Chapter Two
Shocked, Rick tried to catch his breath, not easy with the girl’s body draped over his chest and her red-clad buttocks so close to his face he couldn’t focus on them. He could focus on her legs, though. They were bare, and went on for miles. She’d lost one of the shoes. He looked at the body on top of him. Attached to her excellent behind in the other direction was a slender back that curved enticingly up to unnaturally black hair. His body reacted immediately and instinctively, but not in the way he wanted it to.
He wanted to shove her out of the way, but he was frozen in place, his eyes and nose and arms full of long, gorgeous woman and his body beginning to tell him—and probably her—how he felt about having well over five feet of firm, luscious female flesh pressed against him.
She took a deep breath, and her breasts pressed enticingly into his right arm. “Sorry!” she muttered as she wriggled around, trying to right herself. The wriggling sent delicious signals to Rick’s slightly dazed brain, not to mention other, baser parts of him.
“Whoa!” he cried. “Wait! Hang on a minute.” Her squirming was rocketing up the intensity of his reaction. He pushed himself up to his elbows, but all that accomplished was to slide her extremely nice bottom lower on his lap. Not better. In fact, it was way worse.
He glanced back at her legs, trying to judge the easiest way to get out from under her without further torturing his growing arousal. There was no help there. He’d already noticed that her legs were perfect. Long and shapely and promising a treasure trove between them. Beautiful, long female legs were one of his favorite things, and these were the best set he’d ever seen, bar none. His fingers twitched to trace the curve of ankle to calf to thigh to—Stop! The situation was getting urgent. He shoved himself up to a sitting position and dumped her off his lap.
“Oh, my.” Carlos Montoya asked breathlessly, “Are you all right?”
Rick answered, “Yes.”
“I was asking her,” Montoya said, holding out his hand to the girl. “Here, sweetie. Let me help you up.”
She took his hand and managed to right herself and stood, tugging on her sleeves. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said. “Haven’t I seen you at Beauregard’s?”
“Why yes. I thought you looked familiar. I’m Carlos Montoya.”
“Hi. Sin. Sin Stone,” she said. “I knew I’d seen you there.” She shifted her weight and landed on her bare foot. “Oh!” she cried, teetering and grabbing onto Montoya’s arm.
“Are you hurt?” Rick asked. He clenched his teeth and reined in his growing arousal, forcing it to deflate by a superhuman exertion of will. Then he stood.
“No,” she said, looking around her. “I’m—fine. I just need my other shoe.”
“Are you sure you had on two shoes? Maybe that was your problem,” Rick asked, not trying to disguise his sarcasm.
She propped her fists on her hips. “I had on two shoes,” she said indignantly. “I tripped. I was rushing to grab something to eat before I headed in to work—at Beauregard’s.” She gestured vaguely.
“You work there?” Rick echoed irritably, tossing a glance at Montoya, who shrugged. She worked at Beauregard’s. Montoya worked for Beau and for the police. This assignment was fast becoming much too complicated. All he wanted to do was get settled in his apartment and then head over to Beauregard’s to apply for the bartender job that should be vacant as of a few hours ago. The NOPD had arranged to have one of the bartenders picked up on an old outstanding warrant, which left the popular restaurant and bar one bartender short.
“Part time,” the girl said, really looking at him for the first time. Her eyes were a deep shade of green that couldn’t possibly exist in nature. She had to be wearing contacts.
“I um—” She stopped and looked down.
“You…?” Rick said before he could remind himself that he didn’t care what she was saying, he just needed her to get out of his way so he could get ready for his undercover assignment.
“I—” She paused again, then swallowed and looked away. “I’m hoping they’ll hire me full time soon, because I can’t live on what I’m making now. Oh there’s my shoe.” She hobbled toward the door, grabbed her shoe and teetered on one foot as she slipped it on. Then she lifted her chin. “Told you I had both shoes,” she said.
Rick felt the urge to chuckle, but he suppressed it, just like he was doing his best to suppress the effect that the delicate curve of her neck and the shimmer of that impossibly black hair were having on him.
He checked his watch. He was going to be late getting to Beauregard’s if he didn’t get a move on. Why in hell were these people blocking his progress? He edged toward the stairs, but the girl and Montoya were both in his way.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I need to get settled and…” He gestured past them toward the stairs.
“So, Richard?”
He growled under his breath. “What?” He didn’t want to look at or talk to Carlos Montoya for one more second. Despite what he’d said, he actually did remember the name and the phone call. It had been from his older half-brother, Johnny. Johnny had wanted to talk to Rick and introduce him to his fiancé, Carlos Montoya. Surprised and a little panicked at the idea of seeing the brother who’d abandoned him almost sixteen years before, Rick had said no. Then a few weeks later, Johnny was dead.
