No Saint

by Mallory Kane

  She didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until she heard the bedroom door open and bare feet padding into the kitchen. The refrigerator door opened and Rick’s strong, elegant silhouette eclipsed its light. He grabbed a carton of orange juice and drank. He swallowed gulp after gulp, unaware that she was watching him. The pajama bottoms hung low on his sculpted haunches. Everything about him emitted an unconscious sexuality.

  Lusinda’s breath caught as a thrill sang through her.

  As if he’d heard the stitch in her breathing, he glanced in her direction. “Did you ever get the roach?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No. It ran under the refrigerator.”

  “Too bad you don’t have that bazooka.”

  “Too bad.”

  He gestured toward her with the juice carton. “Want some?”

  Her mind went immediately to the double entendre and her mouth watered. Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed two glasses, poured juice into them and left the carton on the kitchen counter. Handing her a glass, he sat down in an armchair, legs splayed out in front of him. Lusinda wanted—needed—to ask him to pull up those low-slung pajama bottoms, but he might take it as provocation, so she just lay there, her head propped on the arm of the couch, and watched him.

  He seemed perfectly comfortable, sitting there shirtless, his muscled torso enticingly curved in a slouch that any third grade teacher would abhor. But Lusinda was no third grade teacher and she knew with a woman’s certainty how delicious that steel-hard flesh would feel against her cheek. Cursing silently, she forced her gaze away from his chest. Looking any lower was out of the question, so she raised her gaze to his. Another bad idea. His hooded eyes were watching her with an enigmatic expression.

  Behind the bar, with his hair slicked and spiked, he’d looked like a vodka ad or a cologne commercial, elegant and ruggedly handsome. He could easily be a model, based solely on his looks, but the idea of him taking direction without question, from photographers, sponsors and agents, was laughable. She almost giggled, thinking of him pouting for the director in nothing but a towel or a careful camera angle. That would never happen. Not with this guy.

  “What?” he asked, pausing with the glass less than an inch from his mouth.

  “What?” Lusinda echoed, surprised.

  “Sounded like you were laughing.”

  She huffed. “No.” She hadn’t meant to, not out loud. “No.”

  He studied her, his mouth curving in a smile. “Okay.”

  Damn, he was sexy. She squeezed her eyes closed. Stop it! She had a plan. She just had to stay strong until she could begin to execute it.

  He finished his juice and set the glass on the side table then rubbed his forehead.

  “So how was your first day at Beauregard’s?” she asked, yawning. “Tiring?”

  He shrugged, and shadows played across the golden landscape of his shoulders and chest. For an instant, she stopped breathing.

  “It’s a strange joint.” He kept his eyes on her. “How long did you say you’ve been working there?”

  “Oh, a while. Not long.”

  “A while as in days or a while as in weeks?”

  She sat up, pulling the sheet with her. “Long enough to figure out that the restaurant and bar don’t attract the good tippers.”

  He gave a short laugh. “And you’ve never been in the back?”

  “Are you kidding?” she said. “I’ve been told more than once that it is invitation only and I get the impression that the invitations are very special.”

  “Yeah. That sounds right. Like the one you got last night.”

  She sent him a withering look. “Thanks again for losing me that pile of cash and getting me attacked.”

  “I’d do it again.”

  She licked her sore lip. “Ah, there he is. My Prince Charming, ready to draw his sword and save me from the wealthy. Remind me not to frequent your end of the bar.”

  Rick frowned. “You could get fired for fraternizing with the customers.”

  “Thank you again, Charming, but I was about six minutes from the end of my shift. They can’t tell me what to do on my own time.”

  His disgusted look made her smile. “I’m serious,” he said. “You don’t know—”

  “Oh come on,” she said on a sigh. “What is this? Same song, second verse? You still don’t think I can take care of myself?”

  “Not against these guys,” he said.

  She quelled her natural instinct to question him, like a witness or a suspect. But she was dying to know. What guys? What had he learned in one day that she hadn’t been able to learn in over a week? Or…maybe he hadn’t had to learn it. Did he already know things like that because he was already involved with Beau?

