You see her in shadow. Curves and lace. Her presence draws you closer, deeper into a dark room.

Her face is hidden behind a Mardi Gras mask, red feathers fanning outward. Black sequins outline her eyes, eves so powerful they leave you helpless as you move slowly but surely toward them. She lounges on a chaise. Inside floor-to-ceiling windows, waiting, watching.

Outside the window rests a balcony of twisting iron, mill moonlight shining through the square grates to highlight her body. The room takes on the color of deep ruby ret, but that and the windows and the balcony are all peripheral because you see only her.

You want her with a force that turns you inside out; you fear she can see all your secrets, that they're written your face, in the clench of your fists, in the heat you know burns in your eyes. This is more than sex. More than you want to feel But it’s pouring out of you like a liquid thing. You can’t stop it.

Your eyes drop to her breasts, hugged by low-cut black lace with a rose embellished in red on each cup. You kneel before her and let your hands close over them, your fingers curling into their softness. Through the lace, firm nipples jut into your palms. Your stomach contracts. You 're trembling now.

You squeeze, caress, bend your head to kiss through the bra. Her gentle moan shoots straight to your groin. More, you need more of her.

Reaching up, you slip your fingers beneath one black strap and slide it from her porcelain shoulder. You grip the edge of the scalloped cup, pulling down. You lower your mouth to one pink nipple, hard as a pearl as you lick, suckle her, want somehow to take her inside you.

As you inhale her scent—sweet roses—your hand glides down over her smooth stomach into the lace panties below. She sighs with pleasure, and touching her that way nearly buries you. There are things you want to say to her, desperately, but you can't find the words. Maybe there are no words, nothing to describe what you're feeling. You're not a man gifted with a silver tongue—and besides, if you want to use your tongue to make her feel good, there are better ways.

Releasing the hard peak of her breast, you tug gently on the black panties, where you find that same red rose inlaid on the front, until she lifts and lets you draw them down her thighs, over her stockings and sexy black heels. When she parts her legs for you, you think your chest might explode. You've never been this hungry for a woman. Never. You can't wait another second before dragging another lick up her centre.

She sighs ,at each stroke of your tongue, rising to meet you. You’re making love to her with your mouth, praying she knows it’s lovemaking, also sacred she knows. You’ve never let a woman’s need become the biggest part of sex, but in this moment, your desire is secondary—this is all about her. Her. Her.

She slows her rhythm, but accentuates it at the same time, lifting higher, harder. You know she's getting close, Your only reason for existing is to make her come. You wonder if it's possible you could come, too, just from this.

A low. keening cry from above.

Fingernails grazing your scalp, hands coiling into tight fists in your hair.

A glance to the black sequins finds her eyes shut; she bites her bottom lip as she leans her head back against the red pillows

Come. Come for me. Now.

As if on your silent demand, her cries deepen, stretch, fill the room as her sex fills your mouth with even more intense strokes. Your hands curve around her ass to help her, lift her, and on and on it goes on and on, this orgasm from this woman whose face you can't see but whom you still need so much. Finally, she relaxes, her pelvis easing back to the chaise, leaving you with the taste of her on your tongue,the sight of her closed legs below you. You lower one last delicate kiss at the juncture of her thighs. Perfect fulfillment.

It was only by chance that she sat before a mirror as she rolled the silk stocking up her leg. She saw herself in the glass, wearing only the stocking and a pair of satin cream-colored panties.

"Get a thong," Melody had instructed her. "It'll make you feel sexier."

Stephanie had ignored that part. She hadn't particularly wanted to feel sexy.

But as the second stocking whispered up the smooth skin of her calf, thigh, the lace top resting only a couple of inches from her crotch, a hint of titillation rose there, unbidden.

"It takes more than a pretty dress," Melody had said. "You have to feel it. Sell it. You have to be it, or you'll never fool anybody."

Sell it Those were the two words she'd plucked from Melody's advice. If Stephanie was adept at anything, it was selling. Products. Pitches. This was a little different, of course. No a lot different. But that didn’t mean that she couldn’t pull it off.

She glanced back at the cheval mirror in the corner of her room. She'd never seen herself look so purely sexual.

Getting to her feet, she stepped into the ivory cocktail dress, sliding her arms through spaghetti-thin shoulder straps, reaching behind to the zipper. The fabric pulled close, again sending an unexpected tendril of awareness through her body. Awareness of self, of her own sensuality.

Strange, the journeys life led a person on—strange what someone could make themselves do for love. If anyone who knew her could see her now—sexy dress, strappy shoes, about to plunge into a decadent city's underworld—they wouldn't believe it. She could hardly believe it herself.

Fastening a bracelet, she glanced to the bedside clock. Ten thirty. "Plan to arrive just before eleven," Melody had said "That's prime time at the hunt."

A fresh shot of trepidation whirred through her. Wait a few minutes and maybe you can convince yourself it's too late, past prime time. You can take off this silly dress, put on pajamas, and watch TV or read a book.

Only problem was, if she didn't go tonight, she'd have to go tomorrow night, or the next night. And every night she talked herself out of it was another night Tina was missing.

Letting out a sigh, she took one last look in the mirror. She didn't even recognize herself.

Maybe that was a good thing.

Half an hour later, a cab pulled to a stop on an ancient, narrow street, delivering her to her destination. She felt sinfully beautiful. She felt naked. She wished she were anywhere else.

“Chez Sophia," the driver said.

She handed the polite middle-aged man a ten over the seat. "Keep the change."

Stepping out into the sultry night, she watched the taxi dart away and battled a brief second of feeling too alone. Put her in front of a roomful of hard-nosed CEOs in a sharply cut suit and she was a confident, eloquent woman in perfect control of everything around her. The stark contrast of where she was—who she was—tonight, struck once more.

Yet she'd come too far to turn back. So she took a deep breath and turned toward Chez Sophia, staring up at elegant fern-hung balconies, all curving wrought iron and grace. That quickly, the aura of the place began to surround her, the sensation nearly as cloying as the sticky air.

Moving toward the front entrance in heels that clicked on the sidewalk with each stride, she subtly tugged upward on the bodice of her low-cut dress in some last-minute stab at self-preservation.

But no. She wasn't here to be herself. All her suits were at home. She'd come to be someone else—someone she could never really be. Biting her lip, she gently pulled the clingy fabric back down, maximizing her cleavage. Feel beautiful. Not naked.

"Good evening, miss. Welcome to Chez Sophia." The twenty-something doorman wore a white shirt, red vest, black tie.

She manufactured a smile. Sell it. "Thank you."

He motioned toward the interior of the grand saloon, abuzz with people drinking, smoking, laughing. A Dixieland trio played in one corner, the large bass briefly drawing her eye. "Our high-tech dance club is straight down the hallway, the Zydeco Lounge is to the right, and -"

"I'm here for the private party." That's what Melody had told her to say.

The doorman's eyes changed. To disappointment? Lust? Surely she was thinking too much. Either way, his gaze dropped boldly to her cleavage before he brought it back to her face. That's all she was tonight—cleavage, curves.

"Through the doorway past the stairwell," he said.

"Thank you." But she could no longer meet his eyes. Damn it, you 're supposed to be selling it.

As she walked farther into the club, she decided now would be a good time to start doing just that. If all you are is cleavage and curves, sell that. Feel it. Be it. Like Melody said. Just for tonight. Everything depended on it.

Men watched as she passed, clearly thinking her a different sort of woman than she was, even without the knowledge of the "private party" she'd come for, and again the juncture of her thighs suffered a slight tingle. Strange, maybe even shameful, to feel that now, yet as she was drawn more deeply into the place, she understood Melody's advice. She couldn't do this halfway. If she were to pull it off, she had to let herself feel every forbidden bit of it. So as she exited the door past the stairwell, she attempted to relish the fresh sensitivity in her breasts, to embrace the soft, slight throb between her thighs.

A large, dark-skinned man wearing a familiar red vest and black tie waited outside the door. "Private party?"

"Yes." She'd turned the one simple word silky, sexy. Practice.

"All the way to the top." He pointed up a wooden stairway painted white. Old brick walls surrounded the steps on all sides, and as she ascended, she realized she was outside again, in an enclosed courtyard. It seemed as if she were traveling a maze to reach the soiree tucked deeply within Chez Sophia—but she supposed that made sense. A thin line of perspiration trickled between her breasts.

Four half-flights of stairs later, she found another doorman, this one young, blond. "Welcome to Sophia's private party." He held the door open with a ready smile.

A wild sense of nervousness barreled down through her chest as the reality of what she was about to do struck but full force. But as she entered the room through red velvet curtains drawn back by gold cord, she struggled again to condense her feelings to the sensual, the sexual— nothing more.

The scene before her was awash in elegance, from the crystal chandeliers to the gentle clink of wineglasses to the soft jazz permeating the air. Men in well-tailored suits stood chatting with beautiful women in cocktail dresses, some shimmering with sequins and beads. Others sat on plush couches and graceful divans that sprinkled the space in bold splashes of scarlet, amethyst, cobalt.

That's when it hit her. I can do this. Outwardly, the crowd .didn’t appear unlike those in her world. This was her world. This was just another cocktail party. The only difference was that instead of selling an ad campaign, tonight she was selling herself.

She scanned the crowd for Tina. Her heart sank when she didn’t find her, but she hadn't expected it to be that simple anyway, and now she had to mingle, pretend, convince. She had to flirt. But she was horrible at flirting, so even if this was all about selling, something she could do, she needed a drink to bolster her courage.

Clutching her small sateen purse tightly, she made a beeline for the long mahogany bar to one side of the luxurious room. A dark-haired guy stood behind the expanse of polished wood operating a blender, his back to her, as she climbed up onto a bar stool. A moment later, he stopped the blender and turned. "What would you like?"

Her heart nearly stopped just from looking into his eyes. He was everything she'd never been attracted to. Rugged. Unshaven. Unabashedly sexual without even trying. Mid night black hair framed his strong face, along with several days' stubble curving across his upper lip and chin. One wayward lock of hair dipped onto his forehead, drawing attention to deep, sensual brown eyes. Warm and chocolaty, a place to drown. A black T-shirt stretched across a muscular chest and broad shoulders, a hint of a tattoo peeking from beneath one sleeve. The forbidden sense of arousal already coursing through her veins deepened.

He cocked his head slightly. "Did you want a drink, bebe?"

She finally caught her breath. "Um, yes. A Chardonnay, please."

As he reached for a stemmed glass, she dug in her purse, placing a twenty on the bar, all the while fighting her reaction to him. This wasn't her. She didn't get excited by a guy on mere sight. Especially not one who looked so ... dangerous.

When he lowered her wine to a square napkin, his eyes fell on the cash. "What's that for?"

She blinked. "The wine."

His narrowed gaze only added to the sensations between her thighs. "Ladies don't pay."

She softly pulled in her breath. "Oh. Right." His tone said she should have known that. She shoved the bill back into her purse, then reached for the glass, taking a large swallow.

"First time here?"

What sort of accent was that? Something slightly Cajun? "Um, yes." She nodded, softly, trying to quit feeling like a schoolgirl. Here she'd finally begun to think she could control this situation as efficiently as she controlled the rest of her fife, and this darkly sexy man was already turning her soft and vulnerable, emotions equally as foreign as the sensuality currently pummeling her.

Time to take back control, to start doing what she'd come here for. And the bartender seemed like a good place to start.

Sell it, she reminded herself, reassuming her silky voice. "I was hoping to run into a friend of mine here. Maybe you know her. Tina Grant?"

His brows knit slightly, making her wonder what he found so perplexing about the question. "Your friend in the escort business, too?"

She nodded.

He shook his head lightly. "No, chere, afraid the name doesn't ring a bell."

Strike one. Fortunately for her, she had more than three but just like when she'd first entered the room, she'd simply hoped against hope that maybe she wouldn't have to look any further.

As she took a sip of wine, his slow smile blazed all through her, heating her skin with the same force as the sun breaking through the clouds on a hot summer day. "What are you smiling at?" She forgot the silky voice, too curious to find out what prompted that wicked grin.

"Just thinkin' you probably been sittin' on that stool longer than anyone ever has."

She lowered her chin, confused. "Oh?"

"Girls don't come here to sit and have a nice quiet glass of wine, chere. They come to work. They don't usually waste time." He shifted his eyes to the crowded room behind her and her chest tightened. "Not that it's any of my business," he went on, "but it's after eleven. Place'll start clearin' out soon."

She opened her eyes wider. "So early?" Melody hadn't mentioned that.

He gave a soft laugh. "This isn't exactly the main event of the evenin', you know." Then he tilted his head, his warm eyes penetrating her defenses. "Your first time here, or your first time period?'

For some reason, she refused to let him think she was brand-new at this. He already seemed to have the upper hand, and she didn't intend to let him keep it. "Just my first time here. And I'm not in a hurry."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself. But I'd hate to see that pretty dress and hairdo go to waste."

The sentiment reminded her once more: she was cleavage and curves tonight.

In her world, how you looked was only one part of your identity; here, everything was about the business of flesh. "Maybe you're right." She slipped down from the stool and lifted her glass. "I should ... get to work."

His expression softened, but his eyes still had the power to burn into her soul—or at least the spot between her legs. "Good luck, chere."

That escalating sensation—no longer just awareness or sensuality, now pure desire—persisted as she immersed herself into the crowd. She took another sip of wine and repeated her new mantra in her mind: Sell it. Sell it.

Although, admittedly, part of her remained back on the stool peering up at the bartender. What had come over her? It's just the dress, she told herself. And the evening's quest. That was the only reason her body had reacted so strongly to the guy.

Just as she wandered aimlessly through a sea of suits and slinky dresses, wondering what her next move should be, a man's hand fell on her shoulder. She hated his touch instantly, the clammy feel of his palm on her bare skin, but forced a smile.

"Hi there, honey. You new in town? Don't think I've seen you before." The pushing-fifty guy sported a deep Southern accent and a beer belly beneath his expensive black suit. His graying hair looked unkempt, the style too long for a man his age.

Sell it. Unfortunately, it was much harder with him than with the bartender. "Um, yes, this is my first night here."

"That so? Why, I'd be more than happy to break ya in .. so to speak." He winked. "I'm stayin' at the Fairmont. Real fancy place—we can get it on in style." He concluded with a laugh that made her stomach churn.

"I’m...sorry," she said, "but I'm already ... spoken for. I'm meeting someone here. A prearranged date."

He looked crestfallen. "Well, I'm mighty sorry to hear that, But what say we get together another time real soon?"

She sighed. "Um... perhaps. I'm sure I'll bump into you again."

He flashed a leering grin. 'That sounds damn good. I'll be lookin' forward to it."

As he was bout to move off in search of greener pastures, she remembered her mission—and reached up to touch his sleeve. His lusty gaze beamed down on her.

"Maybe you can help me with something. I was hoping to find a friend of mine here—she's fairly new in town, too. "Her name is Tina...."

"I ain't much good with names, honey."

"She's blond, twenty-five, has a light complexion, and..." She trailed off, realizing she'd just described around a third of the women in the room.

Above her, the beer belly shook his head absently. "Sorry," he said, taking off into the crowd, clearly uninterested in helping her if she wasn't going to be in his bed tonight.

Jake Broussard popped a mint in his mouth and kept an eye on the blonde moving through the crowd. She was trying her damnedest to look poised and relaxed, but something about her didn't ring true. Maybe she acted a little too sophisticated, or maybe her updo was a little too severe, precise—not one pretty golden hair out of place. Not that he hadn't met plenty of working girls who pulled it off with class, but for some reason, he didn't quite buy Miss Chardonnay's claim of being a pro.

"Pour me another, Jake. And a second glass of wine for the lady."

He drew his gaze to Charles Winthrop, a married forty-something scotch-on-the-rocks who came in every Thurs day night for a little adultery. The lady on his arm this evening was Tawney, a brunette Chablis who couldn't be a day over eighteen.

"Sure," Jake replied, scooping ice into a glass and reaching for Winthrop's favorite brand of scotch.

As he poured the drinks, Winthrop slid one hand from Tawney's hip up to the side of her breast. "Drink up, honey, and we'll head to a hotel."

Winthrop handed Jake a twenty and said, "Keep the rest." A common statement from the men who climbed the steps to Sophia's secret third floor. They figured big tips bought Jake's discretion.

