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  “You okay?” he asked as he swirled a martini shaker.

  “What? Yeah, sure,” she said, shrugging and feigning nonchalance.

  Nodding, he efficiently strained the martini and headed down the bar to give it to a gray-haired woman.

  Lusinda picked up the tray full of drinks and almost tipped it over before she got it balanced. She walked around, delivering them to her customers, only spilling a few drops as she balanced the tray. As she worked, she thought about Easterling, focusing on him as her assignment, not him as a man. She was here to prove whether the bag of poisoned heroin and the wad of cash with traces of the drug on it, which had been found in his pockets when he was shot five weeks ago, were planted as he’d claimed, or were a payoff from the very people he had now been assigned to expose, the people who had put the contaminated drug on the streets.

  He had no idea his undercover assignment was a setup, or that Lusinda was the undercover police officer assigned to him.

  A blond George Michael wannabe came in from behind the bar with a case of rum and unloaded it. He wandered over to Easterling. “Rick?” he said, sidling up to him.

  “Yeah, Tom?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Rick shrugged. The guy glanced around, then muttered something in a voice too low for Lusinda to hear. She caught the words, know what to do… and if she won’t… It sounded like he was asking for relationship advice.

  Rick hesitated for a second, then said something back to him. Something that turned Tom’s face a bright red. Rick straightened, leaving Tom gaping at him. Then Tom burst into laughter. Rick winked at him and headed toward a middle-aged man who held up his empty glass. He took it, saying something to the man, who smiled and nodded.

  Easterling obviously deserved his reputation at the Eighth Precinct. He could adapt to any situation. He could fit in anywhere. Although he neither looked nor acted like the other bartenders or customers, somehow he was able to charm them all with little effort.

  Even Lusinda, who knew he was a police officer undercover and believed him to be dirty, was affected by him. His gruff demeanor was a potent aphrodisiac and she was certain he knew it. He was good. He’d almost hooked her, and she was no fluttery teen to be swept off her feet. That made her all the more suspicious that he was probably guilty as sin. Her lip curled up at her unintended pun.

  She heard Nina yelling at her and she realized that a large party had come in and were looking for a table on her side. From the looks of them, this wasn’t their first stop. Good, she thought. Maybe they’d be good tippers.

  She reached into her pocket for her dupe pad and a breath-catching pain reminded her of her bruised arm. As much as she hated to admit it, Rick was right. She shouldn’t have encouraged Pasty-Face. There was something very creepy about the man, and he’d been much stronger than Lusinda had judged him to be. Without thinking, she rubbed her arm. Through the material of her shirt, she could feel the sore places where the man’s fingers had squeezed.

  I pay extra for bruises. A very real terror slithered like a snake up her spine. She was going to have to be more careful. She pulled her shirtsleeves down as far as she could over her wrist bones. At least bruises didn’t leave scars.

  When she brought the drink order back to the bar from the table, Rick was wiping the bar with a wet rag, his hard biceps flexing as he moved his arm in lazy circles. The number of people hovering around the bar had gone down again.

  “Well, Rick. Looks like you scared off quite a few customers,” she said as she keyed in the drink orders.

  “I did what I had to,” Rick replied.

  “Did you? Did you really have to?”

  “I told you—”

  She held up a hand. “I know. The guy was dangerous. Pretty girls don’t look so pretty.” She met his gaze. “Do I look like some naïve kid who can’t take care of myself?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a tilt of his head.

  “Look, Rick. I’m doing my best to get a full-time job here. Right now, I’m praying for a spectacular night in tips, because I don’t have enough money to pay my rent. I’m not working here for exercise, or for my master’s thesis or to experience waitressing for a movie role. I actually need this job. I mean, did you see that guy’s wad of Benjamins?” She hoped she was using the current slang. She was using the term she’d heard Vic use. “He was loaded. You may have cost me some big money.”

  “You know you’re not allowed back there. You’ll lose your job, or worse. That’s the first thing they told you, right?” He nodded toward the curtains then assessed her. “Get the idea out of your head right now. That’s a world you don’t need to be in.”

