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  “You know more than you’re telling.”

  Suddenly Riley was backing her against the wall. The heat from his body scorched Devra’s skin right through the stiff cotton fabric of her dress. His dark eyes filled her vision and clouded her mind.

  “What are you hiding?” he said softly, the rich timbre of his voice stroking sensitive nerve endings.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you hiding?” he whispered, and speared his fingers through her hair, lifting, and letting it tumble across her shoulders.

  Devra couldn’t get enough air. Her skin burned and a yearning deep in the pit of her stomach made her want to scream.

  “Leave me alone,” she pleaded, knowing full well she wanted him to pull her up against him and smother her lips with a kiss so passionate it could rip the fabric of her being.

  I can’t afford to let anyone get too close. Especially this man….

  Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

  Spring is in the air and we have a month of fabulous books for you to curl up with as the March winds howl outside:

  • Familiar is back on the prowl, in Caroline Burnes’s Familiar Texas. And Rocky Mountain Maneuvers marks the conclusion of Cassie Miles’s COLORADO CRIME CONSULTANTS trilogy.

  • Jessica Andersen brings us an exciting medical thriller, Covert M.D.

  • Don’t miss the next ECLIPSE title, Lisa Childs’s The Substitute Sister.

  • Definitely check out our April lineup. Debra Webb is starting THE ENFORCERS, an exciting new miniseries you won’t want to miss. Also look for a special 3-in-1 story from Rebecca York, Ann Voss Peterson and Patricia Rosemoor called Desert Sons.

  Each month, Harlequin Intrigue brings you a variety of heart-stopping romantic suspense and chilling mystery. Don’t miss a single book!

  Sincerely,

  Denise O’Sullivan

  Senior Editor

  Harlequin Intrigue

  SHIVER

  CYNTHIA COOKE

  To my editor, Kim Nadelson, for seeing the gem buried

  within the rock. To my critique partners, you’re the best!

  And, as always, to my family—I love you!!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ten years ago, Cynthia Cooke lived a quiet, idyllic life caring for her beautiful eighteen-month-old daughter. Then peace gave way to chaos with the birth of her boy/girl twins. Hip-deep in diapers and baby food and living in a world of sleep deprivation, she kept her sanity by reading romance novels and dreaming of someday writing one. She counts her blessings every day as she fulfills her dreams with the love and support of good friends, her very own hunky hero and three boisterous children who constantly keep her laughing and her world spinning. Cynthia loves to hear from her readers. Visit her online at www.cynthiacooke.com.

  Books by Cynthia Cooke

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  836—SHIVER

  LOVE INSPIRED

  238—LUCK AND A PRAYER

  275—PETER’S RETURN

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Riley MacIntyre—A detective determined to discover who murdered his sister-in-law, even if that means getting really close to his number one suspect, Devra Morgan. As the case deepens and the mystery evolves, he will have to decide if she belongs in prison or in his arms.

  Devra Morgan—She watched her childhood friend, Tommy Marshall, die in a horrible act of violence. Wherever she goes, death follows her as women who look like her fall prey to a killer. And she sees it all—in her dreams.

  Michelle MacIntyre—A cop working undercover to flush out the night stalker runs into a new monster and loses her life.

  Tommy Marshall—Devra’s first crush, first kiss—then he was dead.

  Mac MacIntyre—Is he a grieving husband or a man bent on an elaborate plot to kill his wife?

  Mr. MacIntyre—The head of the MacIntyre clan—whose strings does he pull?

  Chief Marshall—A small-town police chief whose only child was murdered fifteen years earlier by Devra—or so he believes. He will stop at nothing to bring her to justice.

  William and Lydia Miller—Best-kept secrets can be fatal. What exactly do they know? And why are they so anxious for Devra to leave her childhood home?

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter One

  Thunder boomed overhead and electricity crackled through the air, prickling the hair on the nape of Detective Riley MacIntyre’s neck. The large drops of rain wetting his shoulders didn’t relieve the stickiness of the hot August night as he approached the crime scene. Someone yelled for a cover and umbrellas were quickly opened above the body. Then a tarp was stretched over the area.

  Sweat, partly from the heat and partly in expectation of what he’d find, ran down Riley’s back, further dampening his shirt as pulsing red and blue lights flashed on and off centuries-old brick in a strange melodic symphony. He stepped over the yellow caution tape encircling the crime scene and made his way toward the group of people congregating in front of the Village Carré Hotel.

  Mike Parker, a young officer from the Eighth District, approached him, his footsteps matching beat for beat the music echoing down Bourbon Street. “We have everything under control, Detective MacIntyre.” A hint of wariness creased his eyes. “We can handle this. You don’t need to be here.”

  Riley cocked a smile but couldn’t quite soften the edge of annoyance in his voice. “The last time I checked, this was my case.”

  “We haven’t established if this is part of the night stalker case. This one is, uh…different.” Parker looked down, fidgeting.