What they didn't know was that he didn't care. He didn't care that Winthrop was screwing around on his wife, and he didn't care that, at the moment, he was doing it with an obscenely young girl, likely younger than Winthrop's own daughters. Once upon a time, he did care—about people, about righting wrongs, about trying to fix things in his own little corner of the world. But those days were gone.

"Have a good evenin'," he murmured as the couple strolled away. He didn't mean it. But he didn't not mean it, either. He really didn't give a damn either way, so long as he earned his paycheck. That's what life was about for Jake the last two years—earning a paycheck, and sleeping.

The paycheck was easy—he worked at Chez Sophia a few nights a week, setting his own schedule. It didn't take too many hours behind this particular bar to make a decent living when you picked up hundred percent tips all night long. And as for the sleeping, it was getting better lately. He hadn't had a nightmare in a couple of months.

But the thought brought to mind the dream he'd had the other night. He couldn't ever recall a dream being so detailed, so intense, so erotically raw. What the hell had that been about?

It's your dick complaining.

Probably. Couldn't blame it. The last time he'd had sex had been....too long ago. But every time a girl came on to him these days, he found himself bored, apathetic. He

just wanted in look the other way. Wanted to go home and go to bed alone.

Of course, other than the girls at Sophia's, he didn't run into many. Because other than work, he stayed in. Lifted weights. Slept.

"This is no way to live," Tony had told him a few weeks ago when he'd shown up at Jake's place unexpected.

"You live your life, I'll live mine," he'd said. "I'm doin' fine."

Tony had nosed around, peeking in the near-empty fridge, spying the piles of dirty clothes in Jake's bedroom. "Yeah, right. Fine."

Jake knew he wasn't fine just as much as Tony knew it, but he only wanted to be left to himself, left free not to feel—anything.

Now he remembered that waking up from the dream had left him with a vague, nagging sense of guilt that had stuck around for hours. Damn, couldn't even outrun feelings in his sleep. Couldn't even dream about something as simple as sex without it getting complicated.

Wiping down the bar, he scanned the crowd for Miss Chardonnay again. She wove slowly through the well-dressed men and scantily clad women, but seemed to be doing a lot more moving than stopping or talking. "Not gonna get picked up like that, chere," he mumbled.

Maybe she was a cop. He made a mental note to ask Tony if he knew anything about an undercover vice operation. But he didn't think things were quiet enough at the NOPD that they'd started actively pursuing misdemeanors. Not unless somebody knew for sure that other crimes were tied in. He knew Tony suspected they were, but since Tony didn't have enough to move forward, Jake doubted anyone else in the department did, either.

Or maybe she was a reporter, looking for a story. Prostitution was practically a tradition in the Big Easy, but the men who "shopped" here in the "high-priced hooker zone," as Tony called it, were often public figures, guys who expected discretion because they had a lot to lose. List their names in the newspaper and, well... he was sure that kind of expose could garner any journalist some major attention. So that idea actually held a little water.

Either way, though, she was playing with fire. You didn't play games with men as rich and powerful as the ones who came to Sophia's third floor. If anyone else developed the same suspicions he had, things would get ugly real fast.

Not that he cared. He didn't.

She was a big girl—she surely knew what she was getting herself into.

He didn't care, but then ... why did he keep watching her. Why did he give a damn why she was here? Since when did he even pay attention to the people who came to his bar? They were all drinks to him. Bloody Mary’s, whiskey sours, rum and Cokes. Merlots, Cabernets ... and chardonnays.

Over the next half hour, the lush interior of the room became more pronounced as the crowd thinned, pairing off for the evening and moving on to hotels or apartments.

Once or twice, he saw the blonde talking—with other girls, a few men and found himself wishing he could hear their conversations, since they would probably reveal

to his practiced ear, whether she was here looking to make money like any good escort or whether she'd come for something else.

"Just don't say anything to get yourself in trouble," he murmured as he studied her across the room conversing with Malcolm Unger, a prominent local attorney and a

whiskey neat—and just one example of a guy who wouldn't like finding out he was flirting with someone who might be a reporter.

By eleven-fifteen, only a handful of customers dotted the velvet-and-brocade room: a drunk parish judge with an expensive hooker perched on each knee, and a group of young corporate types laughing and drinking with three girls. And Miss Chardonnay, who strolled swiftly past the bar, high color in her cheeks, breasts bouncing gently with each step.

"Chere," he said.

She looked up and, when their eyes met, stopped.

He held out one arm, motioning her closer.

Although she complied, wariness filled her gaze.

"Get yourself a date for the night?" He'd had to ask, couldn't help himself.

She pulled in her breath, looking affronted by the question. Nope, no way was she a working girl—they weren't that sensitive. "Dates" were their job.

"Um ... no, if it's any of your business."

Another dead giveaway. A woman who looked like that, in a room full of men seeking sex, and she hadn't found any takers? He tilted his head, let her see just a hint of suspicion. "I find it hard to believe a lovely lady like you didn't get an offer tonight."

She released a soft breath, looking nervous, but also determined. "I... made a few dates for other nights, if you must know."

Possible, but he still wasn't buying. The third floor was all about instant gratification. And damn if he knew why he gave a shit, but something just beneath her surface seemed so innocent that he had to press on.

Just this one, last time, he promised himself. Just this

one last time, you can try to save somebody. After that, it was back to working and sleeping and not caring.

"Listen, chere, you got anyplace to be right now?"

She blinked, looking uncertain, and gave her head a light shake.

"Good. Hang around a little while."

Her eyes widened. They were a soft, inviting shade of blue. "Why?"

He let the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. "Nothin' too terrible, bebe. Just want to talk to you a minute. What do you say? Stick around while I close up the bar?" He motioned to the right. "There's a little room just around the corner. You can wait there."

Her gaze sparkled with hesitation, a hint of fear.

Did she think he was going to proposition her? If his suspicions were right, he'd probably just scared her shitless. Good, that was the point. "How about it?" he asked again. "Stay?"

Miss Chardonnay bit her lip, then slowly nodded.

To his surprise, he felt that nod tightening his groin, "Good chere. See you soon.

Sex had never been her thing.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t had it—she’d slept with a few guys.

But she’d just never understood the overwhelming power sex had over people, the all—consuming force it seemed to be. And although she’d tried to “get it”, she’d spent the last ten years, since losing her virginity in college, wondering what all the fuss was about.

Now Stephanie looked around the small room he’d sent her into, in awe. The outer room was opulent, but this space? Downright decadent. Red silk and velvet abounded. Even the antique ceiling tiles were painted red. Mounds of red pillows and bolsters, some with gold embroidery, others sporting large tassels, cushioned the lush red sofa she sat upon. Red brocade wallpaper provided the backdrop for sensual paintings with a Renaissance—period feel, featuring naked women draped with swathes of fabric. Warm dark objects filled the room—a globe on a thick cherry pedestal, a grandfather clock—and countless red velvet stools and ottomans sprinkled the small space. A room

That belonged in the most extravagant bordello, she thought. A room made for sex. A room that almost made her want to have sex. Everything in it made her want to touch.

She took a deep breath, emotionally tired.

When she hadn’t been dodging men with a sexual gleam in theirs eyes, she had managed to ease into a few conversations with other escorts, but it seemed no one knew Tina. No one. It made no sense and Stephanie’s heart dropped even further recalling each fruitless discussion.

By the time the sexy bartender had asked her to stay, she’d been so spent that she’d gone blank on how to respond. Instinct had said run, but her body had hummed with the same unaccountable desire she’d felt on meeting him.

Not that she planned to do anything with him. It was surely just the wine and the necessary sensuality of the evening making her feel these things. Things she hardly ever felt. Earlier, she’d told herself she had to feel them tonight, and it had led to this: sitting here waiting for a stranger and having no idea why.

Her only productive thought at the moment was that maybe he could her find Tina. Maybe he could give her other places to look, people to ask. Melody had promised this was the premiere spot for high—priced escorts, but maybe there were other locations she didn’t know about.

Stephanie looked up when he walked into the room—he seemed to fill the small space, and the mere sight of him set her senses on fire all over again. What was it about this guy? His eyes seemed to touch her physically.

He took a seat on the sofa across from her. Above his head, a naked woman longed on a chaise.

When he didn’t say anything right away, just sat there looking at her, the silence pushed her to speak. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“What’s your name, chere?”

“Stephanie Grant”

Like before, he gave his head a slight, questioning tilt.

“You know what I find odd, Stephanie Grant?”

Her skin prickled. “What’s that?”

“I’ve met a lot of escorts here, but you’re the first one who’s ever used her last name. Any good escort knows usin’ only first names keeps the fantasy real and the money flowin’.”

Heat rose to her cheeks. It made sense, and only then struck her that there were probably privacy concerns, too. Why hadn’t she thought of that? “Well,” she fudged, “I didn’t realize I was still on the clock.”

She couldn’t interpret his slight smile—she only knew his very presence made her hotter and more nervous by the second. His voice came low. “What I wanted to tell you, chere, is that I don’t believe you.”

She blinked and her heartbeat sped up. “About what?”

His sexy grin faded, but his eyes still bore through her. She wasn’t used to having a man look at her with such intensity—nit in business, and certainly not in pleasure.

“I don’t believe you’re a hooker. And I don’t know why you’re pretendin’ you are, but I got news for you, beb. The men who come here wouldn’t like findin’ out you’re lookin’ to do anything but take their money and make ‘em smile. You don’t wanna mess around here. You’ll get yourself in real trouble, Stephanie Grant.”

It was all she could do to keep breathing. “Why on earth would I pretend to be an escort?”

His serious gaze never wavered. “You tell me.”

“I can’t, because you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He let a sigh of irritation. “Look, I’m tryin’ to do you a favour. You’re gonna get hurt if you mess with this crowd.”

“No, you look, I didn’t come here to be harassed by a bartender. So I think I’ll just be leaving now.” She pushed to her feet, intent on marching from the room, but he stood quickly, blocking her way.

She drew in her breath and lifted her eyes to find their faces only inches apart. Their bodies too. His musky scent permeated her senses.

“How much?” he whispered.

She drew back slightly. “How much what?”

“How much do you charge?” His warm breath seemed to infuse heat into her veins as the loaded question ran all through her.

“Why do you care?”

“Consider it a test.” His eyes gleamed in the dim lighting.

Melody had told her how much, she was sure of it—but she’d never expected to get this far into a conversation about it, and the bartender had rattled her. “A hundred and fifty,” she guessed, thinking it sounded like an appropriate amount for an upper—tier lady of the evening. Hadn’t she seen movies, TV shows, where regular street hookers charged only twenty, thirty, fifty dollars?

“For what exactly?” he asked.

Still more heat consumed her. “For one…go—round.”

He didn’t smile, but his eyes filled with satisfaction. “Wrong answer, chere.”

“What?” She hadn’t known there was a wrong answer. He still stood so close that she’d have sworn he could feel how fast her heart beat.

“The goin’ price for a lady of your calibre is four hundred an hour, two thousand if I want to spend the night.”

“Her eyes flew wide as her chest tightened. “If you…?”

Only then did his wicked little grin reappear. “What’s wrong, Stephanie Grant? Do I make you nervous?”

“Of course not.” Sell it. Somehow. “One guy’s the same as any other. I just…”

He tilted his head. “Don’t you think a lowly bartender’s got that kinda cash? Surprise, beb, I do. And if you’re really in the business you say you are, then this would be easy money. Not sure why you didn’t leave with any of the other men, but maybe it’s my good fortune, no?”

“No,” she said. Unequivocally.

His fingertips grazed the length of her arm, rising onto her bare shoulder to stop at the thin strap there. Heat filled his touch and it was all she could do not to shiver. “Why not?” he asked.

She had no idea how to answer without blowing her cover.

He saved her the trouble by sweeping a tantalizinly soft kiss across her lips, tasting of cool mint. Her body blazed with wild desire and she gasped, trying desperately not to feel—but at the moment, she felt more than any man had ever made her feel before. A stranger. In a modern—day house of ill repute. It didn’t make sense.

But then, what did? Did it make sense that she was masquerading as a lady of the night? Did it make sense that Tina was missing—could be somewhere dead or dying for all she knew? Put in that context, her current circumstances seemed a lot less bizarre.

“What do you say, chere?” he purred in her ear, the soft Cajun accent melting over her, warm and encasing. With that, he brushed another sinfully short kiss over her mouth, leaving the same hint of mint, the same liquid lust pouring through her as he smoothly swept her into a loose embrace, lowering her lengthwise onto the velvet sofa. She lounged among the plush pillows as he grazed his palm over her cheek, jaw, neck in a slow caress.

She could have left a minute ago—she could have walked away. But she hadn’t, too caught up in his dark allure, and now she lay beside him, reaching for an answer. “No,” she finally whispered.

“No?” To her surprise, his sexy expression revealed a hint of amusement. “You came here tonight to make money, didn’t you?” His heated voice whisked down through her, somehow making even those words sensual, tempting. “You came here to sell your body, chere. Why shouldn’t I take you up on it? Unless…” His voice stretched out the s sound.

She bit her lip. “Unless what?”

He leaned near her ear, his voice quiet, deep. “Unless there’s a reason you’re resistin’.”

Was she? Resisting? His palm closed full around her waist, his thumb brushing dangerously near the underside of her breast, and still she didn’t make a move to leave.

“Unless” he went on, “you aren’t what you claim. Unless you aren’t really here to sell all these pretty curves.” His hands glided down her waist, hip, thigh, as if outlining her.

She heard her own breath, broken and labored, and wished the room were darker, wished it were okay to pull him to her and do everything she suddenly wanted to do. Press his body against hers, let him touch her—everywhere. Take him inside her.

He lowered more soft kisses to her neck, the reached behind her ankle to slide his hand slowly up her stocking to the spot behind her knee. Her heavy breath mingled with his now, the only sounds in the red room.

“Last chance, chere,” he whispered, his palm edging higher.

Even as a shot of hungry pleasure blasted upward, she said, “No. Stop.”

He never flinched, only lifted his mouth to breathe warm in her ear. “Tell me why.”

“What?” She could barely think.

“If you really were an escort, you wouldn’t make me stop, no?” His voice was a low growl. “You’d let me have you.”

His palm skimmed around to the front of her thigh, fingertips slipping across the lace top of the stocking, making her body scream with conflicting yes’s and no’s that blurred her mind for a fraction of a second, until finally, she knew she couldn’t let this go any further. “No, I can’t. Stop!”

His hand stilled in place and he drew back to look at her.

She knew he was waiting for more, and it suddenly seemed stupid to have kept up the pretence this long…unless she really wanted…

No—that wasn’t it! She just didn’t like having her cover, however thin, completely blown.

!I’m not really an escort,” she admitted softly into the still air.

She thought he looked at once disappointed but pleased. He withdrew his hand from beneath he rdress and pulled back into place, then sat up beside her.

She felt like an idiot, but slowly raised herself upright as well. They stayed silent and the moment reminded her strangely of high school—nights of kissing and touching and wanting more, but finding the strength to say no. This was the part where everything turned awkward.

She drew in her breath lightly at the shocking memory—she’d nearly forgotten a time when she had known these feelings. She shook her head to clear it.

“Why’d you lie?” he asked, slowly raising his gaze.

Her lips trembled when she tried to answer. “I…need to find someone.”

“Tina Grant,” he confirmed. “How are you related?”

She looked up in surprise, but then remembered— escorts didn’t use their last names, and she’s stated both when asking about Tina and introducing herself. She sighed. “She’s my sister.”

Their eyes met. “How old?”

“Twenty Five.”

He seemed to understand much more than she told him. “Twenty Five is all grown up, no? Old enough to do what she wants.”

Stephanie let out a small sound of disgust. The last thing she needed was a lecture. She already knew part of Tina’s decision might be her fault, and that alone was hard enough to bear without his superior attitude. “But she’s missing.”

She’d thought that would catch his attention, yet it seemed not to shock him at all. “Define missin’ chere.”

She took a deep breath. No Reason now, she supposed, not to lay everything on the table. “She came down here from Chicago a few months ago, chasing a guy. When I finally heard from her, she told me the relationship hadn’t worked out, but that she’d decided to stay anyway and become…an escort.” When referring to her little sister, the simple word became much harder to say. “I was upset, of course, and tried to talk her out of it, but the next time she called, she’d already started…working.” She stopped a minute, her chest aching from the picture the words created in her head.

