by Wendy Rosnau
He rolled it palm-side up.
"Nothing," she whispered, and a little sigh of relief followed. Then she closed her eyes and lowered the gun.
Surprised, but never one to let that cloud his judgment, Blu jumped at the opportunity to disarm her. He surged forward, but his boots scraping over the brick courtyard gave away his intentions. She blinked open her eyes, shook off whatever had come over her and quickly raised the derringer. "Get back!"
"Take it easy." Blu raised his hands. "Put the damn gun down, church mouse, before you drill me without meaning to. That thing wasn't meant to be waved around like a flyswatter. They usually have a hair trigger."
"Then I suggest you tell me what you know about Salvador Maland, or you just might end up a dead fly and tomorrow's news."
"I already told you, I don't know anyone by that name."
"How can you not know someone who has a ten-by-twelve of you in his office?"
Blu shrugged. "Maybe he likes my face."
"I don't think you understand. I'm talking ten feet by twelve feet. Your face covers the entire wall in Salva's office."
That was the weirdest thing Blu had heard in a long time. So weird, in fact, he sifted the man's name through his memory bank once more. But it still didn't produce a familiar face. There was a chance he'd dealt with the man indirectly while working for Patch, but to chase down the name he would have to pay his old boss a visit.
"This picture of me, the one on this guy's wall, is it recent?"
"It's the same one I showed you." She eyed his shaggy black hair, which was a couple inches shorter, but still past his collar. "Please, this is very important."
"Can you refresh my memory?" Maybe it was the desperate look she was giving him that had made him ask. But more likely it was that damn mouth of hers—she had the sweetest little lips he'd ever seen. "How about telling me how this guy and I might have met?"
His innocent question upset her. She waved the gun at him again. "Refresh your memory? Ha! How can I do that when I can't even refresh my own? You're the one who's supposed to be filling in the blanks here, not me. I traveled all the way from…" She clamped her mouth shut, aware she was on the verge of revealing too much.
"From where?" Blu prompted.
She wiped at the corner of one of her big brown eyes. "Never mind where."
Blu realized she was fighting tears. "Listen, fille, maybe if you put the gun down we could talk this over."
"There's nothing to talk over if you don't know Salva or … Kristen Harris." She swore softly. "This has all been for nothing. How could I have been so stupid?"
"Put the gun down."
Blu watched as she lowered the gun. Then, just as quickly, she raised it again. "I put the gun down and then we both walk away, right?"
Blu's answer didn't come quick enough. "That's what I thought. You're not going to let me walk away, are you? Another big man with a big ego. How could I be so lucky?"
"Put the gun down," Blu growled in a bigger voice than before.
Defiantly she gripped the gun in both hands and took aim at his head. "I don't think so. I think you should strip, Blu Devil."
"What?" Blu was sure he hadn't heard her right.
"I said, take off your clothes."
"A nun demanding I get naked? That's a first."
"It's not for the reason you think. I'm not dying to get a look at … at Harvey, or whatever you've named it. That look you gave me a minute ago suggests I won't get a block before you come after me. So I'm taking your clothes for insurance."
She was right about him going after her. No one pulled a gun on the Blu Devil, then walked without paying for the privilege.
"Start with your boots."
"Or you'll shoot me?"
She smiled then, a sexy little smile that showed off pearly white teeth. "At this close range, I think I can hit what I'm aiming at. Don't you?" She took aim at Harvey. "How much do you enjoy being a man, Blu Devil?"
Not as coolly as he would have liked, Blu said, "No complaints."
"Then I suggest you protect your assets by pulling off your boots." To prove she meant business, she tugged back the hammer.
"Bon Dieu, fille. You don't want to do this," Blu warned. "I never forget a wrong. Never."
"I believe you're a man who means what he says, but I don't have a choice. Your boots, Blu Devil."
Swearing, Blu leaned against the brick wall and removed his left boot. Next, he pulled the right one. But just as he was setting it down, he dropped to his knees and hurled the number twelve at the nun's outstretched arm. The gun discharged as it hit the concrete, the bullet ricocheting off the bricks in the narrow courtyard like a Ping-Pong ball. On instinct he drove forward, snagged the nun by her long black skirt and dragged her down.