  Riley frowned. “You obviously need some time off, ’cause you’re not making any sense. All homicides are handled downtown. You know that. It doesn’t matter if it’s related to the night stalker case or not.” He patted Parker’s shoulder, then strode off, annoyed that his routine crime-scene approach had been thwarted. He liked to walk a scene to get a sense of the perimeter—the sounds, sights, smells—before approaching the victim. Sometimes the brutality of murder deadened his perceptions. Then all was lost, his case compromised.

  He tried once again to recapture the scene, absorbing the music, the scent of onions and garlic and simmering jambalaya, a constant yet comforting smell in the French Quarter. As he approached the building, a roach popped out of a broken stone tile in the sidewalk, then scurried into a cracked grate.

  In the crevice between the structure’s brick wall and the steep cement steps leading into a doorway, a body leaned haphazardly, the face hidden beneath a thick mass of blond curls. Blue-jean-clad long legs stretched out on the sidewalk. His gaze lingered over turquoise spiked heels adorning perfectly shaped feet. His gut twisted; sweat dampened his palms.

  He took a step closer, though for the first time in his career something urged him to turn away—some gut instinct that was his strongest, most prized possession as a detective in the New Orleans Police Department. He looked back at Parker, who was still watching him, shifting from one foot to the other.

  Something wasn’t right.

  He took another step. Tony Tortorici, his friend and partner, stood from his examination of the victim. Suddenly, Riley could see her clearly—her deep purple shirt, loops of bright beads hanging from her neck. Pulse racing, he saw how two strands of gold-and-green plastic dice were entwined ti
ghtly around her neck, pushing into her delicate skin.

  His breathing went shallow as he took in the ugly purple-red bruises beneath the beads and the gold locket lying snug between her breasts. Tony walked toward him, his arms hanging limp at his sides, his eyes filled with sympathy. Riley couldn’t move, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t draw enough of the thick, foul air into his lungs.

  He focused on the thick mass of blond hair, hair that he remembered could look like silk billowing in the wind. A sharp twinge shot through him. In her lap, her hands, crossed one over the other, rested against the light blue fabric of her shirt, her pinkies interlaced. The position was strange, but before he could think on it further, his eyes locked on the contrasting colors between the top and the bottom of her shirt.

  Pain surged through him, slicing his heart as surely as the killer had sliced her throat, turning the blue fab ric dark purple with her blood. Blood that had pumped from a heart he’d known since childhood.

  “I’m so sorry, man,” Tony said as he reached him.

  The compassion on Tony’s face hit Riley like a blow to the stomach. Anguish loosened his neck muscles and his head rolled back. He stared into the night sky. Drops of rain pelted his face as agony welled up inside him and broke free in a heart-wrenching roar.

  Michelle.

  DEVRA MORGAN dreamed of death again—another blue-eyed blonde. She sat up with a start, her heart beating against her chest, her breath coming fast and hard. She brought two shaking fingers to the soft skin of her throat almost expecting to feel a deep gash and the sticky warmth of blood.

  Her cat, Felix, meowed in protest as she threw the covers over him and stumbled to the bathroom. Cold sweat chilled her. The distinct scent of the Quarter, with its heavy air and heady taste of the Mississippi, still lingered in her mind. She stood under the hot spray of the shower, scrubbing until her skin ached.

  Why now?

  Pulling on a plush white robe, she trudged to the kitchen, put the teakettle on to boil and closed her eyes as an onslaught of chills shook her. She couldn’t go through this again. Not now. Not after she’d actually convinced herself they were over—the horrible dreams that had destroyed so much of her life.

  She picked up Felix and squeezed him against her chest, burying her chin in his soft fur. “Why is this hap pening now?” She set him down and opened a can of cat food. “I’ll have to move again,” she muttered. If she didn’t, it wouldn’t be long before the police came calling and her world came crashing down around her. Again.

  She sighed, added a spoonful of honey to her tea and strode toward her office. The quicker she got down on paper what she’d seen in her dream, the sooner she could purge it from her mind. Her writing had become an amazing catharsis over the years. Her only means of escape from her nightmarish reality had turned into her salvation and allowed her the freedom and the anonymity she needed to survive. She sat behind the large white desk, turned on her computer and began to type.

  “Hey, lady, looking good tonight. Want me to read your fortune?”

  The woman glanced at the tarot card readers and threw the cute one a wave. “No, thanks. Tonight I make my own fortune.”

  Devra’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she slipped into her “zone” where each story overcame her. She typed steadily reliving her dream careful to get down every detail, hoping somehow, some way, her dream would help. Not that they ever had before. Town after town, she had to watch women die and yet was never able to stop it from happening or help find their killers. The dreams always came too late.

  He took something gold and shiny and slipped it around her neck. A gold heart with a rose etched across the front dangled between her breasts, nestling amidst the rivulets of blood seeping from her throat.

  Devra stopped typing and stared at the words on her screen, her heart pounding anew. She closed her eyes and pictured the locket in her mind. Her locket? Her stomach muscles clenched with fear. The one she’d lost last week, the one her parents had given her on her thirteenth birthday. The one with her name inscribed on the back.

