Jean-Paul gritted his teeth as she waved past the photo of him and Lucinda. Britta narrowed her eyes, obviously curious about the woman, but she didn’t ask and he didn’t offer the information.
How many times had he questioned his decision? Some men had lost their jobs because they’d left their posts to save their families. He’d saved strangers, kept his job, but lost his wife.
“And here’s Damon, my next-to-the-oldest son,” his mother continued. “Damon works for the FBI. Always the serious one, tough like Jean-Paul, but reserved, a methodical thinker.” Her face beamed with pride. “And this is Antwaun, my youngest boy. He’s hot-headed, temperamental like his papa, unpredictable.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “He’s too quick to jump into things sometimes, but ahh, a good boy at heart, he is.”
“You have a beautiful family,” Britta said quietly.
Her tone sounded so sad that Jean-Paul squeezed her hand beneath the table. A gesture of silent thanks for being so tolerant? The realization that he was sorry for whoever had hurt her?
“Now please, Britta, try some of my famous white-bread pudding.” His mother pushed a dish toward Britta and she accepted it graciously.
“It’s delicious.” Britta sipped her latte. “In fact, everything looks wonderful. And the smells…I’m sure customers are drawn in from the streets because of the tantalizing aromas.”
“Oh, thank you,” his mother gushed. “You must come by for lunch. I work so hard to get the freshest ingredients and Catherine here, Jean-Paul’s youngest sister, she helps me create the desserts.”
“My daughter, Chrissy, likes to bake, too,” Catherine said with a grin. “I think she might grow up to be a pastry chef herself.”
“Yeah, but she usually wears more flour than goes into the dough.” Jean-Paul ruffled his five-year-old niece’s hair and smiled as she popped part of an éclair into her mouth and the cream oozed down her chin.
“So how long have you known my big brother?” Catherine asked.
Britta squirmed in her seat. “Actually we just met.”
Stephanie, his dark-haired sister and the bookkeeper for the café, raised a brow. “Papa said you’re helping Jean-Paul with a case?”
Britta nodded, but refrained from elaborating.
“What is it you do?” Catherine asked. “Are you a detective?”
“Or one of those psychic investigators?” Stephanie asked.
Jean-Paul rolled his eyes. “The festival has everyone’s imagination running on overload, doesn’t it?”
Stephanie shrugged. “I know you don’t believe in anything supernatural, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”
Catherine cleared her throat. “That’s right. Just like love. Just because it’s not a tangible thing, doesn’t mean it’s not real.”
Jean-Paul glared at them to stop the matchmaking. They both knew he’d vowed never to marry again, that he had no desire to get involved with another woman.
Britta cleared her throat. “Actually, I’m not gifted or a detective. I’m an editor for a magazine.”
Stephanie’s dark eyes lit up as recognition dawned. “Britta Berger. That’s right. You edit that Secret Confessions column, don’t you?” She stirred sweetener into her coffee. “I love that column. It’s exciting to see the diversity of confessions. Do you have a difficult time choosing which ones to print?”
Britta shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“I met the owner, R.J. Justice,” Stephanie continued. “He’s handsome. I bet he’s interesting to work for.”
Jean-Paul frowned at his sister as he finished his last bite of gumbo. He didn’t want Stephanie anywhere near Justice, but if he told her so, she’d probably make it a point to see the man.
“The magazine, that’s one reason we stopped by,” Jean-Paul said. “We had a murder-rape case today, and the killer sent Britta a photograph of the crime.”
“Oh my gosh, that’s horrible,” Catherine whispered.
“Why did he send it to you?” Stephanie asked.
“I think he wanted me to print it.”
“But we’re not playing his game,” Jean-Paul declared.
His maman looked appalled. “Who did this awful thing?”
“We have no idea who the killer is yet. That means you all have to be careful.” Jean-Paul fixed his sisters with a look that had intimidated cut-throat killers but didn’t faze them. “Absolutely no going out alone at night. Hell, not even during the day.”
“Have you talked to your brothers?” his mother asked.
“Not yet, but I will.”
Catherine tapped her nails on her chin. “We can take care of ourselves, Jean-Paul.”
Stephanie slicked her long dark hair behind one ear and angled her head toward Britta in a conspiratorial tone. “Honestly, our brothers can be so protective it’s nauseating.”
His maman waved a napkin, swatting at her daughters. “You girls listen to Jean-Paul. He knows the streets and works hard to keep us safe.” She turned to Britta. “Your family would say the same thing to you, wouldn’t they?”
Britta nearly choked on her coffee.
His mother patted her on the back. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Fine, thank you.” Her eyes caught Jean-Paul’s for a moment, and he detected a wariness that made him more curious about her past and what she wasn’t saying.
He lowered his voice, aware of the restaurant patrons. “Don’t take this lightly, ladies. Trust me, this guy is one sicko. You don’t want to wind up like the young woman we found.” A shudder nearly tore through him at the very thought.
Catherine and Stephanie exchanged a silent sisterly look as if they were preparing to gang up on him. He didn’t give a damn. Better they be mad at him and alive than the contrary. Tonight, he’d call Catherine’s husband, explain the situation. Not that he’d have to force the man to protect her. In spite of Cat’s protests, Shawn guarded her and their daughter like a watchdog. And he’d sic his other brothers on Miss Independent Stephanie. At least Steph carried a gun.
“Tell us more,” Stephanie said over the rattle of silverware and dishes at the neighboring table. “The only thing the news reported was that a woman had been killed in the bayou.”
“We haven’t identified her yet or released any information, so I can’t talk about it.” Jean-Paul threw some money on the table, then did the usual dance with his mother about not paying.
“Maman, we’ve been over this before. I won’t eat here free.”
She huffed but kissed her pinched fingers, then placed her fingers on his cheek. “We will go to church Sunday and pray for the girl and her family, oui?”
“I’ll try to make it, Maman.”
“Bring Britta, too.” She slanted Britta a sideways wink. “We always have room for one more at our table.”
Britta shook her head. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Dubois, but I couldn’t impose.”
“Impose?” His maman waved the napkin again, this time at Jean-Paul. “You tell her she could never impose. We love company. Now, you bring her, Jean-Paul.”
“We’ll see,” he said softly. He lay his hand over his maman’s for a moment and squeezed, his gaze catching the odd look on Britta’s face. Did she think it was strange that he and his family showed their affection in public? Or did