She had wanted him to kiss her. Badly. She had wanted him to talk her into modeling, then she had wanted him to put down his sketch pad and make love to her, touching her everywhere intimately, his lips on her body. It wasn’t why she had come to New Orleans, and while part of her felt like it would only end in utter disaster, another part of her kept whispering, Why not? Why couldn’t she have a hot affair that reminded her of the pleasure of being alive?

It wasn’t why she’d made the trek from Florida, but it could be a serious fringe benefit.

Of course, she had also come to New Orleans to try to discover bits of her mother, the way she had been in life, as opposed to death. To try to understand the girl she’d been, the careless woman she’d become. As Sara walked back down Royal Street, she realized it was a futile effort. Her mother had been emotionally distant, and in death she wasn’t going to give what she hadn’t in life.

But Sara knew that her grandmother’s death had altered the course of her mother’s life. She had been only sixteen when her mother was murdered. And Jessie Michaels had been the one to find her mother, stabbed to death in their suburban home. It was only six months later that she had run away from her father and taken up dancing on Bourbon Street.

None of those radical choices had ever been explained by her mother. She had never elaborated any more than her standard “I didn’t like rules.”

On impulse, Sara cut up Orleans Street toward Bourbon. The sun was relentless on her bare shoulders, and she pushed her sunglasses up, checking for sidewalk holes. It amazed her that every street in the Quarter shared the same basic characteristics—the narrow thoroughfare, the buildings flush to the sidewalk, the wooden shutters and doors, and the wrought iron railings. Yet each street took on its own personality, its own tone. Some were seedy, others elegant, some quiet, some boisterous. Orleans was calm and reserved, with a hotel that extended for most of the block to Bourbon, which suited her. This was truly her first stroll around the Quarter on her own, and while she wanted to like it, enjoy herself, she could never seem to shake the sensation that she didn’t belong. That she was vulnerable. A target.

It was important to confront those feelings, to recognize that she was just outside of her comfort zone, and nothing more. There was no danger, and no one was out to get her.