No Saint

by Mallory Kane

  Lusinda pushed her fingers through her damp hair and licked her lips. Whew, Johnston, she thought. Better stop having fantasies about the subject. Fast!

  Speaking of the subject, he would be getting up soon. She’d better get her butt in gear and get dressed. He’d said he had something to do this morning. Well, so did she. Two somethings. First, she had to retrace her steps from Beauregard’s and see if she could find her keys. They had to be there where the guy had jumped her. Then she had to call Carlos and make an appointment to talk to him. She wasn’t sure how she’d explain why she needed what she needed, but she figured she’d have a couple of hours to work on that.

  She hated to put on the same clothes she’d worn last night, which smelled of cigarette smoke from the bar, but they were all she had. She dressed quickly. When she walked out of the bathroom, she ran into Rick.

  “Crap!” she cried at the same time as he said, “Shit!”

  She held up her hands to ward him off, but he was already backing away. In contrast to her stale, wrinkled clothes, he was dressed in jeans and a bright white T-shirt and smelled of coffee and sunshine.

  “What the hell?” she cried.

  “Watch out!” Rick said at the same time.

  *

  Or at least that’s what he thought he said. He wasn’t completely sure, because his brain and body were both quite confused by the sight before his eyes. A droplet of water rolled over Sin’s delicate collarbone to disappear into the neck of her top. His imagination took over and followed the droplets to where they ran like tiny rivers between the mountains formed by the creamy curve of her breasts. Her skin, warm and stimulated from the shower, looked so much like pink cotton candy that his mouth watered. His gaze slid down to where the bottom of the shirt didn’t quite meet the top of the skirt. That skin was smooth and creamy and, God help him, damp there, too.

  “Hey,” she snapped. “Keep the eyes up here.” She pointed with her first and middle fingers at his eyes, then hers—his, then hers.

  He obeyed, blinking. Her gaze was narrowed and her brows were lowered. Regaining a bit of control over his mind and body, he grinned at her and held up the keys he’d found. “Lose something?” he asked, dangling a piece of macramé in front of her face.

  “Oh my God, my keys. Where’d you find ’em?” she asked as she tried to grab them from him, but he held them over his head and she, barefoot, couldn’t reach high enough to even touch them. She placed a hand on his chest to steady herself, and he felt the heat from her skin penetrating all the way through him.

  “Where you dropped them,” he said irritatingly reasonably.

  She moved her hand to his shoulder and stretched more, and her breasts pressed against his chest as she strained upward. Almost immediately, she realized what she’d done and bounced backward, steadying herself against the wall. She held out her hand. “Give ’em to me,” she demanded.

  With a slight flourish he laid them on her palm. Her fist closed around them. “What time did you get up anyway?”

  He shrugged. “Seven maybe?”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t wake up. I’m a very light sleeper.”

  He laughed. “You? Hardly. You were snoring when I went out the door.”

  “I don’t snore!”

  He just looked at her.

  “I don’t…” She stopped. “Oh bite me.”

  “Just say where.”

  Ignoring him, she stalked over to the side table, grabbed her shoes and headed out the door. He heard her muttering, “Damn it, damn it, damn it,” as she started up the stairs to her room on the third floor.

  “Hey, Sin,” he called after her.

  “What?” She hesitated.

  “Will I see you tonight?” he asked, watching her closely.

  She frowned at him, her face turning pink. “Tonight?”

  “At Beauregard’s,” he said, grinning. “Are you working tonight?”

  *

  “Oh I—” She tried to think what day it was but there was nothing—nothing—in her head but the scent and sight of Rick Easterling. She lifted her chin. “I don’t know. I’ll have to check my schedule.”

  “See ya,” Rick called as she headed straight upstairs to her apartment.

  When Lusinda turned the key and stepped inside her apartment, she breathed a sigh of relief. The tiny space in the old hotel wasn’t much, but it was hers, at least for the time being. She stripped the bed of its sheets and spread and inspected it for vermin. After all, she’d been gone overnight. Who knew what could have crawled in there.

