Excerpt of Killing Me Softly by Jenna Mills

THE SECLUDED BAYOU cottage Savannah Trahan had once used as a retreat from the cutthroat world of journalism still stood. There, away from prying eyes, she'd been able to relax and rejuvenate — and rendezvous with the darkly seductive police detective everyone had warned her to steer clear of.

Cannas bloomed in an untended rainbow of red and orange and yellow, guarding and inviting, hinting that once, someone had tended the overgrown grounds. Now waist-high weeds crowded out the walkway, the windows were dark, the door boarded shut.

A lone tire swung from a rope affixed to a stumpy old oak, the breeze easing it in and out of the gathering fog.

It's still there, after all this time.

Renee Fox drew a hand to her mouth and moved closer, careful not to step on a partially secluded anthill. There was a sadness to this remote corner of the swamp, an aura that extended beyond the stark fall day.

Here, in the farthest reaches of southern Louisiana, fall arrived with little of the orange-and-red fanfare northern climes enjoyed. Gray skies and cool damp winds slithered in and stripped the trees of their leaves, turning them from green to brown in the blink of an eye.

"This is private property, cher."

The disembodied voice came from behind her. Dark and drugging, its innate masculinity struck a chord deep within her. And without even turning to look, she knew who stood behind her.

Her heart revved and stalled, her breath hitched. A protest hammered through her. She'd not meant for him to find her here. She'd not meant for him to find her at all.

The Robichauds didn't take kindly to deception. Brutally aware of the crossroads she'd reached, she took a steadying breath and turned toward him.

He stood beyond the clearing, a shadowy specter lounging against a cypress tree. Fog licked at his long legs and swirled about his chest, making her question whether he existed at all. But the woman in her recognized this was no mere spirit watching her. No ghost, no phantom, no illusion. She recognized him in a heartbeat, the man who resided in the darkest corners of the need that pushed her from day to day. Now he stood dead center between her and the truth she'd come to claim.

Cain Robichaud. She would have known him anywhere, anytime. His picture had been splashed all over the press, even in Canada. The shadows about him were darker, but little else had changed since his days as an undercover detective in the city of sin. Not the midnight-black hair, nor the midnight eyes. Not the square jaw, nor the dark stubble covering it. Not the wide, forbidding shoulders. Not the predatory stance.

He started toward her, his purposeful steps trampling the tall brown grass. "Perhaps you didn't hear me the first time, ma'am, but this is private property."

"I heard you."

He stopped so close his six-foot-plus body crowded out the rest of the world. "Then that makes you a trespasser."

She'd always enjoyed a challenge, had never been one to back down. That trait had always been her greatest asset and, according to her brother, her greatest liability.

"And here I thought Bayou de Foi was a friendly town," she said with all the sugary Southern charm she could muster. "Is this the way you welcome all strangers, or just lucky ones like me?"

The lines of his face tightened. "If you're looking for hospitality, you should head on back to New Orleans, belle amie."

Deep inside, she shivered. This man was not calling her pretty lady as a compliment.

"All a pretty lady like you has to do is name her price." But not here, she knew instinctively. Not this man. He didn't play by others' rules. He sought to indulge or please no one but himself. "What I'm looking for can't be purchased."

"Everything has a price."

Even your soul? she wanted to ask, but the question jammed in her throat. "Then what's yours?" she surprised herself by asking.

She wasn't sure what she'd expected, but it wasn't laughter. The rough sound broke from his throat and echoed on the breeze. "My price is my penance," he said, then gestured toward the highway. "And like I said, this is private property. It's time for you to be going."

Time changed people. She knew that. So did loss and betrayal. After months of media notoriety, mentions of Cain Robichaud had trickled off to the point where recently there'd been nothing at all. Not even his photography Web site had been updated. It was as though the man had ceased to exist.

"I mean no harm," she said, realizing she had to backtrack. She'd been wrong to play footsy so quickly.

"I was just..." Eventually, he would discover her real reason for being here, but the longer she kept him in the dark about her assignment, the safer she was. "Someone I knew used to come here."

Something sharp and volatile flashed through his eyes, but other than that he went unnaturally still. "There's no one here now but you and me."

Heat rushed through her, despite the cool fall breeze. He was right. There were just the two of them, a woman no one would look for and a man many believed belonged behind the steel bars of Angola State Penitentiary.

Vulnerable was not a word she liked, but she'd taken her safety for granted before, and it was not a mistake she would make again. "I can see that. I just —" had to come, to see what remained from that night in the notso-distant past. " — needed to come here."

"Needed?" In that moment he sounded every bit the cop he'd once been, renowned for securing confessions. Coercion or seduction, the method hadn't mattered.

