To Die For

He was only a couple of steps from his destination when the heel on his dress shoe decided to take a leave of absence. As the shoe, now sans any rubber treading, hit the polished concrete, he promptly slid a good foot farther than he was actually stepping. Jake put one hand down on the table next to him, trying to steady himself, and managed to dip his fingers in a very agitated-looking woman's b.l.o.o.d.y Mary.

Apologizing profusely, he took a twenty from his wallet and presented it to the woman. Her companion, a guy resembling a cross between a WWF performer and a Harley biker, grabbed the money and glared at him. Taking the hint, he located his missing heel and stuck it in his pocket, then hobbled like a one-legged man over to the bar. It took him a while to make it, but at least there were no more disasters along the way, and the stool was still empty when he got there.

Taking a good look at the legs of the stool, he pressed down on the back of it before pulling it out and sitting. He took a second to ascertain that no more mishaps were in the works, then nodded to the guy next to him. The guy stared at him for a moment, confused, then smiled.

"Hey," he said, and pointed a finger at Jake. "You're the dealer at Mallory's table. I saw you when everyone was leaving."

Jake nodded and extended his hand to the other man. "My name's Jake."

The other man grabbed his hand and shook it, surprising Jake with his viselike grip. "I'm Scooter. I'm the maintenance man for this tournament." He gave Jake a big grin. "Mostly I'm maintaining a buzz. Lucky nothing's broke yet. Well except the engine, but that was no big deal."

There was an encouraging thought, Jake decided. They were on a pit of a boat, out in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, surrounded by criminals, and the drunken idiot in front of him was whom they were depending on to get them back and forth to dock. The same man who thought a broken engine on a boat cruising approximately two hundred miles offsh.o.r.e was no big deal. The labor pool in this town was seriously lacking.

Scooter stopped smiling and studied Jake for a couple of seconds. "You feeling all right now?" he asked, "'cause I ain't got time for a cold or nothing. There's a big fis.h.i.+ng rodeo next weekend."

Jake stared at the man, uncertain what to say. He hadn't been sick at all and wondered what had given the other man that idea. At the same time and for some unG.o.dly reason, he found himself really wanting to know what the heck a fis.h.i.+ng "rodeo" consisted of, since that was the second time that day he'd heard the expression. But he wasn't about to ask. "I don't understand what you're asking," he said, deciding to stick with the more familiar of the two items. "I'm not sick and haven't been."

Scooter scrunched up his brow in thought. "d.a.m.n women never make any sense. You see, at lunch, Amy was saying as how you was hot and Mallory said you was hot but you was kinda an a.s.shole."

He scratched his head, then continued, "So I said if you was hot, I had an extra fan in the engine room that I could put at your table. They just laughed. I thought it was kinda rude and all if you were uncomfortable, but sometimes women are just funny."

Jake stared at Scooter, certain the man was another species. No one could be that stupid. Not even in Royal Flush. Something told Jake he wouldn't get any useful information out of Scooter. "Yeah, women can be a mystery," Jake finally said. "But to answer your question, I feel fine." Fine for an a.s.shole.

Scooter nodded. "Well, you let me know if you get hot again and I'll fetch you that fan. Summer colds are a b.i.t.c.h." With that Scooter jumped off his stool and hurried across the bar to a dartboard, calling out to someone as he went.

Jake stared after Scooter a moment more, then lifted one finger for the bartender. Someone in this town had to have evolved beyond the primates. Maybe he could get the information he was looking for from the bartender.

The bartender shuffled over, eyeing Jake from top to bottom. "You visiting?" he asked.

Jake shook his head. "No. I'm dealing in the poker tournament."

The bartender studied him a moment more, not looking entirely convinced. "You're wanting me to believe Reginald hired a Yankee to deal for him?" He laughed. "C'mon, man. You can do better than that."

Jake stared at the man, trying to hold in his frustration with small towns and small minds. "I've barely said five words to you. What indication could you possibly have that I am a Yankee?"

The bartender smirked. "Well, we could start with the words `what indication.' Someone from south of the Mason-Dixon would have said, `Who the h.e.l.l are you calling a Yankee?' Then we would have fought."

Jake held in a sigh. "I'm not looking for a fight. I just wanted to relax a bit before I head back to my motel. It's been a long day."