  Finding it clean, she made it up again. Then she changed into pajamas and climbed under the covers to sleep. As soon as she’d shut her eyes, she remembered Carlos. With a sigh, she picked up her phone and dialed the number she’d copied off the piece of paper from the leather jacket’s pocket.

  Carlos answered with a gruff sound that might have been a greeting.

  She looked at the time. “Carlos, I’m sorry. It must be early for you.”

  “Who is this?” Carlos asked, sounding a little more awake.

  “Sin Stone. I work at Beauregard’s. I fell down the stairs about the time you and Rick—Richard Easton walked in.”

  “Oh, I remember you. Kind of goth, but trying too hard? Hair too black?”

  Lusinda grimaced. “That’s me,” she said brightly.

  “What is it you need?” She heard bottles clinking and water running. “I’m making a cup of coffee.”

  “Should I wait?”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me that would help me at—Beauregard’s?”

  “Help you with what?”

  “Oh, get in good with Darla or Earl—or Beau?” She held her breath. “Anything I could use to get a better job or, you know, make more money.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking, but Beau frowns on the front room wait staff getting busy with the customers.” He laughed. “He has a few standards.”

  “No, that wasn’t—wait. Are you saying he doesn’t have standards about most things? Like what?”

  “Oh, honey, it would take me a month to list all of Beau’s shady dealings. It would be quicker to tell you the few things he does believe in.”

  “I just want something I can use—maybe so people think I might have an in with Beau? So maybe I could get a full-time job or at least more hours?”

  “Did you try doing a better job?”

  “Ouch…?” she said wryly.

  “Sorry. You’re serious? Because you don’t look like the type.”

  Lusinda started to ask him what type, but maybe she’d be better off pretending to understand.

  “Beau’s not the only one with secrets—or a short list of standards,” she said coyly. She heard Carlos blowing on his coffee then taking a drink.

  “Girl, you surprise me. Mmm, good coffee.” He sighed. “I can tell you one thing, but don’t let it come back on me, or you’ll regret it. Understand?”

  She swallowed. Carlos sounded kind of tough. A little surprising. “Yes! Of course! I swear.”

  “I may have hinted to Earl that Richard might be working for a man called T-Gros.”

  “Wha—?!” Lusinda’s throat closed in shock. She coughed. “You what?”

  “You know T-Gros?”

  Lusinda had to come up with something to say. “I um, I’ve heard that name,” she said, trying not to let her panic affect her voice. She held the phone away from her mouth and took a deep breath. She needed to calm down.

  “Yeah? Where?”

  “I think he was at Beauregard’s last night, or the night before. White, clammy face? Huge? I remember because the name was weird. So who is he?”

  “He showed up out of nowhere and set himself up in Metairie, but he’d like to establish himself in the French Quarter.”

  Lusinda’s mouth went dry. She had to sound like she didn’t know what he was talking about. “Establish himself? You mean drugs?”

  “Girl? Na�
�ve much? Of course, drugs. He thinks because he’s been in Metairie a couple of years, now he can move into the Quarter.”

  “So what I’ve heard about Beau is true? And you set up Rick as working for a rival drug lord? Why would you do that? Beau will kill him.”

  “Please. Beau doesn’t work like that. He’s having him watched. Beau believes that there’s no one on earth smarter than he is, so he’ll play with him until he gets bored.”

  “And then what? What will happen to Rick?”

  “I thought you wanted some juicy tidbit to impress your bosses. Hint to Earl that you think Richard is acting oddly. That he’s asking questions. Earl tells Beau everything.”

  “But I don’t want to get Rick in trouble with Beau.”

  “Don’t worry about that. He can take care of himself. Anyhow, that’s what I’ve got.” He hung up.

  Lusinda sunk down into the bed. It surprised her that Carlos would do that to Rick. But he was right. Rick could take care of himself, and she could certainly use the information Carlos had given her to convince Rick that she knew things about Beau. As she got comfortable and prepared to go to sleep, she couldn’t ignore the idea that manipulating Rick could be dangerous.

