Twisted

  Dedication

  This book is for the lady who inspires me the most . . . my mom. Thanks, Mom, for all that you do.

  Acknowledgments

  I WANT TO THANK THE WONDERFUL STAFF AT AVON. My editors work so hard to help me deliver the best possible book—thank you!

  And for my readers—I appreciate all of the support that you have given me over the years. Thank you for taking the time to get lost with romantic suspense!

  I was so excited to set this book in New Orleans, one of my absolute favorite towns. I fell in love with this magical place when I was a teen, and I’ve been back countless times. New Orleans is a true city of mystery. Anything can happen in the Big Easy—and it usually does.

  Happy reading, everyone!

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  An Excerpt from Shattered

  Praise for Cynthia Eden

  About the Author

  By Cynthia Eden

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  WHAT DO YOU SEE FOR MY FUTURE?”

  Emma Castille slowly glanced up from the cards that were spread on the table before her. The young girl who sat across from Emma appeared to be barely sixteen. Her blond hair was secured in a haphazard knot at the nape of her neck, her clothes were faded, and her blue eyes were wide with a fear that couldn’t be controlled.

  Emma didn’t reach for the cards on her table. She just stared at the girl, and said, “I see a family that’s waiting for you. You need to go home to them.”

  The girl’s chin jerked. “Wh-what if they won’t have me?”

  “You’d be surprised at what they’d have.” Darkness was coming, the night slowly creeping to take over the day. Emma knew that she would have to leave Jackson Square soon. Her time was almost up.

  The others around her were already packing up their booths for the day. Psychics. Artists. Musicians. They were a mixed group, one that assembled every day as the sun came out, to capture the attention of the tourists in New Orleans.

  Emma wasn’t psychic. She wasn’t gifted when it came to music or art. But she did have one talent that she used to keep her alive and well fed—Emma had a talent for reading people.

  For noticing what others would too easily miss. Too easily ignore.

  “You’re running from someone,” Emma said flatly. The girl had already glanced over her left shoulder at least four times while they’d been talking. Fear was a living, breathing thing, clinging to the girl like a shroud.

  Emma knew what it was like to run. Sometimes, it seemed as if she’d always been running from someone or something.

  “Will he find me?” the girl asked as she leaned forward.

  Emma almost reached for the girl’s hand because she wanted to comfort her. Almost. “Go back to your family.” The girl was a runaway. She’d bet her life on it.

  The young blond blanched. “What if it’s the family you fear?”

  At those words, Emma stiffened.

  “Aren’t you supposed to tell me that everything will be all right?” the girl asked. She stood then, and her voice rose, breaking with fear. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me that I’ll go to college, marry my dream man, and live happily ever after?”

  Others turned their way because the girl was nearly shouting.

  “Aren’t you?” the girl demanded.

  Emma shook her head. She didn’t believe in happily ever after. “Go to the police.” She said this softly, her words a direct contrast to the girl’s angry tone. “You’re in danger.” There were bruises on the girl’s wrists, bruises peeking out from beneath the long sleeves of her shirt. A long-sleeved shirt in August, in New Orleans? Oh, no, that wasn’t right. What other bruises are you trying to hide?

  The girl stumbled back. “Help me.” Now her voice was a desperate whisper.

  Emma stood, as well. “I’ll go with you—” Emma began.

  But the girl had glanced over her shoulder once more. The blonde’s too-thin body stiffened, and she gasped. Then she was turning and running away. Shoving through the tourists crowding the busy square. Running as if her very life depended on it.

  Because maybe, just maybe, it did.

  Emma called out after her, but the girl didn’t stop.

  Let her go, let her go.

  But Emma found herself rushing after the girl, going as fast as she could. But New Orleans, oh, New Orleans, it could be such a tricky bitch, with its narrow streets and secret paths. Emma couldn’t find the blonde. She turned to the left and to the right, and she just saw men and women laughing, celebrating. Voices were all around her. So many people.

  And there was no sign of the terrified blond girl.

  Emma paused, and pressed her hand to the brick wall on her right as she fought to catch her breath.

  But the wall was . . . wet. She lifted her hand, and in the faint light, she could see the red stain that covered her palm. A red that was—

  Blood.

  “OH, JULIA, SWEET Julia, why did you try to run?”

  He ran the tip of his knife down Julia’s cheek. She was already bleeding, and, before he was done, there would be even more blood.

  So much blood.

  Behind his left hand, Julia whimpered.

  He let the knife slice even deeper into her cheek. “Now I’m just going to have to punish you more. You know that?” His voice was whisper soft because the other woman—the one with the dark hair and too-bright eyes—had followed his Julia. The woman was just steps away, less than five feet. She hadn’t realized that they’d ducked into the abandoned bar.

  She didn’t know that he had Julia in his arms right then.

  The woman was looking at her hand.

  Ah, did you see Julia’s blood?

  Because he’d slammed Julia’s head into the wall. Stopped her from running.

