Free Devious by Lisa Jackson Page A

their workdays.
    It was after eight; she’d slept in after a night of tossing and turning, and the last thing she needed was Slade Houston in her backyard. She had work to do at the inn. Freya was already making breakfast for the handful of guests who had spent the night, the smells of sizzling bacon, hot maple syrup, and apple fritters wafting through an open window. Val’s early morning job was to keep the coffee coming and the dishes cleared.
    â€œWhat I know, Slade,” she said firmly, “is that if you drove all the way here from Bad Luck to convince me to give it another go, you wasted a trip. I’m not changing my mind.” The hound, damn him, whined at her feet and stared up at her with big, sad eyes. Her heart wrenched. “But if you want to, you can leave Bo with me.” She felt her lips twitch into a bit of a smile. She’d always been a sucker for animals. Strays to purebreds, Val loved them all.
    â€œYou can get your own dog.”
    â€œOkay,” she said, not going into the fact that it was she who had made the trip to the animal shelter. She still believed the hound would be happier chasing squirrels and armadillos and jackrabbits at the ranch than cooped up here in a small yard where the gate was constantly opening and closing, strangers coming and going. “But I’ll miss you, big guy,” she said to the dog. As she leaned over him, she caught sight of a car in front of the main house. A squad car pulled into an empty spot at the curb.
    Two men climbed out, and her heart turned to ice. “Oh, God,” she whispered, knowing that whatever the two men wanted, it wasn’t good. She’d been on the other side of this drama too many times to kid herself. Her stomach did a slow, painful roll as she thought of what news they were bearing, the kind of news she’d sometimes had to bring to a worried family: “There’s been an accident . . . sincere condolences . . . so sorry for your loss . . .”
    She braced herself, heard dishes clattering as if from a great, long distance away.
    One of the cops, a younger Hispanic-looking guy in a leather jacket, approached her a step or two ahead of the stockier man. “I’m Detective Montoya, and this is Detective Rick Bentz of the New Orleans Police Department. We’re looking for Valerie Renard.”
    â€œI’m Valerie,” she said, jarred by the voice that didn’t sound like her own as she accepted some kind of business card from the older guy.
    Time seemed to stand still as she looked at the contours of the younger man’s face. Strong jaw, sharp nose, dark eyes . . . The owl that had been hooting stopped, a heavy blossom on the bougainvillea near the front door silently fell to the ground, pink petals breaking apart. “Montoya?” she repeated over the buzzing in her head.
    He nodded, as if expecting her to draw some sort of connection.
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    She heard Slade’s voice over the white noise that filled her ears.
    â€œValerie?”
    He was talking to her, but she was fixated on the Hispanic man with the dark goatee and thin lips.
    â€œWho’re you?” the Hispanic man asked.
    â€œI’m her husband. Slade Houston. I think the bigger question is who the hell are you?”
    Crouched near her feet, Bo let out a low, ominous growl.
    Slade sent the hound a warning glare. “Hush!”
    â€œMs. Renard,” the older guy, Bentz, was saying to her, “are you the sister of Camille Renard, known as Sister Camille of St. Marguerite’s Convent here in the city?” He kept one eye on the dog.
    Oh, God. Val’s heart was beating a horrible tattoo.
    This was about Cammie—two cops coming with unthinkable news.
    â€œNo!” she said, shaking her head slowly, refusing to believe what she innately understood, the reason the cops were here on her doorstep, their faces grim masks of resolve. She didn’t want to