by Mallory Kane
“Over there.” He had set them on the scratched side table next to the couch. “They’ll still be here in the morning.”
“Actually, they won’t.” She took two steps toward the table and scooped them up. “They’re going with me right now. It’s been a long day, and I’m tired of the hot lights and rubber hose treatment. I didn’t arrange to get mugged so you’d take me in. I didn’t pretend to lose my keys. And I was perfectly comfortable out there on the stairs. It’s only until nine o’clock tomorrow, so although I really hate to hurt your ego, I’m going to be leaving now.” She hiked the strap back up onto her shoulder and, clutching the shoes in one hand, she started toward the door. She stumbled on a wrinkle in the rug, and he caught her by one arm.
“Oww, hey!” she spat, jerking her arm away.
He chuckled. “So it’s not the shoes. You can’t walk barefoot either.” He watched her limp over to the door and push it open. He expected her to turn back and ask him the question he was sure she’d planned to ask ever since she’d fallen on him earlier in the day.
Can I please stay here? He was sure of that. What came next might vary.
I’m running from my ex.
I owe a lot of money.
Beauregard thinks I stole something from him.
I’m not just a waitress, I’m a hooker and my pimp is going to kill me.
Maybe not a hooker. Not jaded or sad enough. Still, there were a dozen variations on the theme. But she didn’t say anything. She pulled the door open. He crossed the small room in one stride and slammed it shut. “Hang on. I am not done with you.”
She pulled on the door handle, to no avail. “You’re not done with me? Are you going to hold me against my will for my own good?” She looked up at him with a smirk, but he saw her throat move as she swallowed nervously.
He hated that she was afraid of him. Hell, he hated that she was afraid of anything. “Maybe. If I have to. What happened to your keys? Where did you lose them?”
“Hmm, let me think. Oh, right. I don’t know. Hence the word lost!”
He let the door swing closed and she immediately opened it and stomped out. Stomping in bare feet was not as impressive as she probably hoped it would be.
“Damn it!” he muttered. Was he seriously about to beg her to stay? “Sin!”
She was already at the top of the stairs.
“Hang on!” He crossed the distance between them in three long strides and caught her arm. When she gasped, he remembered the bruises put there by Grossman. “Sorry.”
She pulled her arm away and turned toward the stairs again.
“Sin, wait a minute.”
She stopped. “What?” She clutched her shoes against her chest. “What is it now?”
Below them, a door opened. “Hey! Shut up out there. Get a room!”
“Come back,” he said in a normal voice. “I don’t mind if you sleep on my couch. If a place to crash until tomorrow is what you need, be my guest. Try not to get the danged thing any more infested with—who knows what—than it already is though.”
Her gaze snapped to the cracked vinyl of the couch. “Infested? The couch is—?”
“Oh come on,” he said, willing himself not to notice the apprehension in her green eyes. “You were ready to play rough with a half-baked Pillsbury Dough Boy, you sent one of his henchmen packing, but you draw the line at a few bugs?” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Whatever. Do what you want. Stay or don’t. I’m going to bed.” And he turned around and stalked toward his room, irritated with himself at even offering her a place to sleep.
Of the things he already knew about her, the most annoying was her determination to do everything herself and her need to be in control of every situation. He’d never met a woman quite as stubborn and determined as she was.
As he flopped down onto his bed, he wondered how that stubbornness would translate to bed? He pitied the poor guy who ended up wrestling her for who got to be on top.
Crap. Now that vision was in his head and the poor guy was him. Worse, wrestling with her sounded like fun, even if she did end up on top, or maybe especially. He clamped his jaw and reminded himself that he was on a mission, and he didn’t have the time or the inclination to get sidetracked by a stubborn control freak, no matter how cute or sexy she was. He had plenty of determination himself. But immediately he realized that determination was no help at all with wiping out the vision of her sitting atop him.
“Rick?” she said in a small voice. “I’ll take the offer of your couch if you don’t mind.”
