by Rebecca York
He dipped his head, rubbing his face against her breasts, and she gasped with the pleasure of that intimate touch.
Anxious to lie flat on the bed so that Alex could lever on top of her, she reached to pull a pillow out of the way and a wave of scent came toward her.
A man’s aftershave.
Not Alex’s. Another man who had been in her bed less than an hour earlier. Jimmy.
Nothing had really happened. Nothing that meant anything to either one of them. She had fooled him into thinking she had done much more than massage her special am nesiac cream into his neck and back. Yet the memory of that episode was like a dash of cold water in her face.
When she pushed against Alex’s shoulder, he didn’t immediately respond.
“Alex, no.”
He lifted his head, his eyes coming into focus.
“I can smell him,” she said in a broken voice. “I’m so sorry, but I can smell him.”
“Who?”
“The guy who was here. You know—not that long ago.”
“Yeah.” He pushed himself up. When he stared down at her, she wrestled the cups of her bra back into place as she fought not to let the tears break through.
Alex’s hand was only inches from her hip, but he didn’t touch her. That was good, because if he did, she knew she would break down.
He cleared his throat. “I came in to find out if you were okay.”
“Yes.”
He climbed off the bed, and she wanted to pull him back, but she kept her hands away from him as she sat up.
“We should talk business. Sorry about that little charade with the maid. Are you feeling better now?” he asked, as he pulled out her lipstick again and turned on the microphone once more.
Hardening her expression, she cleared her throat. “I’m fine now,” she answered.
“Good.”
“What have you found out that we didn’t know before you came?”
Part of her hated the cool tone of his voice, but the sensible part was grateful.
“I’ve only been here a few hours,” she answered.
“Yeah. I realize that.”
“I know that the women who work here are afraid of Madam Dupré. I know that Frank, the doorman, provides the muscle. I know that…uh—anesthetic cream—works. I already gave you what I could on Jimmy. Apparently he’s a legitimate businessman from Lafayette.” She made a small sound. “Well, I guess if he were working for the mob or was a drug dealer, he wouldn’t carry their membership cards in his wallet.”
“Yeah,” he said again.
“And there’s something else the police should pursue. I saw some girls here who look young. I think they might be underage. You could use them to close this place down.”
Alex shook his head. “We can’t close it down until we figure out the drug connection.”
“Right,” she answered in a small voice. She was jumping the gun, probably because she wanted a way out for herself. But she wasn’t going to ask for any special favors.
They were both silent for several moments. “I can tell you that the equipment is working on our end,” he said.
“Good,” she answered, relieved yet hating the implications.
Alex straightened his clothing. “I’ll tell the madam you did a fantastic job,” he said.
Before she could answer, he straightened his clothing, then turned and left the room, and the tears that she’d been holding back began leaking from her eyes and down her cheeks. But she crammed her fist against her mouth, making sure that no sound escaped from her throat, because she was damned if she was going to let the guy at the microphone know she was crying.
NEW ORLEANS was a wicked, wicked city. A hothouse where tourists walked around until two in the morning with alcoholic drinks in plastic cups. One famous strip club advertised its wares with a naked woman swinging over the doorway. Bordellos operated with the silent cooperation of the police. Any illegal drug you wanted was easily available on many street corners.
Ricardo Gonzalez had sent a group of his most trusted hombres on ahead to this hotbed of sin. Now he had come from his country, Nilia, to join them, and he was enjoying all of the pleasures of the Crescent City. But he hadn’t come simply for a vacation. He had business to conduct—business vital to his success in Nilia.
To that end, he was about to have an important meeting with one of the city’s most respected entrepreneurs, Jerome Senegal. Not in one of the city’s plush offices. Or even in a hotel suite. He’d wanted more privacy. And Pedro, his most trusted lieutenant, had found the perfect location—a warehouse at the edge of the French Quarter where several of what were called “crews” stored the displays from their Mardi Gras floats.
So now he stood in the shadow of a fifteen-foot-tall statue of the Greek god Neptune. The statue was holding a trident, his presumably massive genitals hidden by a spray of waves.
Ricardo was wishing he could get out of his bulletproof vest when he heard footsteps echoing on the cement floor. Looking to his right, he saw Pedro striding quickly through a side door. “They’re coming, jeffe.”
“Bueno,” he answered with absolute confidence. He might have been worried about the security of this meeting place. But he had four of his best men on the catwalk above the main floor. And more were stationed behind other stored items, ready to make sure that the meeting went the way he planned. Even when you dealt with legitimate businessmen, you had to watch your back.
Still, his stomach muscles knotted as Senegal strode into the room, flanked by a human fortress of tough-looking men dressed in dark suits.
They all looked as though they were going to a meeting in a corporate office. But Ricardo wasn’t fooled. These guys were prepared to protect their boss from the evil interloper from South America.
Senegal himself was fairly short, not more than five eight. With dark hair and leathery skin that gave him a reptilian look. As he inspected the man, Ricardo knew he was facing someone who was as tough and ruthless as himself, even if the man kept his reputation squeaky clean.
