by Gennita Low
“Yes, I’ll set it up.”
Vivi affectionately squeezed Rose’s shoulder. “We have a few more things to do, Rose, then I’ll take you home, okay?”
“I not want to go home,” the young girl said.
Vivi sighed inwardly. That was the other problem. Stopping soldiers didn’t stop the parents from pushing their daughters toward an awful fate. Poverty was pervasive in these areas, and daughters were considered useless, with their need for dowries. And she had only so much cash to give away, to stall for time.
“I’ll see what I can do, Rose,” she told the girl, without a single idea how to solve her problem long-term.
A couple of days of R and R—albeit behind bars—Jazz found himself in a standard interview room, with a nice clean table for a change, and a fake mirror. Just like a regular TV show. He sat there and waited. If he were a prisoner of war, all he would be required to do was give his name, rank, and serial number. But they’d assured him that he was just being “detained” by the UN police. That was the problem with politics. Too many ways to explain a situation. Either he was a prisoner or he wasn’t.
The door opened and a woman walked in. She was about five-foot-seven, wearing a white short-sleeved blouse and fashionable long pants. Her dark hair was tied back tightly. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Definitely French, he thought, as he looked into her disapproving eyes behind her small glasses. Her lips, pale pink, were unsmiling. She had a slight overbite, which gave her the stern expression of a schoolteacher.
She was probably one of the volunteers for that organization Hawk told him about. He didn’t think she was there to help him, not with that glare that told him she thought he was the scum of the earth.
Jazz couldn’t help it. He gave her his best smile.
Vivi almost stopped in her tracks. That cat smile was so male and assessing, for a moment, she thought he’d seen through her disguise and recognized her. She was surprised at how self-conscious she felt, walking the short distance to the table with his eyes on her under the bright, glaring lighting.
She placed the folders she was carrying on the table and looked across the four feet to where he was seated. He looked bigger than she’d remembered. Of course, playing the role of a hunched over old woman made everyone automatically look taller. But even now, with a different perspective of her target, she was quite sure that expression hadn’t been on his face. She pulled out the chair and sat down.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” he drawled, “for not getting the chair for you, but the guard did inform me to stay put in my seat and not move.”
Vivi nodded. “Yes, that’s the right thing to do.” She pointed to a small tape recorder. “This session will be taped as soon as we begin.”
Jazz liked the sound of her voice. It had a husky undertone, like a slow bluesy melody. Her French accent wasn’t thick, and she spoke without hesitating, as if she used English often.
She pushed several forms in front of him. “Read these,” she said. “The first one explains the directive. The second is the account of the incident by Interpol agents. The third one is a translation of Rose Tham’s own account. The fourth is a questionnaire, which is optional on your part. When you’re done, you may ask any questions before we begin the tape for the interview.”
Jazz picked up the first form. “I have a question.”
She arched a brow at him. “Shouldn’t you read the forms first?”
“It’s personal.”
She waited, but when he didn’t elaborate, she said, “Go ahead.”
“How do I address you? Ma’am? Madam? I don’t want to say the wrong thing on tape.”
It was a simple enough question, but he made it sound intimate. His voice had the laid-back drawl that she now knew was a Louisiana twang, like velvet, with a smooth and a rough side. It made her wonder about the owner, whether he had these characteristics, too.
“You may call me Miss Verreau.”
“Miss Verreau,” he repeated slowly, rolling the r’s. “Will this interview be conducted in French?”
She cocked her head, looking down her small pert nose at him. “We’re speaking in English, aren’t we, Lieutenant?”
She knew his rank. What else did she know? “That’s good,” Jazz said. “You’ll laugh at my Cajun French.”
She sniffed. “There is no such thing as Cajun French.”
“Then you ought to come to Louisiana sometime and listen to my maman and sisters talk. I think they have been living under the wrong impression.”
Her eyes were hazel brown behind her glasses and they were looking at him superciliously at the moment. “There is only French. Everyone else speaks nonsense,” she said. “But right now, that’s the least of your problems, Lieutenant Zola Zeringue.”
“Ouch.” Jazz winced. The painful truth was out. “Please call me Jazz.”
“I’m sorry, there is no Jazz Zeringue in my files. Your commander wrote all the information down himself. Now, can we get back to the papers in front of you?”
He was going to beat up Hawk. He looked down at page one. Mumbo-jumbo. Moved to page two. Okay, Interpol thought he had his hands down the girl’s dress. But they were French; the French thought differently from others. Page three. Ah, the girl was on his side. That was a relief. He wasn’t sure she’d understood his intentions. Page four. Oh geez.
He glanced up at Miss Verreau. She was studying him like some ugly specimen under a microscope. “Do you frequent brothels,” he read aloud. “Is that a trick question?”
“What don’t you understand about that question?”
“It’s like one of those medical questions they ask when you apply for insurance. Do you have cancer? If I say yes, it’s pretty safe to say they aren’t going to give me any coverage,” Jazz said dryly. He continued reading a few more questions. “How many prostitutes have you ever solicited? Do you use condoms? What countries have you been stationed in?”