“And?”

“And she didn’t call the next time she was supposed to. And she hasn’t called since. She refused to give me a number where I could reach her—and she hasn’t been in touch with her old boyfriend either, because I checked—so after weeks with no contact, I had to do something.”

“Probably just didn’t want to talk to you, knowin’ how you feel about what she’s doin’.”

He released a perturbed breath. This guy just thought he knew everything, didn’t he? He might even be right, but his matter of fact tone made her worries sound practically unfounded. “You sound just like the cop I talked to. I did try that route before coming to look for her, just so you don’t think I’m totally crazy. Bit I couldn’t get any help from the.”

“Cause they know she’s probably fine.”

She pursed her lips. “I took it a different way. I figured they didn’t care because, to them, she’s just another prostitute.”

He shrugged—annoyingly. ”Either way, I’m probably right.”

She blinked, growing more irritated by the moment. “So I’m supposed to let her drop out of my life, forget she exists? Even if she is fine, I still have to find her.”

“Some reason you didn’t hire a P I, beb? Most people who can’t get answers from the cops would try that route.”

“For your information, I did. But within a few days he said the trail was cold. That left me no other choice than to track her down myself.”

His gaze remained steady on her. “And when you do?”

“I’ll talk her into coming home and putting this chapter of her life behind her. I’ll help her find a job. Help her get over the guy. I’ll be there for her, as long as she needs me.”

Jake thought about how to reply. Sounded to him like Miss Chardonnay was pretty controlling when it came to her poor sister. But since she already seemed pissed off, he wasn’t about to tell her that. “So you thought it’d be a good idea to come trottin’ yourself down to New Orleans and dress yourself up like a high—priced hooker?” he said instead.

She looked as sheepish as he thought she should. “It wasn’t exactly my idea.”

“You got a partner in crime?”

She dropped her glance slightly before raising it again. “A woman I met doing research on the internet—at a site where prostitutes trying to get out of the business can go for advise. Her name’s Melody and she’s an ex—escort—high—priced—who used to work in the French Quarter. She thought the best way to find Tina was to ask people who might work with her, or who might be her customers. And she doubted anyone would talk to me if I didn’t appear to be…one of them.”

“Which is how you knew about this place.”

She nodded.

He lowered his chin, wondering the obvious. “Any reason Melody couldn’t ask around for you?”

“She doesn’t move in these circles anymore. She’s married now, with a baby, and a husband who doesn’t know her past.”

Jake shrugged—it was a good reason. Girls who chose this life didn’t usually end up where Miss Chardonnay’s hooker friend had. “Stilla pretty stupid move,” he couldn’t stop himself murmuring.

She cast him a sideways glance, “What was I supposed to do? And why do you care so much anyway? Yoou’ve got an awfully vested interest in this for a bartender.”

She was right—like it or not, his old instincts were showing. Still, if the woman had any sense, she’d be grateful. “The way I see it, I might have saved your life tonight.”

She let out a wry laugh. “That’s an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

He gave his head a solemn shake. “It’s like \i told you earlier—you fool around with these people, you’ll get hurt. It’s dangerous to say you’re selling somethin’ you aren’t.”

Her ire seemed to calm a little, her next question sounding more inquisitive. “What makes you so smart about these things?”

“I see a lot. Hear a lot.”

She looked at him long and hard with those soft blue eyes, clearly trying to see behind his. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem too smart to be a bartender.”

He sighed. She sounded just like Tony, just like his mother. It made him feel tired, much older than his thirty three years. “I used to be a cop, okay?”

“Used to be?” She bit her lower lip, looking puzzled. “You’re not…working here undercover or something are you?”

He shook his head. “No way, chere. Just servin’ up drinks, that’s all.”

“Why? Why would you go from being a cop to being a bartender?”

If you’d been anywhere near this city two years ago, you’d know. But since she’d clearly missed all the newspaper articles and TV spots, he wasn’t about to dredge up his past. “Nosy little girl, aren’t you?”

“I came down here to ask questions,” she said with a shrug.

He looked away, planting his gaze on the painting above the couch a few feet away. “But I’m not lost, chere. Not the person you came to find.”

Silence blanketed the small, lush room and he regretted bringing her in here. It was too intimate a space and he found himself wanting to kiss her again. He hadn’t planned that part of it, and he remained surprised that it had felt so good, that stopping had been so hard. His game of coercing the truth from her had been a mistake. He didn’t want to want her—or anyone. He just wanted to go home.

“Maybe you could help me?”

Her hopeful words drew his eyes back to hers. “help you how?”

“Help me find Tina.” She suddenly sounded full of fresh optimism.

“How the hell you think I’d do that?”

“Well, you used to be a cop. And you seem to know your way around the escort industry pretty well. Surely there are people you could ask, places we could search.”

“whoa there, chere. What’s this ‘we’ you’re talking about all of a sudden? I don’t even know you.”

She sighed. “But I need help and I’m desperate. And…I could pay you.” Her eyes lit with the idea and she reached immediately for her purse. “How much do you want? I can give you what I have now, and more later. However much you want to charge.”

Ironic. Now she was trying to pay him for something he didn’t intend to sell, either. “No thanks, beb. I don’t want your money, and frankly, I don’t wanna get involved in your problems.”

She looked crushed. He felt it in his heart, like a little dart sticking there.

Damn it. Why wouldn’t people leave him alone? Of course, he’d started this—but he’d made his point with her and was ready to call it a night. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry, but I got enough troubles of my own, okay?”

She didn’t respond, only kept sitting there looking like the world had just come to an end, making the dart in his chest dig a little deeper.

“Take my advice and go home to Chicago, Stephanie Grant. This is no place for a woman like you.” Jake got to his feet and walked out of the room, through the outer bar area, and exited onto the steps descending into the enclosed courtyard. The night air hit him like a brick—for a September evening, it felt more like early August.

But he didn’t really mind the heat—he’d grown up with it. At the moment, it was just something to feel. Something to fight, something to wallow in, something to think about as he walked home—something other than Miss Chardonnay and those blue, blue eyes.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren split the night. As usual on his walk, he hadn’t seen a soul since passing some partyers near Bourbon. As he moved up the sidewalk deep into dark, quiet streets, it was just him and the ghosts. That’s what Becky used to say, the reason she never felt comfortable in the Quarter late at night. ‘Too many ghosts.’ Jake didn’t believe in ghosts, but he could almost believe he felt them tonight, too, peeking over balconies and lurking in hidden doorways. Once he even looked over his shoulder.

Because he was losing his mind, apparently. Knock it off already, he scolded himself. What a night. Must be screwing with his brain.

Despite the ghosts and the heat, he was still thinking about Stephanie Grant.

He could have helped her. If he’d cared—about her search for her sister, about the worry haunting her gaze. But he didn’t. He might have cared about Miss Chardonnay’s fate enough to let her know she was playing a dangerous game, and he hoped she’d heed the warning. But like he said, her sister was all grown up. It was none of his business if one more sad girl spread her legs for money. He’d gone way overboard with Stephanie Grant tonight—and he couldn’t account for why—but that couch, the red room was where it ended.

Still, a warm tremor ran the length of his body. Clearly Stephanie Grant was all grown up, too—with ripe curves, lush lips, and soft breath that had grown heated when he’d kissed her.

Not real kisses, though. Teasing ones; their mouths had barely met.

Then why did he still feel them? And what about her made him care at all what sort of trouble she might get herself into?

Turning the corner onto Burgundy, he let out a sigh. What the hell had happened to him tonight? He saw breasts and curves and sexy dresses in Sophia’s every shift he worked and it didn’t affect him. But somehow Stephanie Grant had dug deeper inside him. From the start, she’d drawn a few smiles from him—a rarity in itself, even if they were the devilish sort. A when he’d ended up alone with her in the red room, something inside him had switched on. Something needful. Something he’d nearly forgotten about, yet suddenly there it was, rearing its head just like that old habit of taking care of people and fixing things.

But hell, hadn’t that dream of the masked woman made it clear? His body was hungry for sex, that’s all this was. Quit overthinking it. Go home. Go to sleep.

‘Got a quarter?’

The voice drew Jake’s eyes to a skinny young girl with a creamed—coffe complexion, long hair falling straggly around her face. She huddled in a narrow doorway, her knees pulled up to her chest like she was cold. Even in the dark, he could see her white T—shirt was dingy.

Stopping, he reached into his pocket and found a five dollar bill—he’d shoved it there instead of his wallet, a late tip before closing. He leaned down and let it drop to the cracked sidewalk beside her as he fought the nagging sense of worry. Against his better judgement, he spoke.

‘It’s dangerous out here on the street.’

‘Tell me somethin’ I don’t know Einstein.’

He flinched at her sass—it didn’t match the rest of her. She tried to talk ‘urban black girl’ tough, but he wasn’t buying it. ‘Where’d you run away from? You should go home.’

He sensed more than saw her eyes roll. ‘Mind your own damn business.’

When he’d been a French Quarter beat cop, he’d talked to street kids all the time, and had gotten a hell of a lot worse from them than this, but her attitude still irritated him. ‘You’ll get killed, or worse, out here,’ he informed her.

‘Thanks for fillin’ my day with sunshine, dude.’

Much to his surprise, he let out a small laugh.

‘You think somethin’s funny about this?’ she snapped.

He shook his head. ‘No, I just think you’re a pretty funny kid is all.’

Another eye roll. ‘Yeah, I just did Leno last week.’

He sobered. ‘You really don’t have a way to get off the street, some place better to sleep?’

‘If I did, would I be here, fool?’

‘Speakin’ of sleep, kinda late for panhandlin’ isn’t it?’

She cast a quick glance up before lowering her gaze. ‘Easier to sleep in the day. At night— got to keep my eyes open, you know?’

Jake sighed. Keep walking, man. Just like you told Miss Chardonnay, you don’t need anybody else’s problems. He couldn’t quite make his feet move, though. Just like he hadn’t quite been able to let Miss Chardonnay walk away tonight, either.

‘There’s a place in the courtyard where I live—you could sack out there if you want. It’s nothin’ great, but safer than this.’

For the first time, she deigned to actually tilt her head back and meet his eyes. ‘You for real?’

He gave a short nod.

Suddenly, her back went rigid. ‘What you want for letting me sleep there? Cause if you playin’ me mister, tryin’ to get into my pants—‘

He held up his hands and took a step back. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, ‘tite fille. I’m tryin’ to be nice, no? You wanna come, follow me. You don’t, don’t.’ With that, he turned and walked on.

‘Hold up.’

He stopped, looked back. ‘What?’

She hesitated slightly. ‘Gotta get my stuff.’

Fishing out half a roll of mints, he put one in his mouth, then shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back against an old brick wall, watching the girl reach through a hole in the building’s foundation. As she got to her feet, a ragged backpack hoisted to one shoulder, he noticed rips in the knees of her jeans, dark skin peeking through.

‘Sure you ain’t after nothin’?’ Her eyes narrowed even as she moved toward him.

‘Hell yeah, I’m sure!’Peter, Paul and Mary—what the hell had he done to deserve this? He had things to be guilty for, but damn. He spoke firmly ‘You’re a little girl. And I’m not that kinda guy. Got it?’

She pursed her lips, nodding shortly.

Without another look in her direction, Jake started toward his place again. He heard her padding along behind him, but he didn’t slow his stride. He regretted this already. Damn it, he’d done it again, without even realizing. First the blonde, now this. When would he get it through his head that he couldn’t change anything, couldn’t save anybody?

A block later, he led the girl through a wrought iron gate that had seen better days and into a neglected courtyard. A broken fountain jutted up amid chipped, jagged bricks and dilapidated concrete. Four sagging wooden staircases flanked each side of the yard, leading to second floor apartments. Jake strode to one where he knew somebody had discarded an old mattress. ‘Here ya go,’ he said, pointing.

She nodded, spoke gently. ‘Thanks.’

He tried not to hear the softness in her voice. ‘Don’t think this is the start of anything, though. You’re still on your own.’

Her next quiet nod made him feel like an ogre. ‘Your neighbors gonna go callin’ the cops on me?’

Was the girl blind? He shook his head. ‘Don’t have those kinda neighbors.’

He didn’t look back as he crossed the worn brickwork to the stairs that led to his place. He was ready to call it a night. No more mister nice guy, he scolded himself. It never paid. Never.

As he slid his key in the old lock, something raked up against his ankle, drawing his gaze downward. He found the scruffy little dog that had been hanging around the building for days, bugging whoever happened to be coming or going. ‘You again?’ The mutt was an aggravation.

As he opened the door, he used one shoe to shove the dog away before stepping inside. Turning the lock brought a sense of relief, the isolation he cherished.

Heading to his bedroom, he stripped down to underwear, walked to the bathroom, and splashed cool water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror, studied his eyes, thought about the empty feeling low in his belly. He was used to putting on a show, being polite at Sophia’s, but it wasn’t real and it tired him. Miss Chardonnay had tired him tonight, too—even if something about that had been disturbingly real.

It would suit him fine, he thought, if he never had to leave the run down apartment again. But then, if he didn’t have to work at all, if he truly didn’t have to go anywhere to make money, he’d head out to the old house on the bayou and just stay there. The idea made him look forward to his days off, when he could go home for a couple of nights of solace.

Out there, there was no Miss Chardonnay worrying him with her pretense or tempting him with her innocent blue eyes. There was no homeless girl who thought he wanted to get into her pants. Out there was the one place he could truly forget, truly withdraw, even more than he already had.

Returning to the bedroom, he turned back the covers and lay down. He closed his eyes and tried not to think or feel, tried to shut back down into that palce of least pain.

But it wasn’t working. The events of the night kept flashing through his mind unbidden, leading right up to the most recent. ‘Mon Dieu,’ he muttered as he flapped the sheet back.

Getting to his feet, he walked to the kitchen, where he pulled a shallow plastic dish of microwave mac and cheese from the fridge. He padded to the door and set the bowl outside, glancing up the breezeway to see that annoying dog come running.

Returning the lock, he shook his head at his insanity. Jesus, when would he ever learn?

A dorm room, a candle’s glow turning pale yellow walls golden. Her top is off, jeans too. Jason is kissing her breast, turning her inside out—his hands are in her underwear. He’s trying to pull them down, but she’s saying, ‘You know we can’t.’

‘Yes, we can, Stephie.’

‘We can’t. We don’t have a…you know.’

He’s kissing her neck, them whisperin. ‘Yes, we do. I bought some, just in case.’

‘Really?’ Why hadn’t it occurred to her that it was that simple, a walk to the drugstore?

He nods against her neck, molds her breasts In his hands. She feels it between her legs. And it hits her that they really can do it, if she decides it’s okay. And the big sex mystery will be over, at last.

She’s afraid—but she wants to. Her heartbeat echoes through her whole body.

This time when he tries to lower her panties, she doesn’t stop him. Biting her lip, she runs her hands down his chest and reaches for the snap of his jeans. She is saying yes. Yes.

It should have been a good memory, but it wasn’t. Stephanie pushed it away.

Still, the power of the recollection remained jolting as she lay in bed, covers pulled to her waist. The quiet room in the quaint bed and breakfast just beyond the French Quarter felt like a safe hideaway from the decadence taking place on the streets nearby. She absently listened to the laughter of a romantic couple, watched their shadows move past her window, but her mind was back at DePaul on the night she’d given up her virginity. Maybe the last time she’d felt such overwhelming passion that she’d lost herself in it—until tonight.

It was strange to suddenly realize she had once understood the power of sex, yet had somehow stopped understanding somewhere along the way. The encounter with the bartender had apparently brought back a lot of little slices of her past she hadn’t thought about in a very long time. Slices she’d actually forgotten—experiences she’d somehow tricked herself into believing she’d never had.

Upon returning to the room, she’d traded in her sexy clothes for silly cotton pajamas \Tina had given her her last Christmas—a blue background dotted with black and white sheep. A desperate bid to get back to her simple life, a simple self she knew. Unfortunately, though, that hadn’t stopped the uncontrollable sensations assaulting her. Same as if she were still in that sinfully red room with that sinfully sexy man, her breasts ached and the juncture of her thighs felt heavy.

