  "Wow."

  Isabel Duchesne closed the door behind her and walked into the empty warehouse, eyeing the dimensions of the main floor and the two rows of windows on each side of the building. After trying for almost a year to find affordable office space for her community center—and failing—she could hardly believe all this would be hers.

  It's the least I can do for you, Sable, Marc LeClare had said after he proposed donating the vacant warehouse property he owned for her project. Think of how good this will make me look in the polls.

  She remembered returning his infectious grin. As long as you don't take it back when you're elected governor.

  Marc had mentioned that a cabinetmaker had rented the warehouse for a number of years, which would account for the faint smell of pine that still lingered. The cobwebs, old sawdust, and rows of empty steel shelving would have to go, but the large, open space was truly ideal.

  More than ideal—it was perfect. And it was hers.

  Sable couldn't help laughing with delight as she turned around, looking at everything. She had been resigned to squeezing everything into whatever tiny space she could rent, but now she'd have enough room for reception and intake desks, offices for her and the volunteer staff she intended to recruit, and perhaps even a prenatal and pediatric screening area for pregnant mothers and young children.

  "Oh, you've definitely got my vote, Marc," she murmured to herself as she wandered around the main floor. Overhead were lofted storage rooms which could also be put to good use. "This is almost too good to be true."

  Just like Marc.

  She made a face as she thought of how awkward she'd felt the last time they'd met. How hard it had been for her to know what to say and how to act, never mind dealing with all these new emotions. She hadn't even been sure if she wanted a relationship with him.

  Marc, on the other hand, had been so happy that nothing seemed to matter except that they were together. He had listened and watched her intently, and treated her like she was the most precious thing in the world. As important and busy as his life was, he'd said she was now his first priority.

  I hope I don't disappoint him.

  She glanced down at her suit. It was severely tailored, charcoal gray, with a plain white shell. Dress like one of them lawyers on Ally McBeal, her cousin Hilaire had advised, and you'll fit right in with that crowd. She'd never felt comfortable around wealthy, powerful people, but Marc would help her—he had assured her of that.

  They're just like everyone else, Isabel. Besides, now they'll know you're mine.

  Commercial property in the city of New Orleans was at such a premium these days that the only way to get an affordable space was to tear down something else or build on top of it. Since Sable's program was financed solely through fund-raisers and other private donations, she hadn't been able to afford either option.

  You ain't got no business messin' with them folks in the city, her aunt had said when Sable had told her about Marc's offer. Caine's right—they don't care about what happens to us.

  Her smile faded as she remembered that, and what Caine Gantry had been doing to sabotage her project. Like most of the other Cajuns on the Atchafalaya, he'd come with his whole crew when Sable had held her first planning meeting at St. Mary's Church. The fishermen had stood silent at the back of the sanctuary, listening to her presentation but not once joining in the discussion of the project.

  When Sable was finished, Caine had been the first to walk to the front of the church, but he had ignored the sign-up sheet she'd held out to him. He'd loomed over her, then had very calmly taken her roster and torn it up.

  We don't need your charity or your friends from the city coming in and snooping round here.

  Why, Caine? She looked at him, then his crew. She knew they were fighting with the wardens from the Department of Fish and Game over new licensing and equipment requirements, and half of them were into illegal smuggling and God knew what on the side. Do you have something to hide?

  He'd leaned over the desk, his black eyes as cold as his voice. Go back to Shreveport, Isabel. You don't belong here anymore.

  The juxtaposition of her old ties to the Cajun community and her new relationship with Marc LeClare sank in. The future governor of Louisiana seemed willing to face anything for her sake, but Caine Gantry had already proved to be a big obstacle. So would the press, when they found out about her and Marc. It would be open season on both of them.

  How many times you got to get burned 'fore you learn, child? her aunt had demanded. You don't belong in the city.

  It was true that she hadn't been back to New Orleans for years, not since she'd transferred from Tulane to Louisiana State. Not since the night of the Summer Magnolias dance—aka the absolute worst night of her life.

  Hey, coon-ass! Where's your boyfriend?

  Afraid he'll stand you up for someone with shoes?

  Don't forget your corsage!

  And the laughter, the cruel laughter that still rang inside her head after all these years...

  No. She refused to brood over Jean-Del and the humiliation she'd suffered because of him another second. That is ancient history; everything is different now. Marc makes everything different. I don't have to be afraid of them anymore.

  A sound from overhead tugged her from her thoughts. It sounded like shoes shuffling.

  "Hello?" Her voice boomed in the emptiness, and she cringed and lowered it a notch. "Marc, are you up there?"

  There was the sound of a cough, then, "Yeah."

  "I'll come up." Sable picked up her briefcase and headed up the staircase. The wrought iron squealed under her weight, making her grab the railing. "Whoa. Great building, but I think we need new stairs." When she reached the top all she could see were vague shapes and shadows. "Marc? Can you switch on the lights?"

  Something moved, making a scraping sound, but no lights came on.

&
nbsp; "Did we blow a fuse?" A faint, unpleasant odor made her wrinkle her nose. "Do you know where the electrical box is?" As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she put down her briefcase and tentatively moved toward the sound. That smell—gasoline and...fish?—grew thicker.

  "Marc? Are you all right? M—"

  Her foot slammed into something immobile, and she fell forward. Her arms went out automatically as she landed on her hands and knees in a sticky puddle of liquid, next to something large and solid. A heavier, terrible smell made her stomach clench. Lights overhead flickered on.

  She was kneeling in a pool of dark blood. Right next to a man's body.

  He lay facedown, and her wide eyes focused on his short silver hair. A wide, deep indentation distorted the back of his head, and the hair around it was black with congealed blood.

  "Oh, God." She grabbed him, rolling him over with frantic, bloody hands, shaking her head. "No, not you. Not—" She went still.

  Marc LeClare's face was slack, and his kind brown eyes stared blindly up at the ceiling.

  Sable wiped the blood from her hand on her blouse before she pressed her fingertips to the side of his neck. His skin was clammy and cool, and she could feel no pulse.

  He was dead—had been dead for some time.

  "Please, God, no." She scrambled to her feet, but her knees were shaking so much she nearly went down again. Bile rose in her throat and she choked it back down, looking wildly around them.

  Did he fall? What did this to him? Who—She glanced up at the lights and slowly backed away toward the stairs. The smell of fish and gasoline grew stronger.

  Whoever did this turned on the lights. He called me up here.

  Something swung out of the dark at her, glancing off her head, knocking her back down to the floor. She slipped in the blood, trying to push herself up. The stench of fish and gasoline and death smothered her. "Stop it—don't—"

  A second blow sent her hurtling into the dark.

  This had gone straight to hell in a hurry.

  Billy Tibbideau reached down and adjusted his crotch. His balls felt like they were curdling, and sweat made a wide streak down the back of his green Gantry Charters T-shirt. He'd never hit a woman before, and the bad feelings were knotting up his chest.