LITMIR.BIZ

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and lightly brushed her shoulder as he leaned down. “Wear your dancin’ shoes, darlin’,” he murmured, drawing out the endearment like he always did in a soft, Southern purr, then he left the café. She rubbed the gooseflesh on her arms.

      This was a stupid and dangerous idea on so many levels.

      * * *

      Wilder didn’t believe a word that came out of the French Cajun’s mouth. A very kissable mouth coated in cherry red. Something in that stack of mail the other day had wigged her out and in the three years Wilder had known Cosette, very little scared her. He admired that—her strength and bravery. Her cool head and soothing voice, unless she had her dander up and then she’d go to town jabbering in French Cajun—not one word understandable, but he sure enjoyed watching it. Enjoyed watching her in general. Graceful. Poised. That long, brunette hair wavy and wild down her back. But that’s all he could do—admire and appreciate.

      He didn’t date team members. But that wasn’t the main reason he couldn’t pursue his attraction to her. An attraction that had almost kept him from hiring her altogether. In that initial interview, there had been desperation in her eyes—like that of a wounded animal, horror-struck and terrified. Like she needed to come under his sheltering wings. So he’d said yes. Her credentials were top-shelf, but the pull toward her...that was visceral and scary. Wilder didn’t have the luxury of falling in love.

      He had his people to protect and lead.

      Clients who needed his attention.

      And mostly, if he gave his heart away, he’d have to give it all, which meant transparency and honesty about his past. That was something he wasn’t willing to give. If Cosette knew the deep secrets he harbored, she’d lose all respect for him. All trust. That terrified him more than his attraction to her. So he kept her at arm’s length. But it wasn’t easy. And this weekend was a dumb idea, but something had her rattled and she’d barely spoken on the flight to New Orleans. Not taking two weekends off sent a red flag flying; she’d made sure she was at her mother’s grave every Mother’s Day since she’d taken the job. Had noted in her interview that it was important to her. She’d rather go to her reunion and swing by the gravesite a week early? Nope. He hadn’t bought it. Too bad he hadn’t gotten his hands on her mail. Federal offense, but Wilder wasn’t above crossing lines if it meant protecting the people he cared about.

      She’d said to meet him in the hotel lobby at six. He grabbed his keys, wallet and phone and headed that way. She sat on a bar stool drinking a soda and looking absolutely stunning. Glad not to be wearing a tie, he felt choked already. He leaned against the bar and tapped her shoulder, startling her. Her head was somewhere else. Fear coursed through those coffee-bean-colored eyes. Her smile didn’t reach them.

      But he’d let it go. For now.

      “You ready, Miss LaCroix?” He extended his elbow and she accepted and slid off the stool, reaching him at chin-level in her sleek red heels. “You look incredible.”

      She snorted and adjusted her snug but not too revealing dress. “Puh-leeze.”

      Cosette wasn’t what he’d call model thin, but then he thought those women needed a roast beef sandwich. He liked her curves.

      They drove to a nearby park. The pavilion had been decorated in strands of twinkling white lights and a live band played. Cosette opted out of name tags. Newspaper stretched across a long table and mounds of crawfish, corn on the cob, shrimp and baby potatoes spilled from one end to the other. Wilder’s mouth watered.

      Cosette filled her plate, but she wasn’t herself. Nervous. Fidgety. Distracted. Head down, making zero eye contact with people.

      Wilder didn’t like it. Didn’t like that worry and fear in her eyes. He scanned the scene. Booze flowed and smoke drifted on the warm Southern air. His instincts went on high alert. Something eerie wafted with the laughter and Cajun spices.

      “You want to sit over at that picnic table?” he asked.

      “Sure.”

      A few women stopped her and chatted. Typical female jest. They grinned, but sized one another up. Who’d gained more weight? Who had the better job? The better man? As if it wasn’t obvious. He was a man and could see it. Women. Wilder shook his head, but smiled as Cosette introduced him.

      They gawked at his hair.

      He ought to cut it. But he had to admit—to himself and no one else alive—he loved his hair. No reason. Just did.

      They moseyed to the table as the New Orleans jazz band played. People whirled on the gazebo dance floor. But Cosette was not into this night. “So how bad did you hate high school?” he asked.

      She pinched the mudbug and sucked the juice out, then went to work on the tail like a pro. That was one thing Wilder could not do. “Bad,” she said and dived into another one. “But I worked my behind off so I could get scholarships for college. Get educated...get out.”

      “Why are you here then?” Maybe he’d get to the truth. Probably not. Cosette was working pitifully hard to conceal something. She wasn’t bound to crack anytime soon, and ribbing her would only prolong it. And yet he couldn’t help himself. The deep desire to know, to protect, to fix whatever ailed her nagged him half to death.

      “I miss the music.”

      “Pandora station right there on your phone.”

      “I like my music live.”

      “Buy a live album.”

      She scowled and ignored his remark. He peeled his shrimp and ate. Spicy enough to open his sinuses.

      Several more former students made their way to the table and chatted with Cosette. Every time, she seemed afraid, and she never stopped scanning the woods, the crowds. Finally, after eating a piece of key lime pie, she excused herself to the restroom, and Wilder went straight for the cherry crisp. She hadn’t returned by the time he’d eaten that and drunk a cup of punch, so he strode toward the restrooms and caught a blonde coming out.

      “Have you seen Cosette? Cosette LaCroix?” Something was wrong, burning his gut like acid, and it wasn’t the Cajun food.

      “She’s not in there.” A sly grin slid across the woman’s face. “I think I saw her talking to Beau Chauvert earlier. She may have slipped off with him. Old Beau—in many ways. But she’d be crazy to go with him. Not with a man like you at her side.”

      Wilder wanted to say “Go home, lady, you’re drunk.” But she’d probably think it was full of innuendo. “Thanks,” he said instead and darted behind the restrooms. Where could she be? He knew Cosette well enough to know she wouldn’t slip into the dark with any man willingly.

      * * *

      “Beau! Let go of me!” Cosette hollered as her high school boyfriend hauled her farther into the woods. She clawed at his beefy arms, sickened at his booze-laced breath.

      “I just wanted to talk to you. To dance. I’ve missed you.”

      Her blood froze. The first line in the note she’d received... Did she have it all wrong? Had Beau sent the card?

      “But you don’t want to talk. Or dance with the likes of me. I’m not good enough for you now.” He shoved her against a tree. “I used to be very good for you.”

      Cosette’s stomach roiled and the bark dug into the thin fabric of her dress.

      “You are lookin’ so fine. Little thicker than I remember, but I’m not complaining.”

      “Beau,” she said, trying to remain calm. To see him as a hostile patient. “You’re drunk. Why don’t you sleep it off, and we can talk tomorrow when you’re sober. I’m in town a couple more days.” But she wouldn’t be seeing him, that was for sure.

      He released his grip and she stepped away from the tree, her heart racing. She slowly backed out of the woods.

      Beau stepped forward

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