  Her vision swam as she stared at the screen. How had this monster gotten her locket? And why had he left it on that poor girl? Was it a message for her? The realization hit her hard. He stole her locket!

  He knew who she was.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Riley and his partner sat parked outside a well-kept, small yellow house in the Garden District. Through the plastic bag, he read the word etched on the back of the locket. Devra. He turned to his closest friend and partner, Tony Tortorici. “I can’t believe you found her so fast.”

  “Hey, with a name like Devra, tracking her was as easy as slicing into one of Mama’s homemade pecan pies.”

  “What do we know about Miss Morgan?” Riley asked, letting his gaze wander over the manicured lawn and abundant flowers. There was nothing unusual or even rundown about the house, and yet a prickle of anxiety ate away at him.

  “Not much. She’s clean.” Tony inspected her file. “Just moves around a lot.”

  “For her sake, she’d better be clean.” Riley tried to squeeze a character type from the place she lived, but it was nondescript, a typical modest home in the lush Garden District a few blocks down from the opulent mansions that saw a steady stream of tourist traffic.

  Concern filled Tony’s large Italian eyes. “You shouldn’t go in there. You shouldn’t even be here now. Go home and be with your family. With Mac.”

  Riley fought the guilt and weariness that threatened to overcome him at the mention of his brother’s name. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image of his sister-in-law propped against the wall, her throat slit from ear to ear, was painfully etched in his mind. “I can’t.”

  Tony’s dark eyes intensified. “You can’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Wasn’t it? Michelle was taking this case too personally.”

  “You couldn’t know she’d go undercover and try to flush the night stalker out alone.”

  “I knew some sicko was slicing up prostitutes in the Quarter. I should have watched her better. I should have been more—” inwardly, he cringed as he said the word “—protective.”

  “She would have been insulted, and she would have thought you doubted her abilities as a cop. You know that. You also know if you go in there and confront Miss Morgan, you could blow this investigation.”

  “You’re right. But Tony, Michelle was family.” A lump the size of a crawdad caught in his throat. “I should have done something. If only—”

  “Michelle was a strong-willed cop. She did what she wanted and damn the consequences. You knew that about her, and so did Mac.”

  Riley scraped a thumb across his unshaven jaw. “I’m going to track this guy down. I won’t let him get by with this. And I won’t blow this case.” His gaze drifted over the roses, blooming in a riot of color lining the walk. “I’ll turn on ‘Mr. Charm.’ I’ll be on my best behavior. I just need to see for myself how she responds when I show her the locket.”

  Tony closed the file and slid it between the seats. “All right,” he relented. “Two of us will spook her. I’ve been up all night tracking down Miss Morgan and I’m in desperate need of some caffeine. You’re on your own. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Don’t blow it!”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Riley opened the car door. “I’ll find out exactly what she knows about Michelle’s death. Whatever it takes.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Tony muttered, and pulled away from the curb.

  Although it was only 9:00 a.m., the hot August heat was already intolerable. Riley walked toward the front door, pulling at his shirt collar, lifting the fabric from his skin. He rapped on the door, waited a minute, then rapped again.

  He stood on the front stoop listening to the incessant buzz of bees surrounding a gardenia bush, growing hotter and more impatient with each passing second. As he started to knock again, a shape moved behind the front door’s frosted glass.

  “Finally,” he mutte
red under his breath.

  The door opened. His wide “Mr. Charm” smile froze on his face and his heart stopped at the sight of the woman in the white terry robe. A mass of golden curls framed her face, falling in reckless abandon around her shoulders. Blue eyes, tired and disoriented, held a dim sparkle deep within their depths.

  Michelle.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked, clutching the opening of her robe.

  Her sultry voice held no hint of Michelle’s Southern accent. Otherwise, she looked enough like Michelle to halt the blood in his veins. “Devra Morgan?” he asked and wasn’t at all surprised by the catch in his voice.

  “Yes?”

  He couldn’t help staring. She clutched the robe tighter. “I’m Detective MacIntyre with the NOPD. Is this yours?” He held up the plastic bag containing the golden locket in one hand, and his badge in the other.

  Her eyes widened, turning a deep cobalt blue and becoming even more beautiful than he’d previously thought. “Wh-where did you find it?” she asked.

  “May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Come in.” She stood back, allowing him to step into the entryway. He followed her into a darkened living room. The furniture was sparse with no plants, no pictures, not much of anything personal or otherwise.

  “Please, have a seat,” she offered, and gestured toward a small table in front of the window. As he sat, she reached behind him and pulled the cord that lifted thick wooden blinds. Sunshine filtered through the slats, setting fire to the gold in her hair.

  She smelled faintly of vanilla and he caught himself inhaling deeper. He couldn’t stop staring at her hair falling in long lazy curls down the middle of her back. He was sorely tempted to touch it, to run his fingers through the delicate strands.

  She looked down at him, catching his gaze. Her eyes flickered with a myriad of colors and emotions. There was a longing in her expression—something she wanted or needed—but it quickly disappeared and her expression turned wary. She ran a hand through her hair. “Would you excuse me for a minute, please?”