It was all over within a few hairy seconds, or so Blu thought until the church mouse hefted the boot that lay within arm's reach and clouted him alongside the temple with enough force to cause him to see stars.
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
"You say she was wearing nun's clothes, but you don't think she was a nun?"
Blu turned from the window in the New Orleans Police Department and gazed a Ryland Archard, one of the NOPD's most respected homicide detectives. "I don't think too many nuns pack heat, do you, Ry?"
"She had a gun?"
"A fancy little .22 derringer. A specialty piece with a pearl handle."
"A nun with a gut warmer. That's a first for me."
"For me, too."
Blu saw the amusement in his brother-in-law's eyes. He knew how ridiculous it all sounded. He also knew what a slim chance he had of finding the gutsy little fille. But he was determined to try. He'd wrestled with the idea the entire night. Those damn eyes and her dainty pink mouth had kept him awake; that, and the headache she'd given him by crashing his own damn boot into his skull.
True, he was curious as to why Salvador Maland had put his face on an entire wall in his office, but that wasn't the primary reason why he'd shown up in Ry's office first thing this morning. Something important was driving that fille, something powerful enough to make her dress up in nun's garb and pull a gun on him. She'd been scared to death, and still she'd stood her ground.
Blu wanted to know why.
"I want you to help me find her." There, he'd said it. He'd asked his brother-in-law for help.
"Did I hear right? You want my help?"
The smug look on Ry's face was followed by an open-faced grin. Blu swore crudely. "Oui, you heard me. I've already cleared it with Brodie. I'm taking time off work and he's agreed to do double duty until I get back."
Ry's grin faded. "You've never taken a day off in your life. Well, not willingly anyway. Speaking of time off, Margo and I are headed for Texas for two weeks. She wants to meet my parents and brother."
"When?"
"We leave tomorrow."
"Your timing stinks." Blu saw the way Ry's brow arched. "Okay, so I was expecting more than just a little help. I know this isn't your field of expertise, but I really need to find this girl."
"If it's that important, I'll get in touch with Jackson. He can follow it up on this end."
Jackson Ward was Ryland's rebel partner—the loose cannon of the outfit. A man who was on suspension more than he was on duty because he didn't go by the book on anything.
"So Jackson's working?" Blu asked. "Last time we talked he was on suspension."
"He was just reinstated yesterday."
"That won't last long."
"It never does," Ryland agreed. "But when he's working, he's the best there is."
"I thought you were the best. That's what the paper claims."
"And we know that every word the paper prints is gospel, right, hero?"
Reminded of the harassment he'd endured over the past year due to freedom of the press over his "heroic deed," Blu snorted.
"So Brodie's willing to wrangle with Spoon Thompson on your behalf for a few days? That shou
ld be worth a front-row seat."
Blu grimaced. "Oui. Those two are about as agreeable as two cottonmouths fighting over the same rat. No, Brodie's not too happy about me taking time off, but he's a good friend."
"He proved it last year," Ryland agreed. "Not too many men I know would have lived through the beating he took from Denoux's men to protect you and Margo. No, Brodie Hewitt is a good man. Though I would certainly like to know where he calls home. No one seems to know his story. A man who keeps himself a mystery is a man who usually has something to hide."
Blu remained silent. He knew Brodie's story, but he'd sworn to keep it to himself. When Brodie was ready to deal with his past, he'd head home. But until then, Blu would value Brodie's friendship and the big guy's loyalty to the duFray Devils.
"Do you think this girl has something to do with your pal, Patch? You made quite a few enemies when you were working for him. Maybe she wants revenge for some old, unsettled score."
"Then why didn't she just shoot me? She had plenty of time if that's what she wanted." Blu walked away from the window and the warmth of the morning sun and sat on the chair in front of Ry's desk. "She asked me if I knew a man named Salvador Maland. She seemed to think I should. And when I said I didn't, she called me a liar."
