Devil’s Deal by Aleatha Romig

Author:Aleatha Romig
Language: eng
Format: epub

Emma

Earlier

The man from the SUV in the garage walked out onto the sidewalk and looked both directions, most likely trying to learn what or who had activated the garage door to rise. Two more steps my direction and I’d be caught. With my body trembling, I watched him through a thick hedge of green with pink flowers. As I did, a bumblebee buzzed near one of the flowers and made a circle around my head.

My hand came to my lips as I stifled a scream.

When I looked back toward the garage, the man was gone, and by the sound reverberating through the air, the garage door was again descending.

Relief flooded my circulation as I let out my breath and dropped to my knees.

It took me a second to realize that my hiding place really wasn’t one. I was on a cobblestone pathway between two hedges in front of an iron gate. I looked through the rungs up at a large stately home—Rett’s neighbor. It was beautiful and well maintained. With three stories, a large wraparound porch, gingerbread woodwork, and balconies on the second floor, it was classic New Orleans style. I said a prayer someone was home.

With the wrought-iron gate rattling in my grasp, my only thought was getting inside and using a telephone. A flip of a latch and the old gate opened inward, the hinges creaking with each inch. Closing the gate behind me, I straightened my shoulders and walked toward the house.

As I approached the front porch, I considered my options. I could say I was a lost tourist. A quick look down at my bare feet and I realized it made that story a bit unbelievable. I moved my head from side to side as my ears strained to hear and I looked and listened for someone—anyone—from Rett’s house.

Had they discovered I was missing?

What would happen when they did?

My hope resided in the fact that Ian didn’t knock too often. It was long before dinner, if Rett had intended to come and get me. I was without a watch, but I guessed it was midafternoon. Ian may not discover that I was MIA until after I was away.

Climbing the steps to the front porch, I made the decision that telling anyone that I’d been kidnapped and held in their neighbor’s home wasn’t a viable explanation either. I contemplated my options. Despite my fleeing, I had no desire to cause Rett legal problems. My yearning was to forget this bizarre chain of events and get back to my life.

Rapping my knuckles against the front screen door, I came up with a plausible story for my missing shoes. I’d been wearing high heels. They hurt my feet, so I removed them and accidentally left them in the park. I tried to remember the name of the park near the church.

No, that park was in the French Quarter, and as I looked around at the elegance and majesty of the homes, I knew I was no longer there. After

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