The bartender studied him a moment more, then nodded. "I guess that's all right then. But mind you, I serve alcohol and beer here. No club soda with lime, no shaken not stirred, no drinks without alcohol. You sit at my bar, you drink like a man. So what's it gonna be?"

"Jack Daniel's on the rocks."

"Then I guess I'll be letting you stay," the bartender said, and walked to the back of the bar to fix the drink.

Now Jake did sigh. He hadn't intended to throw any back before his meeting with Mallory. The reality was, Jake rarely drank at all. He never wanted his senses less than 100 percent, because he never knew when the phone might ring. There were no real holidays or days off with the FBI-every day was a potential workday, no matter what the schedule might say.

Now he was sitting in a bar in the middle of Hicksville, slowly dying of lung cancer, and his manhood had been put into question based on the selection of his drink. And he'd fallen for it. But if he'd have thrown out "light beer" like he'd been tempted to do, he was afraid the bartender would have removed him right then or just shot him where he sat.

He was thirty-five years old, with a college education and a good pension some years down the line, and he'd just succ.u.mbed to peer pressure from a redneck.

Maybe he did need that drink.

The bartender slid the gla.s.s in front of him and stood there staring, probably waiting to make sure he was really going to drink it and not pour it under the bar like a five-year-old. Jake reached for the gla.s.s and took a strong swig, careful to keep from wincing at the bitterness of the liquor. He sat the gla.s.s back on the counter, but kept his hand wrapped around it, just so the bartender would know he wasn't done.

"Name's J.T," the bartender said. "You're sitting in my bar."

Jake extended his hand across the counter. "I'm Jake McMillan."

J.T. stared at his hand for a moment, then finally shook it. The bartender's grip was as strong as Scooter's, and Jake fought the urge to shake some blood back into his fingers when the man released his hand. The men in this town had grips that would take the jaws of life to pry them loose and just for a moment, Jake wondered what the heck they did in their spare time.

J.T. twisted the top off two beers and slid them down the counter, then placed his elbows on the bar, leaning toward Jake. "So how did a Yankee hear about a private poker tournament all the way in Royal Flush? The town ain't even on a map. h.e.l.l, most of Louisiana don't even know we're here."

Jake shrugged. "I've got a buddy who runs a c.r.a.ps table in New Orleans. I'm visiting him for a bit, so he gave me the tip."

J.T. smiled. "And you thought you'd dash down here and make some quick money off a bunch of hicks, right? How's that working out for you?"

"Not bad. I had some good hands today. Hopefully, I'll come out okay by the end of the week."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Those are no lightweights you're playing against, but then I guess it didn't take you long to figure that one out. Who's your main compet.i.tion?"

Jake took another swig of his drink, not really wanting to answer the question, but not seeing any way out of it if he wanted to turn the conversation around to Mallory. "There's a man named Silas who seems pretty good."

The bartender shook his head in dismay. "Silas Hebert is playing in the tournament? I should have

"Ah, shoot," Scooter broke in as he hopped back on his stool, "he ain't got nothing to worry about. Mallory's cooling his table."

The bartender stared at Scooter for a moment, in obvious disbelief. Then his face flushed red and when he spoke, his tone was barely controlled anger. "G.o.d d.a.m.n it, Scooter. You're telling me Reginald put Mallory on Silas Hebert? That son of a b.i.t.c.h. I knew this whole mess would come to nothing but trouble, but you had to go and tell her about it." He banged a fist on the bar, causing Scooter to jump. "d.a.m.n it, Scooter. Sometimes you don't have the sense G.o.d gave a goose."

Jake studied the men with interest. J.T. was mad as a hornet, and Scooter had dropped his gaze down to the bar, not looking the other man in the eye, the guilt on his face clear as day. Scooter was going to be picking up his own six-pack for a while after this tournament was over.

"What's wrong with Silas Hebert?" Jake asked. "Is there something I need to know?"

J.T. turned back to Jake and threw his arms up in exasperation. "h.e.l.l, yeah, there's something you ought to know. But telling you would take all night." He leaned over the bar toward Jake and lowered his voice. "Let me give you the short run."