She wanted to keep telling herself it was just about the situation, the strangeness of pretending she was there to sell her body. And maybe that was what had started in the back in the red room, but what she felt now was nothing manufactured, nothing made up to get her through the night. If anything, it had almost not gotten her through the night.

The man was downright intriguing with that smooth, steady voice and the way he managed to seem distant and aloof even as he nearly seduced her. She couldn’t help thinking he was something of a bastard, but she also couldn’t deny the desire she’d suffered for him—that deep, deeper, deepest desire she’d not quite believed she was capable of feeling. She closed her eyes in an effort to blot out the moment when she’d realized it was only a game.

It was the first time in her life she’d ever gotten that intimate with a total stranger, the first time she’d ever wanted to have sex with someone she’d just met. Desire had taken over, becoming the biggest part of her, that quickly. God, she didn’t even know his name.

Thank goodness she’d found the strength to spill the truth and stop the insanity of his hands, creeping up her body. It was the first time, and the last time, too, she promised herself. She needed to get back on track and think about Tina. Her sweet, impulsive, go with the flow sister.

Tina, Tina, Tina.

Sometimes Tina seemed far younger than her twenty five years, but sometimes Stephanie felt older than her thirty—widening the age gap between them even more. Once upon a time, they’d been close—when Tina was little, the baby sister whom Stephanie had coddled and cooed over, passed clothes down to, helped with homework. But somewhere along the way Tina had begun to suffer from the belief that Stephanie was the family’s golden child, the achiever who garnered all the praise, and that Tina was the neglected daughter, always coming in second place.

The truth was, Tina never worked as hard as Stephanie. She lacked ambition, made poor choices, and following her last boyfriend down here was just one example. Tina had refused to see that part of Russ’s decision to accept a job in a new city was because he wanted to break up—even Stephanie had detected that, yet Tina hadn’t.

Now, though, Stephanie couldn’t help wondering if things would be different if she’d been more supportive and less judgemental. If she’d been more constructive, rather than just criticizing. She’d thought the bartender had acted superior tonight, but had she unknowingly acted superior to Tina all these years?

Despite the fact that they’d not been close for a while now, Stephanie could scarcely imagine her sister out there somewhere selling her body. What must it be like? What had driven Tina to such a place? Her phone calls had been so cryptic, simultaneously cheerful and sad. Where was she right now? Having sex with a stranger? One of the rich, smarmy men Stephanie had met tonight? Or…she closed her eyes, unable to even give words to her worst fears, that something had happened to Tina, something awful. She couldn’t possibly give up her search simply because she hadn’t gotten any leads tonight—no matter what the unhelpful, know it all bartender said.

And as for what has occurred with him, it was an aberration that was all. An aberration best forgotten, put away somewhere in the back of her brain where she files anything that threatened her sense of control. Where she’d apparently buried all her encounters with passion.

It was vital she have full control over herself if she were to find Tina. And ig the bartender wouldn’t help her, she had no choice but keep looking for her sister in the same circles she had tonight. It seemed the only way to bring Tina home.

You float on dark bayou water, your skin moist with the humidity hanging heavy in the air. A heron calls in the distance and you hear the deep, plunging splash of a caiman tumbling in from the marshy bank. The musty scent of arrow arum wafts past as tall cypress trees rise up like arms to hold you. You are home.

But you see a new shape on the landscape, pale and curvaceous. A woman. Naked and lovely, soft white skin that strikes you as vulnerable in such a harsh environment. She is marked by the only real color in the gray-and-green film of the bayou—a pink hibiscus juts from her hair, the large petals shading her face.

Although when you look closer, trying to see more clearly, she somehow blends with the trees and foliage, hidden, gone. And in that silent moment you understand that vulnerable is the last thing she is. She is a chameleon in the forest, using her defenses with confidence and ease.

You scan the moss-draped banks, searching the low, gnarled branches and cypress knees, before catching sight of her once more, a vision of beauty tucked into your world as naturally as if she'd always been lurking, waiting to make herself known.

Dipping your oar into the water, you row toward her, hungry, anxious. The need presses on you as if it were a boulder weighing down your chest. You have to reach her. But as you approach the bank where she's been standing as still as another tree, she vanishes again, lost to you in the gangly greenery.

"Where are you?" you call out.

A hint of pink draws your attention and your next glimpse of her comes beside an ancient oak flung with Spanish moss—you spy the curve of a white breast, the stretch of a slender thigh. How can she merge and mingle so well with the trees and moss and earth here? How long has she been waiting, watching, thriving here, like some beautiful bird or rich, lush plant?

You row furiously in her direction—you have to have her, press against her—but one blink and she's gone, an apparition. Perhaps a thing you want so badly you've imagined her?

But then, no—

Because in an instant everything changes—

She is beneath you in the pirogue, all wild, welcoming flesh, and you are in her, deep, tight.

Her arms and legs curl around you, her body nimble and as eager as yours.

You thought it was hot in the bayou, but no climate could compare to the solid wall of heat rising within you, wrapping around both of you as you thrust into her warmth. You rain kisses on her glistening skin—mouth and face, neck and breasts—a man starved for what she can feed you.

You drink her in, soak her up, greedy, needing every last drop of her.

And only when you come inside her do you realize— this is home.

The next morning, Stephanie resolved to put the previous evening behind her, sexy bartender and all. Her heartbeat skittered a bit at the memory of his warm hands, but she consoled herself by thinking, What else would you expect? It's the first time you've been touched that intimately in a while, and the first time you've ever been touched by a man like that. Dark. Dangerous. Another skittering heartbeat, damn it.

After returning from a hearty breakfast prepared by Mrs. Lindman, the sweet gray-haired proprietress of the LaRue House B and B, she moved to the small desk near her window. She tried to focus as she flipped open her laptop, but strangely, she found herself noticing things about her room that she hadn't before.

Fringed lampshades. The lush brocade of the armchair she'd pulled up to the desk. Vibrant purple throw pillows on the bed that she'd carelessly shoved aside last night when crawling beneath the sheets, so anxious to escape the night.

The light of day was making her realize that what had happened last evening had left her more sensitized, aware. Of everything. Mrs. Lindman's sausage links had seemed spicier this morning, the orange juice tangier. The very act of eating had felt... bizarrely sensual.

What else have I missed? she wondered as she studied the bold colors and luxuriant textures surrounding her. Is the whole world like this and I've just never noticed?

Taking a deep breath, she murmured, "Get hold of yourself," and turned her attention where it belonged, onto her computer screen.

Her e-mail was filled with messages from Grable & Harding, the ad agency she'd temporarily left behind. Thanks to technology, though, one couldn't seem to leave much of anything truly behind these days. Most of the e-mail could be waded through later, but she opened the one labeled "Curtis Anderson." Curtis was, foremost, her boss, but also the man she'd been dating prior to her trip south.

S—

How's your sister? Hope she's well and that you 're helping get her problems ironed out.

Also, have to inquire as to your return to the office. It's not me—Stan and the bigwigs are asking about your absence. He's worried about the phone co. campaign. You know Stan. He was his blustery self, asking how a major campaign can be pulled together with you there and the rest of your team here. So I told him I'd check with you.

And besides that, I miss you.

Let me know when you're coming home, and I'll plan something special.

Given its fairly short length, the message left her head spinning.

It reminded her of her lie, simply claiming Tina was in New Orleans and going through some personal problems. She recalled the way Curtis had tilted his head, his sandy hair never moving, but his eyes reaching. "What... sort of problems?"

She'd decided it was none of his business. Now she wondered if she'd simply been embarrassed. They were executives. Executives didn't have sisters who were prostitutes. "I can't really say."

He'd patted her hand to let her know it was okay. That was the kind of man he was. A hand patter. A giver of consoling smiles. A man who knew to open and close a message with personal concerns, sandwiching the real question in between.

And she couldn't blame Stan. Nailing the account for the long-distance carrier was huge, and so, naturally, the campaign had been assigned to Grable & Harding's most accomplished ad exec—and she'd promptly dashed off to the Big Easy on a leave of absence that was going to take longer than she'd promised.

She clicked on reply.

C—

It's nice to hear from you.

Please assure Stan I've got the pitch under control. Phil is working on the demographics and setting up focus groups, and Maria is handling the concept boards. I'll get the PowerPoint presentation rolling on my end.

Remind Stan I've never pitched a campaign without winning the account, and I don't plan to start failing now. Sometimes issues outside of business must be dealt with, but I'm competent enough to do that without jeopardizing Grable & Harding.

My sister still needs me for a little while longer, but I'll be home soon.

Thank you for thinking about me. I miss you, too.

S

When she hit the send button, her stomach was tied in a knot.

I miss you, but I let a stranger touch me last night. I miss you, but he made me feel more than you ever have. Infinitely more. Her thighs ached even now.

If Curtis's kisses had ever made any part of her ache, she'd entirely missed it.

And up to now, she hadn't minded. Like so often in the last ten years, she'd told herself she'd simply gotten too mature for passion, that not all women could experience the ovewhelming desire you read about and saw in movies.

But last night had proven she could feel it. Dear God, she hadn't even thought about Curtis when she'd been with the bartender, hadn't thought of him until just now. Fortunately, she, too, knew enough to pad the bad news with a lot of good, so he'd never have to know what he didn't make her feel.

Next, she pulled up an Instant Message box to see if Melody was online. Her heart lifted when she got a quick answer.

TIFFANYSMOM226: Hi—I was just hanging out in the baby chat.

A common occurrence. Melody's obsession with her six-month-old always left Stephanie amazed at such an about-face.

STEPHGRANT: / went to Chez Sophia last night. No success. No one knew her. What now?

TIFFANYSMOM226: / wouldn't give up on Sophia's.

STEPHGRANT: Why?

TTFFANYSMOM226: There's a different crowd every night. Some girls only work there certain nights of the week.

Stephanie hadn't thought of that. But she certainly didn't relish the idea of returning, for more reasons than she could easily identify. Which reminded her...

STEPHGRANT: You didn't tell me not to use my last name.

TIFFANYSMOM226: Never crossed my mind. Some things in the business are just understood. Sorry.

Stephanie only hoped there weren't a lot of other insider tips she was missing out on.

STEPHGRANT: Are there any other places to find high-end escorts?

TIFFANYSMOM226: Afraid not. A couple of big-time madams were shut down in an FBI sting several years ago, and since then, things have been kept more on the down low. Sophia's third floor is the only place that wasn't affected, because the feds never found out about it.

Stephanie considered her next move. To her dismay, she only saw one.

STEPHGRANT: So you really think I should go back there? I was glad it was over.

TTFFANYSMOM226: I'm sorry it was difficult. Did you do what I told you ?

Sell it, feel it, flirt, smile, touch their arms, giggle, and only ask about Tina once you have them buying your act.

STEPHGRANT: Yes.

Except maybe the last one, with the bartender.

TIFFANYSMOM226: / still think it's your best bet. Outside of Sophia's, I wouldn't know where to look.

Stephanie sighed. She'd so hoped Melody would have something else to share.

STEPHGRANT: Okay. I'll go back.

TIFFANYSMOM226: Good luck, and let me know. I have to run. Tiff is teething and she's getting irritable.

"I'll go back," she whispered, staring blankly at the screen, "but how the hell will I face the bartender?"

And if he comes on to me again, how will I resist this time?

Shondra's stomach rambled fiercely, but she was used to hunger pangs. So she looked down at the dollar bill in her hand and, instead of darting off to buy a day-old doughnut at the bakery on St. Ann, she stuffed it in her pocket. At the same time, she checked to make sure the five was still there. Damn, five dollars! That guy must be whack, giving away money like that. She'd been sure he wanted something, but she'd slept in peace on the old mattress. Best sleep she'd had in a couple of weeks.

Not that she trusted him. She didn't trust nobody. Trusting only got you hurt and she was too smart for that.

She leaned up against the cracked plaster wall in the hot little room with the washing machines, listening as two of them ran. "Other three's broken," the old woman in the flowery tent dress had told her a little while ago. "So ever'body's gotta fight over these two. Give you a dollar you stay and watch my clothes, don't let nobody take my washers. I got four more loads to do."

Money, just for watching washing machines? She'd said, "You got it," plucking the bill from the woman's wrinkled hand before she'd waddled away in canvas tennis shoes nearly as dirty as Shondra's.

If somebody had given her a dollar yesterday, she'd have thought, Screw the damn washing machines, and hit the street for the bakery. Afterward, she'd have taken out the paper cup in her backpack and sat in front of St. Louis Cathedral asking for quarters until the cops ran her off. But this wasn't a bad place and she wasn't gonna blow it. For all she knew, every fool who lived in this building would give her a dollar to watch their washers. She let her back slide down the wall until she rested on worn, pockmarked linoleum.

When a large shadow filled the open doorway, she flinched. "Shit," she muttered, looking up to find the guy from last night.

He jolted, too. "What the hell! Then he sighed. "What are you doin' in here, 'tite fille?' He wore a white T-shirt and baggy khaki shorts. His dark hair was messier than last night, like he hadn't combed it yet today.

She glanced at the washers, then at the cracked old laundry basket he toted. "Hope you ain't plannin' to wash those clothes."

He blinked. "Why?"

"Machines are taken."

He tilted his head. "And who appointed you laundry police?"

"Mrs. La... somethin'."

"LaFourche," he said on another sigh. "Thinks she owns the damn laundry room." He rolled his eyes.

"She gave me a dollar not to let nobody mess with these machines. She's got other loads." She patted the front pocket of her blue jeans.

He raised his eyebrows, delivering a pointed look. "I gave you five dollars last night. What do / get?"

Was he taking back what he said? Did he want in her pants, after all? She pushed staunchly to her feet. "You said you was just bein' nice."

He plopped his basket on the floor. "Don't get your back up, 'tite fille. I was just bein' nice. But what say we make us a little bargain?"

She crossed her arms, stood up straighter, tried to look mean. "Like what?"

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn brown leather wallet, then held out a ten toward her. "What say you run down to the Café Du Monde and get us some beignets for breakfast."

She worked not to let her relief show. "It's too late for breakfast."

"Call it lunch then, whatever you want."

She glanced at the money, thinking some beignets sounded damn good. Wouldn't even cut into her six-dollar stash, either. Another hunger pang prodded her to take the cash, but she glanced to the machines. "What about the washers? I promised. For the dollar."

He tilted his head. "I'll watch 'em for ya."

She widened her gaze accusingly. "You won't steal 'em? Won't put your clothes in as soon as hers are done?"

He gave his head a solemn shake, which made her believe him. And she couldn't deny he'd kept his promises so far. "In fact, while you're there, get me three bucks' worth of quarters for the Laundromat. And get somethin' to drink with your beignets, too."

Shondra thought about saying thanks, but decided not to. Wouldn't pay to let her soft side show, even if the dude seemed straight up. "How many you want?"

"An order for me, and an orange juice. Get however many you want for yourself."

"For real?" She hadn't eaten since day before yesterday.

He gave a short nod before glancing to his feet, where a cute, furry little dog stood. It made her think of Rex, the boxer she'd gotten as a puppy for her tenth birthday— leaving Rex had been one of the hardest things about running away.

Just when she was gonna ask to pet his dog, he yelled at it. "Vat'on, scruffy old mutt! Get outta here!" He waved a hand to shoo the poor dog away.

"Don't holler at him," she said as the pooch ducked his head and tail, moping back out into the courtyard.

"Why not? Mangy thing just comes around to beg food and bother people."

Something inside her drew up tight at his words. Like the dog, she looked down at the cracked flooring. The air felt thicker than usual.

"Sorry," he said, his voice softer than she'd heard it before.

She risked a short glance up. "It's a'ight. You're cooler to me than you are to the dog, so what do I care?"

His eyes went a little softer, too, as he quirked half a smile in her direction. "I like you better than the dog."

"What's to like?" She hadn't felt very likable in a long time.

"Like I said last night, you're pretty funny." He glanced to the washers. "And looks like you're pretty dependable, too."

She rolled her eyes toward a saggy, water-stained ceiling. "Laundry guard. My claim to fame. You want my autograph?"

"See, you're a laugh a minute," he chuckled, then pointed toward the street. "But my stomach's growlin', so get goin' with you."

She nodded, moving past him out to the courtyard before stopping to look back. "What's your name?"

"Jake."