"You're sure you don't know him?"
"I don't think so. Does the name mean anything to you?"
"Not offhand."
"She had the damnedest eyes," Blu mused, still unable to forget their warm color, or her sexy little mouth.
"This is personal, then?"
"Hell, yes, it's personal. Damn personal when a fille you've never seen before points a gun at your nuts and threatens to blow them off."
Grinning, Ry said, "Sure would have made a helluva headline for the Times-Picayune."
Blu evil-eyed Ry. "The girl pulled a gun on me and you're making jokes."
"You make it sound like it was the first time you've ever looked down the barrel of a gun."
"It was with a young fille backing it. Claiming to be a nun, no less."
"Is that what's bothering you, that it was a woman?"
"You're not listening. She was little." Blu held up his hand. "About this big."
"So she's maybe five four, not a woman, and not a nun?"
Blu swore and was halfway out of his chair when Ry pulled a notepad from his drawer and said, "Not so fast. Give me some facts."
Blu eased back down onto the chair. "You mean, a description?"
"Yeah. What did she look like? What was the color of those damnedest eyes?"
"Brown. Soft brown."
"Hair?"
"Didn't see it."
"You said she's young?"
"Real young. Eighteen at the most. And she's…" He held up his hand again. "Five feet, four inches sounds right."
"Any identifying marks? A mole or birthmark?"
"Didn't see any."
Ry glanced up. "I thought you were going to give me a description."
"She was covered in black from head to toe. You've seen a nun, haven't you? They wear black … everywhere."
"Everywhere?"
Blu refused to let Ry get under his skin. "I'll let you know once I find her."
"So what we've got is a pair of the damnedest brown eyes, and she's maybe four inches over five feet. And she's wearing black … everywhere."
Blu wished he had something more to offer. "Ah, her mouth…"
Ry was waiting with his pen poised. "Yeah?"
"Ah, she's got… She's got great teeth."
"Teeth?" Ry tossed the pen onto the desk. "Well, hell, that makes all the difference in the world. We'll see her coming, then."
"I'm out of here." Blu was on his way up once more.
"Sit down," Ry growled. "I need some coffee. You want some?"
"No." Blu watched his brother-in-law stand and head for the coffeepot in the corner. Ry was an inch shorter than Blu's six-three, and where Blu's eyes were a deep chocolate, almost black, Ry's were as blue as the morning sky. His sandy-brown hair was cropped close to his head, and the comfortable jeans and boots he refused to give up after making detective, fit the rugged Texan perfectly.
At thirty-four, Ry's status with the NOPD had steadily climbed. He was not only considered a fine homicide detective, but the next in line for a promotion. But more importantly was his claim to being the luckiest man alive since he'd married Blu's sister—a beautiful nightclub singer twelve years younger than him, who kept the Toucan Lounge in the French Quarter packed to full-house capacity three nights a week.
"She gave me another name, too," Blu drawled. "She asked if I knew a woman by the name of Kristen Harris."
"And do you?"
"No."
Ry returned to his chair with a cup of coffee. He jotted the name down beneath Salvador Maland's. "So how did you and our little nun part company? How did you disarm her? Did you get the gun? We could trace—"
"No gun." Blu confessed.
Ry eyed the cut and fresh bruise on Blu's forehead. "What's that from?"
Blu hadn't intended to go into the details of how she'd gotten away from him, but if he didn't… "She, uh, she told me to…"
"She told you to what?" Ry prompted.
"To strip," Blu confessed grudgingly.
Ry was in the process of taking a sip of his coffee. He promptly choked and messed his shirt. "Dammit." He eyed the brown stain spreading on his broad chest, then, still scowling, looked back at Blu. "And did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Strip?"
"I took my boots off." Blu rubbed his temple, remembering the way she'd smashed the heel into his head. "I toppled her before I lost my pants. But then she hit me over the head with my boot."
While Ry laughed, and patted dry the stain on his shirt, Blu climbed out of the chair, jammed his hand into his jeans' pocket and paced back to the window. "It wasn't that damn funny."
