Phantom of the French Quarter. Colleen Thompson

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       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To every booklover who’s ever passed along a favorite story and

       told a friend, a sister or a perfect stranger,

       “You absolutely have to read this.”

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      After beginning her career writing historical romance novels, Colleen Thompson turned to writing the contemporary romantic suspense she loves in 2004. Since then, her work has been honored with the Texas Gold Award, along with nominations for RITA^®, Daphne du Maurier, and multiple reviewers’ choice honors, along with starred reviews from RT Book Reviews and Publishers Weekly. A former teacher living with her family in the Houston area, Colleen has a passion for reading, hiking and dog rescue. Visit her online at www.colleen-thompson.com.

      CAST OF CHARACTERS

       Caitlyn Villaré —A beautiful young tour guide with a passion for old French Quarter cemeteries, Caitlyn will do whatever it takes to save her fledging business—even if that means trusting the mesmerizing dark-eyed stranger she first glimpsed among the tombs.

       Marcus Le Carpentier —Brooding and mysterious, this funerary art photographer has every reason to avoid police attention. Yet he cannot ignore the evidence his images have captured…or the smoldering attraction that threatens to ignite each time he encounters Caitlyn.

       Josiah Paine —Caitlyn’s hot-tempered former boss was furious that his best tour guide left to start a rival business. Has his thirst for vengeance gone beyond his angry words?

       Max Lafitte —Jealous of Caitlyn’s overnight success, does this aging tour guide have a far older reason to despise her?

       Mrs. Eva Rill —Hidden beneath her black veil, this mysterious white-haired woman bristles with angry accusations—accusations that may only be a ruse to lure Caitlyn to her death.

       Reuben Pierce —Hired to protect Caitlyn from the dangers of the Quarter, this retired cop-turned-bodyguard sees no greater threat than the fugitive photographer who seems so determined to spirit her away.

      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 Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Epilogue

       Chapter One

      In an old French Quarter cemetery that cradled saints and sinners alike, dawn stained the slumbering fog bloodred. Layer after layer, it awakened, rising like the resurrected dead and swirling in soft eddies around the young woman cutting through it.

      “It has to be here somewhere,” Caitlyn Villaré called over her shoulder. Tension tightened her voice, and perspiration curled damp tendrils of long blond hair that clung to the fair skin at her temples and behind her neck. Her hand swished impatiently through the clotted June air, disturbing a small cloud of biting gnats.

      From the next row of graves, a bull of a man wearing a rumpled chino blazer and a salt-and-pepper buzz cut shot her a grim look. “Let’s not get your hopes up too high. I saw the rock that old bat was wearing, and if some lowlife caught sight of it out here…”

      Reuben Pierce let the words die, but his grim brown eyes did the talking for him. An old friend of her father’s, the retired cop served as her assistant, fellow tour guide and bodyguard. Or babysitter, as Caitlyn thought when she was most exasperated with her over-protective older sister, Jacinth.

      But he was right, Caitlyn admitted to herself. As soon as the two of them had escorted her party of tourists out through the cemetery gates last night, unsavory types had undoubtedly descended, trolling for any leavings—and hoping to surprise any straggler foolish enough to return for a private viewing.

      Only last month, a lone tourist—not one of her clients, thank goodness—had been found here, his pockets turned out and his throat slashed, his cooling corpse lying in a congealing pool of blood. She shivered at the thought of it, hurrying her steps, and said to Reuben, “If I don’t find that ring, that horrible old woman will tell everyone I stole it.”

      Caitlyn’s stomach tightened with the memory of the shriveled crone, a tiny, wrinkled figure who’d worn a black lace veil over the silken white coil of her hair. At first Caitlyn had taken her attire for a costume, not unlike the gypsy storyteller outfits she herself wore to help enliven her tales of New Orleans’s famous cities of the dead. But at four o’clock this morning, when the old woman calling herself Eva Rill had furiously rapped her cane against Caitlyn’s front door, she was still dressed entirely in black, right down to the little round hat with the raven’s feathers and the lacy cloud of netting.

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