"I'm Shondra." She turned to go, but as she passed by the dog, now lying in a spot of shade just big enough to hold him, she couldn't resist stopping to pet his head. "He ain't so bad as he seems," she whispered to the dog, glancing back to see Jake disappear into the laundry room.

When she took off toward the gate again, the pooch trailed her. "Stay," she said, trying to sound firm but not harsh. She didn't want him getting into traffic. "Stay here and I'll be back soon," she said as if he could understand her.

Then she smiled to herself as she headed off toward the Café Du Monde. Jake would never know if she got an order of beignets for the dog, too.

Jake perused the bottles perched on the glass shelves behind the bar, taking inventory of the booze. It was a task he'd been putting off, but he'd come into work early, more energetic than usual.

The sun shining through the old scratched-up windows of his apartment didn't generally keep him from sleeping, but he'd found himself getting up early today, too. Late for most people, but early for him. He'd lifted weights— the equipment being among the few things he'd taken when he'd moved out of the little house near City Park. Then he'd even gone around the apartment picking up laundry. He wasn't sure where the burst of energy had come from, but it was good timing, since he'd run out of clean clothes.

He hated laundry. He couldn't seem to load clothes into a washer or fold towels from a dryer without images of Becky filling his head. She'd always taken care of their clothes with a merry little smile on her face, like she knew some secret about laundry that no one else did.

So he'd been almost thankful for the distraction the homeless kid had provided. Shondra. Daylight had revealed she was pretty, with long, wavy hair and smooth brown skin. No wonder she'd thought he'd wanted to get in her pants, then gotten so nervous again today. His gut pinched wondering how many men she'd already had to fear at thirteen or fourteen.

Despite himself, he was glad he hadn't let her stay on the streets. She wasn't exactly oj^the streets now, but at least he'd given her a safer place to sleep than most homeless kids had. He was glad he'd fed her, too.

He couldn't start going all soft, though. Girl would go and get herself hurt or worse, and then there he'd be, feeling it. The loss, the regret—the sense that he hadn't done enough and should have known better than to even try in the first place. Wasn't gonna happen.

Behind him, someone slapped the bar impatiently. "Bartender, give me a White Russian."

He turned to find Alan Cummings, a sharply handsome investment hotshot who he'd come to think of as a real asshole. For one thing, the guy had probably heard fifty people call Jake by name, but he stuck with "bartender," giving it enough of an inflection to make it clear he thought he was better.

"Sure," Jake said, hoping his tone conveyed his similar disregard for the man.

He poured the drink, finishing with the splash of milk that gave it color, and took Cummings's money. He didn't leave a tip.

"Hey Jakey," said Misti, a brunette raspberry daiquiri, as she sashayed up to the bar in a dress cut nearly to her navel.

Jake put on his workplace smile, but almost thought he preferred "bartender." Misti was giggly, silly, too youthful for the setting, and the very sight of her tonight, for some reason, made his gut wrench with disgust for Sophia's third floor. "Let me guess. Raspberry daiquiri?"

She raised her eyebrows cartoonishly. "How'd you know?"

Because people are predictable. He'd learned that at the police academy and had since discovered how true it was. People liked patterns, especially in high-tension situations. They liked to reach for the familiar to give them some sense of control. "Just lucky," he said.

She tilted her head. "You know, I like when a bartender knows what I want to drink, or when a waitress remembers what I like to eat." Clearly a delightful new thought in her young mind.

You like it because it makes you feel you belong somewhere. Like somebody gives a shit about you in some way.

He was tempted to explain that to her, but didn't. Because he didn't care. Didn't care how young she was, or how foolish.

You 're all just drinks to me. He thought of saying that, too, to remind himself as much as her. But he bit his tongue, kept on with the smile, and said, "You have a good night, okay?" He even added a wink for good measure as he pushed down the useless thoughts clouding his head.

With that, silly Misti eased down from the stool with her drink and disappeared into the lush surroundings, which had grown crowded without his realizing. He glanced at a little clock behind the bar. Ten-thirty on the dot.

As if on cue, one of the red curtains at the door was drawn back to admit a blond vision in black lace. Long legs, high breasts, creamy skin—this woman had the whole package. That's when he narrowed his gaze and realized who it was.

Stephanie Grant.

His chest clenched with a combination of desire and anger.

Damn it, she'd come back. After he'd warned her how dangerous it was. He'd thought she'd seemed adequately off balance by the time they'd parted ways, but now he wondered if maybe that was just from the touching.

The truth was, it had left him off balance, too, and though he'd done a decent job of not thinking about her today, now it all came rushing back. Her gentle sighs beneath him in the red room. The catch of her breath when he skimmed his fingers over that sinfully soft skin. That fast, he was fighting an erection. Peter, Paul, and Mary.

To his surprise, rather than try to duck him, she made her way directly to the bar.

Predictable? Not this woman, it seemed.

As she took the same stool as she had last night, he braced his arms on the counter below him and pierced her with his gaze. "Chardonnay?"

"Tequila sunrise."

Another surprise. "Hittin' the hard stuff tonight?"

"Just approaching the evening in a different way."

Yeah, he could see that. Her lace dress hugged her more snugly than the previous one, the skimpier fabric maximizing her cleavage and continuing to tighten his groin more with each passing second.

And like a bolt from the blue, his mind flashed to the dream he'd had last night. A woman in a pirogue, turning him wild with hunger. The driving feeling that he couldn't get enough of her, that he wanted to consume her. She hadn't been masked—in fact, she'd been as natural as the wild bayou itself—but he still had no more than a vague idea of her face. This hunger wasn't as overwhelming as that hunger, thank God. But it came close.

"What the hell you doin' back here?" he asked, squirting tequila in a glass.

Her voice came as even as his. "You won't help me, so I'll have to keep looking on my own."

He raised his gaze to hers, hoping no one would hear him say this to a "customer," but it needed to be said. "This is a stupid, dangerous, and I repeat, stupid way to doit."

Stephanie Grant shrugged her pretty shoulders, her hair falling across them tonight in golden waves. "I don't know how else to find her. And I have to find her."

"How the hell you gonna do that, chère?' He finished her drink off with grenadine and OJ, setting it on the bar. "You said nobody here knew her."

She spoke with far more confidence than on their first meeting. "There's a different crowd every night. Tonight I might get lucky."

Despite himself, he cast a wolfish expression. "Tried to help you get lucky last night, beb, but you turned me down."

Her cheeks flushed pink behind her heavy makeup, sending a thin shot of masculine satisfaction through him. He kept his gaze trained on hers, seeing the same memories as his floating in those pretty blue eyes. For a long moment, it seemed like nothing else in the world could possibly matter more than the heat they'd shared last night.

She finally glanced down to her drink, picking it up for a quick sip. "I... have to go," she said, starting to leave the stool.

He reached across the bar and grabbed her wrist. "You didn't hear a word I said last night, no? You can't be foolin' around with these people. You're not that good an actress."

She pulled in a deep breath. "I have to try." He released her wrist—no other choice. "You got more looks than brains, chère."

"You're an ass."

"Maybe." He shrugged. "But an ass who's tryin' to look out for you."

She narrowed her gaze on him. "You tried to seduce me last night. That's how you define looking out for me?"

"Didn't plan it," he said with a frank tilt of his head. "But I'm a red-blooded guy."

Stephanie Grant withdrew her troubled glare from him to scan the room bustling with suits and curves, and when she met his eyes again, raw resolve filled her expression. "The rest of these men are just as red-blooded, and if whatever is so tempting about me worked on you, maybe it'll work on them, too."

He let out a sigh. "That's exactly what you should be afraid of."

Stephanie had decided to face him head-on. Besides, he'd been the only truly familiar face in the room. What she'd forgotten was how the mere sight of the man affected her. It was like being dipped in a vat of hot lava. Now, as she walked away, her nipples rubbed against the lace cups of her scant dress, and the juncture of her thighs burned. For him. For more of what they'd started last night.

God, stop this! she yelled at herself.

She needed her wits about her, more than ever in her life. If what he'd said was true, her safety might depend on it. But more than that, Tina's safety depended on it. Each passing day, it felt as if her sister were slipping a little further away.

And yet, what was foremost in her mind as she strolled from the bar?

She remained caught up in herself, in the lure of sensuality, wondering if her sexy bartender watched the sway of her hips as she walked away. She wanted—more than she'd wanted anything in a long time—to take him by the hand and lead him back to that red room, then lock the

door and forget the rest of the world existed. She wanted to get lost with him in all those lush textures. She wanted to get lost in him.

The insane desire remained as foreign to her as it had been last night, but also as potent. This man moved her in a way no man had before. Even having now remembered back to college, high school, times when she had indeed experienced true passion, she knew this was more than that. It felt almost as if those earlier times had been some kind of an introduction, but that this was the real thing.

And she was walking away from it. For more reasons than she could name.

But the most important reason, at the moment, was finding Tina.

She lectured herself with last night's mantra: sell it. Somehow tonight it was easier. Maybe because she'd figured out after last night that it wasn't going to be as simple as just walking into this den of sin and locating her sister. She had no choice but to be strong now, to figure out how to get these people to open up to her.

As the tropical tequila mix warmed her inside, she thrust out her chest slightly and licked her hps. Somewhere in the room, a man was watching—she could feel a hungry gaze making her skin prickle with awareness. The bartender? Or a piece of prey? That's what she'd decided the other men were. She wanted it to be the bartender watching, but needed it to be some rich man who might know her sister.

As she gazed toward the wide windows spanning two sides of the large corner room, she tried to look sexy and slightly aloof, for a man who enjoyed that little pretended bit of challenge. In her peripheral vision, she found a light-haired guy, handsome, mid-thirties, leering at her.

Prey.

She turned her head slightly, casting a soft glance, then a smile. Sell it.

She held his gaze and licked her Up once more. It was hard as hell to do, but she'd just discovered how. She pretended he was the bartender.

The handsome man wore an Armani suit and a lecherous smile as he moved toward her, closing the gap and stepping too close into her personal space. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Stephanie." Her stomach churning, she peered up into eyes filled with arrogance and lust. Pretend he's the man behind the bar, the hot man who nearly seduced you last night. You can do this.

Although as he made small talk with her, he slowly quit being the bartender and became merely a client, another client at another party. Only, just like last evening, she was selling herself instead of an ad campaign. And growing more practiced at it by the second.

"Why haven't I seen you here before, Stephanie?"

She gave her head a coquettish tilt. "Maybe you have and you just don't remember."

He chuckled deeply. "You're not a woman I'd forget." He punctuated the statement by reaching up to run his finger down the thin bra-like strap of her dress until he was nearly touching her breast. Don't panic. She smiled and turned slightly away so that he dropped his hand.

Without planning it, her eyes landed on the bartender— who watched from behind the bar. His look was clearly one of warning and she hoped he could read the defiance on her face.

It felt utterly strange shifting her eyes back to the letch she was pretending to seduce, knowing the real object of her desire spied her every move. The bartender was cramping her style, taking her head out of the game.

She reached to lightly touch the Armani's sleeve. "It's too loud in here. Let's go out on the balcony where we can talk."

The Armani grinned. "Excellent idea. After you."

Pushing through the nearest set of French doors was like escaping a nemesis. As soon as the darkness closed around her and her prey, she felt freer to begin probing for information. She leaned against a white wrought-iron railing and took a sip from her glass. "You seemed surprised you hadn't seen me here before. Does that mean you're a frequent customer?"

The Armani laughed softly and began stroking her arm with his thumb. "Now, sweetheart, what difference does that make?"

Her skin crawled at his caress, her body going cold despite the heavy air. Keep selling it. "Just curious. And the truth is, I haven't been here too many times before... but maybe you know my girlfriend Tina? She's here all the time."

He tilted his head. 'Tina, huh? No, I don't think so."

She lowered her chin in teasing accusation. "Are you sure? Pretty blonde, twenty-five, gorgeous eyes?" Then she laughed. "Because if you're worried I'm the jealous type, don't be."

He flashed a lecherous grin. "Well then, maybe you < should call her up and the three of us can have ourselves a little party."

Oh God. Talk about skin crawling. "No, sweetheart," she said, playfully echoing him. "I don't share."

"My loss," he said lightly before raising his eyebrows. "Or maybe my gain? Why don't we go to my place and you can show me just how possessive you are."

Now what? He didn't know Tina, or if he did, he wasn't saying. And she'd as good as agreed to have sex with him, damn it. She'd gotten so good at selling that she'd forgotten when to stop. "I... need to visit the ladies' room first."

She kept her smile in place but immediately sensed that she'd made a faux pas. She'd hesitated too long when she'd been scrambling for an excuse to walk away.

"What if I don't want you to go?" He continued flashing a lusty grin as he slid his arms around her in a loose embrace.

She forced a laugh. "Why wouldn't you want me to go to the ladies' room?"

He gave his head a slight tilt, as if trying to read her eyes. "Just a funny feeling I've got. Not trying to get away from me, are you, sweetheart?"

She gazed up at him. Pretend he's the man you desire. As much as you can. "Why on earth would I do that?"

His expression went serious. "I'm not sure, but I'm not interested in risking it. I want you for the night. How much?"

Despite that wanting her for an hour was just as heinous, her throat caught. She'd never expected to end up in a mess this deep. She hoped like hell he didn't see her nervous swallow. "That depends."

"On?"

His touch grew more offensive by the moment, but she made herself giggle. "If you're going to be a gentleman and let me go to the bathroom first."

"How about a preview before you go? Something to keep me happy while you're away."

She laughed again, praying he didn't feel her body tensing. "I'm not going across the country or anything. It's the bathroom. I'll be gone two minutes."

"Even so, the customer's always right, right?"

He slid his hand from her hip up toward her breast— until she reflexively clamped her arm down tight against her body, stopping his progress. Even in the darkness, she could see the ugly tint suddenly lighting his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She shook her head, but damn it, her voice quavered slightly.

His eyes narrowed to thin slits. "Look, I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but I don't like it. I came here to find a willing woman, and I picked you. I want to start getting my money's worth, now."

Suddenly unable to endure his touch for even a second longer, the instincts of a lifetime kicked in and made her struggle against his tightening grip. Bad move. He anchored one arm around her waist and used his free hand to latch onto her chin, turning her face up to his. "I don't know why you're trying to get away from me, sweetheart—maybe you're new at this, I don't know. But I don't like being teased, so I suggest you be a good girl and give me what I want."

This was bad. Really bad. Her stomach lurched and her skin prickled. And in the midst of her personal terror, another ugly vision blinked through her brain. Tina, in the same situation. If you were an escort, what happened if , you changed your mind? What were your options? Did anyone care?

As the letch reached down toward the hem of her short dress, she batted his hand away, hard. "Get off me right now, you jerk!" she said through clenched teeth. Adrenaline made her stronger as she pressed her hands against his chest in an attempt to free herself, but the arm locked around her still didn't budge.

So she clawed her fingernails deep. "Hey!" he snarled, leaning back but still not releasing her.

Next, she would go for his eyes. "Lady said no, asshole."

The deep, commanding voice stunned her until she looked up to find a muscular man standing outside one open French door, arms crossed.

The bartender.

Jake watched as Cummings loosened his grip on Stephanie Grant to look at him, bothered when the shit-head didn't turn her loose completely. "What the hell business is it of yours? I suggest you go inside and mind your own business."

Jake held his ground, but narrowed his gaze on the slimy bastard. "Can't do that. / suggest you let her go."

When Cummings hesitated, Jake flexed one fist—a warning. At this, Cummings finally released her from his grasp, but appeared almost as angry as Jake felt. "She does this for a living, pal."

That's what you think. He couldn't help flitting his gaze quickly to Stephanie before looking back to Cummings.

Finally, the asshole stepped away from her, so Jake stood aside, leaving the man a clear path through the open door.

"You just lost your fucking job, pal!" he said, wagging a finger in Jake's face.

Jake reached up and caught it, like capturing a fly in his hand. "You get on outta here and maybe the lady won't file assault charges."

Cummings laughed. "Like anybody's gonna believe a whore." But at least he made the stinging comment his exit line, departing back into the glitz and soft jazz that did such a good job of covering the ugly reason why everyone was there.

Jake walked from the light streaming out the door into the shadows where Stephanie stood. "You all right, chère?"

"Yeah, fine." She was lying. Eighty damn degrees out here and she was shivering.

