LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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