  Lusinda knew that. Darla had been very clear, and O’Reilly had warned her. She couldn’t even imagine what her old partner Vic Fouchere would say. But Rick’s tone made her feel as if he thought she was too dumb to realize how much trouble she’d have gotten herself into.

  “He talked big, but did you look at him? He was probably all talk.” She resisted the urge to rub her arm where Pasty-Face’s surprisingly strong fingers had squeezed. “I could have made a killing tonight.”

  “Right. ’Cause he pays extra for the bruises,” Rick said flatly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled bills. “Here, if you need money, take this and forget about the back rooms. I’d rather not find you beaten up in the alley, or worse.”

  He dropped the cash onto the counter in front of her.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped. “Put that away!” Too late she realized that Sin Stone, desperate young cocktail waitress, barely holding body and soul together in the mean streets of the French Quarter, would have grabbed the cash and acted as though she’d just hit a royal flush. Before she could reach for it, Rick gathered it up and put it back in his pocket.

  “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” he said. “Why don’t you go home to Daddy? Do you need me to buy you a bus ticket?”

  She didn’t hear anything after the word Daddy. Tears burned into the back of her throat. She wanted to scream at Rick, Don’t even say that to me. Don’t dirty my daddy’s memory with your words. But she couldn’t. She had to keep in character, had to hold on to the attitude she’d adopted. She did her best to wipe his words from her brain. “Come on, Rick. My name is Sin, but it’s not short for Cinderella. So climb down off your white horse. I’m doing just fine. I might have exaggerated about the money. I can probably scrape together enough to give the landlord the rent.”

  “I hope it’s not due today, because you’ll be out of luck. He doesn’t answer the door after nine o’clock.”

  She knew that. In fact she was counting on it, because as pitiful as it was, this was her big plan to infiltrate Rick Easterling’s apartment. “He’ll open the door for money.”

  “Yeah, no. That guy wouldn’t open the door for an abandoned baby. And that means…” He shrugged as his gaze slid down her body and back up.

  Her breath caught. Had her plan worked? Was he about to offer to lend her his couch for the night? She’d started this day with only one goal: get close to Richard Easterling. That was why she’d lied about the rent. But now, faced with the actuality of success, she wasn’t sure what his intentions were. Or how she would handle him if he made a move on her. She raised her brows. “Means what?”

  “You’re liable to end up sleeping under the stairs until he opens up at nine tomorrow morning. Hope you’ve got a jacket with you. Could get cool.” He set the last of her drink order on her tray.

  For some reason, his words cut deep. She felt heat rising up her neck to her ears and cheeks, and a lump grew in her throat. She took another drink of orange juice, hoping its coolness would spread as quickly as her embarrassment had. The cool, tangy liquid was hard to swallow around the lump.

  He was watching her, and those two little lines between his brows were deepening.

  “No problem,” she said, holding her hands up, palms out. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle
myself.”

  “As well as you handle those trays?”

  “Hey. I’m a good waitress. I’m just a little out of practice,” she said and glanced at the clock. “My shift is over. Once I deliver this drink order, I’m headed for a place where Prince Charming doesn’t work.” She finished up her orders and closed out her time in the computer, then stood with her back to the bar, counting her cash tips.

  “Hey, Sin,” Rick said. He had a smile on his face, as if something about her had amused him.

  “What?” she said irritably.

  “Don’t forget your groceries—from the grocery store.” He held up the bag.

  She grabbed it and tossed her head. “Thanks,” she snapped.

  On her way through the door to the lockers, the heel of her shoe clipped the metal threshold and she almost tripped. She felt heat rising again and wondered if it were embarrassment at tripping or merely remnants of the sting from what he’d said.

  “Maybe it’s those shoes,” he called after her.

  As she finished unloading her apron pockets into the locker and grabbed her keys to lock it, she saw Bobby, the young stock boy, heading toward the back door to the bar. “Goodnight, Miss Stone,” he said.