Jake nodded and leaned in toward J.T., who looked both ways, apparently making sure he wasn't overheard. "Silas Hebert is a plague on Louisiana. h.e.l.l, on humanity is more accurate. What he can't buy, he takes. What he can't earn legitimately, he steals. More than one holdout from a Silas Hebert offer has turned up at the bottom of the bayou and lo and behold, their heirs are always eager to sell."

Jake forced a surprised look on his face, hoping like h.e.l.l J.T. bought it, because so far, the man hadn't told him anything he didn't already know. "Why isn't he in jail?"

J.T. waved a hand in dismissal. "Man's got half of Louisiana on his payroll. Besides, you think he'd actually get caught with his hands dirty? Silas Hebert has enough money to convince most people to strangle their own mothers in their sleep. Two-bit hoods are a dime a dozen. He's not lacking bad guys to carry out his work."

Jake nodded, only too aware of Silas's two-bit hoods. "Then I'm surprised someone hasn't testified against him for immunity. I understand that it's easy for him to find people to do his dirty work, but they can't be all that smart if they're working for hire so easily."

J.T. looked Jake straight in the eye. "They'd have to actually make it to trial before that could happen, now wouldn't they? Dead men don't tell tales."

Jake took another gulp of his drink and processed what J.T. was saying. Apparently, Silas's reputation was no big secret in Louisiana. And while the evidence-or witnesses-might be lacking, no one seemed to have trouble believing that Silas Hebert was capable of the urban legend that surrounded him. "Why in the world would Reginald St. Claire invite someone like that to play? I mean, I got the impression there was some bad blood between them. If this Silas is such a bad guy, why have him there?"

J.T. shook his head in obvious disgust. "I have no earthly idea, but whatever the reason, it can't be good. Reginald St. Claire and Silas Hebert hate each other more than any two human beings on earth. If Reginald has Silas at his tournament, he's up to no good - that I guarantee you.

"And since this idiot here," J.T. continued, waving one hand at Scooter, "went and told Mallory about the tournament, now I have to worry about what the h.e.l.l she's in the middle of."

"I wondered why she was working there," Jake said. "It said on her truck she's a foreman for a demolition company. Why would someone with a good, legitimate job want to be part of this? I know Reginald is her uncle, he said so himself, but that only means she should know better than to mix up with him."

J.T. nodded. "Mallory knows exactly what her uncle is, and G.o.d knows, I tried to talk her out of this tomfoolery, but she had some personal business she needed taken care of, and she saw this as her only way."

What personal business? Jake studied J.T., trying to figure out how to broach the question without looking suspicious. Obviously the man had a close relations.h.i.+p with Mallory-father figure, maybe? Boyfriend seemed a bit odd given the age difference, and J.T. didn't act like a man protecting a lover. He was just about to take a chance and ask outright, when Scooter decided to join the conversation again.

"C'mon, J.T," Scooter said. "You need to cut Mallory a break. If she doesn't get that money for the IRS by next week, Harry's going to lose the business to Walter Royal, and Royal came right out at lunch today and told her to start looking for another job."

Jake stared at J.T., suddenly understanding the reason behind the spaghetti incident. No wonder she'd put the whammy on him. Of course, it sounded like the jacka.s.s had it coming, but despite all that, Jake made a mental note not to get on Mallory's bad side.

J.T. cut his eyes at Scooter. "There are worse things to be than unemployed. And keep your discussing of people's personal business to yourself. It's bad enough Father Thomas can't keep his lips zipped. This town doesn't need two drunken fools."

Scooter stared down at the bar again, looking like a chastised child, but he didn't say another word.

J.T. turned back to Jake and studied him for a moment. "I know you don't know me from Adam, but I'm gonna ask something of you anyway." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it to Jake. "That's my home, business and cell phone numbers. If there's any trouble, any trouble at all, you call me."

Jake took the card and nodded. He was just about to put it in his s.h.i.+rt pocket when J.T. grabbed his arm, preventing him from moving. The bartender looked Jake straight in the eye, his expression serious and deadly. "Mallory is like a daughter to me," he said. "I'll do anything to protect her. Anything. No matter who I have to roll over. Do you understand?"

Jake studied the man in front of him, no doubt in his mind that the last words he'd uttered were the absolute truth. If something happened to Mallory Devereaux, somebody would undoubtedly be posting bail for J.T.

