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It was all over now. Her only son, her beloved son, was condemned to death. For a crime she knew he could not have committed.
She gathered her strength for what she must do. From the pocket of her long skirt the old Gypsy pulled the bandanna with the objects. The pen. The crumpled paper cup. The metal tack.
None was of great value. But they held the power she needed. For each had belonged to one of the people she was going to curse tonight.
Her hand clenched the pen. “Justice is blind,” she whispered, then joined the curse with the name of Wyatt Boudreaux.
“Love is death,” she intoned as she crumpled the paper cup in her hand and said the name of Garner Rousseau.
Finally she picked up the tack and said, “The law is impotent,” linking those words with the name of Andrei Sobatka.
Pushing herself erect, she stood and shuffled to the edge of the bayou, smug in her satisfaction that she had evened the score.
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
The suspenseful tales we offer you this month are much scarier than Halloween’s ghouls and ghosts! So bring out your trick-or-treating bag and gather up all four exciting stories.
And do we have a treat for you—a brand-new 3-in-1 compilation featuring authors Rebecca York, Ann Voss Peterson and Patricia Rosemoor. Ten years ago, three men were cursed by a Gypsy woman bent on vengeance. Now they must race to find a killer—and true love’s kiss may just break the evil spell they’re under in Gypsy Magic.
Next, Aimée Thurlo concludes her two-book miniseries SIGN OF THE GRAY WOLF, with Navajo Justice. And Susan Kearney starts a new trilogy, THE CROWN AFFAIR, in which royalty of the country of Vashmira must battle palace danger and treachery, while finding true love along the way. Look for Royal Target this month.
When Jennifer Ballard dreamed of her wedding day, it never included murder! But no one would harm the beautiful bride, not if Colby Agency investigator Ethan Delaney had anything to say about it. Pick up Contract Bride for yet another nail-biter from Debra Webb.
Happy reading!
Denise O’Sullivan
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
GYPSY MAGIC
REBECCA YORK
RUTH GLICK WRITING AS REBECCA YORK
ANN VOSS PETERSON
PATRICIA ROSEMOOR
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Award-winning, bestselling novelist Ruth Glick, who writes as Rebecca York, is the author of close to eighty books, including her popular 43 LIGHT STREET series for Harlequin Intrigue. Ruth says she has the best job in the world. Not only does she get paid for telling stores, she’s also the author of twelve cookbooks. Ruth and her husband, Norman, travel frequently, researching locales for her novels and searching out new dishes for her cookbooks.
Ever since she was a little girl making her own books out of construction paper, Ann Voss Peterson wanted to write. So when it came time to choose a major at the University of Wisconsin, creative writing was the only choice. Of course, writing wasn’t a practical choice—one needs to earn a living. So Ann found jobs ranging from proofreading legal transcripts to working with quarter horses to washing windows. But no matter how she earned her paycheck, she continued to write the type of stories that captured her heart and imagination—romantic suspense. Ann lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband, her toddler son, her Border collie and her quarter horse mare.
To research her novels, Patricia Rosemoor is willing to swim with dolphins, round up mustangs or howl with wolves—“whatever it takes to write a credible tale.” She’s written in many genres, but her first love has always been romantic suspense. She won both a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award in Series Romantic Suspense and a Reviewer’s Choice Award for one of her more than thirty Intrigue novels. She’s now writing erotic thrillers for Harlequin Blaze. Ms. Rosemoor also teaches Suspense-Thriller and Popular Fiction writing at Columbia College Chicago. She lives in Chicago with her husband, Edward, and their three cats. She would love to know what you think of this story. Write to Patricia Rosemoor at P.O. Box 578297, Chicago, IL 60657-8297 or via e-mail at [email protected], and visit her Web site at http://PatriciaRosemoor.com.
Contents
Allesandra
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Sabina
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Andrei
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
ALLESANDRA
REBECCA YORK
RUTH GLICK WRITING AS REBECCA YORK
To Norman, once more, with love.
Prologue
The old woman lifted her lantern, the dim glow flickering off the Spanish moss that trailed from the dark branches above her head.
Somewhere in the far reaches of the bayou, an animal called out. An animal whose pain echoed her own.
Sinking to her knees on the damp ground, she threw back her head and gave voice to her anguish. It was all over now. Her only son, her beloved son, was condemned to die. For a crime she knew he could not have committed. He had made mistakes. She had warned him of the consequences, but never in her wildest imagination had she thought it would come to this.
She let her tears flow then. Tears of anger and regret. And when the storm of weeping finally subsided, she gathered her strength for what she must do. From the pocket of her long skirt, she pulled the bandanna with the objects. The pen. The paper cup. The metal tack.
Spreading the cloth on the ground, she stared at the tokens she had stolen. None was of material value. But they held the power she needed. For each belonged to one of the people she was going to curse tonight.