“Watch the time,” Montoya said. “I’ll call you. I’ve got your number.”
Rick half-turned and did his best to kill the man with a glance. It didn’t work. He did have to give him credit. Montoya was no dummy. In one small piece of conversation, he’d reminded Rick that he’d been Johnny’s lover, that he had the number of Rick’s prepaid phone, and that Rick was not going to get rid of him easily.
“I’ll be going now,” Montoya added as he pulled open the street door.
“Good,” Rick muttered. The girl’s gaze met his, her eyes wide. She’d heard him. That was fine with him. He didn’t care what she thought. He folded his arms and assessed the girl, who wasn’t actually a girl. From what he’d seen and felt, she was all woman. But he was not about to try and guess her age. He wasn’t good at it. Early on, after a few bad guesses that had put an end to dates and once a relationship, he’d stopped playing that game.
So while privately he might guess she was mid-to-late twenties, he wasn’t about to voice his guess aloud. She looked young and fresh, with no sign of the jaded slouch and dull gaze of those who’d been kicked too many times by life. She’d done her eyes with the dark shadows that goth girls used, and her hair was the unrelenting black that they seemed to prefer. At least she hadn’t put bright red or purple in it. She had on a black long-sleeved shirt and the red skirt that had buckles all down one side. And then there were those legs.
When he tore his gaze away from her legs, he caught a different look on her face, which disappeared as soon as she saw him looking at her. So far, she’d been bright and a little flirty. But for that brief instant she’d looked unsure, maybe even a little lost. The green eyes, made more intense by the dark eye shadow, had been wide and frightened.
He felt a familiar sensation somewhere around the middle of his chest. He did his best to tamp it down but it stayed put. This happened more times than it should. He’d see a frightened look in someone’s eye and reflexively pop into protective mode. Why was he so quick to step in as protector, maybe even savior? He turned away, disgusted with himself, because if she flashed him that lost, scared look one more time, he’d end up handing her his résumé. Knight in shining armor seeks position saving damsel in distress. Available 24/7.
He’d wasted way too much time with Montoya and this goth girl. Rick had to get that bartending job. Otherwise, his undercover assignment would be blown before it got started.
Rick picked up his duffel bag and pushed past the girl toward the stairs. She moved to step away, and collided with the bag.
“Oof,” she cried, barely catching herself.
“Okay. Why do you wear heels if you can’t walk in them?” he asked.
She tilted her head. “Beauregard’s requires at least a two-inch heel. And I can walk in them,” she retorted, still holding on to the banister. “You got in my way.”
“Yeah. Seems like a lot of things get in your way. How old are you anyhow?” he asked. Damn it.
“Me?” she said, looking surprised. “Why?”
“I just—” He really didn’t have a good answer. He hadn’t intended to ask that question out loud, but judging by her quick response, she was probably about to lie. “I just wondered if you’re old enough to wear those things.”
“Ha-hah. You are hilarious. I’m twenty-four.”
She could be. He nodded.
“Really?” she asked sarcastically. “You can’t even pretend you think I’m younger?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
“Right. Wow. You barely look twenty-three.”
Her eyes lit up as if she was going to smile, but she didn’t. “So, you work at Beauregard’s too?” she said. “I haven’t seen you there.”
“I should be starting today, if I get my butt over there.” He started up the stairs again. “See you.”
“My name is Sin,” she said.
He stopped. “What?” He’d thought he might have misheard the name earlier. “Your name is Sin?”
She nodded and held out her hand. Her fingernails were short and painted black. “Sin Stone. And you’re Richard, right?”
Rick ignored her outstretched hand. “See you later.”
By the time Rick had climbed another couple of steps, he’d left most of the sunlight behind. The tall windows on the first floor were not duplicated on the second. In fact, everything about the second floor was more seedy and dingy than the floor below, and that was saying something.
“Hey, uh—Richard.”
Rick stopped and looked back. The waitress had followed him. Her head stuck up above the landing, her black hair shimmering in the light from below.
His twisted neck began to throb and a slight swirl of nausea wrapped itself around his middle. He’d been having migraines ever since he’d been shot. They were triggered by bright light and strong smells, like bleach or smoke. The musty odor of the hotel combined with the harsh sunlight would give him only a minute or two, if not less, before the pain escalated into a full-blown migraine. Acrid saliva combined with the nausea and made him grimace. He knew the signs. If he didn’t lie down within the next couple of minutes, he’d toss his cookies all over the hall floor.