  Chapter Nine

  Rick rolled his shoulders and sighed. The hours of forced inactivity behind the beautifully carved antique bar in Beauregard’s were about to get to him. He continued polishing the spotless mahogany surface as he nodded at the woman who had just sat down.

  In less than two days he’d learned a lot, some from Earl and some from observation. He already recognized a few of the regulars and what they drank. Earl told him that the woman was the middle-aged Manhattan-drinking real-estate agent whose uniform was a never-ending collection of power suits. Only the colors changed. She came in every evening, had two doubles, smoked about a dozen cigarettes. What he learned on his own was that she apparently was going to give him a twenty-dollar tip and a suggestive look every night. She never spoke to anyone but the bartenders, never ate and she never talked on her phone, which was always at her fingertips, underneath the pack of cigarettes.

  A little while later, the bourbon-swigging suburban dude in coordinated outfits that were probably chosen for him by a personal buyer showed up. Rick would bet money that the guy drove an SUV hybrid.

  Thinking about them made him consider Sin’s question about why these people came here. As he looked around tonight, he pondered that question. He was working undercover at Beauregard’s for two purposes. As a cop, he hoped to find out who was manufacturing and distributing poisoned heroin and why. As Johnny Adams’s brother, he was determined to find the people who had murdered Johnny and bring them to justice, one way or another.

  A waitress called his name and he realized she’d spoken to him before. He filled her drink orders and flirted a bit, then glanced at his watch. Sin had come on duty around seven o’clock. He figured she was working until midnight, which seemed to be her usual part-time shift.

  She came to the bar and entered a drink order into the computer. He filled it for her and watched as she walked through the crowded tables in her section. She had a loose-limbed grace, thanks to her long legs and arms, but if she’d ever waited tables before, it had been a long time. Plus it was obvious she wasn’t used to walking in heels. Not even the clunky ones she wore. She had trouble when the room was crowded. Dodging customers and other wait staff while carrying a large tray was never easy, he’d already learned. But a skilled waitress like Nina had a sashaying way of balancing the tray and dodging people.

  He wondered why Sin had taken such a low-paying part-time job, and why here at Beauregard’s. She wasn’t dumb and a place like Beauregard’s would not be at the top of the list for anyone, not even a down-on-her-luck hardscrabble waitress. As she dug for her dupe pad and took orders at a table, Rick went back to watching the customers and employees and thinking about the day before, his first day at Beauregard’s.

  Meeting T-Gros Grossman the night before had been a lucky break. He shook his head. Had he only been at this for thirty-six hours? It felt more like a week.

  After a lot of research and discussion, he, Larsen, and a few trusted fellow homicide cops had decided that targeting Anastase Beauregard was the smartest way to find out information about the bad dope. Even if Beau wasn’t involved, the smart money was on this area, the edge of the French Quarter. But maybe they’d all been wrong. Earlier this morning he’d told Lieutenant Larsen about T-Gros showing up at Beauregard’s to have a drink. Grossman, an entrepreneur who’d moved into the Metairie area and built a couple of clubs there, was rumored to be interested in giving Beau a run for his money in drug trafficking in the Quarter.

  Rick hadn’t mentioned Sin Stone to the Lieutenant. He’d asked about getting more aggressive, telling his Lieutenant that all he’d done so far was learn how to mix drinks and get acquainted with a lot of people who spent time and an amazing amount of money drinking at Beauregard’s. Not to mention that he stuck out like a sore thumb. But Larsen told him to hang in there, assuring him that the best thing he could do would be to show himself as loyal and trustworthy to Beau.

  Normally, when Rick went undercover, he was left to his own devices and made his own decisions, including his undercover story. Normally, his superiors trusted his judgment. But not this time. This time he’d been told what his undercover persona would be. He’d been told when and where to set up and he’d been instructed on the information he needed to gather.

