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some unfinished business, April and I.”
    â€œThat’s so,” she said with a slow nod. “But you be sure, this time, that it don’t finish you.”
    â€œIt won’t,” he said with more confidence than he felt. As he passed her, he gave her a quick hug, then moved on down the hall.
    â€œKnock on wood,” she called after him, and reached to tap the wall in the superstitious gesture meant to ward off danger.
    He didn’t answer. Still, as he went quickly down the wide staircase of the old house, he rapped twice with his knuckles on the thick wooden railing.

3
    A pril checked into her suite at the Windsor Court Hotel in mid-afternoon. She’d tried to work after the phone call, but not much came of it. Her present state of mind, added to the distraction of the weekend conference, was too much to combat. Besides, she was anxious to reach New Orleans. She enjoyed the city, and felt so comfortable in it that she often wondered if she might have lived there in another life. Only the fact that she loved Turn-Coupe more had kept her from remaining in the city after her divorce.
    The Windsor Court, with its sheltered courtyard entrance centered by a rose granite fountain, and trademark enormous bouquet of fresh pink roses in the lobby, was one of her favorite hotels. She appreciated the quiet elegance and river view of her usual corner suite, and always settled into it as if coming home. Afternoon tea in the salon off the lobby was a tradition for her. Because she’d skipped lunch, she headed in that direction at once.
    She leaned back in her tapestry-covered chair, feeling herself relax under the influence of discreet service, fine linen, delicate china, and the soft strains of Mozart played by a harpist near the front windows. With her favorite Earl Grey tea in front of her, along with a silver server holding crisp cucumber sandwiches, warm scones with clotted cream and jam, chocolate-dipped strawberries and truffles, she began to think that the weekend might not turn out half bad.
    Afterward, April placed a call to a friend whom she always visited when she came to the city. Julianne Cazenave was home and longing to have a good gossip, or so she said. She’d have the mint juleps ready on the patio by the time April reached her apartment.
    The sound of a jazz band could be heard as April crossed Canal Street and entered the French Quarter. It seemed to be coming from the dark, alcohol-scented depths of a bar with its antique French doors flung open to the street. The song, a catchy rendition of a tune she associated with Satchmo Armstrong, followed her as she walked. April matched her pace to its rhythm. She felt anonymous there among the tourist crowd and the locals who were so used to being invaded by strangers that they paid no attention to one more. Few people knew where she was and what she was doing at the moment, including her radio caller with the overactive hormones. The knowledge lifted her spirits a notch higher.
    There was one person who might have a good idea of her location. Luke had called just before she left and told her, in his usual high-handed way, that she should stay at home where he could keep an eye on her. Naturally, she’d refused. Living her life to suit his convenience was not high on her list of priorities. She’d informed him that security at theWindsor Court was second to none. They were accustomed to keeping heads of state safe, so she was sure they would do the same for her. She couldn’t live her life in fear. And if she was all the more determined to keep to her schedule because Luke Benedict thought she shouldn’t, that was her secret.
    Julianne’s apartment was on Saint Louis just down from one of the Quarter’s more famous restaurants. The scents of brewing coffee, baking bread, browning onions and caramelizing sugar drifted to April as she pressed the buzzer beside the door then stood waiting. With these smells came the