  “You’re not going to get away from me,” he told Julia, as the other woman crept closer to the bar. The place’s windows and doors were boarded up, but he’d found a way inside, a way that gave him perfect access to Julia. “I always keep what’s mine.”

  The dark-haired woman was almost upon them. Through the thin cracks in those boarded-up windows, he could see the shape of her slender body. The long, flowing dress.

  He smiled as the thrill of the hunt filled him once more. “Always . . .”

  CHAPTER ONE

  NEW ORLEANS WAS FUCKING HOT. NO OTHER way to describe it. Fucking. Hot. On a late-September day, the heat was like a damn blanket wrapping around Dean Bannon. He’d rolled up his sleeves and ditched his tie, but those feeble efforts sure hadn’t done any good.

  New Orleans was hell, he was convinced of that, and the place was also the site of his latest assignment.

  Sixteen-year-old Julia Finney had last been seen in the Big Easy. Her mother was desperate to find the girl, but the local cops weren’t giving any of their time to finding the runaway, and he—well, he was one of the agents from LOST who’d been sent down from Atlanta to find the girl.

  He made his way slowly down Bourbon Street. The sun hadn’t even set yet, and the place was already hopping. Drunk frat boys and drunk sixty-year-old men staggered down the street in near-perfect rhythm. And girls—girls that looked far
too young—stood in darkened doorways and waved the men inside.

  Ann Finney was worried that her daughter Julia was going to become one of those girls. On the streets, with no money, no connections . . . what else could happen to her?

  A fucking lot.

  Dean lifted the picture of Julia he carried. Showed it to the girls. But their glassy-eyed stares just passed right over the image. No one recognized Julia. No one knew her.

  It seemed that no one had ever bothered to look at the girl.

  Now he was looking for her, but the clench in Dean’s gut told him that he might already be too late. But he kept trudging along, kept turning down the streets until he found himself in Jackson Square.

  Street performers were out, some kids playing jazz, others dancing a fast-and-frantic rhythm on cardboard boxes they’d brought out as they worked for tips.

  The crowd there was huge. So many people. Too many.

  No wonder a sixteen-year-old girl had vanished without a trace.

  “Who are you looking for?”

  The voice was feminine, low, husky—and very close. He turned his head and saw her. A woman with a long cascade of black hair and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. She was sitting beneath the shelter of a big blue umbrella. A small table sat in front of her, and a sign by her said that a “Reading” would be twenty dollars.

  His eyes narrowed as he studied her.

  She smiled at him, flashing dimples in both of her cheeks. “Come now, don’t be afraid of me, handsome, I won’t bite.” Her hand, delicate, tanned, motioned to the chair across from her. “Come closer.”

  Why? Did it look like he was some tourist in the mood to be conned? Because that sure as shit wasn’t his style.

  But if the woman usually worked the square, if she saw all the people coming and going . . . then maybe, just maybe, she’d seen Julia.

  Dean ducked his head and slid under the umbrella. But he didn’t sit. He leaned over her, and the woman tilted her head back as she stared up at him.

  Her smiled dimmed. Those dimples vanished, and Dean had one thought—

  Fucking gorgeous.

  The woman’s face was eerily close to perfect. High cheekbones. Straight nose. Wide, amazing eyes. A delicate chin.

  Her lips were full, sexy, and red. Her face might have made her look like an angel, but those lips and that dark mass of hair . . . oh, it made him think of sin.

  Not here, not now.

  Dean had a rule about mixing business and pleasure. He damn well never did it.

  He was there on a case. For Dean, the mission always came first. Always.

  “Not a cop,” she said as she lifted one eyebrow. “But a government agent . . .” Her lips pursed. “FBI?”

  Was he supposed to be impressed? He’d been an FBI agent for ten years, working day and night in the Violent Crimes Division. He’d seen enough shit to give most people never-ending nightmares.

  Good thing Dean didn’t have nightmares. He didn’t have dreams, either. When he slept, there was only darkness.

  He pulled out the photo of Julia. He noticed that the would-be fortune-teller’s eyes fell to the photo, and she tensed, just for an instant.

  “I’m betting you see plenty of people come by this way each day.”

  Her gaze lifted back to his. “I don’t work here every day.”

  He took a step closer to her. She definitely tensed. Dean put the photo of Julia down on the woman’s table. As he leaned in even closer to her, Dean could have sworn that he caught the scent of jasmine. He’d grown up on his grandfather’s farm, a lifetime ago, and jasmine had been there.

  She wasn’t looking at the photograph.

  “Most people disappear for a reason,” she said, staring into his eyes. “They don’t like to be found.”

  Too bad. “My job is to find the lost.”

  Her head tilted a bit more, and a dark lock of hair slid over her shoulder. She was wearing gold earrings, hoops that moved faintly as she watched him. Those hoops, her hair, her amazing eyes—yeah, they all came together to give her a seductive, mysterious air. He bet the tourists loved her.

  But Dean knew there was no mystery about the woman before him. Just another pretty face hiding lies. The woman was a scammer, out there to bilk the people dumb enough to approach her table.

