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person who’d delivered the
     envelope.”
    â€œAnd did
     you?”
    â€œNo.” He
     crossed his feet at his ankles, rocking sideways. “It was under the door
     this morning when I arrived.”
    Jean-Paul nodded. “So you put it on her desk? But
     you didn’t open it first?”
    â€œNo. It was addressed to her.” Embarrassment colored his face. “Miss
     Berger doesn’t like me to read the mail. Says I’m too young.”
    â€œHow did you get those scratches on
     your hand?”
    â€œMy
     dog.” He stared at his knuckles. “I just got a boxer puppy. I’m trying to
     train him but, man, he chews on everything in sight.”
    Jean-Paul frowned. The kid obviously
     knew nothing. “Have you noticed anyone lurking around, maybe watching Miss
     Berger?”
    â€œNo one
     specifically. Although men always look at her.”
    Yes, they would. Although Britta could probably
     take care of herself, a sliver of worry tickled his spine, arousing
     protective instincts born of years on the job.
    His reaction certainly couldn’t be personal.
     Britta Berger was definitely not his type.
    But the killer had chosen her for a
     reason.
    Jean-Paul
     intended to find out exactly what it was.
    And why his victim had resembled her, as
     well.
    * * *
    A GUST OF WIND from the impending storm
     rattled the trees and sent leaves swirling around Britta’s feet as she
     rushed through the mob on Bourbon Street to her apartment. The storm clouds
     grew darker; the sounds of feet pounding the pavement became more ominous as
     the night swelled with the hordes of tourists. She glanced over her
     shoulder, repeatedly searching for the photographer, but a fog of drunken
     tourists obliterated any individual from standing out.
    Still, someone was out
     there.
    She sensed him
     watching her, felt his beady eyes on her skin. Studying her.
     Waiting.
    Was it the
     photographer she’d spotted during dinner? The killer who’d sent her the
     photo?
    Were they the
     same man?
    She
     considered calling the cops but what could she tell them? She had an odd
     feeling? They’d think she was crazy.
    A beer can rolled across the pavement, clanging
     into a metal garbage can and she shrieked, pausing as a beefy hand reached
     down to grab it. “Sorry about that, ma’am.”
    She tensed at the lascivious look in his
     liquor-glazed eyes, and pushed past him, shouldering her way around more
     groping hands until she reached Naked Desires. Neon lights dotted the street
     with color, highlighting the painted print and logo on the door window.
     Several lurid males drooled, their faces pressed against the fog-coated
     glass as they tried to peek inside.
    Ignoring their pleas for a sneak preview of the
     upcoming magazine and offers to share their fantasies with her, she
     maneuvered her way inside, slammed the door shut and locked it. But she
     froze at the sight of the darkened stairwell leading to the upstairs
     apartment. She tried the light, but it didn’t work. Had someone messed with
     it or had the bulb simply burned out?
    You’re being
     paranoid. How many times last month had it done the
     same thing and she hadn’t thought it suspicious?
    Choking back fear, she clenched her keys, ready to
     use them as a weapon. Outside, the wind howled like an animal. She unlocked
     the door and hurried inside. With only three rooms to the tiny apartment,
     she raced through them all, finally muttering a silent thank-you to find
     them empty.
    Still,
     she paused in her bedroom, the hairs on the nape of her neck prickling. The
     top bureau drawer which held her underwear was open slightly. Hadn’t she
     shut it this morning when she’d left for work? Normally, she kept her
     garments neat, her bras on the left side, her favorite frilly underwear on
     the right. In the drawer below, she stored her teddies. Now, her underwear
     was jumbled as if someone had pawed