He looked up, his smile dying when he saw her expression. "What's wrong?"

She hugged herself. "I…I have this terrible feeling, Richard. What if…what if Emma's birth mother has found us? What if she's the one…the one who-" Kate bit the words back, unable to verbalize her darkest fear. The one that fueled her nightmares and kept her up nights.

"Who what? Broke in and stole the picture of Emma?"

"Yes," she whispered, her voice shaking.

"And why would she have done that?"

"You know." Kate's eyes flooded with tears. "Because she's changed her mind. Because she wants Emma back."

"And she came here today in a bizarre quest to steal Emma away?"

"I couldn't bear to lose her, Richard." Her tears brimmed, then spilled over. "I couldn't."

"Come here." He held out his arms and she moved into them, pressing her cheek to his chest, and he folded his arms tightly around her. "You're being silly, love. That's not going to happen."

"How do you know?" She tilted her head back to meet his eyes, her vision blurred with tears. "How?"

"Because it's not logical." He smiled. "First, she chose a closed adoption. She knows nothing about us, not our names or where we live. Second, if she wanted the baby back, she would go through Citywide. She'd call Ellen, she'd hire a lawyer. Not sneak into our house and lurk about, for God only knows what reason."

He was right, she knew he was. So, why didn't she feel reassured?

"Where's the picture, Richard?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "It got knocked into a drawer. The cleaning service moved it."

"But I looked at it this morning! I know I did."

"You could be mistaken." As she opened her mouth to protest, he laid a finger against her lips. "It'll turn up,

Kate."

"What if it doesn't?"

"We'll take another," he said, amusement coloring his tone. "Or get a copy made of that one. Buy a new frame."

"Very funny." She rested her forehead against his chest a moment, then met his gaze once more. "Earlier today, when I had that feeling I was being watched, that I wasn't alone, it was so creepy, Richard. And then, when Joe told me about that woman…"

She drew in a shuddering breath. "She was the right age. And it just seems like such a coincidence…I mean, what was she doing inside our gate?"

He cupped her face in his palms. "Don't read so much into this, Kate. It could have been anyone. The gate's not locked, we live on a well-traveled street. There's a park directly across from our house, for heaven's sake. Someone saw our swing, thought it looked inviting and helped themselves."

"But she knew our names. She knew we had a baby."

"So do a lot of people in the area. Could be someone we knew who was embarrassed at having been caught. Who was afraid Joe would tell us." Richard bent and dropped a light kiss on her mouth. "Your imagination is running away with you. Trust me, love. There's no cause for alarm here. None at all."

Luke spent the hours after his meeting with Kate wandering through the French Quarter, refamiliarizing himself with the sights, sounds and smells that were New Orleans. He enjoyed beignets and café au lait at the Café du Monde, walked along the moon walk, sat on a bench in Jackson Square and studied the people who passed.

As he did, he was swamped with memories of his days at Tulane, of the young man he had been back then, of the force of his dreams. Kate resided at the heart of each of those memories: the things they had done, the way they had laughed, how she had made him feel without doing anything but being at his side.

A part of him regretted the things he had said to her earlier that day, the way he had hurt her. That same part had longed to chase after her, apologize, make some hollow excuse for his behavior and beg her forgiveness.

He had quelled the urge, reminding himself that she had come to him for an airing out of the past. That she had come to him for honesty, and he had simply and frankly given her what she wanted.

His publisher had booked him into a suite at the Royal Orleans Hotel, one of the French Quarter's grandest establishments, built and maintained in the tradition of the Old South.

When he entered the hotel, he was struck by both the cool and the quiet. Out on the street, the shift in the French Quarter crowd had begun, the day-trippers being replaced by the night owls, the shoppers by the partiers.

Luke crossed the sweeping lobby with its massive crystal chandeliers, heading toward the front desk. Helena had arranged a dinner at Commander's Palace with the company's regional sales rep and the local book distributor. She had promised to leave a message at the front desk confirming the place and time they would meet. He glanced at his watch. If he was lucky, he could take a quick shower, change and still put in two hours at the laptop.

He stopped at the desk. The clerk, an exotic-looking woman named Aimee, greeted him by name. He smiled. "Any messages for me?"

She returned his smile. "I think so, Mr. Dallas. Let me check." She crossed to the message center, then looked over her shoulder at him. "Yes, you do. There's also a package for you. It's in the back. I can have it sent up, or if you have a minute, I'll get it."

"I'll wait. Thanks." She handed Luke an envelope, then disappeared through a door at the back of the registration area. Luke ripped open the envelope to see that he did, indeed, have several hours before his dinner engagement.

Aimee returned with a small shopping bag. She handed it to him. Inside was a copy of Dead Drop, autographed by him that very day, inscribed to Bird Man.

Luke frowned. He had signed so many books that morning, had seen so many faces. There had been at least a dozen Marys, a handful of Stevens and Daves-but only one Bird Man. He remembered signing the book-why couldn't he recall the man? With a name like that, he should be firmly fixed in his memory.

Luke drew his eyebrows together. He had been middle-aged and rather nondescript; Luke remembered looking right at him. But now, no matter how he tried, he could recall nothing else about the man's appearance.

"Mr. Dallas?" Luke looked up from the book, meeting exotic Aimee's eyes. She flushed. "I just wanted you to know, I love your books. I can't wait to read your new one."

He grinned, pleased. "Thanks. By the way-" he held up the bag "-did you see who left this for me?"

"Sorry, I just came on."

"There was no note with this? No message?"

"Not that I saw. But I'll double-check for you."

There wasn't, so Luke headed up to his room. The phone was ringing as he let himself in; he hurried to catch it before the hotel message service. "Hello."

"Meet me in the bar of the Vieux Carré Gun Club in twenty minutes."

"Who is this?"

"Twenty minutes," he repeated. "If you still want to talk."

The line went dead, and Luke held the receiver for a moment before dropping it into the cradle. Condor, he realized, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Bird Man. Of course.

The Vieux Carré Gun Club was a private organization and judging by the building's address and facade, catered to an extremely wealthy clientele. The doorman allowed Luke in, directing him to the receptionist's desk. The woman, a beautiful blonde, immaculately dressed in a Chanel suit, stood as he approached, greeting him by name. She asked him to sign the guest register, then led him to the lounge.

Luke spotted Condor immediately. He sat alone at a corner table, his back to the wall.

"Bird Man, I presume?"

Condor smiled. "Corny, but I couldn't resist." He motioned to the chair across from his. "How long did it take you to figure it out?"

"Too long, I'm embarrassed to say." He settled into the leather tub chair. "That was you at the signing? I never would have guessed."