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CHAPTER THREE

J ennifer traced her fingers along the ornate molding, the chair railing that encircled the living room of the Garden District shotgun house. Despite its relatively modest size compared to the mansions that dominated the area, the safe house still breathed old money and Southern elegance—from the polished cypress floors to the tall windows which during the daylight hours flooded with sunshine, filtered by lace curtains.

Three days in this beautiful prison, and she was ready to climb the walls.

“How much longer?” She asked, not turning to face Noah. She’d known the instant he’d stepped into the opening of the doorway, watching her, just like he did every day. Always studying her, like a shadow with storm-gray eyes.

“Gator’s on his way over,” he replied, his drawl barely perceptible beneath years of careful neutralizing. Though she knew his family was originally from Louisiana, he now made his home in Tennessee. At least that’s what Gator had told her. She admitted a bit of curiosity about why he’d moved to the mountains. If she had to choose, she’d prefer to live by the sea.

“Why?”

“Says we need to talk strategy.”

Jennifer nodded before moving to the window where sunlight dappled through the branches of the massive oak tree that sheltered the front yard. The house was beautiful, secure, and entirely too isolated. Here in this quiet, expensive neighborhood, strangers stood out. A fact that cut both ways.

“I feel like a sitting duck,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Noah crossed the room, coming to stand beside her—close enough she could feel his presence but not so close as to crowd her. It was a consideration she’d noticed since he’d started protecting her. He always seemed aware of her need for space.

“That’s why we’re moving,” he said quietly.

Surprise rippled through her, and she sighed. “Again? Where to this time?”

“The Quarter.” Noah’s expression remained professional, but his eyes held something gentler. “Gator secured an apartment above one of the local jazz clubs. Tourists everywhere, locals who mind their business, and enough exits to give us options if we need to make a hasty exit.”

“A hasty exit?” Jennifer asked, though she knew the answer.

“If we need to run, it’ll be easier to get lost in the crowds on Bourbon Street.” No sugar-coating, no reassurances. It was one of the things she’d come to appreciate about Noah Temple. Unlike her half-brother Tarik, whose lies had been wrapped in silken, sugared words delivered with a smile, Noah dealt in unvarnished truth.

The front door opened, then closed, with a decisive click. Jennifer tensed instinctively before Gator’s familiar voice called out, “Just me.”

The aging ex-CIA operative appeared in the doorway, looking more bartender than law enforcement in his rumpled linen shirt and faded jeans. But Jennifer had learned that deceptive appearances were Gator’s specialty—looking harmless—until he wasn’t. A small shudder ran through her. She had to admit, she was glad he was on her side.

“Trial date’s been moved up,” he announced without preamble. “Prosecution’s worried about jury tampering. District attorney is going to make a motion to have a bench trial. Can’t have jury tampering if there is one.”

Jennifer felt her stomach tighten. “When?”

“Ten days from now.”

A strangled sound escaped her before she could stop it. Ten days. Ten days until she would be forced to face Tarik’s mother and brother across a courtroom. Ten days until she would have to recount how she had unwittingly helped them track Salem Hudson. Ten days until she would publicly turn against the only family connection she had left in the world—other than her mother—however toxic that familial connection might be. Family that had declined to acknowledge her, had refused to admit they shared a biological connection.

Noah’s hand found her elbow, steadying her.

“That’s why we’re moving you tonight,” Gator continued, lowering himself into an armchair with a groan. “The Amirs’ lawyer filed a motion this morning to exclude your testimony. Judge shut it down hard. They’re getting desperate.”

“We know they’ve got people scouring the city looking for Jennifer. Samuel knows of at least a dozen private investigators who are actively trying to locate her. Makes sense to relocate again, even though we’ve only been here three days. We’ll be harder to find in the Quarter,” Noah added. “Especially with the start of Jazz Fest this weekend. City will be flooded with tourists.”

Jennifer nodded mechanically, trying to process everything. “When do we leave?”

“After dark,” Gator said. “Meantime, I suggest you pack light. The apartment ain’t exactly spacious.”

