“Yes, I remember,” Arnaud agreed, his voice almost dreamy, as if already Remy was losing him to his art. His attention seemed to be drifting away.

Remy grit his teeth. His brothers would be howling over him sitting there like an idiot while Arnaud Lefevre drew his portrait, or more specifically—his eyes.

“Did you see anything unusual in the gallery that night? Anyone who might have been watchin’ Bob Carson? Did he talk to anyone?”

Arnaud scowled darkly, tore off the sheet of paper he’d been working on and flung it on the floor. He began again. “I noticed him talking to Bijou’s manager. Butterfield slipped him something. But, that wasn’t necessarily out of the ordinary.”

Arnaud continued to draw, glancing up at Remy to look at his face and eyes, his mind on his work, rather than Remy’s questions.

“Not out of the ordinary?” Remy prompted, his teeth snapping together. He detested sitting there like an idiot. His leopard snarled and raged, making it difficult to stay even-tempered. He’d known Arnaud would be difficult if he was working. He’d seen Bijou practically have to babysit him.

“Yes, they often had clandestine meetings no one was supposed to see and Butterfield always gave something to Carson. Really, it was quite childish the way they acted.”

Butterfield probably had been paying Bob Carson to keep feeding the tabloids. He had no way of knowing Carson would have done it anyway.

“After you went back to the studio to work, were you aware Carson followed you?”

That got the Frenchman’s attention for all of two seconds. Or maybe he just scowled and looked up because Remy wasn’t giving him the focused stare he wanted to draw so badly.

“No. Why would he do that? All I did was work last night. All night. A complete waste of time.” Arnaud sighed in frustration.

“He was writing an article about Bijou’s love triangle.”

“She doesn’t have a love triangle,” Arnaud said. “Turn your head a little more. Stop. Hold it right there. I think that’s it.” He tore off another piece of paper and began again.

“He meant you, Bijou and me,” Remy said. “You didn’t see him lurking around? Or anyone following him, maybe across the street?”

For the first time Arnaud lowered his pencil and really looked at Remy. Remy was struck by the fact that he seemed to notice Remy as more than a pair of cat’s eyes he was trying to draw.

“That’s completely absurd.”

“Of course it is, but Carson specialized in seedy headlines. He took photographs of your work with a zoom lens and was going to publish it in a tabloid, stating you were in love with me and Bijou was in love with both of us.”

“He can’t do a thing like that. Publishing a sketch of mine that isn’t right, that I haven’t finished, would be unthinkable,” Arnaud protested. “I have a reputation, but more than that, I only show my best work—work I’m proud of. Those sketches last night were all wrong.”

“He’s dead, Arnaud,” Remy said as gently as he could through gritted teeth. “He won’t be publishing photographs anymore. I’m looking for the man or men who may have abducted him, took him out to the swamp and then murdered him.”

“At least he’s giving back to the planet and doing something constructive rather than hurting people like Bijou,” Arnaud said pragmatically. “He wasn’t a very good man, was he?”

Remy sighed. “I suppose not. But even men who aren’t worth much need someone to stand for them.”

“This isn’t working. Let’s try something else,” Arnaud said, ignoring, or not hearing Remy’s comment. “Will you allow me to put your head in the position I need you to be in?”

“I don’t have very much more time,” Remy said, glancing at his watch again.

“Just give me a couple more minutes,” Arnaud pleaded. “I know I can do this.” He jumped up, but it wasn’t jumping so much as gliding. He was very graceful, a man who under any circumstances, even when he was at his most frustrated, still seemed elegant.

He hurried around Remy and caught his chin, his touch almost gentle as he turned his head. The moment Arnaud put his fingers against Remy’s skin, Remy’s leopard raked and snarled, forcing Remy to breathe deep to keep control. He glanced down at the floor, at Arnaud’s beautifully polished immaculate dress shoes. Bits of grass and mud stuck, not to the shoes, but to one hem of his trousers. He registered the information and alarm spread. As he started to turn to face the threat, Remy felt a sting in his neck.

His leopard tried to protect him, leaping for the surface, a wave of fur moving under his skin, but the ketamine was fast acting on both of them.

* * *

BIJOU stood outside the Inn with Saria, admiring the full moon. “It sure is beautiful here, Saria. What a wonderful weddin’ gift Miss Pauline gave you. The location couldn’t be more perfect.”

“Especially for a leopard,” Saria agreed. “Miss Pauline was always in love with Amos Jeanmard. When his wife died, he married Miss Pauline, and she gave me the Inn.”

“I remember him. We used to have to hide from him when we were sneakin’ into the swamp at night.”

“He’s leopard. He was leader of the lair, but he claimed he got old and tired. Miss Pauline’s leopard never emerged and he didn’t marry her when they were young because he thought it would be best for the lair if only leopards mated. I think the real reason he gave up leadership was so he felt he was free to marry Miss Pauline.”