With bony fingers she touched each object in turn, calling on her inner strength, summoning the dark powers she had learned to control long ago.
For she had the Romany gift of turning the tables on her enemies. She’d done it since she was a child. For small offenses and large, yet never anything so large as this.
Her enemies had taken her most precious possession—her son. He was lost to her now. Lost by trickery and deceit. But the three people who had cut out her heart would pay in kind. They would feel the pain she had felt. For they each had a son: Wyatt Boudreaux, Garner Rousseau, Andrei Sobatka. And each would suffer a fate worse than death. A fate that would follow him till the end of his days.
In a low voice she began to chant the ancient words of her people, weaving in a curse for each man as she conjured up his face.
Her hand clenched the pen. “Justice is blind,” she whispered, then joined the curse with the name of Wyatt Boudreaux.
“Love is death,” she intoned as she crumpled the paper cup in her hand and said the name of Garner Rousseau.
Finally she picked up the tack, her finger caressing the cold metal as she said, “The law is impotent,” then linked the name with Andrei Sobatka.
Three times more she repeated the ritual before gathering up the objects in her bandanna and knotting the ends. Pushing herself erect, she stood swaying on unsteady legs, then shuffled to the bayou edge where cypress knees jutted like gravestones from the dark water. She tossed the bu
ndle into the murky depths, watching it sink before she turned, picked up her lantern and walked back through the humid darkness to her trailer, smug in her satisfaction that she had evened the score.
Chapter One
Ten years later…
The Gypsy carnival had returned to Les Baux, Louisiana, as it did every summer. For the past four years, Wyatt Boudreaux had avoided the place the way an alligator trapper avoids quicksand pits.
Now he was back—for his dying father’s sake.
“Wait right here for me,” he said to the cabdriver. “I won’t be much more than an hour.”
“It’s your nickel.” Henry Beaver answered. Henry was one of only two cabbies in Les Baux, which meant that he and Wyatt had an ongoing relationship. A love-hate relationship.
The humid evening air pressed around Wyatt like damp cotton. The old Ford wasn’t air-conditioned, and he could already feel his white dress shirt sticking to his back.
With a sigh, he climbed out and turned toward the noise of the midway. A tall, muscular man with dark hair, blue eyes and a scar that pierced his soul, he stood for a moment taking in the carnival spread out at the edge of town along the bayou’s low bank.
He heard the delighted squeals of children, the screams of teenagers riding the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Gypsy barkers urging people to try the games of chance. Beneath the running shoes he almost always wore, he felt the layer of wood chips spread over the grass. On a deep breath, he dragged in the aromas of cotton candy, roasting hot dogs and fried dough.
“Hey, you’re blocking the entrance, mister,” a boy complained. He sounded like he was about eight.
“Son, that’s not polite,” a man said—probably when he noticed Wyatt’s dark glasses and the white cane he held.
“Sorry,” the boy mumbled.
Wyatt swallowed to dislodge the knot in his throat as he moved to one side. “No problem.”
Sura May LePage, one of his research assistants, had scanned the newspaper’s map of the midway into his computer. Then his special software had read him the locations of the various attractions. He’d memorized the layout so he could find his way around.
But he wasn’t here for pleasure. He was here because his father had been chief investigator on the “Gypsy murder” case that had captured the headlines in the Les Baux Record ten years ago. Carlo Mustov, a rough and belligerent carny, had murdered Theresa Granville, the wife of one of the town’s most prominent citizens—Mayor Richard Granville. After finally exhausting his appeals, Carlo was scheduled to die in the state penitentiary in Angola next month. And Dad wanted to make sure nobody screwed up the process.
Wyatt couldn’t hold back a sardonic laugh. Of course, by sending his son on this mission, his father was sending the wrong man. Two years ago Wyatt had been a top detective on the New Orleans police force. Now…now he kept himself sharp by working on old cases and lending his expertise to the local police force, which was why he knew nobody else was going to poke into the Gypsy murder case anytime soon. Everybody considered it a done deal—except Dad—who seemed to have some nagging fears that Wyatt couldn’t understand.
But he could reassure his dying father that the carnies were going to keep their noses out of it. He’d speak to Milo Vasilli, the owner. Milo was one of the Gypsies, but he’d played straight with the cops on this case—to avoid trouble with the town. Maybe he’d even been secretly relieved that Carlo was out of the way, since the young man had been a troublemaker—a thorn in his side.
Using his cane to identify obstructions, Wyatt started down the midway, counting off the paces, picturing the noisy crowd around him and the various tents and concession stands as he passed them. He had some minimal vision left—a sense of light and dark—so he could detect where the temporary structures blocked the lights strung above the carnival grounds.
About halfway down the midway, bodies pushed against him, and he was pretty sure that laughing teenagers were having some fun with the blind man.
He had time for a flash of anger before he lost his footing and dropped his cane. Instinctively he caught the edge of a tent flap with his hands.
