Slade set a big hand on her shoulder. “Seriously,” he said, “this is a matter for the police.” He’d been worried since the day of the intrusion, and, really, Val didn’t blame him. She’d been more than concerned and hadn’t argued when he’d changed every lock on both the main house and her cottage, tightened all the window latches, and parked himself in her living room day and night.

Despite the tension of the investigation, the worry and fear that had been an undercurrent in their daily lives, they’d gotten along. They’d worked together at the house, then gone out so that she could show him a little of New Orleans, everything from a notorious bar on Bourbon Street to a tour of one of the expansive and genteel plantations located on the river not too far out of town.

If she let herself, Val could imagine falling in love with him all over again, but she couldn’t go there. At least not yet.

Cruz Montoya was starting to feel like a loser.

Never one to let the moss grow under his feet, he was beginning to sense the urge to move on, find greener pastures, face the rest of his life.

He threw the striped duvet that had been his blanket for the past week into some semblance of order, then headed for the shower. His excuse for staying was his family, of course. He got on with Abby, adored Reuben’s new son, and spent time with his mother and other siblings, but the real anchor holding him to New Orleans was Lucia Costa. He could tell himself all kinds of lies, make up stories, pretend that there were other stronger ties to the city, but the truth was, he was fascinated by her, just as he had been over a decade earlier.

Even though she was a damned nun. Christ, his mother would be pissed if she could read his thoughts.

Good thing she wasn’t clairvoyant.

Like Lucia?

Oh, hell, that was probably what drew him to her. It wasn’t her shiny black hair, her flashing eyes, or stubborn chin. Nor was it her tiny waist and breasts just large enough for a man to take a second glance, or her sharp wit. Nuh-huh, it was her damned ability to see into another person’s mind that really caught his attention and wouldn’t let go.

Sure.

Now who’re you kidding, Montoya?

He stepped out of the second bedroom and nearly kicked the damned cat . . . Ansel, he thought its name was. Something like that. It turned, hissed, and, gold eyes glaring, slunk away.