  “Wait. I get it now. You’re not Prince Charming. Finding a glass slipper isn’t enough for you. You are a dragon slayer, aren’t you? Same white horse, different mission.” She bowed her head in exaggerated homage. “Saint George I presume. Ready to save me from the dragon.”

  He threw his head back and laughed, then pinned her with those dark eyes. “Trust me, babe, I’m no saint!” He paused, then: “However, you do seem to need protection.”

  “Do I? More than the other waitresses who came in and out all evening?”

  Chapter Eight

  He blinked and for a fraction of a second, she thought he faltered, but an instant later the grin and the gaze were back.

  She waited, but he didn’t say anything more. Didn’t explain why he’d decided she was the one who needed his protection. Did he suspect that she was more than a down-and-out waitress who couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble?

  “What are you doing there?” she asked. “At Beauregard’s?”

  “What?” He blinked. “What do you mean?”

  She sat up a little straighter, still making sure the sheet was covering her. “You’re always ragging me for being such a bad waitress, but you’re not a bartender, are you?”

  His eyes narrowed, and she knew she needed to be careful of what she said. She wanted to provoke him because she wanted to know what he would do. But she didn’t want to push him to the point that he decided she was a threat to his undercover operation.

  “I’m not saying you’re not good at the job. It’s just—there’s something about you. You seem too smart, too—” She searched for a word. “Too capable. And it’s obvious you don’t like it.”

  He looked as though he were thinking about her words. “I’m not the stereotypical bartender. I’m sure as hell no shrink,” he said derisively. “But then the people who come to Beauregard’s aren’t the down-on-their-luck type looking to drown their sorrows.”

  She laughed. “True.” She paused for a couple of seconds, then said, “Why do you think they go there? Not the foodies. I’m talking about the ones who hang around the bar.”

  His brows furrowed. “That’s a good question. Some are hoping for an invitation to the back. The couples—I think they want a place that’s got good food and drinks, and that’s loud enough so they don’t have to talk to each other if they don’t want to.”

  “Do you think they’re looking for drugs?” she asked, hoping the question didn’t seem out of the blue.

  “Drugs? Why?”

  “Some of them look like they need a fix.”

  “You think they come to an upscale club looking for drugs?”

  She looked at him and smiled. “Yes. I do.”

  “Have you heard something?” he asked with a casual tone that didn’t hide his curiosity.

  “Why? Have you?” she countered, leaning forward.

  “What’s with all the questions?” he asked.

  “Just curious.” She chuckled. “Hey, maybe I’m the one who’s the shrink.”

  “Listen to me. I don’t know what you want, but if you’re looking to score, there’s some H out there that’s been poisoned. Several…people have died already. So watch yourself.”

  From the desk of Jack Adams. “Oh my God, you know o
ne of the victims,” she blurted, then bit her lip.

  “What? No.” He swallowed. She’d caught him completely off-guard.

  “Yes you do. I’ve seen that look before. I’m sorry.” She watched him. Would he tell her, now that she’d almost guessed it?

  “You’re wrong.” He got up and poured more juice into his glass.

  “Well, good then. In this case, I’m glad to be wrong,” she said. “So, where did you work before?” She tried to make the question sound casual, normal. He turned around and eyed her narrowly.

  “Before?” His fingers tightened around the glass as he leaned against the counter.

  Now that she saw. His fingertips whitening around the glass. She’d finally found a question that he didn’t have a ready answer for. “You know, before here. Before you took the bartending job. Forget it. I was just making conversation.” She sighed exaggeratedly and allowed the sheet to slip off her left shoulder as she took a sip of juice.

  His gaze followed the sheet as it slipped down, exposing the little tank top that allowed the tops of her breasts to show. He swallowed more juice and Lusinda had the most incredible fantasy of his juice-cooled tongue sliding over her heated skin. Stop it!

  “I’m from Chicago.”