“So, it’s good to finally meet,” Senegal said.
“Yes,” Ricardo answered.
They talked about their business deal for several moments, and Ricardo didn’t like the vibes he was picking up. He was used to controlling situations—and he felt control slipping out of his hands.
“I assume there’s no problem,” he said, his voice tight.
Senegal stood his ground, but his words weren’t exactly reassuring. “There’s been a little glitch,” he murmured.
“Oh?”
“We’ll work it out.”
So what was the problem? Didn’t this guy have the merchandise he’d pledged? Was that the reason for the sudden reluctance? Or did he have cold feet?
“I hope we can work it out,” Ricardo said carefully. “Because it will go very hard with you if you back out of the deal.”
Senegal stared coldly at him, using a look that Ricardo recognized, because it was an important fixture in his own repertoire. “Are you threatening me on my own turf?”
Ricardo answered with a small shrug.
“Who the hell do you think you are, amigo? This is my city. I make the rules here.”
Keeping his own voice calm, Ricardo stated the facts. “It doesn’t matter what city we’re in. I’m telling you that when a man makes a deal with me, he keeps his promise.”
Senegal slipped his hand into his pocket. Apparently that was the signal for two of his aides to draw the guns hidden under their suit jackets.
Ricardo’s hombres responded instantly, stepping from the shadows, their weapons drawn.
At that moment there was so much tension in the room that Ricardo imagined he could see lightning crackling on the Mardi Gras paraphernalia. His men would save him, he knew. But the carnage would be great. Some of them would die in this warehouse. And more of the opposition would go down.
Then Senegal cleared his throat. “There’s no need for violence. We don’t want anyone
to get hurt here.”
“I agree.”
“We both have the same goal. We should be friends.”
“Yes,” Ricardo replied.
“Put your weapons away,” the local man said to his men.
Senegal’s guards instantly obeyed.
Ricardo gave a similar order and the tension in the room ratcheted down several notches.
“The deal will work out,” Senegal said. “And as a gesture of my good will, and a show of good faith, I’d like to extend an invitation to a special private party with some exquisite young ladies.”
“Thank you,” Ricardo answered.
The deal better work out, he thought. Or Senegal was a dead man. But meanwhile, he would accept the businessman’s hospitality.
ONCE AGAIN, ALEX WOKE before the alarm went off. This time he was dreaming of Gillian—in his bed.
His eyes blinked open and he turned his head, almost expecting to see her snuggled next to him under the covers. Which was crazy. He’d never brought a woman here to this house. It was his private sanctuary. The little world he’d created for himself, where nobody would ever make it clear he was in the way. Nobody would lock the door when they were angry with him. Nobody would dress him in thrift shop clothing so that the other kids at school had a field day teasing him. And nobody would tell him to open a can of beans for dinner.
He centered himself here and went out to face the world. This house had helped save his sanity in those last wretched months with the P.D.
But Gillian was invading his space, whether he liked it or not. He’d been on the verge of making love with her the night before. Then she’d stopped him, and both of them had realized that was for the best.
He’d steered them back to a business discussion and both of them had regained their cool. But he wasn’t feeling cool now. And he damn well hoped she wasn’t, either.
“No,” he said aloud. “Don’t be a jerk. She’s in a hell of a situation, and she has to focus on her assignment—not on you.”
GILLIAN WOKE in her opulent bedroom. For a moment she didn’t know where she was because she’d never slept in a place this plush. Then it all came flooding back and she squeezed her eyes closed again.
But she knew it was impossible to hide behind her closed lids. With a sigh, she opened her eyes. From the sunshine filtering in around the edges of the curtains, she judged that it must be late in the morning. At least nobody had come in to wake her up early. She didn’t have to be out on patrol today. She didn’t have anything to do until this evening when she’d have to bring men up here again and pretend to service them.
She wanted to cancel that last thought. As she looked around the room, it was almost possible to convince herself that she was in a luxury bed-and-breakfast. The furniture, the wall coverings and the window treatments were certainly right. But the expensive ambience couldn’t dispel the atmosphere of menace that hovered in the room. This place might be beautiful. But it was evil. And she was part of that evil as long as she stayed here.
She was here only temporarily, Gillian told herself firmly. She might not like what she was doing. But she was in this room for an important reason—to bring down a drug and prostitution ring. And the ends would justify the means.
She had to believe that, or she couldn’t go on with the role she’d been assigned.
But what would happen when the police cracked the case? Would her name get into the papers? Would her family find out what she’d been doing?
She took her lower lip between her teeth as she pictured the reaction of Mom and Dad. They were proud that she’d joined the police force. But they didn’t know what she was doing now.
And they’d better not find out. Surely when a cop was working undercover, the papers would keep her name out of the story.
As she lay in the large bed, she tried to make her breathing even. But there were too many reasons for her nerves to be screaming.