Instinct made him want to hold her, attempt to comfort her, but it was the wrong move. Women didn't like to be touched by strange men right after something like this. And best he keep his hands off this one anyway.

Even so, his gut stayed all pinched up. She was a damn stupid woman, but her blind stupidity hadn't stopped the inexplicable fear that had raced through him when he'd opened that door. Never mind that this wasn't his business and he shouldn't give a damn. Never mind that if Cummings really went to the top brass, over and above his easygoing boss, Danny, he might have just jeopardized the easy gig he had here.

He crossed his arms again and leaned back against the railing next to her. "You see my point now, no?"

The question earned him a sneer.

Good. Would be best if she was mad at him. "You can't handle this, Stephanie Grant. Now you best get on home to Chicago, back to your neat little life up there, and forget all about this place."

She stared blankly through the mullioned glass, the old panes distorting the colors and shapes inside. "I wish I could."

"Well, you can sure as hell try. And the sooner the better, you ask me."

She whipped her gaze to him, her ire suddenly returned. "I didn't ask you, and I meant I wish I could go home, not just that I wish I could forget this place. I can't go home. Not until I find my sister."

Jake let out a long sigh. This woman tired him. He pulled out a chair from a little white table next to the railing and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees as he loosely laced his fingers. "What am I gonna do with you, chère? I can't be chasin' you around all over New Orleans tryin' to keep you safe—I'm nobody's hero. But seems to me that if I don't, you're gonna keep on gettin' yourself in trouble you can't get out of."

"Look, I'm not your responsibility." Her tone was pointed, harsh. "I appreciate what you did just now, but you can consider yourself relieved of duty."

He shifted a sour gaze from his hands to her face to see that damnable determination still shining in her eyes, even after this. He simply shook his head. "How you expect me to sleep nights, bebV

"You just said you weren't a hero. So what's it to you? I never asked for your protection."

But I just can't seem to stop giving it, can I? He wanted to accuse her of dragging him into this, but she hadn't. He'd made her problems his business by coercing the truth from her last night, and again tonight, by following her out here when he'd seen her leave with Cummings. 'Tell me somethin', chère? Is there anything I can say to make you stop actin' like some crazy couillon? Anything I can do to talk some sense into you and get you out of Sophia's? And into some clothes?"

When she lifted her gaze, he couldn't help wondering what she'd look like without all that makeup. What was she like—out of this place, out of this situation, in her normal, everyday life? Softer, he thought. Softer, in a good way.

She crossed in front of him, moving to the other side of the table to the remaining chair. He made a point of staying bent over and went back to not looking at her, instead studying the grain in the balcony's wooden floor. It was easier that way.

"I don't even know your name," she said, her very tone relaying everything her words didn't. / don't even know your name, yet you 've touched me. I don't even know your name, yet you're asking me to listen to you.

He couldn't help raising his eyes. "Jake Broussard."

She offered a soft nod in reply, then said, "It's like this. My ex-escort friend tells me this is the only place where high-priced escorts and their customers meet publicly. And Tina put herself in that category of prostitutes, unequivocally—it seemed important to her. Do you know of any other places high-priced girls work?"

"No," he agreed, still tracing the wood grain with his eyes. "Used to be more hot spots for high-priced hookers, but the feds came in a few years back and closed 'em down. The NOPD never quite understood—prostitution's against the law, but we had plenty else to keep us busy besides comin' down on the workin' girls. When the feds moved in, we were surprised they didn't have better things to do, too. Only thing we could figure is they were lookin' for somethin' bigger and didn't find it."

"Well then," she said with a nod, "I have no recourse than to continue asking around here. Someone has to know something about my sister—I just haven't found them yet."

He lifted his eyes to hers for the first time in a while. "Supposin' I said I'd ask around/or you. Would that keep your pretty little butt at home a few nights?"

He saw her absorbing the offer, finally leaning across the table to say, "What more could we do? Where else could we search? If you're willing to help, surely there's more to be done than just snooping around this one place. As an ex-cop, you must know other avenues we could try."

A thin ribbon of weariness fluttered through him. "So you're sayin' that me askin' around here isn't enough for you?" He hiked a thumb in the direction of the party.

"I'm saying that if you're going to help me, why not use all your resources? Like I said, I can pay you whatever you like and the sooner we find Tina, the sooner I'll be out of your hair."

"I don't want your money, chère."

"What do you want?"

As their eyes met, he thought they both felt the heat the question implied. / want to lay you down and touch you, glide my hands over each and every one of your pretty curves. He gave his head a quick shake to jerk himself back to reality. "No payment required," he finally said, his gaze still locked on hers. They were so damn blue he thought he could go for a swim in them.

She sat up a bit straighter, her breasts thrusting forward with the motion. "So you're saying you'll help me find her?"

He let out a sigh. Was that indeed what he was saying? That he, a man who tried to care as little as possible about anybody or anything these days, was going to attempt assisting Stephanie Grant in locating her lost sister?

"Yeah, beb, sure. I'll help you find her."

He had to be out of his mind.

Tina pulled the sheet up over her breasts, watching as Robert crossed in front of the bed, naked, disappearing into the bathroom. For a guy in his forties, he had a good body—he worked out every morning, and it showed.

She wasn't sure why she felt the need to cover herself. The sex wasn't horrible or anything. And whenever those weird feelings of yuck entered the picture, she just closed her eyes and imagined it was Russ making love to her, and that took any slight element of distaste away.

She sighed, sinking a little deeper into the goose-down pillow, watching the sway of her toes, back and forth, where they stuck out from the one-thousand-thread-count sheet. Screw Russ. She didn't need him. She only wished he could see her now—living in the lap of luxury. Robert had put her up in a house in the Garden District. Well, not a whole house—it was a grand old mansion that had been divided into apartments—but it was gorgeous, everything a girl could want.

She shifted her gaze to the window, overhung with draping vines. Outside stood a large trellis adorned in wisteria,

and sometimes she opened the window, despite the heat, just to drink in the fragrance. Yet the really fabulous part was inside—high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, plush draperies, and big, majestic furniture that looked like it should be in a castle. "Your throne, m'lady," Robert sometimes said when escorting her to the dining-room table, so she knew she wasn't exaggerating the grandeur in her mind. Stephanie always said she exaggerated everything, but Stephanie was so wrong about her, in so many ways.

She wished Stephanie could see the place, too, but that was impossible. Her holier-than-thou sister would never approve of the way she'd ended up here.

"You're doing what?' Steph had said when Tina had called her a few weeks back. "An escort, as in... a prostitute?'

It was only sex. Sometimes she wondered if Steph even had sex with the men she dated.

When Stephanie had been in high school, she'd gotten in trouble for coming in late from a date more than once, and on one occasion Tina had spied her furiously making out with Tommy Rhodes on their front porch when she'd thought everyone was asleep. But somewhere along the way, Steph had changed. By the time Tina was old enough to start asking questions about guys, Stephanie had turned all prim and proper, all "Don't do this" and "Don't do that" and "Don't let yourself get talked into anything" and "You'll like yourself better if you wait."

"How long?" she'd asked once.

Stephanie had been packing her green tapestry suit-ease, the one Tina loved because it looked so sophisticated, to go back to college after a long weekend. She'd been making neat little rows of underwear and sweaters and jeans. " 'Til..." She'd pondered slowly, unaware that

Tina watched her fingers with the perfectiy-polished nails, admiring her every move as she packed so fastidiously. " 'Til you feel like you're in complete control of the situation."

Tina had hugged a throw pillow from Steph's bed to her chest. "You mean, like, being in love."

To her surprise, Stephanie had shaken her head. "No, more than that. In love with someone who loves you back and who you know would never hurt you or leave you. Ever. Someone truly worthy."

Tina could only guess her sister had been hurt by someone she'd slept with.

Well, so had she now—lots of times. Who hadn't? She'd learned long ago that sex was just part of fife and that it was silly to think of it as some sacred act, like Stephanie did. Christ, she'd still be a virgin if she'd waited for a guy as perfect as the one Steph had described.

And after Russ's rejection, she'd determined—finally, once and for all—that a guy like that just wasn't going to come along. She'd grown tired of waiting around for something fabulous to happen, so she'd made it happen. And now she had it all. Sparkly cocktail dresses, diamonds dangling from her ears, a debonair man who was crazy about her, and best of all—a future.

She might not be as madly in love with Robert as she had been with other guys, but he was wild about her—and he'd proven it with all he'd given her.

Of course, Stephanie would probably drop dead on the spot if she knew her little sister was having an affair with a married man, but Robert had promised to leave his wife—as soon as his kids left for college next week, in fact. He just wanted to wait until they were gone, until he could explain to Melissa in a nice, civil way that he'd fallen out of love with her and into it with someone else.

Robert exited the bathroom fully clothed—only his plum-colored tie hung askew around his neck. When he smiled at her, the skin around his eyes crinkled in that George Clooney way, which made it handsome. She didn't even mind that his dark hair was shot through with bits of silver—it only made him look distinguished, like a man to be reckoned with.

"Leaving so early?" she asked. It wasn't that she couldn't bear the idea of being without him, but that she'd spent so much time by herself the last few weeks that she'd begun, for the first time in her life, to feel lonely.

He stood before the dresser mirror, knotting the tie—a perfect double Windsor—but glanced over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, love. But a late business meeting can only run so late." He winked.

"Do you still sleep with her?" she asked without quite planning it.

Finishing the knot, he came to sit on the elegant little bench at the foot of the bed, reaching over to play with her toes. "Do you mean sleep in the same bed with or have sex with?"

"Sex."

He smiled his warm, winning smile—the one that made her so sure of him, like Stephanie had said she should be. "Of course not, love. Haven't for a long while now."

"So when you tell her it's over, it won't come as a total shock. I mean, she knows the marriage is failing, right?" It wasn't so much that she cared about his wife, but on some level she did care what his wife thought of her. And what other people would think, too. She would eventually be taking Melissa's place, after all, socializing with Robert's friends, coming to know his children.

"Yes, darling, she knows. We've never discussed it, but it's clear."

"Do me a favor?" She let her eyes widen to moon at him in a way she knew he adored. "Anything. Name it."

"When you tell her about me, don't tell her how we met." That you paid me for sex. "It's not that I think there's anything wrong with it, but some people are such prudes, you know?"

He nodded, his look assuring her that he understood perfectly. She loved that about him. "No worries," he said as he got to his feet and came around to the side of the bed, bending to kiss her forehead. She liked when he did that. And in time, she'd grow to love him the same way she loved Russ, but better. Because he was worthy. Like Stephanie said he should be.

"Is that all I get?" she asked.

He chuckled, smiling into her eyes, then lowered a long, deep kiss to her waiting lips. She wished she felt it inside more—she'd thought maybe she would this time. But that was okay.

"Good night, love."

"When will I see you again?" She sat up in bed as he walked away, still careful to keep the sheet over her chest and still not quite knowing why.

"I'll have to call you. Probably not tomorrow, but by the weekend."

She nodded patiently. She could take a little loneliness for what she got in return. A life of ease and luxury. And as soon as he left Melissa, he was going to let her start managing the ritzy boutique he owned in the French Quarter—so soon she'd have a career, too.

Maybe then she'd call Stephanie, and maybe even her mom and dad. She'd invite them all down to meet her classy husband and see their fabulous home. And she'd tell them all how fulfilling she found the world of high-priced fashion.

She'd never been as smart as Stephanie, but at least she was pretty. And she'd finally found a way to make that work for her, a way to get everything she'd ever wanted.

Nearly twenty-four hours after leaving Sophia's private party, Stephanie strolled down a narrow, old French Quarter street toward the diner where she had agreed to meet Jake Broussard. In the mood to walk, she'd forgone a cab as well as the rental car she'd procured but had hardly used since her arrival, given that parking spots were minimal in the Quarter.

She still couldn't believe Jake had agreed to help her— it was a godsend, a new road appearing at a dead end.

"We'll go some places I know, ask around," he'd said. "You got a picture of your sister, chèreT

"Yes," she'd replied, still awestruck with fresh hope.

Now, that hope mingled with the return of worry— what if this didn't help? what if they still didn't find Tina?—and it also mixed with something else she couldn't deny. Ever since the moment she'd known for certain she'd be seeing him again, her body had hummed with anticipation. Wondering if there was any chance he'd take her in his arms and brush another kiss across her hps. Praying he wouldn't, even as she burned for his touch.

How had she gotten so hung up on this guy? Two full days after their first encounter, she still hadn't a clue. All she knew was that he was a gruff, arrogant, know-it-all stranger who felt completely justified in bossing her around ... and who'd been there for her when she needed him last night, and was willing to help her again now. Not to mention that he was the sexiest man she'd ever come face-to-face with, without a shred of effort on his part.

People had so many sides to them, so many facets to their personalities.

She'd never noticed that so much until her immersion into the Big Easy, but suddenly it seemed an unavoidable notion. Her sexy bartender, so big and dangerous, yet unaccountably concerned for her well-being. Melody, a woman who'd once made her living having sex for money, now turned loving wife and doting mother.

And even Tina. Stephanie laughed to herself, remembering her silly, feeble attempts today at crocheting, a hobby her sister had somehow stumbled into. She'd been shocked when Tina had shown her the fabulous winter scarves and hats she'd been creating, her eyes glittering with pride. She'd never before seen her sister do anything so ... domestic, tranquil. "I'm thinking maybe I could sell them at craft shows or something."

Stephanie had simply laughed then, too. She couldn't see restless Tina content to spend her weekends in gymnasiums with craft-making moms who drove minivans and baked brownies. And yet the truth was, Tina was versatile, adventurous—traits Stephanie admired in her sister. She bit her hp now, realizing she'd probably never told her that.

Tina had insisted on giving her a crocheting lesson, but such abilities were even less Stephanie's forte than Tina's, and she'd failed miserably. Yet, for some reason, when she'd been packing for her trip south, she'd tossed the little bag of yarn and crocheting needle into her suitcase, and she'd spent some time in her room today trying to pick up the skill. It suddenly seemed that if Tina found it a worthwhile activity that she should try to learn. She envisioned being able to show Tina a crocheted scarf upon their reunion. She could already see Tina laughing, amazed Stephanie had actually done it.

Her imagined joy faded, though, when she reached the Crawfish Diner, where a red crawfish blinked on and off in an old neon sign in the dingy window.

Jake Broussard was waiting inside for her. Like once before, her instincts told her to run, to just forget the plan and get as far away from him as possible. Any man who made her suffer such unadulterated want was surely trouble in her carefully managed world.

Why did she always forget people had more than one side to their personality—just because she didn't? Well, she didn't think she did. But she had a feeling that if she'd said yes to his proposition the other night, she'd have become ... someone she didn't even recognize.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled open a heavy door and stepped inside the long, skinny restaurant that smelled of Cajun spices. To one side of the aisle stood a counter with stools, to the other a row of booths.

Before she could scan the seats, her attention was drawn to an old man in a dirty apron, who shouted at a middle-aged waitress in a bayou accent much heavier than Jake's.

The red-haired woman, wearing a pair of too-tight white slacks, rolled her eyes. "Arlen, you don't know your head from your ass—I called out an order for shrimp, old man, shrimpl"

The old cook muttered something in French as the waitress stomped away, a heavy tray balanced on one hand. She maneuvered the thin aisle with ease, stopping at a small booth crammed tight with four burly men. Just beyond them, Stephanie caught sight of Jake, and her pulse began to race.

She'd never seen a man who filled out a simple T-shirt so well. Tonight's was dark gray, and she knew without seeing that beneath the table he was poured into his jeans just as pleasantly. His dark hair was pushed back over his head, but as usual, a few locks dropped down above his eyes. Black stubble dusted his jaw and chin.

God, was it hot in here? As she worked her way toward Jake, she glanced to the kitchen, hoping like hell that it was hot, that she wasn't starting to sweat because of him. On the other hand, though, why did that shock her? Just like every other time she'd seen him, a mere glimpse turned her inside out.

His once-over slid from her head to her feet as she approached, and even as dressed down as she was tonight in a simple linen sheath, his look transformed her into that sexual entity she was getting to know better the last few days—against her will. She found herself wanting him to see her that way. Not an ad exec, or someone's big sister, but purely as a woman, with curves to be touched and hps to be kissed. Clearly, she'd gotten too good at her escort role, learned to "feel it" a little too well.