Jennifer thought about the few possessions she’d accumulated during her stay in America. After Tarik’s death and the Amir family’s systematic destruction of her life both here and in Paris, she’d arrived in New Orleans with little more than a suitcase and her portfolio. Now even that felt like too much to carry.

“I’ll need my design materials,” she said firmly. These were non-negotiable—the sketches and fabric swatches were all that remained of her once-thriving career.

“Of course,” Noah said before Gator could object. “I’ll make sure there’s room.”

Gator pushed himself to his feet with the agility of a much younger man. “I’ll head back and make sure the place is ready. The car will come for you at nine.” He fixed Jennifer with a stern look. “Remember—”

“No calls, no internet, no contact with anyone,” Jennifer finished for him. “I know the drill by now, Mr. Boudreau.”

Gator’s weathered face softened slightly. “Almost over, little lady. You just gotta hang tough a little longer.”

After he left, silence settled over the house again. Jennifer moved to the kitchen, needing something to do with her hands. “Tea?” she offered, filling the kettle.

“Sure,” Noah replied, following her but maintaining that careful distance.

As she went through the motions of preparing tea, Jennifer found herself studying him from the corner of her eye. After days in close quarters, Noah was still something of an enigma. She knew he was former military, that he preferred black coffee in the morning and a single glass of whiskey at night. But the man himself remained a mystery.

“What will you do?” she asked suddenly. “After the trial? After…me?” Closing her eyes, she screwed up her face, unable to believe she’d asked the question. The words seemed to pop out before she could stop them, and now she stood with her back to him, hoping he couldn’t see the color flooding her cheeks. Drawing in a deep breath, she gently placed the kettle on the stove and turned to face him.

Noah looked up, surprise briefly crossing his features before the professional mask returned. “Guarding you was a personal favor for Gator. When this is all over, I’ll be heading back home to Tennessee.”

“Of course.” Jennifer busied herself with the teabags. “And I’ll…well, I’ll have to figure that out.”

Noah leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You could stay in New Orleans.”

The suggestion hung in the air between them, laden with unspoken possibilities. Jennifer focused on pouring the now hot water into mugs. “I don’t know if I can,” she admitted. “I hate to admit it, but the city doesn’t hold fond memories. Too many ghosts.”

“There are ghosts everywhere,” Noah said softly. “Sometimes it’s just a matter of accepting the ones you can live with.”

Jennifer handed him a mug, their fingers brushing momentarily. The contact sent an unexpected warmth up her arm, and she quickly withdrew her hand. “Is that what you did?” she asked. “Moving to Tennessee? Were the ghosts here more than you could live with?”

Something shifted in his eyes—a brief glimpse of the pain he usually kept hidden. “Still working on it.”

In that moment, Jennifer saw past the protector to the man, and recognition flowed between them—two broken people trying to reassemble the pieces of themselves into something whole.

The moment broke when Noah’s phone buzzed. He checked it, his expression darkening.

“What is it?” Tension immediately coiled in her stomach.

“Just a precaution, but we need to move to the back of the house. Away from the windows.”

Fear—her constant companion these days—flared bright. “What’s happening?”

Noah’s hand rested lightly on the small of her back, guiding her toward the hallway. “Probably nothing. Security system picked up someone lingering on the street. Could be a neighbor, could be someone casing houses.”

“Or it could be them,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Noah didn’t contradict her. Instead, he led her to the small bedroom at the rear of the house that had been converted into a makeshift safe room—reinforced door, no windows, communication equipment. “Stay here,” he instructed, checking his weapon. “I’ll do a perimeter check.”

“Noah—” she began, then stopped, unsure what she even wanted to say. Be careful? Don’t leave me? Don’t get killed because of my mess?

He paused, looking back at her. Something in her expression must have communicated her fear, because his face softened.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised. “Lock this behind me.”

After he left, Jennifer secured the door as instructed, then sank onto the edge of the small cot. Her hands were trembling again, an involuntary response she’d been fighting for months. Ever since that day in Shiloh Springs, when Sheriff Rafe Boudreau confronted her, throwing accusations at her about what a despicable person she was to help a known abuser find the woman who’d risked her life, the life of her unborn child, to escape him. When she’d told the sheriff she hadn’t known about Tarik and what he’d done to Salem, it had been the truth. While she’d done her best to find Gabi Boudreau, and by extension Salem, she’d done it for money, because she’d been a different person then. The memory of her own naive confusion still burned. “But he just wants to talk to her,” she’d insisted. “He’s worried about his child.”

