Needing Nicole (The Cantrelle Family Trilogy Book 2) Read Free

good!”
    “Will you please lower that can of Mace?” her would-be assailant asked.
    Although her instincts told her she had nothing to fear from him, Nicole held on to the can even as she abandoned her threatening stance.
    “Thanks.” He lowered his hands, too, and pulled something from the left breast pocket of his jacket. He held it out to her.
    Nicole could see that it was a small packet of papers. “What are those?”
    “My identification. My name is Jack Forrester, and I’m an investigative journalist with World Press, based in Houston. These papers will verify that what I’m telling you is the truth.”
    Nicole reached out and took the papers. There was a World Press I.D. card encased in plastic with a full-face mug-shot type picture of Jack Forrester. Under the picture in bold letters was printed: JACKSON ALAN FORRESTER. She carefully read the information on the card, noting that his height was listed as six feet, his weight a hundred and seventy-eight pounds. Blue eyes. Dark blond hair. Thirty-three years old.
    She quickly shuffled through the rest of the papers. Texas driver’s license. Passport. Social security card. Voter’s registration. She raised her eyes, meeting his steady gaze squarely.
    She felt a strange tug of allure, an almost instant rapport. His eyes reminded her of the sea. Deep and bottomless, they were eyes a woman could get lost in. She almost forgot she’d been afraid of him. If she’d met him at Michaul’s, her favorite Friday-night haunt, she’d probably have flirted with him.
    But this wasn’t Michaul’s, she reminded herself, and she wasn’t looking for a dancing partner. This was First Street, and this man, attractive or not, bedroom-blue eyes or not, had been dogging her since early this morning.
    Mentally shaking herself, she handed him back his papers. He took them and put them into his jacket pocket. “Okay, so you’re Jack Forrester. Why have you been following me?”
    “I’m looking for someone—a woman named Elise Arnold.”
    “I know that. But by now you should also know I’m not the woman you want.”
    He nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see you’re not. But I wasn’t sure until now.”
    Partially mollified by his reluctant admission, Nicole said, “Who
is
this woman anyway, and why did you think I was her?”
    “Elise is a friend of my sister’s, and she disappeared from Houston four weeks ago. My sister asked me to try to find her. My search led me to you.” He must have seen the skepticism Nicole felt, for he smiled—a warm, engaging smile—and something went
zing
in Nicole’s stomach. “You don’t know whether to believe me or not, do you?”
    Nicole wanted to believe him. How could a man with such a charming smile and such beautiful eyes be dangerous?
Remember the last man you thought had a great smile and nice eyes.
The thought was sobering. Her earlier lack of judgment had had very serious consequences. She didn’t exactly have a great track record when it came to men.
    Besides, hadn’t she read somewhere that the most successful serial killers were all charming, attractive men? Men who women instinctively trusted?
    She sighed. “Maybe I’ll be sorry later, but I do believe you. However, as I’ve said before, I’m not the woman you’re looking for. My name is Nicole Cantrelle. It’s never been Elise or Arnold, and I’ve never lived in Houston. I’ve lived in Louisiana all my life—for the last two-and-a-half years here in New Orleans. So I’ll ask you again—what made you think I was her?”
    His eyes studied hers for a long moment, and Nicole’s heart gave an odd little thump when something flickered in their rich depths. Lordy, those eyes were lethal! When he finally spoke his voice was thoughtful. “The two of you could be twins you look so much alike.” He withdrew a small, black notebook from his inside jacket pocket, opened it, removed a photograph. He held it out to her.
    Nicole stared at the picture. The snapshot showed a