The boys moved on. He was alone. With a sigh, he started to search for the cane when the scent of perfume wafted toward him, and he went absolutely still. Damn. Fate had literally pushed him into the fortune-teller’s tent. In his mind he pictured the interior—opulent with bright hangings, fringed pillows and a velvet-covered table.
He felt his stomach clench, but the tent appeared to be empty. Thank God. Reaching behind himself, he felt for the opening. He had almost made his escape when he heard fabric rustling, then a woman’s indrawn breath.
“Wyatt?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to blot out the image of Alessandra King that formed in his mind. But it was no use. He could picture her perfectly. She’d be wearing a flowing, scooped neck dress swirling with bright colors. Her wavy hair would be loose around her shoulders, and the gold hoops on her ears would swing gently when she turned her head.
“You have your nerve coming here,” she said, her voice etched with acid.
Her voice told him two things. She hadn’t forgiven him for being Louis Boudreaux’s son, and she couldn’t tell that his eyes were blind behind his dark glasses.
“My mistake,” he said, his fingers clutching the tent flap. The cane was still on the ground. He’d leave it there. Let her think someone else had dropped it. He could make it back up the midway, climb into Henry Beaver’s cab and get the hell out of here. Tomorrow he’d contact Vasilli by phone.
Needing desperately to put distance between himself and this woman, he turned too quickly. His foot caught the edge of a rug, and he pitched forward, his glasses flying off, then crunching under his shoe.
Alessandra must have stepped quickly forward and stopped his fall, because he landed solidly against her body, her breasts crushed against his chest, her hands clutching his arms.
He was a big man, and she was delicately made. He felt her stagger backward even as he held on to her to stay erect, held on to womanly softness and feminine curves.
Smooth move, Boudreaux, he thought just before his whole world turned upside down. Not literally, this time.
Incredibly, a flash of vision came to him. An illusion, it must be, because there was no other way to explain what was happening. It was as though he was seeing again. But not through his own eyes. In a moment of startling clarity, he saw his own contorted face, saw the pain and humiliation.
His hand brushed a horizontal surface, which he recognized as the back of a chair. Grabbing on, he straightened as he pulled himself away from her. When the contact snapped, so did the moment of sight.
He stood stunned and panting, trying and failing to wrap his head around what had just happened. He heard her sharply indrawn breath.
“You’re blind,” she whispered. Then with a kind of terrible deadness in her voice, “Wyatt, are you blind?”
“Yeah.” He kept his face defiantly turned toward her so she could see him in all his glory.
“How? What happened?”
“I got shot in the head by a drug dealer,” he tossed off, profoundly glad that he couldn’t see the pity he heard in her voice. “They give you a nice pension when you get disabled in the line of duty.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault. You know, like Carlo wasn’t my fault,” he couldn’t stop himself from saying, then wondered why he’d felt compelled to hurt her.
The man’s name hung in the perfumed air, bringing back all the old wounds. He and Alessandra had met five years ago when he’d come to the carnival to have some fun and ended up saving her from a robbery attempt. They’d been drawn to each other and had subsequently gotten close. For six weeks, he’d spent all his free time following the carnival, even though he’d been afraid that a permanent relationship between them was hopeless. She was too tied to her family—to her sister who was recovering from some kind of tragedy. She was
a Gypsy. He was an outsider. Her people were close-knit, suspicious of his intentions, because they had been misunderstood and persecuted through the ages. He’d understood that, tried to make them see he was different.
Then, to his horror, he’d found out she was Carlo Mustov’s cousin. Before he could figure out what to say to her about that, one of the carnies had solved the problem for him—by telling her that man she was seeing was the son of the police officer who had collected the evidence against Carlo.
She’d come at Wyatt with fire in her eyes and a curse on her lips, saying he’d tricked her, saying he was the worst kind of scum.
There had been no reasoning with her. Heartsick, he’d left the carnival. Later he’d realized that he must have been delusional if he’d thought there could be anything meaningful between them.
Now here they were, facing each other again. And he was fighting all the old feelings he’d told himself were dead.
All at once he ached to stay here with her—at least for a little while. “So are you going to tell my fortune?” he heard himself say. She’d never done it before, because his future had been twined with hers, which she had never been able to see. Now everything was different.
“Wyatt…don’t ask that,” she said with a softness that startled him.
“Why not? Isn’t my money good here?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. The bills were each folded differently so he could identify them. Pulling out a twenty, he held it toward her.
“That’s too much,” she whispered.
“I didn’t make a mistake. I know it’s a twenty,” he snapped. “You’re supposed to be good at your job. Prove it!”
He heard her small gasp and knew he had hurt her again, but still he stood there. Finally he heard her chair scrape back, heard the swish of her long skirt as she sat.
He pulled out the chair he’d gripped earlier and seated himself across from her.
“Do you want me to read the Tarot cards? Or look into my crystal ball?” she asked in a low voice.