  “Goodnight, Bobby.” She bit her tongue to keep from saying anything to him. Darla was right. Neither Bobby nor anyone else who worked at Beauregard’s was her problem, but he reminded her of her younger brother, who might be just about his age, around sixteen or so. She passed a hand over her forehead. Not your problem.

  As she stepped outside into the cool spring night air, she decided that her first day on this case was a good one, even if all she’d managed to do was plant herself so deep into Rick Easterling’s brain that he couldn’t possibly forget her. Okay, so she hadn’t figured out how to get into his apartment. She still had time to work out an addendum to her plan.

  It occurred to her that Rick could be every bit as dangerous as her stepfather was. She was sure of it. Fear, intimidation, and sometimes even violence had been her stepfather’s ways of handling everything. Today she’d witnessed Rick nearly break a man’s wrist with almost no effort, stare down an impressively large bodyguard and shut up his buddy Montoya with a look.

  So why, when all the evidence she’d read about him screamed bad cop, was she so fascinated by him? She should be delighted at the opportunity to expose him. Instead, she was intrigued by how quickly he came to her defense.

  And if she lived to be a hundred, she’d never forget the look in his eyes when his fingers touched her bruised arm. It had appeared regretful, even sad. The man was definitely confusing, and his presence, not to mention his touch, tied her up in knots.

  *

  Rick was still thinking about Sin when Bobby came up to him. “Rick,” he said nervously.

  It was an effort for Rick to tear his thoughts away from Sin Stone. “Yeah?”

  Bobby’s gaze darted around the room, making sure no one was near enough to hear. “I’m supposed to be learning how to mix drinks.”

  “That’s illegal. What are you—sixteen?”

  Bobby drew himself up to his full height and tried to look tough. “I’m seventeen.”

  Maybe in six months. “Still too young.”

  “I think that’s to drink ’em. All I need to do is learn how to make ’em,” he said. “Earl said I should get you to teach me.”

  Rick grimaced to himself. It was actually illegal for Bobby to be working here, but he didn’t want to make waves. Earl already didn’t like him. “Okay, then, but holler if you see a cop.”

  “A cop?” Bobby said, his voice high and tight.

  “Settle down, kid. I was kidding.”

  Bobby’s face turned a bright pink.

  Rick glanced at a woman who had been sitting by herself at the far end of the bar and ordering one Long Island Iced Tea after another. When he met her gaze, she nodded toward her glass.

  “See the woman over there?” He nodded toward her, using the gesture to show Bobby who he was talking about and to let her know he’d seen her. “Can you tell what she’s drinking from here?”

  Bobby looked, squinted, then shook his head as his shoulders sank. “No.”

  “That’s something we both need to work on,” Rick said. “I wouldn’t know either if I hadn’t mixed it. Apparently when you get good enough, you can tell the drink just by the glass, the color and the garnishes.”

  “Garnishes?”

  “Yeah. The cherry or the olive or the celery stick.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Rick grabbed a double highball glass. “She’s drinking Long Island Iced Tea.” He quickly mixed the drink, explaining to Bobby about the ingredients and the proportions.

  “What about the tea?”

  Rick smiled. “It’s called Long Island Iced Tea because it looks like iced tea in the glass. It’s the right color, but with vodka, rum, tequila, gin and Grand Marnier in it, it’s a long way from tea. Now, she’s had three already, so this is going to be her last one.”

  “I should tell her that?”

  Rick shook his head. “Oh no,” he drawled. “Do not tell her anything. Keep the customer happy, right up to the second you eighty-six ’em.”

  Bobby just looked at him.

  “Eighty-six means cut ’em off. Don’t let them have another drink. The bartender can decide if a customer has had too many drinks. Most of the time it’s not a big problem. Occasionally, there’s a big man or a bully who takes exception. And that’s one reason the security guards are standing around. Beau likes to get rid of the troublemakers smoothly without making a scene.”

