Dark Carousel - Christine Feehan

1

Charlotte Vintage pushed the stray tendrils of dark auburn hair curling around her face back behind her shoulders and leaned toward her best friend, Genevieve Marten. Icy fingers of unease continually crept down her spine. There was no relaxing, not even with a drink in front of her and the pounding beat of the music calling.

“We know they followed us here, Genevieve,” she whispered behind her hand. Whispering in the dance club with the music drumming out a wild rhythm wasn’t easy, but she managed. They had accomplished what they set out to do, but now that they had drawn their three stalkers out into the open, what were they going to do?

“We must have been crazy thinking we could do this, Genevieve. Because we have no business exposing ourselves to this kind of danger.” Mostly, Charlotte didn’t think she should have exposed Genevieve to the danger. At least not when they were together. Not when they had a three-year-old to consider.

She took a slow perusal of the club, trying to take in every detail. The Palace was the hottest dance club in the city. Everyone who was anyone went there. In spite of the fact that it was four stories tall, every single floor was packed with bodies, as was the basement underground club. Men tried to catch her eye continually. She wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t know Genevieve was beautiful, or that she wasn’t so hard on the eyes, either. The pair of them together drew attention everywhere they went—which was a bad thing.

“We’re acting like normal women for a change,” Genevieve said a little defiantly. “I’m tired of hiding. We needed to get out of the house. You needed to get out of the house. You work all the time. Honestly, Charlie, we’re going to grow old hiding away. What good has it done us? We’re not any closer to finding out who is doing this to us.”

“I can’t afford to be bait,” Charlotte pointed out. “And I don’t like you being bait, either. Certainly not both of us together when we have to look after Lourdes. She can’t lose everyone in her life. It goes against everything in me to hide away, but I’ve got to consider what would happen to her if I was killed. They already murdered her father. She has no mother. I’m all she’s got.” When Genevieve sent her a look, she hastily amended, “We’re all she’s got.”

Charlotte wasn’t the hide-from-an-enemy type any more than Genevieve was. They’d met in France, both studying art. Genevieve painted, and she was good. More than good. Already her landscapes and portraits were beginning to be noticed, sought after by collectors. Charlotte restored old paintings as well as old carvings. Her specialty and greatest passion was restoring old carousels.

Genevieve was French. She was tall, with long, glossy dark hair and large green eyes. Not just green, but deep forest green. Startling green. She had the figure of a model and in fact had had several major agencies try to convince her to sign with them. She was independently wealthy, having received inheritances from her parents and both sets of grandparents.

Genevieve’s maternal grandmother had raised her. A few months earlier, that grandmother, her last living relative, had been brutally murdered. A few weeks later a man Genevieve had been dating was murdered in the same way. His blood had been drained from his body, and his throat had been torn out. Charlotte’s mentor, the man she was apprenticing under, was murdered a week after that.

Twice, when they were together, the two women had become aware of someone