It wasn’t just the role she’d been assigned or imagining her parents’ reaction. Last night when Alex had come rushing into the parlor and brought her upstairs, he’d acted as though he cared about her. Could she trust those feelings? Or had he only been swept along by the whole situation?
And how would he see her when all this was over? She was working undercover for the police department, yet the job wasn’t exactly making her feel good about herself. If she had trouble coping with the implications, how would a guy react who was listening to every moment of her sordid existence in this room?
There was no way to answer that question. With a grimace, she climbed out of bed and stretched. Her mind told her to forget about a relationship with Alex. But as she stood beside the bed, she couldn’t help wondering if he was on duty in the van.
“My first morning in this charming house,” she said aloud, wishing he could answer her. “So far, so good.”
Then she went into the bathroom, where she took a quick shower, blew her hair dry and dressed in the most conservative outfit she could find—a white silk blouse and navy silk slacks.
“See you later,” she said to the room before going down to the kitchen.
IN THE SURVEILLANCE VAN, Alex scowled at the recording equipment and pressed his lips together.
“Nice of her to tell us she’s leaving the room,” Seth Lewis observed.
Alex’s usual partner was Rich Stewart. But Seth was working with him that morning because he’d asked to do a couple of surveillance shifts so he’d get a better picture of the whole assignment.
It was extra duty for the agent, and Alex gave him credit for that. In truth, there were pluses and minuses to the temporary arrangement. He’d sent Seth out to bring them coffee from one of the shops in the French Quarter. On the other hand, he didn’t like having a new guy here, seeing how uptight he was about Gillian.
“So, can you track her around the house?” Seth asked.
“Not unless she carried her lipstick with her, which would look a little strange. We don’t want anyone taking a close look at it.”
“So you don’t know if she gets into trouble.”
“No,” Alex snapped without looking at Seth, feeling like that one syllable had given too much away.
His suspicions were confirmed by the other agent’s next question. “Did you know her from the police department?”
“She wasn’t on the force when I was there,” Alex answered evasively, keeping his voice neutral, hoping to cut the conversation short.
Apparently, Seth got the message because he stopped probing, then pointed to one of the TV monitors.
“Who’s that guy?” he asked, gesturing toward a tall, thin man with greasy hair who was coming down the alley toward the back door of the bordello. He had two scruffy-looking blond girls with him.
“Damned if I know,” Alex answered.
“It looks like he’s rounded up some street kids,” Seth murmured.
“I’d like to warn them what they’re getting into.”
“Yeah, so would Gillian. She told me something about seeing underage kids,” Alex agreed. “But we’ve all got to stay on task.”
Both of them fell silent as they stared at the door where the girls had disappeared.
A DOZEN WOMEN who were sitting around the table in the kitchen looked up as Gillian entered. Some wore attractive robes. Others had put on casual clothing.
“Come sit beside me,” Pam said, patting the wooden chair to her right, then introduced her to the women she hadn’t met yet.
Gratefully, Gillian joined her.
“Coffee?” Dolly asked.
“Yes, thanks,” she answered as the blonde passed the pot of strong, chicory-laced brew.
She helped herself to a carton of apricot yogurt from a tray in the middle of the table. Other women were eating fruit or scrambled eggs.
The conversation was about the weather, hair and makeup and clothing. Then Pam lowered her voice and made a comment about one of the customers.
“Did you see how much Drew was drinking last nigh
t?”
“Yes.”
“I guess he must be having problems at work.”
“Or with his wife,” Lisa supplied, following the statement with a small laugh.
There were murmurs around the table.
Just at that moment, Madam Dupré swept into the room. At the sight of her, the conversation stopped dead, much as it had the afternoon before.
One of the cooks had been approaching the table with a plate of scrambled eggs. He stepped quickly back, out of the line of fire, it seemed.
The madam gave Lisa a pointed look, and the woman’s face turned pale.
“Were you discussing one of our patrons?” the madam asked in a voice edged with ice.
“I, uh,” the unfortunate woman stammered as she sank lower into her chair.
Madam Dupré folded her arms across her chest. “You know that making negative comments about our patrons is against the rules.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“To help you remember, I will be deducting twenty per cent from your earnings for the week.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lisa answered meekly.
Pam looked down at her plate but didn’t volunteer that she should also have her wages docked, since she was the one who had started the conversation.
“How are you doing this morning?” the madam asked, her tone switching abruptly from icy to sweet, and Gillian realized she was the subject of the question.
“Fine,” she answered.
“I’m glad to hear it. We’re one big happy family here. And I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”
“I’m sure,” Gillian murmured, thinking that if she fulfilled her assignment, she’d be breaking up the happy family. What would happen to these women? How would they make a living? She hoped her thoughts weren’t showing on her face as she spooned up some yogurt.
The madam poured herself a mug of coffee and left the room. It was several moments before the conversation picked up again.
Some of the residents of the house got up and quickly exited. Others lingered over breakfast. Gillian stayed to pick up as much information as she could. Fifteen minutes later, another door from the hall opened and a man strode into the kitchen.
