As she’d grown older, her love of books burgeoned to include rare and old books. She could sit for hours with a battered volume, thinking about all the people who’d held it in their hands over the years, wondering if they’d wept or laughed at the passages within.
Two years ago the Book Merchant had been nothing more than a pipe dream. Then she’d discovered the derelict storefront in a historic building in the French Quarter—and known it was perfect. The space had been damaged by water and suffered with years of neglect. But Julia had a gift for seeing potential—whether in people or old buildings—and she’d refused to listen to the naysayers telling her the place couldn’t be saved. Risking her life savings, she’d procured a loan, purchased the narrow space and begun the monumental task of transforming a dilapidated room into her dream. After months of backbreaking work and countless sleepless nights, the Book Merchant had been born.
Setting the books on the scarred surface of the old-fashioned counter, she worked off her coat. By the time she reached the coffeemaker, she’d already fished a beignet from the box and taken an enormous bite that would have sent her mother scrambling for her Miss Manners’ Emergency Handbook.
It was the one book Julia didn’t carry.
She chose a dark roast with chicory, and while the coffeemaker ground beans, she set her mind to the task of opening the shop. She lit the dozen or so scented candles she burned throughout the day. Yesterday had been vanilla. Today was hazelnut. Tomorrow maybe she’d try the café au lait she’d picked up at the candle shop on Magazine Street.
She’d just begun the task of counting petty cash when she spotted the envelope on the floor just inside the front door. Someone had slipped it through the old-fashioned mail slot, and she’d somehow missed it when she walked in. A chill that had nothing to do with the damp February weather ran the length of her.
Refusing to acknowledge that her heart was pounding, Julia crossed to the envelope and picked it up. The absence of a postmark indicated it hadn’t come through the mail system. This one had been hand delivered. The others had been mailed. The realization that he knew where she worked raised gooseflesh on Julia’s arms.
She slit the envelope. Like the others before it, the letter was off a laser and printed on ivory linen stationery in an Olde English font. Hating it that her hands weren’t quite steady, Julia unfolded the letter and read the short passage.
Her tainted pen spills sin onto the page
like the fevered blood from a sickle slash.
Soon thine blood will be hers
and vengeance will be mine.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she whispered.
But deep inside, Julia knew. And the realization chilled her almost as much as the letter itself.
She jumped when the bell on the front door jingled. Relief swept through her when she looked up to see her sister, Claudia, enter the shop.
“Hi,” she said, tucking the letter into her pocket.
“Don’t ‘hi’ me.” Glaring at her, Claudia Wainwright crossed to the counter and hefted a cardboard box onto the scarred surface. “I can’t believe you sent me to pick up these books without warning me,” she said, brushing paper dust from her slacks.
“Would you like coffee to go with your bad mood? It’s fresh.” Unfazed by her younger sibling’s wrath, her mind still on the newest letter she’d received, Julia crossed to the coffeemaker and poured French roast into a tall mug.
“Black,” Claudia grumbled.
“What has you in such an uproar this morning?”
“Mr. Thornbrow is the rudest old codger I’ve ever had the misfortune of dealing with,” Claudia said.
Julia withheld a smile. The accused Mr. Thornbrow was a fellow antiquarian who ran a bookstore near Tulane, where Claudia attended law school. “He does have a knack for being difficult,” Julia said diplomatically.
“He tried to charge me twice for these books.”
Julie winced. She’d already paid fair market value for the books in question. “He’s a little forgetful.”
Claudia snorted. “He’s a crude little man and uses his age to try and cheat people. I honestly don’t know why you continue to do business with him.”
“I deal with him because he has one of the most extensive collections in the city.” More interested in the package her sister had brought her than her wily competitor, Julia tugged open the flaps and peered inside the box. “There are beignets next to the coffeemaker if you’d like one.”
“I am not going to let you appease me with beignets,” Claudia said, but her eyes were already drifting to the pastries. “Next time you can pick up your own books.”
Anxious to see the gems her sister had brought from Mr. Thornbrow’s shop, Julia pulled out one of the old tomes and her chest clenched with pride. “Oh, my. Victor Hugo,” she whispered in reverence. “A first edition. I can’t believe he parted with this.”
Claudia grumbled something about grouchy old goats, but Julia wasn’t listening. A flutter of excitement went through her when she slid the first book back into the box and pulled out the second. The redolence of aged leather and dust met her as the ancient volume in her hand came into view. “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” she murmured. “First English edition. London. 1865. Oh, Claudia, it’s lovely.”
Rolling her eyes, Claudia took a bite of beignet. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a book I would consider lovely. Especially one as dusty and old as that one. They make me sneeze.”
Julia felt the burn of tears behind her lids at the thought of all the reading pleasure the book in her hand had brought to so many people in the century and a half since it had been published. Feeling foolish, she blinked rapidly and slid the book back into the box. “In any case, thank you for braving Mr. Thornbrow and picking them up for me. I would have had to open the shop late if you hadn’t volunteered.”
Claudia poured coffee and took it behind the counter. “Lunch at Arnaud’s would probably make up for it . . .”