"Trust me. A pretty thing like you, the only thing waiting for you out here is trouble."

That's where he was wrong. Remnants of a life gone by remained, a mystery begging to be solved. There were answers here. And truth.

But those words could not be said. "I wanted to see if I could still feel her," she said, choosing her words carefully. "My friend who used to come here to clear her head." And to make love with the unorthodox detective who'd made her forget everything she knew about caution and survival.

His expression darkened. "Who?" For such a big man, he uttered the question in a deceptively soft voice. "Who is this friend?"

The urge to turn away was strong. Once she spoke the name, there would be no going back. She knew that. If she wanted to walk away, to pretend she'd not stood close enough to Cain Robichaud that she could scrape the whiskers darkening his jaw with her fingertips, she should do so now, before she waded into waters dark and deep. She had only to accept that some questions would never be answered, some needs never met.

She could accept neither. "Savannah," she said, wincing at the way his eyes went cold and flat. "Savannah Trahan."

It was just a name, that's all she said, but the shadow that fell over Cain made it clear she might as well have cursed his soul to perdition and beyond. Because Savannah Trahan would never be just a name to this man, not when half the parish believed he'd murdered his former lover. Buried her on his land, some believed. Submerged her naked body in the swamp, others claimed. Burned her in a bonfire of her pictures, another said, and let her ashes scatter with the wind.

He stood there so horribly, brutally still, the planes of his face tight, his eyes like shrapnel. Even his mouth flattened, turning into a hard, uncompromising line, and in that instant, he looked frighteningly capable of the cold-blooded murder she'd read about in the newspapers.

Everything became sharper, more intense, carving out the afternoon in sharp relief — the screech of the egrets, the wind slashing through the skeletal trees, the fog soaking into her bones. Even the silence intensified.

He drew the moment out like a death sentence, then shattered it with his voice. "Who the hell are you?"

Relief flashed so profound she could taste it. He didn't recognize her. Then reason surfaced. Of course he didn't recognize her. There was no reason he should.

"I asked a question," he said in that same quiet voice.

"Don't make me ask again."

An endless valley of lies lay ahead, but right here, right now, she chose to offer the truth. "A friend."

"A friend." He made the word sound like an offense.

"Any friend of mine or Savannah's knows better than to come here."

The blade of pain nicked fast and deep. "If you're trying to frighten me," she said, "it's not working."

His smile was sardonic. "I suppose you're not trembling, either."

Refusing to give an inch, she hugged her arms around her middle. "It's cold."

"Maybe on the inside, but not on the out. Try again." She angled her chin, said nothing. The man could see subtleties and nuances others couldn't. Once, the trait had made him a good cop. It also explained his success as a photographer. His work adorned the walls of galleries in New Orleans, as well as many a coffee-table book and calendar. His flair for shadows and light brought solitude to liveliness, sobriety to gaiety.

The quiet spun out between them, thick, pulsing. From the darkened copse beyond the clearing, dead leaves rustled and twigs snapped. It almost sounded as though —

He pivoted toward the cypress trees jutting up like a line of soldiers separating land from water. "Don't move." Slowly he edged forward. Each step, each movement, each breath still screamed the caution of the cop he used to be.

Renee's imagination sprinted along a dangerous path as she watched him go down on one knee.

"Beautiful."

Heart hammering, she turned to see a great blue heron perched atop the old swing.

"Perfect," Cain murmured as he angled a 35mm camera toward the tire. "Ah...that's ma girl. Me, I'm going to be very, very good to you..."

Until his big hands cradled the sleek metal outfit, Renee hadn't noticed the camera hanging from his shoulder. Easy mistake with a man like Cain. His intensity made it impossible to register anything but the man.

Seconds blurred into minutes, minutes into a searing intimacy. Cain inched closer to the bird while his drugging voice urged the heron to stay in place.

"Let me have you," he coaxed. "I won't hurt you... just want to make you mine."

The black-magic drawl did wicked things to Renee's immunity. How could he shift from suspicious detective to reverent photographer in the space of one broken heartbeat?

Somewhere close by, more twigs snapped. The bird reacted instinctively, lifting its magnificent wings and soaring into the gray sky. But Cain remained crouched, staring at the point where the heron had vanished.

What did he see? Renee wondered. Heavy storm clouds gathering beyond the cypress trees, like she did? Or something different, something no one else could envision.

"You're still here?"

She blinked, saw that he had turned and was moving toward her. "Either that or you're hallucinating."

"My ghosts are my business, Ms...." He destroyed what remained of her personal space. "I don't believe I caught your name."