Chapter Seven
It was four o’clock in the morning. Lusinda placed her palms on the cool glass panes of the casement windows that led to the tiny balcony attached to Rick’s apartment, gasping for breath. Her pulse was pounding. She was suffocating. She tried to breathe deeply and calmly, but her chest constricted. She sobbed raggedly. The next breath was a bit easier, and finally, the third was long and smooth.
She closed her eyes and laid her cheek against the cool pane of glass, doing her best to force the nightmare away, pushing at it with every exhalation. It had been a long time since she’d had that particular dream. But then, it had been a long time since she’d lived in a dump like this.
A long time. She rolled her forehead against the glass, willing away the unwelcome memories and the lingering horror of her dream. Which was worse? The dream, with its Technicolor surrealism, and the hundreds of elongated, shiny brown insects that wriggled and melted over her consciousness like Dali’s clocks? Or the reality of waking up in the middle of the night, hearing the rustling as the roaches attacked a hamburger wrapper in the trash can, or feeling the soft tickle as one ran over her bare foot.
As soon as the question formed in her brain, she knew the answer. She’d worked up a huge, cleansing rage that served her very well against real roaches. They were sons of bitches that kept her from sleeping, and she had a Terminator-like resolve that wouldn’t let her rest until she’d sought out and demolished any unlucky insect that happened to disturb her.
It was the dream-roaches that undid her, the ones that she couldn’t track down and crush. The ones that skittered into her midnight rest, surrounded her and crawled on her while she was helpless to stop them.
She lifted her head and put her hands on the casement, feeling stifled in the dark room. She pushed on it but it was stuck. Panicked and claustrophobic, she looked around. Bedroom door—led to Rick. Bathroom door—too small. Outside door—she could go that way. Go downstairs. Breathe some outdoor air.
She rushed to the door and grasped the deadbolt, preparing to turn it. Then she stopped. All she had on were a black tank top and skimpy panties. She couldn’t go out. Not here, on Rampart Street, in the dark. Besides, it was raining and she only had one shirt and one skirt.
She grabbed her glass off the side table and got more water. Maybe water would stave off the panic. Then she turned on the lamp, stifling a sneeze from the dust on the shade. The bulb couldn’t have been more than forty watts, but it was bright enough so she could inspect the couch.
She’d given it the once-over after Rick had disappeared into his bedroom and closed the door, but now, after her horrible dream, she wanted to check it again. It was covered in thick, shiny green vinyl, a good choice in a place like this. The seat cushions were molded in, as was the back, so there were very few pockets where dirt or pocket change or roaches could hide. It worked for her. She shook out the sheet that Rick had given her, just to be sure, and lay down again.
She set her phone to wake her at seven a.m., turned the ringer way down and laid it on the coffee table. She’d get up early and be dressed and gone before Rick woke up. She could grab a coffee at the little coffee shop around the corner and then retrace her steps from last night and find her keys. Screw the landlord and his hundred bucks.
But right now, she needed to get some sleep. It was almost four a.m., so she’d only get three hours’ sleep if she drifted off right now. She took a deep breath,
pushing away the last dregs of panic, and curled up in a ball on one end of the couch. She leaned her head against the armrest, praying that no more roaches would invade either her dreams or her reality this night.
But when she closed her eyes, all she could see was the gray-haired man who’d attacked her. She sighed and mentally hummed “Amazing Grace,” as she’d done when she was a child, using the song to block out thoughts of terrifying monsters, both six-legged and two-legged.
Just as she began to drift off, she heard a faint buzzing and something brushed against her cheek. She vaulted up with a rebel yell and dove for the light switch, her heart pounding to beat hell. The switch wasn’t there and neither was the wall. She hit the floor, butt first. Where was she? Then she remembered. This wasn’t her pretty condo in Baton Rouge. And that narrow, hard slab of vinyl was not her bed.