He risked one last glance at her, and caught a hard expression on her face that vanished immediately. She opened her mouth to speak.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m late.” He turned toward the door marked 203 and a wave of dizziness hit him. Sonofabitch. The migraine was fast taking over his consciousness. It took him two tries to insert the key. As soon as he was inside, he dropped his duffel bag on the floor and slammed the door. He emptied his pockets of the uncomfortable stuff, like his pocketknife, a small roll of duct tape and a few long plastic zip ties—things he took with him everywhere. Then he collapsed on the couch without looking at it. It was vinyl, stiff and unforgiving. Shifting to find a comfortable position, he threw an arm over his eyes and tried to clear his mind. In a minute, he’d get up and dig in his duffel bag for the tablets that dulled the headache and left him with a weird combination of euphoria and panic.
He lay there trying to clear his mind so he could sleep for a while, maybe a half-hour. But every time he started drifting off to sleep, he’d think about the waitress. What’d she say her name was? Sin? Sin Stone. That was a made-up name. Dyed black hair. Bright green contact lenses. Who was she hiding from?
Whoever it was, she’d be doomed once they looked straight at her. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she had the most expressive face he’d ever seen. Every time Rick looked at her, her expression was different. That defiant vulnerability he’d first seen that had brought out his protective instinct; a curious frown, as if she were a trying to make a puzzle piece fit. But when she called to him as he’d climbed the stairs, he’d caught a hard, calculating look, as if she hated him. It was gone so fast he could have misread it, but he didn’t think so. He had to admit, as annoying as she was, she was also fascinating. But he was on assignment, and he’d vowed a long time ago never to get involved while working undercover.
He winced as the pain in his temples ratcheted up. He reached out, managed to hook the duffel bag’s strap and dug inside until he found his migraine tablets. He fumbled the package open, cursing whoever had come up with the idea of child-proofing, and stuck the mint-flavored tablet under his tongue.
Next job was to wipe his brain clean of tension-inducing questions and concentrate on something pleasant and relaxing, like a vision of a quiet lake, or the memory of long, lithe forever legs.
He had just drifted off to sleep when his phone rang. He opened one eye to check the caller ID. It was Larsen. “Yeah?” he muttered.
“Easton?” Lieutenant Larsen said cautiously, using his undercover name. When Rick didn’t answer, the Lieutenant continued. “Someone with you?”
“Headache.”
“Did you meet Montoya?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I met him.”
“What’s the problem? Had you met him before?”
His pulse skittered and pain throbbed in his temple. He pushed himself to a sitting position on the vinyl couch and rested his forehead in his palm. Had Larsen somehow connected him with Jack Adams? Was that why he’d sent Montoya? “No.”
“He’s been working with the department for years. I thought maybe you two might have run into each other at some point.”
Rick bit his lip, suppressing the urge to protest too much. Larsen’s voice sounded just like it always did. He didn’t know anything. “Nope,” he said grouchily. “Y’all really dug around the bottom of the barrel to find him, didn’t you?”
“He’s not that bad. He’s been doing odd jobs for Anastase Beauregard for years. He’s a good CI. Quiet. Keeps his eyes and ears open and his intel is always good.”
“Super.” Rick sat up gingerly. “If he’s that good, shouldn’t we know more about Beau’s operation?” His head had finally stopped throbbing and was beginning to feel like a balloon that would float away if it weren’t tied to his neck. Thank God the medicine was working.
Without stopping to think, he said, “I suppose you know he was screwing Adams, that attorney who was killed.” He grimaced at his words.
“That’s not widely known. How do you know about them?”
Crap. He knew better than to do much talking while he had a migraine. “Heard it somewhere. I forget. How is that not a conflict of interest?”
Larsen laughed. “He’s a CI—not a state employee, Rick. The brass figure Adams’s death gives Montoya a vested interest in helping us find the source of the bad dope.”
“I guess. He doesn’t exactly seem like the most stable pony in the—you know—stable, though.”
Larsen chuckled. “How’s everything else going? You get into the apartment?”
“Yep.” Rick rubbed his temple. “Thanks, by the way, for the five-star accommodations. I’m heading over to Beauregard’s to apply for the bartending job in about a half-hour.”
“Don’t wait too long. You should be a shoo-in. Montoya tells me Beauregard’s only got one bartender over twenty-one and he’s drinking up all the profits.”
“So how does Montoya fit in with Beauregard?”
“Went to work for him when he was a kid, I think. Don’t underestimate him. You’d be surprised at what-all he knows.”
No. You would. Rick hung up. He’d be yanked out of here faster than a speeding bullet if Larsen knew that Jack Adams, one of the victims of the bad dope, was his half-brother Johnny.