“You can always say no to the first question,” Miss Verreau suggested quietly. “As I’ve told you, the questionnaire is optional.”
“Then why give it? And wouldn’t the information be used against the detainee?”
She marked something down into her file, as if his questions meant something. “Lieutenant, the questionnaire is done anonymously. It’s going to an organization called United Third World Against Exploitation of Women for a study.”
“And I’m supposed to take your word for this?” he asked gently, and glanced at the telltale mirror to his right.
Vivi liked the way the lieutenant’s mind worked. He was smart and quick. A grunt who had brains. She hadn’t met that many around here. Most of them were eager to get out, signing anything put in front of them. Their commanders usually had already told them they would be out of the area within twenty-four hours, so they knew the score. Sign, deny, or make up some lame story, and then freedom.
She was tempted to call him Jazz. He didn’t look like a Zola; his mother must have had scholarly aspirations for her son. “Lieutenant Zeringue, believe it or not, I’m on your side.” She indicated the tape recorder. “That is for your protection. There are two tapes in the machine. You’ll get a copy of the interview immediately for future reference.”
He looked slightly disbelieving. It irked her, since it should be she who should regard him with dubious contempt. But the faxes she’d received today had very specific instructions.
First, she must ensure his presence not reach investigative status. She wasn’t going to lie, so she had to prove to the watching witnesses that the man was innocent and the usual paperwork shouldn’t be needed. Second, she was to see him safely to his commanding officer, a Lieutenant Commander Steve McMillan. That was the golden-eyed soldier who called himself Hawk. She didn’t think Lieutenant Zeringue needed her to keep him safe, not after watching his exercise routine, but that was her new assignment, and she would do her job.
“Here is a fax from Admiral Jack Madison vouching for me,” she continued. “You can
agree to this interview, or not, after you’ve read it. It doesn’t matter to me.” She gave one of those continental shrugs that could mean anything.
He opened the envelope, and, noticing his long, artistic fingers, she couldn’t help but remember his turn on the piano the other night. She had noticed him at the bar, drinking one beer after another before joining his buddies at the piano. She had thought him average, but her opinion of him since then had changed.
The few encrypted pages she had received on the man were impressive. Her operations chief obviously wanted her to know that he was important, giving her more background than usual. Lieutenant Zola Zeringue, SEAL Green Cell of STAR Force, as in Standing and Ready Force, a black operations platoon commandered by Admiral Jack Madison, was not to be taken lightly. He wasn’t a run-of-the-mill soldier out for a wild night. Remembering his soiled clothing, she wondered what he had been up to with his team before that.
Jazz looked up as he refolded the fax. Why would the admiral send him a French liaison? he wondered. Hawk would have to explain it all to him…after he beat him up for revealing his legal name.
“All right, Miss Verreau,” he said. “I’ve been instructed to follow your advice.”
She gave him a slight nod. Did the woman smile at all? He had the urge to tell some silly joke to see whether she had a sense of humor. She turned on the recorder, stated some numbers and the date, then his name, rank, serial number, and platoon.
Jazz didn’t say a word as he listened to the fictional background. He doubted Admiral Madison would leave out who he was to this liaison. In any case, he was a SEAL. He knew when to shut up and let someone protect his ass.
CHAPTER
3
Vivi didn’t want to be swayed by Lieutenant Zola Zeringue’s file full of recommendations. Nor would those watching from behind the mirrors. They would be expecting the usual excuses they had heard so many times before. So it was up to Jazz to convince them that he had wanted to help Rose out by buying her.
“I didn’t like the way the man was threatening the young lady,” he said calmly. “He hit her and I felt it my duty to intervene. If I recall correctly, I asked the young lady whether she wanted to go with the two men, and she shook her head.”
The man was giving a command performance, oozing lazy charm like his nickname. Ripe and sensual, like something one took with cream and sugar. Sweet, hot New Orleans latte immediately came to mind. Vivi’s eyes immediately went to his mouth. He had a dimple at the corner that deepened every time those lips quirked, which was often, as if something privately amused him. She gave him a cold direct stare, and it irritated her that he wasn’t fazed by it at all. Instead, a hint of amusement entered his eyes, although his demeanor and answers remained respectful.
“Yet you paid for her services?” she countered. That was what had gotten him in trouble. “The other two soldiers had paid and went off by then, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, but I wanted to help the young lady out because she obviously didn’t want to be there. The owner of that place was threatening to hit her. It was the only way I knew how to get her out of there with the least amount of disruption, Miss Verreau. If I had started a fight in the bar, it wouldn’t have solved the situation, which was two drunks forcing themselves on an unwilling woman. I felt it was better to get Rose out of the way. I couldn’t take her anywhere else, so I paid for her. The object was to keep the woman safe from harm.”
With the comptroller and several volunteers for the women’s organization watching, Vivi couldn’t afford to be easy on him. She pressed on, trying to corner him.
“You didn’t have to take her to the back room. I believe you scolded the old lady there into giving you a room number.”
His blue eyes narrowed a fraction. “I didn’t scold the old lady. She was a grump.”
“A grump?”
“I was very polite to her, Miss Verreau. She didn’t understand the situation, that’s all.”