  “Look at the girl,” he said softly.

  Her blue gaze fell to the table.

  For just a moment, her eyes widened. “What has she done?”

  Interesting question. “Her family wants her home.”

  Her hand rose. Her fingers slid over the photograph. “She should go home. I . . . told her that.”

  He caught her hand. Grabbed her wrist in a lightning fast move. “You’ve seen her.” He felt the light ridge of raised skin beneath his fingers. A scar?

  She was still looking down at the photograph. “It was at least a week ago. She came here right before sunset.” Her full lips curved down as sadness chased over her face. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’ll be finding her.”

  The hell he wouldn’t.

  She tugged on her wrist. Dean didn’t let her go.

  “That girl is sixteen years old,” he said. “She ran away from her home in Atlanta, and her mother is desperate to find her. Her mother needs her back home.”

  “I don’t think she wanted to go back.”

  She stood then, moving from beneath the shelter of the umbrella, and she was smaller than he’d thought. Dean stood at six-foot-three, and the woman—she was barely five-foot-four. Maybe five-five. When she tried to slip away from him, he tightened his hold on her wrist.

  “Let me go.”

  He didn’t. But his hand slid up her forearm a bit, and he felt more of that raised skin. Just small ridges. Curious now, he looked down as he turned her arm over. Those were scars. Faint lines of white that crossed her skin. The marks were at various points on her inner arm, and . . .

  His hand pushed open her clenched fist. There were a few more faint scars there, too. Little slices.

  A surge of anger caught him by surprise. “Who did it?”

  “It’s rude to ask questions like that.” She actually sounded as if she was chiding him. “Didn’t they teach you a better interview technique at the FBI?”

  “I’m not with the FBI.”

  “Well, not any longer, of course,” she said. Her smile flashed, only this time he recognized it for the distraction that it was. Hell, he bet plenty of men got lost in that wide smile.

  He wasn’t plenty of men.

  And he knew better than to fall for a pretty face.

  “The girl,” Dean gritted out. “Tell me everything you know about her.”

  Her gaze slid to the left. To the right. And Dean realized that the others close by were watching them.

  “You are seriously bad for business,” she said, sounding annoyed. “It looks like you’re an angry lover who’s having some public spat with me. You need to let me go, now.”

  An angry lover? Okay, so he was holding her pretty close, but Dean wasn’t backing off. And that sweet jasmine scent was definitely coming from her. “Tell me what I need to know, and—”

  “Is there a problem here?” A male voice. Close. Sharp.

  He turned his head just a bit and saw the uniformed police officer, frowning at them.

  “Ms. Castille? This guy bothering you?”

  Dean mentally filed away the lady’s last name even as he made himself step back and release her. “I’m not bothering her.” Okay, he had been.

  The cop came even closer. His face was tight with suspicion, and it was a young face. The guy was in his early twenties and had ROOKIE written all over him. “It looked like you were bothering her, so I’m gonna suggest that you keep walking now, buddy.”

  “It’s all right.” Ms. Castille put her hand on the cop’s shoulder. “Thanks, Beau, it sure is nice to know you’re looking out for me.”

  Beau smiled at her. Dean figured the cop’s smile flashed because she’d
just fired him that megawatt smile of hers, dimples included.

  “Always here for you, ma’am,” he told her, flushing a bit. Then he glanced back at Dean, and the cop’s frown was back. “I’d like to see your ID, Mister.”

  Hell. But, whatever. Dean tossed the cop his wallet.

  Beau pulled out his driver’s license. Ms. Castille was right next to him as the cop read, “Dean Bannon, age thirty-six, from Atlanta, Georgia.” Beau whistled. “Love me some Braves.”

  Dean waited.

  “What brings you down to New Orleans?” the cop asked him.

  “Keep looking in the wallet,” Dean said.

  The cop’s brows scrunched when he pulled out one of Dean’s cards. “LOST,” he said, and his frown deepened. “I’ve . . . heard of that group.” His gaze shot to Dean. “The LOST team caught that serial killer over on Dauphin Island awhile back!”

  Yes, they had. And since Dauphin Island, Alabama, was just a few hours away, Dean wasn’t real surprised that the cop had heard about the incident. “We didn’t bring him in alive,” Dean said. Because the Lady Killer hadn’t given them that option.

  “You stopped him,” Beau said, sounding more than impressed. “That’s good enough in my book.”

  LOST. The organization that Dean worked for was gaining more and more attention these days. Last Option Search Team. Dean’s buddy Gabe Spencer had been the one to first put the team together. The ex-SEAL had wanted to bring in a group with varied backgrounds, a team that knew how to get the job done.

  When local law enforcement gave up the hunt for the missing, when the families still needed hope, they turned to LOST.

  Just like Ann Finney had. No one else had helped her to find Julia. Runaways disappeared every day. With Julia being an older teen, the cops hadn’t spent a lot of time looking for her . . .

  But Dean wasn’t going to give up.