Leopard's Prey

whatever he was working on were scattered at his feet. He looked as if he hadn’t slept since the showing. In fact, Remy thought he might have been wearing the same suit.
    He wasn’t surprised to find the door unlocked. He knew the gallery owner would come by later to double-check that Lefevre had remembered to lock it. In the meantime, he had offered his place to the artist to work, knowing it would only make his gallery more prestigious with clients.
    Remy stepped inside. Arnaud didn’t even glance up. He worked furiously, concentration creating deep furrows between his eyebrows.
    “Mr. Lefevre?” Remy said, hoping not to startle him.
    The frowned deepened and impatience flickered across the Frenchman’s face. He waved his hand toward the door without looking up. “Go away. I’m busy.”
    “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was hoping you could help me with an ongoing investigation. I just need a few minutes of your time.”
    Arnaud’s breath hissed out between his teeth. He looked up slowly, his expression exasperated. “What is it?” Even as he snapped the question, the aggravation disappeared.
    Remy stepped closer. “Do you remember me? I’m Bijou’s friend, Remy Boudreaux.” He showed his badge just in case he’d spooked the artist. “I’m a homicide detective and we had a murder last night. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
    Arnaud’s mood changed instantly. His gaze was riveted to Remy’s face. He tossed his sketchpad aside and leapt up, a smile on his face. “Of course I remember you. Your eyes are extraordinary. I’ve been trying to capture that look, but it isn’t right.” He gestured to the many discarded drawings scattered around the floor. “I thought if I came here instead of the studio, I’d remember better and get the actual piercing intelligence and focused danger in your eyes.” He sighed in frustration. “Maybe I could draw your face while we talk?” he said hopefully.
    Lefevre
was
still wearing the same suit he’d had on the night before. Remy thought it should have been a little more rumpled since he’d worn it all night. Clearly he hadn’t slept, but he still looked elegant. Even his hair seemed to fall naturally into place.
    Remy sighed, grateful Bijou wasn’t interested in Lefevre romantically. There was no competing with the wealthy, talented artist. Remy’s leopard despised him on sight. If only he could get his leopard to understand Bijou wasn’t at all interested in the man, maybe it would be easier to be around him.
    “Sure.” He glanced at his watch. “I don’ have a lot of time, but I’ll come back if you don’ get whatever it is you’re lookin’ for.”
    Arnaud indicated a chair where the light spilled directly into Remy’s face. “Sit there. Can you just look at me the way you did last night, when you first walked in?”
    “I’ll try,” Remy said. “I’m not certain how I was lookin’ at you.”
    “Like I was your prey. Very focused. What were you thinking about? Maybe that would help,” Arnaud suggested as he collected his drawing pad and pencils. He sat across from Remy.
    Remy had been thinking he was going to tear the artist limb from limb because Bijou was smiling up at him. He couldn’t very well say that. “Last night there was a murder. A photographer by the name of Bob Carson. He’s the same man who had been stalkin’ Bijou.”
    “Yes, yes of course. He pushed my rented car into the bayou. I’ve got my lawyers dealing with that,” Arnaud said dismissively. “Turn your head a little to the right.”
    Remy complied. “He was here at the gallery last night for your showing. He was taking a lot of photographs of the event as well as everyone who was here.”
    “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