Jennifer pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to block the memory. She’d been such a fool. Growing up with a French mother who spoke little of her brief affair to Muhammed Amir, Jennifer had been eager to connect with her half-brother when he’d reached out. Hungry for family, flattered by his interest in her work, grateful for the allowance he arranged that helped support her struggling design business and her ailing mother.

All lies.

Manipulations to use her as an unwitting spy in his obsessive hunt for Salem and the child he viewed as his property, not his responsibility.

The house creaked, and Jennifer froze, straining to hear any sound that might indicate danger, or Noah’s return. Minutes stretched like hours in the silent room. She looked at the monitors, the communication equipment, but it was no solace. Dusk was fast approaching, and their screens had switched to night vision mode. She wrapped her arms across her chest, warding off the chill that spread through her. Would this nightmare ever end?

She found herself reaching for her sketchbook—her lifeline in moments of anxiety—only to remember it was still packed in her bag in the bedroom. When three soft knocks finally sounded on the door, Jennifer nearly collapsed with relief.

“It’s clear,” Noah said when she opened it. “False alarm. Just a couple of teenagers cutting through yards.”

Jennifer sagged against the doorframe. “I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate jumping at shadows. Being afraid all the time.”

Noah’s expression remained neutral, but his eyes held understanding. “I know.”

“Do you?” she challenged, sudden anger flaring. “Do you know what it’s like to discover everything you believed was a lie? To find out you were nothing but a tool to hurt innocent people? To lose everything you built because you were stupid enough to trust the wrong person?”

The words hung between them, raw and accusing. Jennifer immediately regretted them—Noah wasn’t responsible for her situation—but couldn’t seem to take them back.

Instead of retreating, Noah stepped closer.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I do know. Different circumstances, but…yes.”

The quiet certainty in his voice doused her anger, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That wasn’t fair.”

“Life rarely is,” he replied, then gestured toward the main part of the house. “Come on. We need to pack. Gator wants us ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

As they walked back through the shotgun-style house, Jennifer found herself studying the straight line of Noah’s shoulders, the careful way he moved, always positioning himself between her and potential danger. For the last few days, she’d tried to maintain emotional distance, telling herself he was just doing his job, that any kindness was professional courtesy.

But in that moment of raw honesty, something had shifted.

In the bedroom, Noah handed her a small duffel bag. “Only essentials. Remember, Gator says the French Quarter apartment is tight.”

Jennifer nodded, mechanically beginning to sort through her meager possessions. After a lifetime of accumulating beautiful things—art, fashion, memories—it felt strange how little that mattered now. She thought about all the things she’d had in her Paris apartment. Because of her job as an interior designer, she had the finest furnishings, original artwork from local artisans. Chanel bags. Lalique crystal. Yet, while she’d loved the cutting-edge style of her flat, it had been a showroom, not a home.

“Will it be over after the trial?” she asked, not looking up from her task. “Do you think they’ll stop coming after me?”

Noah paused in his own packing. “Sayifa and Rashid will likely get long sentences. But the Amir family has extensive connections, and they are a large family. After Tarik, Abdullah was the oldest, the family’s head, their leader. You know Abdullah was against the family’s plan to kidnap Tarik’s daughter and ended up drugged and institutionalized by his mother. The next eldest son, Rashid, instituted the child custody case that started this whole mess. My guess is when—not if—they are convicted, you may need to try and make some kind of peace with Abdullah if you want to end this feud.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Jennifer said with a brittle laugh.

“False reassurances won’t do you any good and won’t keep you alive,” Noah replied, his tone gentle despite the harsh reality of his words. “But I can promise you this; as long as I’m still standing, no one will get to you.”

Jennifer looked up, caught by the intensity in his voice. “And after? When your job is done?”

Their eyes locked across the room, and for a moment, the professional barriers between them seemed as fragile as rice paper. Something unspoken passed between them—possibility, perhaps. Or recognition.