Thinking she might treat her sister to her favorite French Quarter restaurant, Julia hefted the box and started for her desk. “I’d better get these books logged,” she said over her shoulder.
“Julia?”
“Hmmm?”
“You didn’t tell me you received another letter.”
The words stopped her cold. Putting on her best smile, Julia turned to see her sister brandishing the envelope she’d inadvertently left on the counter. Damn.
“It was delivered before I arrived this morning,” she said.
“I’m sure it hadn’t crossed your mind to hide it from me, had it?”
“Why would I try to hide it?”
“Because you know I’m going to make you to do something about it.” When Julia didn’t respond, Claudia raised the envelope and rattled it. “How many does this make? Seven? Eight?”
“Six.” Julia set the box on her desk. “If you’re counting.”
“I’m counting. And you should be, too.” Claudia put her hands on her hips. “Where’s the letter? I want to read it.”
Knowing she was busted, Julia slid the letter from her pocket and handed it to her sister. “It’s the same as the others.”
Claudia read the letter aloud. “Her tainted pen spills sin onto the page like the fevered blood from a sickle slash. Soon thine blood will be hers and vengeance will be mine.” Her gaze met Julia’s. “That is freaking creepy.”
Hearing the passage spoken aloud made the hairs at Julia’s nape prickle. “Creepy is a good word.”
“Do you recognize the author?” Claudia asked.
“Not this one, but the one I received on Monday came to me last night.” While she’d been lying awake, worrying about who might be sending her threatening quotes from books.
“Which one?” Claudia bent and slid from beneath the counter the manila folder containing five other letters.
“The sins ye do by two and two ye must pay for one by one.” Julia quoted the passage from memory as she
walked down one of the narrow aisles and pulled out a book. “Kipling, maybe.” She carried the book to the counter, set it down and both women began paging through it. “Let’s see. Oh, here it is. Rudyard Kipling’s ‘Tomlinson.’”
Silence reigned for a moment while both women read the poem. Then Claudia blew out a breath. “This guy is obviously some kind of nutcase, Julia.”
“I’m getting that impression, too.”
Claudia looked down at the letter in her hand. “What does it mean? Why would someone send letters like this?”
“I don’t know.” But after this latest letter, Julia had an idea as to the why, and it disturbed her almost as much as the letters themselves. She was going to have to do something about it. The question was what. “This one was hand delivered, Claudia.”
Her sister’s eyes widened. “He was here? He knows you run this shop? My God, I always thought he was, you know, in another state or something.”
Julia nodded, resisting the urge to rub the gooseflesh that had come up on her arms. “No postmark.”
Both women were silent for an instant, and then Claudia said, “I think it’s time you reported this to the police.”
“I’m not sure what the police can do. I mean, it’s not against the law to send letters.”
“These are more than just letters. They’re . . . disturbing. Threatening. Julia, this creep could be dangerous.”
More than anything, those were the words she hadn’t wanted to hear. “He’s quoting books, Claudia.”
Her sister made a sound of annoyance. “He could be some kind of wacko stalker. He could be watching you. He could walk right into the bookstore and you wouldn’t even know it.” She looked at the letter and quoted. “Soon thine blood will be hers and vengeance will be mine? It sounds like he wants revenge for something you’ve done.”
Julia hoped her sister didn’t notice the shiver that went through her. In the two weeks since she’d received the first letter, she’d found herself jumping at shadows, watching her customers more closely than normal. For the first time since opening the Book Merchant, she was uneasy working alone and staying late at night, both of which she did often.
She knew her sister was right. To ignore the situation any longer would be not only foolhardy, but also potentially dangerous. The problem was, she wasn’t sure how to address it without opening a can of worms she had absolutely no desire to deal with.
Julia chose her words carefully. “Do you have any idea the embarrassment this could cause Dad if the wrong person caught wind of this and decided to sensationalize it?”
“A few cryptic letters aren’t exactly a scandal.”
“For God’s sake, Claudia, I’m not talking about the letters.”
“Oh. Oh.” Understanding dawned in Claudia’s eyes. “You think this is related to your book?”
Julia slid the letter from the folder. “Read the latest letter again.” She tapped her nail against the ivory paper. “Her tainted pen spills sin onto the page like the fevered blood from a sickle slash.” She sighed unhappily. “I think it’s obvious.”
Claudia bit her lip. “There’s got to be a way to keep you safe without spilling the beans.”
The beans her sister was referring to were the publication of Julia’s first book, which had been released six months earlier under the pseudonym of Elisabeth de Haviland. Few people knew about Julia’s writing. Certainly not her father, pillar of the community and New Orleans’s religious icon Benjamin Wainwright. Julia wanted to keep it that way. “Dad has worked long and hard to get where he is. I would hate for my writing to affect him in any way.”
“Or embarrass him.”
“Thank you for stating the obvious,” Julia said dryly.
“Maybe it’s time you told him. I mean, come on, you’re his daughter. He loves you.”
Julia couldn’t help it; she laughed even though the humor of the moment eluded her. “I don’t think he’s prepared for Elisabeth de Haviland.”
“You don’t have to tell him what you write.”