“But I think she did understand, Lieutenant. She told Interpol that you’d told her to keep the girl in the room for two days. She was very detailed about what happened, giving an exact account of what you said to the two soldiers mishandling Rose. GI number ten, I think she called you. I think you owe her an apology.” Vivi hadn’t meant to go on and on about the “old lady.” That was the point of her disguise, to be dismissed as unimportant. But a grump?
“I didn’t know that. I guess she was warning me in her own way.”
Vivi couldn’t help herself. She knew she was playing with fire. “The young should always listen to the old,” she said softly, keeping her expression innocently mild.
Jazz studied the French woman across from him as she noted down his replies. That was what that old lady said to him. Were those words some kind of code for him? The letter from the admiral had only two specific instructions. Listen to Miss Verreau. Follow her orders.
“Yes, I owe her an apology,” he agreed amiably. “But I won’t stand by and allow any man to hit a woman. If the organization doing this study can’t understand that, then I have nothing else to say. And if the directive doesn’t make allowances for certain scenarios, then it needs to be rewritten.”
“That’s not your problem now, Lieutenant.”
“I know that, Miss Verreau,” he said. He decided that it was her lips that caught his interest. The pale pink didn’t really suit her coloring. She was what his sister, the cosmetologist, would declare an autumn girl. She needed a warmer color, something darker; then the lower lip would look more generous and her slight overbite would make him want to kiss her more.
He blinked, and almost laughed out loud. He had never redone makeup on a woman before, and God forbid that his sister’s female prattling about looks and fashion had somehow invaded his subconscious. It was both ludicrous and horrifying.
“Something about the situation amusing you, Lieutenant Zola Zeringue?”
He winced at his name again. He didn’t need her frosty expression, or those primly set pale pink lips, to know that the woman was warning him to pay attention to what he was saying and doing. But must she keep calling him Zola with that sting?
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I don’t find the charges amusing at all. I come from a large family, with six sisters and a brother. My maman always says, ‘Y a pas d’homme plus bien-aimé que celui qui estime les femmes.’ I’m very well-loved.”
The pale pink lips curved derisively. “Can you repeat that? Your French needs…practice.”
Jazz didn’t think his Cajun French was that bad, but then, the woman obviously thought everything other than true French barbaric. She looked down her pert little nose, daring him to repeat the sentence and embarrass himself again. He suppressed a grin. Oh, he dared.
“Y a pas d’homme plus bien-aimé que celui qui estime les femmes,” he reiterated.
There is no man more well-loved than one who respects his women. Vivi twitched her nose at the sight of the dimple appearing and disappearing at the corner of his mouth. Arrogant man. And too damn confident.
“Par toutes vos femmes?” She asked with slow emphasis, arching her brows. “By all your women?”
“I hope so, Miss Verreau.”
She wanted to ask how many there were, besides his many sisters, but this wasn’t the time or place. She regarded him for a moment. His dossier showed a good soldier. His actions at the bar proved him to be a gentleman. His answers revealed a keen mind. But she had heard the sensuous lilt in his voice when he sang; she was now being subjected to a wicked gleam in those baby blues. She wasn’t fooled. The lieutenant wasn’t as perfect as his file or manners would have everyone believe.
“It seems your mother steered you right, Lieutenant. Your creed might have saved your behind in this instance. The young lady’s statement supports yours as you can see from the translation in front of you.”
Rose was very clear when she gave her version of what had happened. He showed me respect. That line and what Lieutenant Zeringue just e
xpressed should be enough to convince the board to release him without further paperwork.
“I’m glad she understood,” Jazz said. “I wasn’t sure. How is she?”
“Fine.”
“I hope all will be well for her.”
His concern sounded genuine, as if he cared about the girl’s future. Vivi recalled that he had given all his money so the girl would be “free” for two days. It was the reason she tried to stop him from walking into the sting.
As for Rose’s prospects, Vivi didn’t want to discuss it now. She didn’t want to dwell on how she would have to take the girl back to the shack she called home. She changed the subject abruptly. “Your money will be returned to you upon your release.”
“Just give it to Miss Rose.”
She met his eyes sharply. First his teammate Hawk had wanted to give the girl money, now him. She had never met men like these two.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said.
“It’s not much. Maybe things will get better with a little money.”
Vivi thought of Rose’s father, who gambled all the time. She thought of her mother who only cared about Rose’s brother.
“It shouldn’t be long before you’re freed, Lieutenant,” she said at the end of the interview. “I’ll take you to your commanding officer.”
His blue eyes had that gleam again. “J’espère que oui,” he said.
I hope so. She hadn’t asked whether he was referring to the first statement or the second.
Leaving Jazz with the guard in the interview room, she walked into the observation room and gave a copy of the taped interview and the folder to one of the women. “I signed my statement and stand by it. Release him,” she said.
“You seem in a hurry with this one,” Juliana observed. A tall, blond woman, she was the public information liaison for the organization. One of her jobs was to review the results of the directive and report back to the UN. She was one of the few who could affect the outcome of any study, so many deferred to her. And she knew it. “Shouldn’t we delay his discharge until I finish reading his files?”