She slid into the cracked red vinyl booth across from him before meeting his eyes.

"Evenin', chère."

His slow Cajun drawl delivered in that deep voice seemed to reach way down inside her to someplace foreign. Foreign but... getting less so. She couldn't decide whether or not to smile, so she settled on the "pleasant look" she used in corporate dealings. "Hello."

"Find the place okay?"

She nodded, letting her hands settle in her lap—then, feeling fidgety, she reached for the water glass that had already been delivered.

Around them, people talked and silverware rattled. From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes being heaped in a metal sink. The red-haired waitress called out orders of things to be fried and smothered. And Jake Broussard's eyes pinned Stephanie in place, making her weak and excited and nervous all in the same breath.

Say something. Anything. "So, you don't have to tend bar tonight?" Please don't let my nipples be showing through my bra and dress.

He shook his head. "Only work a few nights a week."

She tilted her head, caught her breath. Calm down. "What do you do with the rest of your time?"

He quirked his mouth into a half-smile. "I take it easy."

At her uncertain nod, he went on.

"Job pays better than you'd expect. Big tips from those rich guys—payin' me to keep their secrets."

"Oh." Made sense, she supposed.

The redhead suddenly appeared, slapping two plastic-covered menus on the table. "Evening, folks. Name's Ada. Be back to take your order in a minute."

"If you don't like the local cuisine," Jake said, "they have burgers and double-deckers, too."

Don't just nod this time. "What would you recommend?"

"You like shrimp?"

"Mmm-hmm." She tried not to look at him over her menu, but her eyes kept drifting up.

"How about onions, garlic, and peppers?"

"Mmm-hmm," she said again. You 're such a sparkling conversationalist tonight.

When Ada returned, Jake handed her both menus, saying, "Two orders of shrimp étouffée."

"Shrimp, huh? Well, cross your fingers Aden's cleaned out his ears by now or God knows what you'll get." With that, she rushed off, calling out, 'Two shrimp étoufféel Got that, old man? Shrimp!"

Arlen muttered in French, and Stephanie couldn't help laughing lightly at the show they put on. "I'm not sure those two should work together."

"Have been for as long as I've been comin' here."

"I'm surprised they haven't killed each other yet."

Jake shrugged. "I suspect they like each other more than they let on, or they'd be divorced by now."

"They're marriedl To each other?'

He gave a nod. "Used to come in here for dinner a lot when I was a beat cop. You listen to people for a while, you figure things out."

She couldn't help forming the impression that he'd probably been a good cop. But that begged the question ... "Why did you give up police work?"

He shook his head lightly, glanced down, and started playing with a salt shaker. "Heart wasn't in it anymore." Then he raised his eyes, so very brown and deep, directly back to her. His gaze seemed to capture her—she couldn't escape. "Tell me about you, Stephanie Grant."

"Nothing much to tell," she began. "I've lived a pretty ordinary life. I grew up in a middle-class family in a Chicago suburb. Two kids and a dog, block parties, that sort of thing." She wasn't sure why she'd reached that far back in her life to begin, nor why she'd sounded so self-deprecating. She supposed that compared to him—even knowing nothing about him—she just felt so "white bread." She had the notion his life had been anything but ordinary. "I'm in advertising now," she added.

"What do you sell?"

She lowered her chin slightly, letting her eyebrows rise. "Besides myself, you mean?" She wasn't sure why she said it. Perhaps to beat him to the punch?

The corners of his mouth curled into a slight grin. "I was gonna be a big enough man not to mention that, but since you did, yeah. Besides yourself."

She bit her Up, wondering if her job would sound interesting or boring. "I head up campaigns for major corporations—everything from cars to breakfast cereals to fast-food restaurants." Boring, she decided as she finished. Or maybe it was just this situation with Tina making everyday Ufe seem insignificant.

"You like it? Happy doin' it?"

She considered her answer. She'd spent the years since college so concerned about her rise to the top of the corporate ladder that it wasn't a question she'd ever asked herself. "The corporate aspects of it are getting a Uttle old," she finally concluded, "but I love thinking of ideas, trying to hit on the perfect slogan or image. What about you? Are you happy tending bar?"

"It's a paycheck."

"You weren't happy being a cop?"

He raised his eyebrows, looking almost amused by her wilhngness to press the issue—before his mouth straightened in a grim Une. His voice sounded a soft warning. "You best leave that alone now, beb."

Her annoyance was squelched by Ada, suddenly plopping a couple of plates on the table. "Might be hot. Watch yourselves," she cautioned. "And check to make sure that's shrimp, will ya?"

Rather than use his silverware to look beneath the reddish stew covering the dish, Jake forked a bite into his mouth. "Yep, shrimp."

"Hallelujah, it's a miracle,'' she said, rolling her eyes in the direction of the kitchen as she hurried off. "Dig in, chère."

At first, the spicy dish was a shock to Stephanie's taste buds, burning her throat, nearly making her eyes water. But she tried not to let it show, taking large drinks of water, and soon the heat wore down enough for her to realize the smothered shrimp was delicious.

"You like?" he asked.

She nodded yet again, this time because her mouth was full. Upon swallowing, she said, "Hot. But good."

"Arlen serves up good food. His jambalaya's the best you can get around here. Not quite as good as my grand-mère used to make, but close."

"Used to?" She tilted her head.

He dug his fork back into the plate of shrimp. "Died when I was eighteen. Best Cajun cook on the bayou, though."

"I lost my grandma around that age, too. She used to make the best apple pie in the world."

"Where you get your pie now?'

She shrugged. "No place special. Haven't really found any that lives up to hers."

"I know what you mean. Things like that aren't easily replaced."

Somehow, his eyes said he really did understand those sorts of little losses that sometimes felt big, and the sudden connection made her nervous. She bit her lip and smiled. "So now you come here for your Cajun delicacies."

He laughed. "Sometimes. It's easy. Other times I make my own. Well, I used to. Wasn't half bad in the kitchen, if I do say so myself."

"Used to?" she asked again, trying to hide her surprise that the sexy bartender was also a cook. "No energy for it anymore." "Why?"

He leaned forward across the table, his eyes twinkling. "You sure are a nosy little thing, Stephanie Grant."

"Sorry. I just..." She dropped her gaze, but then raised it again, summoning the courage to be honest. "I'm curious about you."

"Why?"

Because I want you so badly I can't understand it. She swallowed nervously and honesty fled the scene. "Because ... you're being nice enough to help me."

He answered in a frank tone. "We best get sometbin' straight. Me helpin' you isn't from the goodness of my heart. It's only because if I let you go on about this business the way you were, I might not be able to live with myself."

"Well, whatever the case, I appreciate it."

"As soon as we finish eatin', we'll head to a few places I know, show your sister's picture, see if we can get a lead. New Orleans is a big town, but not so big if you check the right places."

Again, another nod—she'd given up trying for anything better. Sometimes thoughts of Tina, being out there in this city-with-a-dark-side, simply stifled her thoughts, made it so nothing else could come in or out of her head. She might be slowly starting to grow used to the way Jake made her feel with just a glance, but her worries for Tina didn't operate that way. They didn't grow more normal or acceptable, no matter how long she dwelled on them.

"Listen, chère, don't worry so much."

She supposed it showed in her eyes, and she was about to summon a response when he reached out to warmly cover her hand with his, where it curled loosely around the water glass. She froze, astounded at the strength of the desire the small touch sent racing through her limbs. Old—ancient—yearnings turned new, and even more powerful, beneath his fingertips.

She was sure if she tried to speak it would come out mangled and shaky, so in a bid for self-preservation, she finally drew her hand away, dropping her eyes to her plate, and resumed eating.

Conversation died then, which was at once awkward but not. He wasn't a highly talkative man, and it surprised her when he strung more than a couple of sentences together, so that, combined with her fear for her sister, somehow made the silence okay.

The next time she looked at him, they'd both finished eating and he was digging in his pocket, drawing out a roll of mints. He held it out, offering one, but she declined.

After putting a mint in his mouth, he shoved the roll back into his front pocket and his legs shifted slightly beneath the table so that their knees touched. Again, it was like a current of electricity, this time shooting up her thighs.

Pull your knees back. She didn't. Couldn't. Neither did he.

She found the will to slowly raise her gaze. His eyes were locked on hers, a silent affirmation of the sensual vibes passing between them. What now?

Again, it should have been awkward, but instead, all Stephanie experienced was heat, raw and naked—no hiding what she felt, and at the moment, she didn't care. It went back to the red room, she supposed. There'd certainly been no hiding what she'd felt when he'd laid her back on that couch. They'd already been here once before.

"We should get started," he finally said. "Night isn't gettin' any younger."

"Right," she said, drawing her knees away.

But pulling back didn't squelch the sensations, her whole body throbbing for what she wanted. She wanted to have sex with Jake Broussard more than she wanted to breathe.

It was a startling admission.

At a horrible time.

She had a feeling it was going to be a very long night.

Jake scooped the check up off the table and reached for his wallet.

"Let me get it," Stephanie said. "It's the least I can do, considering why we're here."

He simply shook his head and threw a few dollars down for a tip. "Not necessary, chère." Odd, he'd suggested coming here because it was loud and dingy and, therefore, perfect for a meeting he wanted in no way to feel like a "date," yet old-fashioned masculine pride wouldn't let him allow her to pay.

Damn, she looked good. He was trying like hell to concentrate on what they had to do tonight, trying to concentrate on passing the money to Ada at the cash register, trying to concentrate on anything—but it was as if Stephanie Grant had cast some sort of spell on him.

He supposed it had just been too long since he'd had sex. Good, all-night-long, touch-each-other-everywhere, kiss-each-other-everywhere sex. Had to happen eventually, he told himself as he held the door for her, following her out into the dark, balmy night. Had to come a time

when he'd want that again, need it. But it didn't mean anything, he insisted inside. It didn't mean there was anything special about this woman. It was just attraction, chemistry.

It was the first time he'd seen her not dressed to seduce, yet she remained just as seductive. The plain pale yellow sheath covered a few more inches of thigh and followed her curves more loosely than the other dresses he'd seen her in, but that just made her sexiness shine through more naturally, seem more genuine. The reduction in makeup revealed a pretty face, and a pure sparkle in those bluer-than-blue eyes. Her blond hair fell softer around her shoulders now, bouncy. He had the bizarre urge to reach for her hand as they walked side by side down the old, uneven sidewalk.

Damn, what was that about?

Just Becky. Just missing Becky.

Probably the first time you've walked down a street with a woman since her—odd as it seemed. But it was true. He wrote off the urge to old habits.

Even so, what he'd feared was already materializing— it wasn't gonna be easy to locate her sister with all this heat between them. He'd indulge in it if she gave him half a chance, and judging from the look in her eyes across the table when their knees had touched, she might. He knew Stephanie Grant was a prim and proper lady in one sense, but he could feel something hot bubbling beneath her surface.

First things first, though.

As they turned up one of the Quarter's meaner streets, the sidewalks dirtier than most, the balconies sagging and the brickwork falling away from the walls in jagged chunks, he again fought the urge to take her hand. This time, though, it was about protection, putting her at ease in case she figured out this wasn't the best part of town. But he couldn't protect her—not really, and a handhold wouldn't change that. He'd learned the hard way that he couldn't really protect anyone.

"Where are we headed?" she asked, apparentiy noticing that the buildings had turned a little grayer, more neglected.

"In here," he said, gesturing to his right. A neon arrow of dulled blue pointed to the entrance of the Pirate's Den, a dive bar and cop hangout. Before pushing through the door, he tossed a glance over his shoulder at what was surely the prettiest sight to hit this street tonight. "Don't let any of the crusty old couillons in here make you nervous, chère."

"Okay," she said, already looking uneasy.

But he liked that about her—that being nervous didn't seem to hold her back, from anything.

A wall of smoke hit him as he stepped inside.

"Hey, bougre," said Shorty, the ancient Cajun bartender who had to be pushing eighty if he was a day. The wrinkled smile he cast at the sight of Jake brimmed with sincerity—he hadn't been in here for over two years. The greeting touched Jake unexpectedly.

He gave a brief nod, a quick grin. "What you say, Shorty?"

Other greetings sounded from around the bar as cops and old-timers recognized him. For some reason, he hadn't thought anyone would much notice his presence— maybe until now he'd forgotten it had been so long since he'd socialized with this crew.

"How's it hangin', Jake?"

"Long time, no see, buddy."

"Look what fatras de cat drug in." The last came from

Fat Eddie, a big Cajun from even deeper in the swamps than Jake. He'd worked more than a few cases with Fat Eddie back in the day and he stepped forward to shake his old compadre's hand. "And wid a jolie femme on his arm, too. Life treatin' you fine den, Broussard?" "Good enough," he lied.

"Ah, listen to him," Shorty snorted from behind the bar. "Life's gotta be treatin' you good you got a woman like this with you. Come here now, catin," he said, waving Stephanie toward him, "and I give you a drink on the house. What's your pleasure? I'll show this old dog how to treat a lady right."

Next to him, Stephanie produced a sweet, blushing smile that, for some reason, nearly ripped a hole in his heart. "Um, okay, I'll have ... a glass of wine. Maybe a Chablis?"

He couldn't help smiling inwardly. Still totally unpredictable.

"You ain't from around here, are ya?" Fat Eddie leaned around to ask. "You in de Big Easy now, sugar. Shorty, fix dis femme a hurricane."

Shorty drew back in mock warning before addressing her again. "I don't know 'bout that, catin. Awful strong drink. You don't wanna get drunk, let this fella take advantage of you now, do ya?"

Jake cast a soft smile down at her, sorry she'd been put on the spot by his old friends, but curious to hear her answer.

She returned a look of amusement, then focused on Shorty. "I'll take my chances."

Light laughter rose from the bar and Eddie looked to Jake. "Ah, now, dis one, she's a good one. I like her. You wanna keep her around."

Maybe he should have said something to make it clear they weren't a couple, but he couldn't quite find the words. He hadn't anticipated any of this, hadn't thought any further ahead than this being a good place to show Tina's picture. But his old drinking buddies seemed so happy to see him with someone else, it didn't seem necessary to let them know he was still in a bad way, and that not much had changed in his life since he'd left the force.

He made small talk with Eddie and a few other guys, some in uniforms, until Shorty passed Stephanie's drink across the bar. "Put it in a clean glass and everything."

She smiled, and Shorty handed Jake a bottle of beer, still remembering what he drank. When Jake reached for his wallet, Shorty stopped him. "Ah, no, bougre, your money ain't no good here—tonight anyway. You get comin' in regular again, then you pay."

They laughed as Jake nodded his thanks, then took Stephanie's hand, drawing her deeper into the bar. They were halfway down the narrow passageway between bar stools and tables before he realized he'd followed the urge this time—taken her hand. Despite himself, he didn't let go until they reached their destination.

Tony sat by himself at a table in the corner with a mug of draft. His light brown hair was messy, his jeans and loose T-shirt just as telling. "Rough day, pard?" Jake asked.

His old partner smiled up at him through tired eyes. "Rough enough. Better now, though."

Jake could read his thoughts with ease. Tony was happy as hell to see him acting human for a change, actually coming out to a bar, and with a new woman, no less. "Don't get too excited," Jake said, glad someone had put money in the jukebox—"I'm No Angel" by Gregg All-man half-drowned his words. "Not what you think."

"Why don't you pull up a chair for yourself and the lady, and fill me in."

"I'll pull up a chair, but the fillin' in can happen another time." He dragged two wooden chairs from the next table and gave Stephanie the least rickety. As they took a seat, he got straight down to business. "Have the picture, chère?"

Lowering her red drink to the table, she opened a little yellow purse that matched her dress. She passed him two photos—one a snapshot of a young woman in shorts and a snug tee standing on a wooden bridge, probably from a vacation, the other a professional portrait. "We both had these made for our parents' thirtieth anniversary a few years ago," she explained of the second shot.

He didn't know why it surprised him that Tina was a knockout. Probably because he hadn't quite believed she could be as pretty as her sister. Whereas Stephanie was a classic beauty, Tina struck him as the sort of girl most men would fall for faster—her eyes were filled with invitation, her clothing cut to garner attention.

He handed the photos to Tony. "Seen her anywhere?"

His friend studied the pictures. "Afraid not. Sorry." Then he raised his gaze. "Who is she?"