“Let’s get you through the next few days and get you to the courthouse so you can testify. Then Carpenter Security will take over, make sure you’re safe,” Noah said finally, breaking the tension. “After that, we can figure out what comes next.”

Jennifer nodded slowly, wondering if Noah was experiencing the same uncertainty, the same unexpected attraction that had kept her awake throughout the night. But she couldn’t think about that now. Was she attracted to him—yes. Was she wondering about him, about what kind of man he was beneath the gruff exterior—yes. This unexpected pull toward the man watching over her couldn’t have come at a worse time.

Returning to her packing, she carefully placed her sketchbooks and portfolio in her bag and found herself wondering if there might be an “after” that included them both—not as protector and witness, but as two people finding their way back from betrayal.

The thought should have terrified her. Trust had nearly destroyed her once already. Yet as she watched Noah moving efficiently around the room, checking windows and sightlines even as he packed, Jennifer felt something she hadn’t experienced in months.

Hope.

Small and fragile as a seedling, but undeniably present.

“I think I might miss this place,” she said softly, running her hand along the wooden dresser. “It’s the longest I’ve stayed anywhere since…”

“Since Paris,” Noah finished for her.

Jennifer nodded, surprised he’d been paying that much attention. “I almost started to feel comfortable here—settled. If my mother was here, instead of in hiding, it could almost feel like…home.”

“Home isn’t always a place,” Noah said, zipping his bag closed. “Sometimes it’s where you feel safe.”

The simple observation lingered as they continued preparing for their move to the French Quarter, to become immersed in the crowds and the music. A different kind of anonymity, in a jazz club apartment, where they would wait out the final days before the trial.

And whatever came after.

The thrumming bass from the jazz club below vibrated through the floorboards as Noah made another circuit of the cramped apartment. Three exits. Fire escape through the bedroom window, main stairwell to the street, and the service stairs that led down to the kitchen. Each route memorized, each potential choke point assessed and catalogued in his mind.

It was after midnight, but sleep wasn’t coming. Not with the noise from below, not with the constant vigilance required, and certainly not with Jennifer Baptiste sleeping in the room adjacent to his, separated only by a thin wall that might as well have been made of tissue paper.

Noah paused at the window overlooking the busy street corner. Below, tourists and locals mingled on the sidewalks, drinks in hand, laughter spilling into the humid night air. Perfect cover, Gator had said. No one pays attention to anyone else in the Quarter. They’d be able to blend in, disappear in plain sight.

He hoped his uncle was right. Ten more days. That’s all they needed. Seemed like such a short amount of time, and yet it might as well be an eternity if he had to keep fighting the attraction he felt toward the sultry brunette.

The door to Jennifer’s room opened quietly, and Noah turned to see her emerge, wrapped in an oversized cardigan despite the warmth of the night. Even exhausted and stressed, she moved with a natural elegance that spoke of her years in Paris fashion houses.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” he said, keeping his voice low.

Jennifer gestured toward the floor. “The saxophone player downstairs has other ideas.”

A small smile tugged at Noah’s mouth. “Gator forgot to mention the midnight jam sessions.”

“It’s not that,” she admitted, moving to stand beside him at the window. “I can’t seem to turn my mind off.”

Noah nodded, understanding all too well. In the soft glow of the streetlights, the shadows under her eyes were more pronounced, her cheekbones sharper than they had been when they first met a few days ago. The strain was wearing on her.

“Would you like some tea?” he offered, retreating to familiar ground. “I think there’s some in the kitchen.”

Jennifer shook her head and looked up to meet his eyes. “Will this ever be over, Noah? Really over?”

The question hit him like a physical blow. He’d been trained to protect, to secure, to neutralize threats—but not to heal the kind of wounds Jennifer carried. Wounds of betrayal that he recognized all too well.

“The trial will end,” he said carefully. “The Amirs will go to prison. The immediate danger will pass.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Noah sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know.” He paused, weighing honesty against comfort. “The scars will always be there. The wariness. The second-guessing. But it gets…manageable. With time.”

Jennifer turned to look at him then, her eyes searching his face. “Is that what happened with you? It became manageable?”

