Excerpt of Betrayed by Sylvia McDaniel

For the first time in their marriage, Nicole Rosseau Cuvier disobeyed her husband Jean. Though he told her never to come to his office in New Orleans without him, the news she had simply could not wait. And his office was just several hours by boat down the Mississippi River.

Yet her joy dimmed when she arrived at her husband's shipping company, and the clerk mysteriously informed her that Jean was ill and gave her his room number at the Chateau Hotel.

In the entire four years they'd been married, Jean Cuvier had never been ill.

Nicole burst into the hotel room, uncertain what she would find. Her gaze swept across the open room to a man dressed in a shabby suit in conversation with a refined lady with dark hair and smoky–gray eyes. "Where is he? Is he all right? They told me he was ill."

The man stepped between Nicole and an open door where she could see uniformed men standing around an unidentifiable body stretched out on the floor. Who could that be lying on the floor?

"Who are you?" the man asked, blocking her path.

"I'm Mrs. Cuvier," Nicole said anxiously. "I went by my husband's office and they sent me over here. Is the doctor with him?" she asked, trying to peer around the man to see into the other room.

"Good Lord, another one?" the man muttered, gazing back at the lady he'd been speaking with.

"Who did you say you were?" the woman inquired as she stared at Nicole, her gray eyes large and questioning.

Nicole didn't have time to chitchat with this woman, whoever she was. If Jean were ill, he needed her. "I'm Mrs. Nicole Cuvier, Jean's wife. Now where is my husband?"

The man in the shabby suit coat glanced at the other woman and then turned his gaze on Nicole. "Jean Cuvier is dead."

Nicole felt as if someone punched her in the stomach. With a trembling hand she clutched her throat, trying to hold back the scream that seemed to swell and lodge itself in her throat. The room swayed precariously as a dizzy spell overcame her, the words reverberating through her mind. Her beloved husband was dead.

"No. No," Nicole cried, tears rushing to her eyes, hysteria bubbling up, threatening to overwhelm her. "Dear God, no. He can't be! Let me see him. Please tell me this is a mistake. Where is he?"

"I'll take you to him," the man said, taking Nicole's arm and gently guiding her. "I'm Detective Dunegan, with the New Orleans police."

Nicole heard the words, but her mind didn't comprehend what he was saying. Police detective? What was a detective doing here with her husband? He led her into the bedroom where the same body she'd seen earlier lay sprawled on the floor, surrounded by people.

Please, God, that couldn't be Jean.

She caught a glimpse of dark hair tinted with silver, the color of Jean's hair. The man wore pajamas the same dark brown that Jean loved, a silk robe wrapped around his still form.

At the detective's motion, they moved aside and let her in close to see the man she loved, who lay twisted on the floor, his skin an odd pinkish hue that looked unnatural. She knelt beside him, her hand reaching out as her fingers touched his cold flesh. Quickly, she drew her hand back, the sensation confirming that her husband's lifeblood no longer flowed, his warm, loving touch now just a memory. A sob tore from her throat as she gazed at Jean, feeling as if this couldn't be real.

Gently the detective helped her up from the floor and led her back into the main room of the hotel suite. Nicole sobbed for her husband, who'd taught her so much about life. Their short time together had been filled with love and laughter, and even today she'd come bringing him such joyous news.

"I think we need to remain calm, sit down, and find out what happened," the officer said, his voice firm and reassuring.

Calm? How could she remain calm when she'd just found out her husband was dead? That no longer would he hold her in his arms or his smiles brighten her day.

"What—what. . . happened?" Nicole sobbed, tears streaking down her face. "How did he die?"

"Poisoning. We suspect that his wi—the woman we found him with poisoned him."

Nicole spun around and glared at the finely dressed woman through tear–streaked eyes. Could she be Jean's killer?

Her large gray eyes returned her gaze unflinchingly. "Not me. There's another woman."

"What do you mean, another woman?" Nicole asked, confused.

"You're not the only Mrs. Cuvier in this hotel suite," the woman advised her.