"An escort. Gone missin'." Sort of, he added in his mind. Jake still wasn't convinced the girl was missing at all, but if he wanted to find her, that kind of detail wouldn't help.

Tony handed the pictures back to Stephanie and looked to Jake. "Haven't heard about any missing girls lately."

"I called the police," Stephanie volunteered, "but they didn't seem concerned. She's my sister."

"I am the police," Tony informed her kindly, "but yeah, they might brush off a missing person in that line of work quicker than not. How long has she been gone?" "A few weeks."

Tony nodded, shifting his eyes to Jake. "I'll keep my eyes open."

"Thanks," Jake said.

"You might, uh, show those to Fat Eddie before you go"

"Oh?" Fat Eddie worked homicide these days.

"Girl down by the river last week." Tony spoke low, clearly trying to sound casual, and not saying the girl by the river was dead. Jake still thought it was pretty obvious, so he hoped Stephanie couldn't hear over Gregg All-man's gravelly voice.

"Listen, beb, I'm gonna show these around the bar a few minutes," he said, plucking the photos back out of her hand. "You sit here and drink your drink, chat with Tony."

"I wouldn't trust me with her if I were you," his friend quipped.

"I'm not worried." Friendly banter, his way of saying Tony was no competition. They'd once exchanged similar conversation over Becky. The memory made his gut clench lightly, and for the first time since walking in the door, he remembered there was a good reason he didn't go out, didn't see people—it still hurt too much. For now, though, he pushed away the recollections and focused on what he'd come here to do.

Approaching the bar, he placed his hand on Fat Eddie's shoulder. As always, the man wore a cheap suit and a tie with a spot on it. He held up the pictures. "Seen her?"

Eddie leaned in to look close, shaking his head. "A hot cookie like dat, I'd remember."

Jake swallowed. "Tony said you had a homicide down by the river."

Eddie looked again, then gave his head a solemn shake. "Girl we found was heavier, didn't look like dis at all."

Relief on Stephanie's behalf rushed through him. He wasn't sure when he'd gotten emotionally involved in this, but he couldn't imagine having to tell her Tina was dead. "You see a girl looks like this one, you let Tony know, okay?"

"You got it, pal."

As he started to walk away, Eddie grabbed his wrist and Jake looked up. "Really is good to see you, Jake. You should come around more, shoot de bull wid me."

Jake pressed his hps together tightly. It was good to see Eddie, too—but as for coming around, he wasn't planning to make it a habit. "Maybe," he said anyway.

Fat Eddie slapped him on the back and laughed. "Dat'd be good, real good."

After leaving the Pirate's Den, they stopped at a couple of other out-of-the-way haunts, but not places where Jake seemed as well-known or warmly regarded. He showed the pictures to one or two guys inside each place, still with no luck.

As usual with Jake, Stephanie found herself experiencing warring emotions. Her hope deflated a little at each shaking head they encountered, and at the same time she was shamefully overcome with an attraction to her companion that escalated with each passing minute. How could she be thinking about that at a time like this?

Each small touch of his hand, every meeting with those dark eyes, carried her a little deeper into desire. Such an unfamiliar territory. Unfamiliar, at least, for a very long time. It made her remember that as a teenager, she'd never really gotten hold of it, never reached a place where she could push it away with any success. And as an adult, she'd had no practice with it.

So when they turned a corner onto Bourbon Street, suddenly thrust into flashing lights and a street party that happened every night, she didn't flinch when Jake took her hand. She hated being unable to control her reaction to him, but at the same time she loved succumbing to it.

Although it was September, heat and humidity still soaked the air where people stood in clusters, drinking, laughing, eating. Open-air storefronts offered T-shirts, Mardi Gras beads, and frozen daiquiris in countless flavors, while music spilled onto the closed-to-traffic thoroughfare—rock, jazz, and Cajun all vying to be heard the loudest.

They passed a strip bar where two young women wearing skimpy bras and thong panties posed provocatively in the doorway. Just as she felt her face growing warmer with embarrassment, one of the girls smiled at Jake—and Stephanie wanted to kill her. Could she not see they were holding hands? And—

Oh God. This was it. She was losing her mind.

You and he are not a couple.

And the only reason he tried to seduce you the other night was to teach you a lesson.

"Where are we going now?" she asked, growing uncomfortable in the heart of the red-light district.

"Place just up ahead here. The Playpen."

She came to a dead halt, jerking Jake to a stop as well. He turned to look at her.

"Is that a strip club?"

He nodded easily. "Yeah. Why?"

She pulled in her breath. "Why on earth would we go to a strip club?"

Jake blinked, tilted his head, his look making her feel childish. But she couldn't help it—she couldn't imagine going into a place like that.

"Chère, you remember the last guy we spoke to, at LaFitte's?"

She thought back to the bar, and the guy—a handsome man in his late thirties with curling brown hair—then nodded.

"Danny Richards, my boss at Sophia's. He's a decent guy, I've known him a lotta years, and he's pretty familiar with the clientele on the third floor. What I'm sayin' is, he knows the high-end escort business in this town."

"And?"

"I mentioned Tina by name and showed her picture, and he's never seen her."

Stephanie's heart plummeted a little further.

"Makes me think we've exhausted our resources in the high-priced escort market," he said. "But what happens to some girls is—they try turnin' tricks, can't handle it, and take the next highest-payin' road, which is strippin'."

"Oh. Oh God," she murmured as the idea settled over her.

It shouldn't seem worse than prostitution, but she couldn't imagine taking her clothes off for a roomful of men. At least at Sophia's, there was some semblance of elegance. She shook her head. "I don't think Tina could be a stripper."

He narrowed his gaze on her, pointed but kind. "Did you think she could be a hooker?"

Another flood of ugly acceptance washed through her as she whispered her reply. "No."

"Then we best start checkin' some of these places out. The Playpen's the classiest in the Quarter, so if a girl knows anything about the business, she'd apply there first—and Tina's pretty enough to get hired on."

She began shaking her head. "Even so, I can't go into a place like that."

He lowered his chin, looked matter-of-fact. "Not a big deal, chère. There'll be other women inside."

"Naked ones."

When she least expected it, he laughed. "No, not just them. There'll be couples, groups of people. More men than women, sure. But otherwise, almost like any other bar."

"Really?"

He gave her a gentle nod, and only then did she realize he'd never dropped her hand and now stroked his thumb gendy back and forth over the top, trying to comfort her. "Hate to tell you this, but it's not like on TV. Not just a seedy place where old guys in bad sport coats hang out. It's more like ... a tourist attraction."

Unfortunately, his attempt at comfort couldn't override her shock. She opened her eyes wider, feeling as if she'd been born in some other universe and couldn't begin to comprehend the things happening in this one.

"It's like Eddie told you, chère—you're in the Big Easy now. Some things are just different here."

Not that she had the first idea what a strip club was like at home, either. She'd just assumed they were patronized strictly by men. She took a deep breath and looked into Jake's warm brown eyes. Despite herself, for some reason, she trusted him. "So you're saying men aren't going to gape at me if I go in this place with you?"

"Right, chère. You're not what they came to see. And I wouldn't insist so much, but you're gonna recognize your sister a lot quicker than me. Same reason I took you everyplace else, too. Figured there might be questions only you could answer, or that somebody might say somethin' I wouldn't hear in the same way as you—know what I mean?"

She nodded, the night air seeming to thicken still more around them. You're in the Big Easy now—don't be a prude. Do what you have to do to find your sister. "All right—let's go." Not wanting to give herself a chance to back out, she grabbed his hand and started briskly through the throng of Bourbon Street partyers until they reached the bright lights and cherry red awning of the Playpen.

To her surprise, the place was large, crisp, and clean-looking. Two men in suits stood at the open door. Between them, in the distance, she caught sight of a woman in silhouette, dancing around a pole. Her heart dropped to her stomach, but she worked hard not to hesitate, dragging Jake right up the red-carpeted steps.

This was even harder than going to Chez Sophia the first time. Perhaps due to the abject fear of walking through the door to see her baby sister swaying naked on a stage. If she'd found her at Sophia's, it wouldn't have seemed much worse than spotting her at a cocktail party. She suddenly missed the veil of dignity, however thin, that hung over Sophia's third floor.

"Good evening, folks," a large, bearded man said. "Welcome to the Playpen. Ten dollars for you, sir. The lady gets in free."

She watched nervously as Jake peeled a ten from his wallet, then placed his hand at the small of her back, gently propelling her onward.

Inside, red and pink lights swirled, but soon her eyes adjusted, revealing, to her shock, that the room possessed more than just the one stage she'd seen from outside. Instead, there were five, six, seven—a lot—each holding a girl in a different state of undress. Frightfully young girls. Baring their bodies on small stages all over the room. The sense of being surrounded by crude sexuality that had no relation to romance or love overwhelmed her instantly, tightening her stomach. On impulse, she turned and ran smack into the hard wall of Jake's chest. "Sorry," she murmured.

He gently curled his hand around her elbow. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Can we sit down?" Given that she was hardly the main attraction in the room, she felt strangely in the center of the action and experienced a burning urge to blend in.

"Sure, beb." Jake pulled her down into a small onesided booth and she breathed a short sigh of relief. "Take a look around," he told her easily, "see if she's here."

What Jake had said was true; the room held a mixed crowd, both men and women. But she looked past them, scanning the various stages for Tina. Thankfully—or not, she couldn't decide how to feel—her sister inhabited none of them.

It felt unbearably bizarre to be watching strippers at Jake's side. Unlike the other couples in the room, they barely knew each other. The girls on the stages were impossibly thin and beautiful, peeling off scant dresses and lingerie, down to nearly nonexistent flesh-colored

G-strings. She watched in fascinated horror as they swayed with slow precision, tweaking their bared nipples, running their hands down perfectly flat stomachs and shapely thighs.

Soon enough, though, her eyes were drawn to the men in the room. Jake was right about that, too. Not a bad sport jacket among them. They were ... guys she would date. They wore khaki shorts and golf shirts. They were corporate America after hours. But the most unsettling part was the expressions they wore.

She'd once gone to see the Chippendale dancers with some women from work. They'd giggled all the way through it, laughing at the costumes, at the forced sexuality the men worked so hard to convey. It had been, for all of them, a silly, crazy thing to do.

But this was not that. The faces of the men here shone with a raw, ugly lust she'd never quite witnessed before. Their eyes tamed the girls into nothing more than animals in an obscene zoo.

"Any luck?" Jake finally asked, oblivious to all she was experiencing.

She absently shook her head. "No." Then uttered her thought aloud. "These girls look so young." Eighteen or nineteen, maybe.

"Yeah," Jake said, solemnly enough that she could hear a calm hint of concern in his voice. "College girls from Tulane or Loyola, most likely."

College girls. She almost laughed with horror. At nineteen, she'd been studying hard and hanging onto the last shreds of her virginity. Things were different here.

"Something to drink?"

Stephanie looked up to find another college girl, this one wearing a red sequined bikini top and a matching micromini. The coed smiled down at her as if they were chums.

"Chère?" Jake deferred to her.

She started to order a glass of wine, but felt desperately hot inside and, for the first time, realized Shorty had been right—the hurricane had made her a little drunk. "Just a glass of water."

"Bottle of Bud," Jake said.

"I'll have them right up," the cheerful waitress replied.

But as she started to walk away, Jake called her back. "Hang on a minute."

She smiled down at him. Still chummy, sweet, as if they weren't all surrounded by naked young girls and a lust that permeated the air. "Something else?"

He turned to Stephanie. "Chère, your pictures."

She scrambled to open her purse, glad for the brief distraction.

Jake held them up for the girl to see. "This girl work here? Name's Tina."

The waitress looked closely at each photo. "Pretty," she mused. "But no, I don't think so."

Jake nodded, murmured his thanks, and let her go on her way. "Merde," he mumbled under his breath, passing the pictures back to Stephanie. "Thought sure I might be onto somethin' comin' here."

"What now?" She concentrated on getting the photos back in her purse without looking at Jake, somehow unable to meet his gaze given all the gyrating nudity in the room with them.

"Tempted to try talkin' to one of the doormen," he said on a sigh, "but I'd have to be careful—unless I give it the right finesse, they'll think I'm a cop and that she's in some kinda trouble. Let me think about it a few minutes."

At that moment, her eyes landed on a naked girl straddling a guy in a small, plush easy chair, undulating in time with the sexy music that played, her firm breasts swaying dangerously close to his mouth, his eyes gaping up at her, lost in vulgar desire. And somehow she saw the girl who writhed on a total stranger for money as Tina—and broke out in a cold sweat.

She couldn't stay in this room any longer. There was too much sin here, too much ugly lust. Just like at Sophia's, veiled or not—it was more sex for money. It was just harder to handle here because there was no jazz or expensive furniture to mask it. Here it was more raw— on the table for everyone to see. Shared, public sin.

"I have to get out of here."

Jake tamed his eyes on her, clearly confused. "What?"

She swallowed past the lump that had grown in her throat. Her body had gone so tense that her chest ached. "I have to go. I can't be here. Let me up." The booth set against the wall and Jake blocked her exit.

He simply gaped at her. "What's wrong?"

She widened her eyes on him, wondering if she was going to have to climb over him. "Please get up. I have to get out of here."

Dark eyebrows knitting, he finally pushed to his feet, eyes puzzled. "You don't want your water?"

"No, I don't want my water." She thought she probably sounded a little hysterical, but that's how she felt, suddenly—as if it had all come tumbling down on her at the sight of that lap dance, twenty dollars for simulated sex.

She bolted for the door, not giving a damn if she looked hysterical, too—she had to get out now or she'd smother.

By the time she'd rushed past the doormen and hit the busy street, tears streamed down her face. She wanted to hide, but had no idea how in such a crowd. The scents of pralines and beer met her nose as she wove a jagged path across the street, desperately seeking someplace quiet, private.

Her eyes were drawn to a darkened storefront, big glass windows filled with junky-looking antiques on either side of a deeply receding doorway. She made a bee-line toward it, figuring the little alcove was as good a retreat as she would find.

She'd just reached it, taming to lean back against the peeling paint of the wide wooden door frame, when Jake arrived, hot on her heels. His expression remained baffled. "What's wrong, chère? What happened?"

She shook her head, unable to look at him, since she had no explanation that would make sense to most men. Not even some women, she supposed, since there'd been plenty of females inside the Playpen in addition to the strippers.

"Talk to me," he insisted.

She simply kept shaking her head. She wanted to be at home. She wanted Tina there with her. She wanted her safe life in her safe world, where she could keep everything under control. "I can't," she said.

"This guy bothering you?"

They both tamed to find a tall, thin, dark-skinned man. Ironically, the guy trying to come to her rescue carried neon pink flyers for the Playpen. "No," she said, "he's fine. We're fine."

"You sure?" Concern colored his deep voice. For such a skinny man, he looked deadly bent on defending her. She supposed all he could see was a woman in tears racing away from the man chasing after her.

"Yes! Please. We're fine," she insisted.

The man offered one last worried look before finally going on his way, and Jake muttered, "asshole" behind him. "He was trying to be nice." "He thinks I made you cry."

"I know. I'm sorry." She peered up at him, guilty for making him look like a bad guy.

His eyes were fraught with worry as he gazed down on her. He stood only a few inches away, closing both hands warm around her elbows. "What is it, chèreT he asked, his voice softer. "What's makin' you cry?"

She shut her eyes, trying to squelch the flow of tears before meeting his gaze again. She could barely speak past the lump in her throat. 'The girls in there ... are like objects. Not people. I felt that."

He looked sympathetic, worried. His fingertips caressed her arms. "Not much different than at Sophia's, beb. It's not pretty, but surely it's not a surprise."

Yet that was just it. It was a surprise. She'd heard all her life about such places objectifying women, but she'd never really understood it so deeply as she did in this moment. "I just... somehow felt like an object, too. By default."

He glanced down, then raised his gaze again. She read in his expression how hard he was trying to understand. "I'm not sure I completely get it, but I'm sorry. I wouldn't have talked you into goin' in there if I'd thought it would upset you so much."

She could only look up at him and nod.

His hands rose to her face, his fingertips playing about her ears before skimming down onto her neck. His touch made her heart beat faster as he blotted away the wetness on her cheeks with his thumbs, then smiled gently into her eyes. "Let's dry up those tears now, chère, hmm?"