  She hiked the sheet back up. She knew the cover story and ID he’d been given. Richard Easton had roamed around and ended up in Chicago. He’d come to New Orleans because his parents had lived here before he was born. In reality, Rick Easterling had been born and reared in New Orleans. There was remarkably little in his file about his family. His parents were both dead. There was an older half-brother John, who had left home around the time Rick was eleven.

  John…Jack? Jack Adams was Rick’s brother. He had to be. That’s what the note meant.

  “What?” he snapped, tensing. She saw the muscles ripple in his belly, saw his biceps bulge and his fingers tighten even more.

  “N-nothing,” she stammered. Had she spoken aloud? “I um—I’d have guessed you were a local.” She swallowed.

  *

  Rick didn’t want to look at Sin but he couldn’t look away. From the instant he’d opened the door to his room to see her crouched on the floor in the skimpy top and panties, brandishing her shoe as a weapon, he’d been fighting a war with himself. The sight of her legs splayed right in front of him had almost caused an extremely urgent and uncomfortable situation for him.

  He’d escaped into the bathroom and by the time he’d come out, he’d managed to regain control of himself. Luckily the cause of his discomfort was curled up on the couch asleep. He’d lain down and tried to sleep but her presence in the other room was too intrusive.

  So he got up and hoped to grab a few swallows of juice and lie down again, but she’d stirred, and now here he was, tangled up in a midnight conversation that was getting way too personal, with a woman who was way too sexy.

  She was staring at him. He pushed his fingers through his hair. What had she said? You sound like a local.

  “I get that sometimes,” he said. “My parents lived here. I left here and went to Chicago years ago. Just got back here.”

  She sat up and pulled her legs up under her, unaware that her sheet had slipped up her thighs far enough that he could see the lace trim on the outside edge of her sexy black panties. Her hair swirled in waves around the nape of her neck and fell in wispy tendrils around her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were big and ridiculously green, and they were fixed on him.

  She tugged the sheet down. Too bad, or maybe not. Those thighs were almost within arm’s reach and the steely determination that he’d honed over the years was fast turning to papier-mâché. His fingers itched to touch her creamy smooth skin and explore just how much those panties actually covered, but he’d promised her that she could stay on his couch for the night, and he’d promised himself he’d be a gentleman. She’d been attacked twice in one night. She deserved a protector, not a predator.

  That wasn’t the problem. Feeling protective toward people was probably a legacy from their mother that he and his brother shared. His problem was that this woman, like no other, filled up his thoughts and made him yearn to be more than just her protector. He wanted to be her everything. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered.

  “What?” Sin looked up, blinking.

  “What?” he parroted, frowning.

  “You said son of a bitch.”

  “Oh,” he continued, trying to recover. He faked a yawn. “I just realized it’s really late and I’ve got to be up really early.”

  She fished around for a second then pulled out her cell phone. “You almost are.”

  He grimaced. He did have to get up early. He was supposed to call Lieutenant Larsen at nine a.m. “Why? What time is it?”

  She sent him a quick grin that made her green eyes sparkle. “Quarter til four.”

  He muttered another curse. “I’ve got to get a couple more hours or I won’t be worth shooting. G’night.” But as he opened the door to the bedroom, he realized he couldn’t just leave and let her stay here. Or hell, maybe he could, but he didn’t want to. Or maybe he did want to, but he had enough sense to know what a very bad idea it would be. He turned back. “You’ll have to leave.”

  She’d lain down again, but she sat up at his words, clutching the sheet to her neck. “Now?” she said, weariness and dread coloring her voice. “I mean, sure,” she corrected, her voice lowering almost a full octave, the dread gone, if not the weariness. “No prob—”

  “Not now. I mean later.” He did a quick calculation in his head. “Say eight-fifteen.”

  She let out a pained groan and collapsed back down on the couch.

  He opened the door and went into the bedroom, closing it behind him. As he lay down, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into and how he’d managed to find the most stubborn and nosiest broad in the French Quarter. And considering how his body was reacting to hers, his promise to her that he was definitely no saint was absolutely true.