  “Why’s it called eighty-six?” Bobby asked.

  “There are a lot of theories about where the term came from, but it’s probably from article 86 of the New York liquor code.” At Bobby’s increasingly dismayed look, he continued. “Don’t worry about any of that. Just take her the drink with a smile.”

  Bobby took the drink to the woman, spilling only about two tablespoonsful of it. To his credit, he thought about setting down a napkin first, then setting the drink on top of it.

  “Good job,” Rick said when Bobby came back to stand beside him. “Tell me something, kid. What are you doing here?”

  Bobby frowned and his neck turned red. “I work here.”

  “Yeah, I get that. But why? Where are your folks?”

  A stubborn scowl darkened Bobby’s face. He probably had to answer that question a lot. “What the hell, Rick? I thought you were cool.”

  Rick chuckled. “I’m not that cool. You’re underage. You’re working here as if it’s a summer job, but it’s not, is it? I’m guessing your parents wouldn’t choose Beauregard’s for your summer work experience.”

  Bobby didn’t say anything. He stared at the liquor bottles, as if he were trying to memorize their labels.

  “Well? Are your folks in the picture?”

  “No.”

  “Where are they?”

  The kid didn’t answer for a long time, but it was obvious that he was accustomed to doing what adults told him to do. After a minute or so, in which Rick didn’t move or say anything else, Bobby finally spoke. “Biloxi.”

  “Biloxi, Mississippi,” Rick echoed. “That’s not that far away. You could have gotten a job in Biloxi, maybe at a casino.”

  Bobby shook his head. “You can’t work in the casino until you’re twenty-one.”

  “Yep, because you’re too young to drink,” he said pointedly.

  Nina came up to the bar with a drink order, so Rick let the conversation drop for the moment. But he planned to get back to it. He was no expert on runaways, but he had a feeling that Bobby’s situation wasn’t desperate. Bobby didn’t have the haunted, dull look of kids who were on the streets because they had no other choice. He’d find out more, and then he’d see what he could do about getting Bobby back to his parents.

  Chapter Five

  The glow of neon signs lighting the sky and the muted cacophonous mix of saxophones, horns, laug
hter and shouts from Bourbon Street kept the streets west of the French Quarter from being completely dark or quiet, but Lusinda wasn’t paying attention. She was thinking about the pasty-faced man and how he’d tried to grab her. Rick Easterling had literally swooped in like a knight in shining armor to rescue her, complete with protective fervor lighting his dark eyes.

  Lusinda nearly tripped on a piece of broken sidewalk under a shattered street light, but caught herself. She needed to pay more attention to her surroundings. This edge of the French Quarter could be dangerous to walk at night and there were a lot of broken lights on Rampart Street.

  Not two seconds later, she felt a tingle at the back of her neck. She sped up slightly, listening. Yes, that was the crunch of footsteps behind her. She kept walking steadily along, with no outward indication that she’d heard anything, but she listened intently, assessing the situation. From the footsteps, which sounded heavier and farther apart than hers, she figured it was a man, probably a tall man. His stride was long, but not steady. The uneven halting footsteps told her the guy was struggling to match his pace to hers on the uneven sidewalk. She could hear him breathing steadily, with an occasional hitch when he had to change pace.

  She kept walking briskly, keeping an eye out for broken concrete or rocks that could trip her. She had good momentum going if she needed to run or wheel around and deliver a surprise blow to her follower. Instinctively, her hand went to her cross-body handbag, giving her immediate access to her weapon, except that Sin Stone, cocktail waitress, didn’t carry a gun. It would be a very bad idea if she were stopped by police or worse, if she were searched by Beauregard’s security guards. As soon as they saw her police-issued weapon, they’d know she wasn’t just a girl trying to make ends meet. Her cover would be totally blown. So she’d made do with a can of Mace® in her bag, as well as a smaller can tucked inside her tank top.

  She coughed, covering her mouth with her hand, then pulled out the miniature spray can. She palmed the can with her finger on the spray nozzle and kept walking.