Free Blood Red by Heather Graham

the sketch she had made of the fortune teller the night before.
    â€œYou ruined the whole party, you know,” she said softly to the sketch. The woman was still striking, everything about her unusual, from the remembered color of her skin to the bone structure of her face.
    â€œTalking to yourself?” someone said.
    She looked up, startled, wariness slipping through her.
    Their handsome neighbor from cottage six was standing by her, a pleasant smile on his face.
    She didn’t answer; she was torn between suspicion and an inexplicable desire to engage in conversation. Okay, maybe not so inexplicable. He was exceedingly attractive. Tall, everything in proportion, muscular without being musclebound, with rugged features that were classically appealing and entirely masculine. She even liked his scent, and felt oddly drawn to move nearer to him.
    I would actually like to get to know him, she admitted to herself.
    And then another voice chimed in. The truth was that he scared her. And maybe he scared her just because she felt such a strong sense of attraction to him.
    Would she have been so afraid if it hadn’t been for what had happened in the Square, the crystal ball and the illusion of genuine danger?
    â€œWow,” he murmured, and she realized that he was looking at her sketch. “That’s magnificent.”
    â€œI don’t know about magnificent,” she murmured, embarrassed.
    He never actually asked if he could join her, and she never suggested that he do so, but he drew out the chair across from her anyway and sat down.
    She was glad, she realized. She liked having him there, liked talking with him. Liked feeling his eyes on her appreciatively.
    And yet she was still…wary.
    Scared.
    Something wasn’t right.
    â€œYou’re quite an artist,” he said.
    â€œIt’s a living,” she replied.
    He flashed her a smile. A very attractive smile. “Not everyone is good enough to make a living at it.”
    â€œI’ve been lucky.”
    â€œAre your friends artists, too?”
    â€œYes. Artists, graphic designers.”
    â€œYou do logos, fliers, that type of thing?” he inquired politely.
    â€œYes, and ad layouts and so on,” she agreed.
    She didn’t want him to leave, she realized.
    What the hell was it about him that appealed to her so strongly? She wanted to touch him, make sure he was real, stroke the contours of his face, feel his heart beat under her palm.
    He tapped the table near the sketch. “I’ve seen her. It’s an incredible likeness. There’s a touch of magic to her, and you’ve captured it.”
    â€œThanks.” She hesitated. “So you…know her?”
    He shook his head. “I saw her when I was walking around. She’s so unusual, so arresting, that you feel compelled to look at her. You’ve caught all that in this sketch.”
    â€œThanks,” she murmured.
    â€œSo you all had your fortunes told?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd?” His tone was teasing, his smile captivating.
    And yet, despite his teasing tone, did she sense a note of seriousness behind it? Did he suspect that she had seen a strange vision?
    Of course not.
    â€œWe’re all going to live long, happy lives,” she lied.
    â€œWonderful So where are your friends now? Did they get lost in New Orleans?” he asked, a slight frow creasing his brow, though he still spoke lightly.
    â€œThey’re not lost,” she said, then added, “I’ve simply misplaced them.”
    â€œWorrying nonetheless,” he said
    â€œIt’s broad daylight, and there are tons of people around,” she countered.
    A waitress came by. “I’d love a tea, too,” he said, then looked at Lauren. “May I buy you lunch?”
    â€œI should really wait.”
    â€œUntil your misplaced friends are located?”
    She turned her attention to the street momentarily, then looked back at him. She was