  *

  Lusinda woke with the sun shining in her eyes and the taste of old fear in her mouth. She clutched at the covers and sat up, casting about the room, trying to find something familiar. Where was she? When she shifted, she felt the skin of her butt and thighs peeling away from the vinyl. Vinyl? She looked. She was on an old vinyl couch. A place on her thigh stung where she’d slept on a crack in the stiff fake leather. Her bedcovers consisted of a single white sheet and she was dressed in a black tank top and—she peeked under the sheet—a pair of bikini panties.

  She rubbed her stinging thigh as she wondered why her sleep had been disturbed by nightmares she’d thought she’d left behind years ago. She sat up and looked around. Her shoes sat on the side table and her skirt and long-sleeved top draped across the back of the couch.

  Rick Easterling’s apartment. The thought triggered others and faster than a streak of lightning it all came back to her, in a weird reverse order from talking to Rick in the dark to the man attacking her on the street to being man-handled in the bar and saved by Rick to falling down the stairs and landing on top of him.

  Now that she was awake, the nightmares made perfect sense. The dingy apartment where she and her mother had lived, the silverfish and spiders and, of course, roaches—all the fears she’d banned from her conscious mind and her dreams—had returned. She’d been battling dream-roaches for a week, but tonight she’d also dreamed about her stepfather.

  It had been a very long time since she’d had a nightmare about him. Years. Probably since she’d run away from home at age seventeen, leaving her mom and her little brother to their fate.

  This dream was about the last time Abe the Asshole had threatened her. One of the bad times. The morning after her senior prom. She had bought her dress with her own money that she’d made working at a fast-food store, and her boyfriend had brought her a real orchid corsage.

  When they’d gotten back to her house at dawn, after they’d stayed up all night with several other couples, drinking coffee at Denny’s and t
alking about real, important stuff, Abe was waiting for her. It hadn’t mattered to him that her mom had said she could stay out.

  Pushing away the painful memories, Lusinda checked the time. It was seven forty-seven. She held her breath, listening for Rick. When she didn’t hear anything, she jumped up, grabbed her skirt and top and ran for the bathroom. She was counting on a scalding-hot shower to wash away the haze of pain and terror that had sneaked into her dreams. She lifted her face to the hot spray, letting the pulsing water beat against her forehead, but the memories were stronger than the stinging spray. Abe, grabbing her by the arm and jerking her across the room. “You disobey me, you pay for it. Don’t talk back to me, you lying—”

  Terrified and beleaguered with guilt, Lusinda had packed what she could and left, and never looked back. She hadn’t talked to her mother since, although she did keep up with her younger brother through his Facebook posts, tweets and Instagram photos. He was so cute and so grown-up, in the photos he posted of his high school peeps, his latest girlfriend and the pride and joy of his life: his fourteen-year-old Ford Taurus. She missed him, but he was better off without her around. It looked like he—who was Abe’s kid—and her mom and Abe were happy.

  The hot water finally did its job and cleared her brain of those memories, at least for now, and replaced them with a much prettier picture—of Rick Easterling in nothing but green plaid pajama bottoms.

  As she scrubbed herself dry with a rough, worn towel, she looked at the four oval bruises on the top of her arm and the one thumbprint on the other side from T-Gros’s punishing grip. When she fitted her fingers over the large multicolored bruises, they eclipsed her smaller fingertips.

  That memory unleashed more, of Rick casually and with no change of expression squeezing the man’s wrist until he let go of her arm. Then later, the sadness and regret on his face when he saw her rub her arm and wince at the pain.

  Then another dream flashed before her inner vision, a very different kind of dream. She’d dreamed of a rock-hard bare chest dusted with hair, a strong column of neck leading up to a square, lean jaw and a sculpted face and head. And that fine, beautiful face was leaning closer, closer, the mouth slightly open, the eyes heavy-lidded and soft, like dark, enveloping velvet.