She was in Rick Easterling’s apartment. She used the pale light filtering in from over on Bourbon Street to find the lamp’s switch and click it. Squinting against the brightness, she searched for a suitable weapon. Her shoes were sitting right there. She grabbed one and held it like a hammer with its clunky heel as the head.
“Come on, you slimy flying son of a bitch. Give me your best shot! Where the hell did you go?” She stood, weapon at the ready, as she eyed the scarred hardwood floor. If there was anything she hated worse than roaches, it was flying roaches.
She saw a movement near the refrigerator. “There you are, you asshole!” She dove, brandishing the shoe.
In front of her, the bedroom door slammed open and Richard Easterling crouched in the doorway, his arms up in a classic karate pose as he roared his own version of a rebel yell, or a karate kiai.
Lusinda’s attack had ended with her in a squat near the refrigerator, the shoe held like a steel hammer over her head. Rick’s yell had surprised her and she’d spun, cocking her arm, ready with her makeshift roach destroyer, but she’d fallen backwards and ended up sprawled on the floor.
When she looked up, Rick was staring down at her, his face an odd combination of anger, shock and sleepy bewilderment. “What in bloody hell are you doing?” he shouted hoarsely. “I thought you were being murdered in here!” His arms were still up, his hands still stiffly poised to stun, maim or kill, whichever the occasion required.
“I—uh—” she stammered. After her initial shock, Lusinda completely forgot about the roach. Her gaze slid down from his face to what he was wearing, which was nothing but a pair of green plaid pajama bottoms. Normal everyday pajama pants with an overlapping flap in front. She blinked—twice, trying to force her brain not to imagine what was behind the small scrap of fabric. Finally, she forced her gaze away from the flap, only to settle on the low-riding waistband, which revealed his lean belly, and on up to his perfect abs and broad shoulders.
“Lusinda?”
“Ro-roaches,” she explained belatedly.
“What?” he thundered. He lowered his arms, but not one ounce of tension left his body. He was still poised for attack. Why wasn’t he moving? Then she saw that his gaze was moving. Down from her face, across her shoulders and breasts and on. Then it fixed on her splayed legs, or specifically, the apex of her thighs and the pair of black silk panties that was all that covered her there.
She slammed her thighs together, bolted up and dove for the couch, where she grabbed the sheet and quickly wrapped it around her, pulling it all the way up over her arms to her neck. Belatedly, she spoke. “I saw a roach.” She shrugged. “I’ve got a thing about roaches.”
“That’s what all the noise was about?” he asked. “I see. Well, maybe you could take it out with a bazooka next time. Might be quieter.” He glanced up at her face, but he couldn’t keep his gaze from straying downward, toward the portion of the sheet that covered her panties.
Now that she was covered up, she had a brief moment to think about what was happening. It was interesting and encouraging. She’d barely had time to form her plan, and she needed to talk to Carlos, to try and glean a few tidbits of information she could use to entice Rick. But now, serendipitously, she was presented with a nice opportunity. She eyed Rick. It didn’t matter how devoted he was to his assignment. It didn’t even matter that he disliked her. He wanted her. She could see it in his dark eyes. This could help her plan a lot, as long as she kept control. He had to maintain his cover and so did she. That’s where she had the definite advantage. She knew he was a cop. He had no clue that she was too.
She looked back at him, allowing herself to enjoy his bare chest, which was dusted with the perfect amount of hair. Desire stirred deep within her. She uncovered one hand and pushed her hair back from her face, then lightly trailed her fingers down her neck and collarbone. Taking a deep breath, she noticed his scent. It was faint and yet intoxicating—soap, sunshine and something spicy—cinnamon? The yearning ache between her legs and in her suddenly sensitive nipples intensified.
Their gazes met and she started to smile, but he turned and headed back into the bathroom. Slow down. She couldn’t make a deal without something to offer him. Sighing and trying to calm her own whetted appetite, she shifted restlessly on the sticky vinyl of the couch. Turning onto her side, she rested her head on the sturdy vinyl arm. It was hard and unforgiving. “Damn it,” she whispered as her neck began to hurt.