“You know how Dad is. Once he finds out his daughter is an author, he’ll tell all of his friends and rush out to buy the book.” And they’ll all get the shock of their lives, she thought with a shudder.
“Look, the fact of the matter is there’s some weirdo out there sending you threatening letters. You can’t ignore something like that these days.”
Julia knew her sister was right. She should have done something when she’d received the first letter. “I hate it when you make more sense than I do,” she muttered.
“At least file a report with the police. I’ll check, but I think Louisiana has a stalking law.”
“That will help. Thank you.” Julia sighed. “If the police ask, I’ll simply tell them the stalker must be referring to a book I carry here at the shop.”
“I think it’s a good compromise.”
Taking the letter from her sister, Julia looked down at the cryptic words and felt a stir of anger. She’d finally found her place in the world, and now it seemed some warped individual had his sights set on disrupting her life. She wasn’t going to let him do it.
“And in case you’re wondering, there’s nothing wrong with what you write.” Sipping her coffee, Claudia looked at her over the rim.
Julia smiled. “Thanks. But I still don’t want anyone to know about the book.”
“You know your secret is safe with me.”
“Is there a but coming?”
“I just hate for you to feel you have to keep such a big part of your life hidden.”
“Come on, Claudia. Dad is about to become director of the Eternity Springs Ministries, the third largest church in Louisiana. There are people out there who think what I write is pornography and would use that to hurt him. He’s worked hard to get where he is. He’s got so many wonderful ideas on how to help people and families in need. It would kill him to lose that.” She shook her head. “Besides, I just don’t think Dad is prepared to find out his daughter is writing something so . . .”
“Hot?” Claudia smiled.
“Misunderstood,” Julia finished.
“Or maybe you’re the one who’s not prepared.”
An unexpected quiver of emotion went through Julia at the wisdom of her younger sister’s words, and she surprised herself by smiling. “Since when did you get so smart?”
“I have a really smart older sister.” Claudia crossed to her and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. “My lips are sealed, Julia. But whenever you’re ready to tell him, I want to be there because I have never seen Benjamin Wainwright speechless.”
He stood naked inside the door of her bedchamber, his body trembling with anticipation and a dark wanting he was helpless to control. Arousal was like a slow burning fire inside him, taunting him until he thought he might scream. The wanting was an agony that ripped through him with every violent thrust of his heart.
She lay on her side, anticipation dark in her eyes. A fallen angel with lips the color of blood. The flickering light of the wall torch danced like warm fingers over the silk of her flesh. His eyes drank in the sight of her. The round, golden flesh of her breasts. The thatch of dark curls at the apex of her thighs. The full force of her beauty snatched the last of his breath from his lungs and his head spun. He couldn’t bear to look at her and not have her.
“You’ve no right to be here,” she said.
“You’ve no right to look at me that way and not expect me to go mad with wanting you.”
He crossed to her then, his jutting sex moving from side to side. He almost smiled when her gaze flicked over the bulbous purple shaft. He saw the thin layer of fear she tried to hide in her eyes, and it struck him that she was an innocent. But he’d long since stopped caring about right and wrong. He was delirious with the fever of wanting her. He would finally have her, tonight and every night for the rest of eternity.
Lust was as dangerous and reckless as a wild beast turned loose inside him. Her innocence called to him,
a siren song that sang through his blood like a fever. She would be a woman when she left his bed. He would free her of the burden of her innocence. He would taste the blood of her maidenhead. He would mark her. Make her his. He would plant his seed in her womb.
He could have her in every way that a man could have a woman . . .
Fury blurred the words on the page. He slammed the book closed, the sound coming like a gunshot in the silence of his study. Filth. Filth. Filth! He was aware of his heart pounding, the blood rushing hotly to his groin, where his penis swelled uncomfortably against his fly.
He couldn’t believe she could do this to him. Him! He wasn’t weak like other men. He had the highest moral convictions. He had beliefs. Faith. And yet this whore could make him lust. A powerful lust that tore down his resistance and left him sweating and hot and weak.
She was a whore. A woman without virtue, contributing to the moral decay of a society already in the throes of ruination. New Orleans was filled with them. Sinners. Men and women of weak moral character.
But Julia Wainwright was worse than the others. Not only did she look like an angel, but she was the daughter of a religious man. She knew better and yet she continued to spread sin using the pages of her books. He thought about Benjamin Wainwright and wondered how a man with such strong religious convictions had raised such a harlot. Hadn’t he taught her that lust was the devil’s tool?
The Bible foretold how the devil would return in the form of an angel. Julia Wainwright looked like an angel in every sense of the word. Only she was an angel of Satan. He was duty bound to stop her. The only question that remained was if he was strong enough to withstand her deadly charms.
He looked at the photograph. She was standing behind the counter in that dusty little bookstore. She wore a turtleneck, just snug enough to reveal the curves of her breasts. The kinds of curves that made a man weak. Her brown hair had fallen into her eyes and she’d raised her hand to shove it back, giving him that woman’s smile when he’d snapped the shot. She wanted everyone to believe she was good. Innocent. But he knew better. He knew her secret. And when she’d looked at him with those gypsy eyes, he’d smiled back, but deep inside he’d hated her.