The question was too close to the truth he kept buried, the reason he retreated to his cabin in the Tennessee mountains, why he preferred the company of the forest to people. Why he’d felt so disturbed by his growing attraction to the woman he was supposed to be protecting professionally. “Most days,” he admitted finally.

They stood in silence for a moment, the music from below shifting to something slower, more plaintive.

“I’m sorry about the move,” Noah said eventually. “I know you were just getting settled at the Garden District house.”

Jennifer gave a soft laugh with no real humor in it. “I’ve learned not to get too attached to places.” She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “Or people.”

The words were spoken softly, almost to herself, but they landed with precision. Noah felt a tightening in his chest—recognition, empathy, something more complicated that he wasn’t ready to name.

“Smart policy,” he said, forcing lightness into his tone. “Though it makes for a lonely life.”

“Says the man who lives alone in a cabin in the mountains,” Jennifer countered. Gator must have mentioned his home in Tennessee.

Noah smiled slightly. “Touché.”

A burst of laughter from the street below drew their attention back to the window. A group of tourists was taking selfies in front of the club’s neon sign, arms around each other, faces flushed with alcohol and camaraderie.

“They have no idea,” Jennifer murmured, “how quickly it can all fall apart.”

Noah studied her profile, illuminated in the blue-red glow from the signs outside. Days of constant proximity had taught him her expressions, her habits, the slight crease between her brows that appeared when she was sketching, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when thinking. Little details he had no business noticing, yet couldn’t seem to stop cataloguing. “That’s why they can laugh,” he said. “Ignorance has its benefits.”

Jennifer turned to him, something vulnerable in her eyes. “Do you think I’ll ever be able to laugh like that again? Without looking over my shoulder?”

The question pierced something in Noah; some wall he’d carefully constructed around his own wounds. Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers gently brushing her arm. “Yes,” he said firmly. “Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next month. But yes.”

Her eyes widened slightly at the contact, but she didn’t pull away. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’ve seen it before. Victims who become survivors.” He’d seen it within himself, too, though he didn’t say it aloud. “You’re stronger than you think, Jennifer.”

She looked down at where his hand still rested on her arm, then back up to his face. Something shifted in the space between them, the professional distance narrowing, becoming something more complicated.

Noah slowly withdrew his hand, taking a step back. “You should try to get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day. Gator wants to do a walkthrough of the courthouse, go over security procedures.”

Jennifer nodded, seeming to accept the retreat to safer ground. “Of course. Always another procedure to learn.”

As she turned to go back to her room, Noah found himself speaking again. “Jennifer.”

She paused, looking back at him.

“I promise you’ll get through this. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

A sad smile touched her lips. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Noah.”

“I don’t.”

After she’d gone, closing her bedroom door softly behind her, Noah remained at the window, watching the street below with eyes that saw potential threats in every shadow. But his mind was on the woman in the next room, and the complication she represented.

Ten more days. Then he could return to his cabin in the Smoky Mountains, to the solitude he’d cultivated after his career in the military had imploded spectacularly. Back to his routine, his silence, his carefully ordered existence.

So why did the thought feel hollow?

Moving away from the window, Noah checked the locks on the door once more. The chaos of New Orleans had never appealed to him; too many people, too much noise, too many variables to control. He preferred the predictability of his mountain home, the rhythm of days measured by sunrise and sunset rather than court dates and protection details.

Yet something about Jennifer Baptiste had gotten under his skin. Perhaps it was recognition—he saw in her the same wary hypervigilance that had driven him to isolation after his own betrayal. Or perhaps it was something more basic, more human—the simple pull between two people who understood loss.

Either way, it was a complication he hadn’t planned for.

Noah settled into the armchair positioned to give him clear sightlines to both the door and Jennifer’s room, his weapon within easy reach. As the jazz from below mellowed into the late-night standards, he allowed himself to acknowledge the truth he’d been avoiding.

His world was already changing, whether he was ready or not. And the woman sleeping behind that door was the catalyst.

Ten more days.

For now, though, his job was clear. Keep her safe. Get her to court. Honor his promise.

The rest would have to wait.