She forced herself to go over what she knew about how Rick had landed this assignment. He’d been grazed by a bullet to the head while chasing a drug dealer whom he’d seen selling to two teenaged boys. When the EMTs got him to the hospital, they discovered a bag of contaminated heroin in his pocket, along with two thousand dollars in small bills that bore traces of the same drug. He’d claimed the dope and tainted money must have been planted on him while he was out cold, but there were no witnesses to back him up. In his favor was the fact that he was a decorated police officer and there was no other evidence to tie him to the drugs or the sellers who were taken down.
Now that she’d met him, Lusinda found it easier to believe he was framed than to believe he’d been involved, although she had no evidence and no rationale for her feeling. Was she really that easily impressed by good looks and a fierce protective instinct? She clenched her jaw, which made the ache in her neck worse. Was she that shallow and easily distracted?
No, she was not. But now the image of him standing in the doorway, half-naked and gorgeous, ready to fight for her, was burned into her brain. If he were a bad cop, she’d get him. But what a waste of a beautiful body.
Guilt burned in her breast. “Sorry, Daddy,” she whispered. She pushed all thoughts of Rick Easterling, gorgeous hunk, out of her mind and concentrated on Rick Easterling, dirty cop. Suspected dirty cop, she amended. She had a job to do. And even though her confidence had taken a blow last night, she was up to the task.
She turned onto her other side and squeezed her eyes shut. The bathroom door opened and a few seconds later, the bedroom door closed. She sighed, rubbing her neck, which was hurting again. Was there a throw pillow somewhere? Not that she saw. But near the door, on a coat rack, hung an old leather jacket. She grabbed it, folded it a couple of times, and laid her head on it. The leather was soft, but something crackled loudly in one of the pockets.
She sat up and dug inside, coming out with a crumpled piece of paper. She smoothed it and held it up to the light from the window.
From the desk of Jack Adams. Jack Adams? The child-advocate attorney who died from an injection of bad dope? She read the words handwritten on the page. Rick, he kept this jacket for you. Here’s my number. And it was signed: Carlos Montoya.
Oh, man. Lusinda stared at the slip of paper for a few seconds, wondering what three people who seemed as different as Rick and Carlos and Jack Adams could possibly have in common.
Then her gaze settled on Carlos’s phone number. She needed his number for her plan. She grabbed her phone and entered it, then crumpled the piece of paper again and stuck it back into the pocket. She got up and hung the jacket on the coat rack. Curling back up on the co
uch, she watched the flickering blue light that slanted off the wall opposite the window and thought about the people who had died from the bad dope.
With the glaring exception of Jack Adams, the deaths weren’t personal. They were overdoses turned lethal because the users were unaware of the deadly mixture they were getting. The deaths could be explained as a battle over territory between two drug lords. That’s what most of the guys in the BPI were betting it was—a tug of war for dominance in the French Quarter. But none of them could make the death of Jack Adams fit the scenario.
Adams had died of an overdose, but Adams was not a user. His autopsy proved he had never been a user. No outward signs and no internal damage. He’d been clean. His death was deliberate.
And now she had proof of a connection between Jack Adams and Rick Easterling. She had no idea whether that fact was significant to either Adams’s death or to her assignment, but it was a connection and it involved Carlos Montoya.
Had O’Reilly requested her for this case, not because he was impressed with her handling of the bad dope death in Baton Rouge or because of her father, but because of her youth and inexperience? Had he really set her up as a plaything to entice a horny cop to give up his secrets?
Then so be it. That fit with her plan—sort of. She’d figure out whether Rick was involved with the distribution of the lethal heroin mix and how he was connected to Jack Adams. By the time she finished, he wouldn’t have a freckle she didn’t know about. A small surge in the desire that was just waning tickled the base of her spine and she shivered. Not a freckle—anywhere.