  He wasn’t an idiot. He knew that the only reason he was allowed to work this case at all was because he was suspected of corruption after the dope and the contaminated money were found on him. He knew he was being set up. His superiors were hoping that being inserted into the middle of what they believed to be the center of the poisoned drug ring would make him careless enough to incriminate himself. What disappointed him was that Larsen, who’d been his mentor through his entire career, wasn’t doing more to stick up for him. Although, he knew there was a ton of pressure on Larsen.

  A waitress put an order in for four beers. He filled frosty glasses for her, and was putting four more glasses in to frost when he saw Sin out of the corner of his eye, entering an order into the computer. He glanced her way. Her hair looked a little tousled, as if she’d hastily run her fingers through it.

  Bam! A vision pummeled him. Sin, her hair damp and tangled, her shiny clean face pink from her shower, naked on top of him, as he drove them both to climax. Oh crap, was he in trouble.

  There was a reason he never dated anyone while he was on an undercover assignment. Getting involved with someone when he was not who he said he was, was a risky business. It could be dangerous for him and her. He’d vowed before his first undercover assignment that he would never take that chance and he never had.

  The real-estate lady stood and looked at her watch. She caught his eye and with deliberate movements placed a bill under her drink glass. Then she blew him a kiss. He nodded goodbye, wondering how long it would be before she tried to collect on all those twenty-dollar tips.

  “She’s not shy about what she wants, is she?” Sin said.

  “What? Who?” He knew the answer, but he wasn’t in a good mood, and he was pissed at himself and Sin for the daydreams he’d been having.

  “Her.” Sin gestured with a slight nod of her head. “It’s obvious that she wants you.”

  “No shrink, no gigolo,” he muttered as he finished her drink order and placed them on her tray.

  “Ah, but no saint either,” she murmured and sent him a wink as she hefted the tray.

  “Hey, bartender,” an annoyingly familiar voice said. It was Fred Miller, a fellow detective from the Eighth Precinct. He looked like an idiot working a theme park in a denim jacket and cowboy boots. He leaned against the bar and hooked a thumb around his silver belt buckle.

  Working to keep his face impassive, Rick addressed him. “Help you, Sugarfoot?”

  Miller leaned forward with a grin, apparently completely mi
ssing Rick’s sarcasm. “Hi-ya, sailor. New in town?”

  Rick gave him a glare that he knew had melted larger and more dangerous men in the interrogation room. He lifted his chin a fraction, sending a message he thought surely even a dolt like Miller would not fail to read. “Aren’t you mixing your metaphors a bit?” Rick grated between clenched teeth.

  “Huh? Mixing what?”

  “Never mind. Can I fix you a drink?”

  Miller smirked and pulled out a stool with a swagger. “Sure, honey,” he drawled. “Give me a draft.”

  Rick drew the beer and set it in front of his fellow cop. What was Miller doing here? If Miller was his contact, Rick was in for weeks of unrelenting jokes and innuendo. If he was lucky, Miller was working on another aspect of the case, or maybe a different case altogether. After a glance around to be sure no one was close, Rick spoke to Miller in a whisper. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Miller drank a long swig of beer, then wiped his upper lip. “Had a hankering for a night on the town.”

  Rick glanced down the bar and saw that Sin, who was back and entering another order, was frowning at Miller. Granted, the man did look like he was on his way to a Most Idiotic Halloween Costume Contest. When Sin saw Rick looking at her, she rolled her eyes and looked away. Had she made Miller as a cop? He didn’t think so. Miller was good enough to fool most people. But her expression had not been amused or surprised. Her frown had seemed more puzzled. Had she seen Miller before? Did she recognize him from somewhere? That was all Rick needed at this point, for her to say something about the new bartender being chatty with a cop. The thought he’d had the night before came back to him. What if she was spying on him for Beau?

  “Hey, Richard.”

  It was Bobby. There was an odd note in his voice. “Yeah?” he answered, turning to look at the boy.

  Bobby was pale, maybe even a little green. “Man, I’m supposed to serve at the private party back there tonight. I don’t know how to make all those drinks. What am I going to do?”