"Normally I'd agree if it had happened to someone else. But you've got to admit it's not every day a nun asks the Blu Devil to strip at gunpoint, then knocks him out. With his own boot, no less."
When Blu only grunted, Ry sobered—a little. "Okay, let me run these names through the computer and give Jackson a call. When he finds out something he'll be in touch."
Before Blu could agree, his sister opened the door and stuck her head inside. Surprise filled Margo's eyes when she saw who stood in her husband's office.
"Blu? What are you doing here?" When she spied the cut on her brother's head, she gasped. "Oh, my God! What happened?"
Blu touched his temple. "It's not worth mentioning, so don't ask." He shot Ry a look that told him to keep his mouth shut. His sister was as protective as a mama bear over a newborn cub. If she thought Blu needed her, she would likely cancel her trip to Texas.
Margo frowned at him, then glanced at Ry. "Is he telling the truth or is he hiding something?"
When Ry hesitated, Margo faced Blu, her hands landing on her trim waist. Her dark eyes—a matched pair to her brother's—narrowed with suspicion. "All right, let's hear it. You promised me and Mama that you were done working for Patch Pollaro."
"I am," Blu insisted.
"Then what's this?" She gestured to the cut on his head. "And why are you here? I can count on one hand how many times you've willingly set foot in this office."
"Margo." It was Ry's voice that brought her up short. "You promised you would back off and give it a rest. Harping ain't pretty, baby."
"Harping? I don't harp. It's called, I'm - your - sister - and - I - have - a - right - to - be - concerned." In a visible huff, she planted her butt in the chair opposite her husband and crossed her long legs.
Blu gestured toward Ry. "I was hoping once you married him, Chili, he'd take up all your worrying time."
His pet nickname for his sister didn't soften her. "I have plenty of 'worrying time' for all of my family. But in your case—"
"Easy, baby," Ry warned.
Margo brushed her black hair off her shoulders,
her gaze locked on Blu as she talked to her husband. "I can't help it, Ry. He promised me he would take better care of himself after nearly getting killed last year. And as far as I can see, he doesn't look like he's keeping his promise. I'll just bet Patch Pollaro is behind this."
"I told you, I quit him. Go down to the Red Lizard and ask Patch if he's seen me lately. He'll tell you he hasn't laid eyes on me in a year. I'm officially retired. I'm no longer breaking arms or fingers at a hundred dollars a pop."
Blu watched his sister squeeze her eyes shut in disgust.
"Don't talk about it."
"You brought it up."
"Then let's drop it."
Blu was about to agree when his stomach growled.
"Don't tell me you haven't eaten yet today? A shrimper who goes hungry." Margo shook her head. "Honestly, Blu, it's not like food is hard to come by. You just throw the nets out and—"
Blu threw up his hands and looked to Ry for help. "Now she's attacking the way I eat. And this is the woman you chose to wake up next to for the rest of your life?"
"And they say men don't whine." Margo stood and gave Ry her full attention. "I guess I'm off to feed him. Do you want— What's that on your shirt, honey?"
"Coffee."
"Coffee? Ry, coffee stains. I just bought you that shirt. Last night it was butter. This morning it's coffee. Do you think I should make an eye appointment for you?"
Ry scowled at his wife. "Because your old man's eyesight is failing?"
The mischief in Margo duFray ran deep. And, like her brother, if she chose to remain stone sober a crowbar couldn't make her crack a smile. "It's not my fault you're cresting the hill, honey. If you need glasses—"
"I can still pick a lock, can't I?"
"Yes. Last night you actually—"
"This is sweet," Blu interjected, "but could we—"
Margo rounded on her brother. "How would you know anything about sweet? Who have you been practicing on lately?"
"No one. I don't date, remember?"
"No, but you should. There's this new waitress at the Toucan who—"
"Is very nice," Blu finished. "Forget it."
"What's wrong with nice?"
"Nothing."
"So you never plan on bringing anyone to Sunday dinner? Never?"
