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“Wait.” She extended a hand but stopped short of touching him. “The guy in the navy uniform is your brother?”
“Your brother”—he lifted a skeptical brow—“knifed him. My brother had to have surgery.”
Oh no. Surgery. Cath swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry.”
“Too bad words can’t heal.” He held her gaze, daring her to contradict him.
“I’m still sorry. Is your partner… I mean, your brother… Is he going to be okay?”
“He lost a lot of blood.” Mitch tensed like a lion about to spring.
“That’s not good.” She grimaced and waited for a fuller explanation, but Mitch remained silent. “Maybe you didn’t realize I asked a question. Is your brother going to be okay?”
His jaw muscle twitched. Mitch definitely didn’t take this injury lightly. She wouldn’t either, but did he have to be so cryptic? “He’s not going to die, is he?”
“He’ll need time to heal.”
Les had pulled the usual dumb stunts like staying out all night, playing practical jokes, dabbling in drugs. Stabbing qualified as an assault. Some prosecutor could make it into attempted murder. Getting a plea deal for Les would be harder now. Cold slithered up her arms, down her throat, and ker-chunked ice into her stomach.
The little boy who’d heard the ghost singing ran down the sidewalk toward her. “Why’s Mr. Lafitte important? Is that how you say his name?”
“Right.” Her heart thudded at being caught out—again!—and Cath pushed her hands into her pockets in an effort to look casual. She doubted anything could redeem the mess she’d made of this tour, but she would go down fighting. “Jean Lafitte. He was the privateer who helped Andrew Jackson win the Battle of New Orleans in 1815. You know who Andrew Jackson was?”
The child nodded. Beside the boy, Mitch put his hand back on his sleeve, and her stomach pitched with a sudden realization. No question now why he’d joined her tour. He wanted revenge. She gripped the four-leaf clover at her throat. “There’s another f-famous h-haunted house this way.”
She strode ahead, intent on ignoring him, but Mitch caught up and leaned close. “Don’t be nervous, Cath.”
He knew her name! She pressed fingers to her mouth.
That pseudo-smile returned, lifting one corner of his to-die-for mouth. “I looked up your website.”
And wanted to flatter her. She stiffened and kept walking. “I know what you’re trying to do, Mitch Guidry. Let me save you some trouble. I don’t have a good side, so you can stop looking for one.”
“Never.” He leaned closer, his warm breath caressing her neck.
She shivered. “You think stubbornness is a virtue?”
“Winston Churchill did.”
“Here’s the scoop. We are not fighting World War II.” She checked to be sure her group still straggled far enough back before facing Mitch, chiseled features, broad shoulders and all. She needed to know the worst. “I guess you took Les to jail then?”
Give me more than a one-word answer.
“Not yet.” His jaw could have been carved in marble.
Wow, two words. Not yet, she repeated to herself. Not yet. Her heart leaped. Les had escaped and he was pretty good at surviving, even with his severe hearing loss.
The blue-and-white letter tiles in the sidewalk at her feet spelled “Bourbon Street,” the symbol of New Orleans. The city sprawled in all directions, even crossing the river. Her brother could be anywhere. She had to find him. Help him. She’d promised her mother she’d always look after him.
First, she had to give her customers their money’s worth. Next, she’d get rid of this blasted bounty hunter. She couldn’t let Mitch get even an inkling of her plans, the specifics of which remained a mystery.
She didn’t have a clue where to start.
Yet.
Chapter 3
Mitch leaned a hand against one of the old-fashioned lampposts scattered across the French Quarter, drumming the fingers of the other against his hip. Was it his imagination or did the ghost-tour guide intentionally linger with her customers as long as possible? In the hope he would get bored and leave?