Mallory was obviously a woman who'd earned love and respect from people she wasn't even related to. People she wasn't sleeping with. That said a lot about someone, he thought. It also made using her a little more difficult but certainly not impossible.

After a quick change into her usual jeans and T-s.h.i.+rt, it took nothing more than a phone call to J.T's and a quick conversation with Raelynn to find out where Jake was staying. Mallory had left the note under the card shoe because she hadn't wanted to risk talking to him at any length at the casino, and she figured the local gossip had already run the gamut on the new good-looking guy in town and where he was holed up.

Raelynn informed Mallory that Jake had taken a room at the Royal Flush Motel for ten days starting last Thursday and had paid up front in cash. He drank a ton of Dr Pepper, but apparently no liquor - at least not at the motel - and he didn't smoke or order p.o.r.n on the motel television. His s.h.i.+rts were all recently ironed and hung in the closet according to color.

So far women had hit on him at both Cindy's Cafe and Lucy's Catfish Kitchen, covering everything from breakfast to dinner, but he hadn't bitten so far. In fact, his incredible disinterest had offended several of the women of Royal Flush who were more accustomed to getting their way with men. They'd finally decided that perhaps Jake McMillan didn't prefer women. Based on the kiss they'd shared at the casino, and Jake's subsequent reaction, Mallory knew different but she wasn't about to point out to Raelynn that the other women's grumblings were nothing more than sour grapes.

It was just before 8:00 P.M. when Mallory pulled into the motel parking lot. Jake's rental car was parked in front of the building at the far end. It had been easy to spot because it was the only one on that side of the lot. Unless ba.s.s were running hot or it was duck-hunting season, the motel never did a booming business. But apparently Jake McMillan had still gone out of his way to get a room at the very end of the motel and away from any of the few other patrons.

She scanned the cars on the other side of the lot and let out a breath of relief. Definitely none of the banged-up pickups belonged to any of the players. Not that she'd figured any of those men would stay at the Royal Flush Motel. She'd already heard several of them mention getting together for drinks later at a luxury hotel between Royal Flush and New Orleans and figured that was where the vast majority of the out-of-towners had congregated. After all, it put them closer to their creature comforts, easy hustling and even easier women.

She turned to the left and parked her car a couple of spots down from Jake's, next to a pole with a burned-out light. If anyone got close enough, they'd still know it was her truck - the HARRY BREAUX DEMOLITION sign on the side sort of gave that one away. But from a distance, perhaps no one would pay attention.

Once more, she scanned the parking lot, making extra sure it was uninhabited, then pushed open her truck door and stepped outside. She'd no sooner slammed the door shut on her truck than the parking lot light above her flickered on, illuminating a forty-square-foot area and putting her truck directly under a spotlight.

Cussing under her breath, she hopped back in the truck and backed out of the spotlight to the edge of light mingling with the cast from the next lamp post. As she switched off the ignition, the first light went out again. It figured.

Just in case the light was planning on coming to life again, she jumped out of the truck and hurried across the lot and up the rickety stairs to the door in the far corner of the building. So far, no one had seen her arrival, and that's the way she wanted to keep it.

Her mind was racing with the possibilities of Jake's revelation and what it might be, and she was somewhat surprised at just how nervous she was about facing him again.

This is going to be fine. He's just going to tell you what he's up to and you can decide what you want to do about it. He's probably not a serial killer.

At that thought, she stopped short. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What the h.e.l.l did she really know about Jake McMillan? And here she was at a secluded motel, meeting a man who obviously wanted her out of the way. It was worse than a cheap horror movie. And she was the one who insisted that they meet here. She was also the one who thought it was a good idea to keep their meeting a secret - at least until she found out what Jake had to say.

So the reality was no one knew she was coming here. And if she disappeared, no one would know why.

Apparently that kiss had made her completely lose her sensibilities - and survival instinct. She looked at the door, a mere five feet away, and blew out a breath. Stay or go. It should have been an easy choice. She should spin so fast she broke an ankle, then hobble as fast as possible back to her truck and drive far, far away from Jake McMillan.

But then everyone had always said she was hardheaded.

Her instincts were rarely wrong and her impression of Jake was that she annoyed him, confused him, but in no way had she ever felt threatened by him. Determined not to change her mind, she made the five steps to the door and raised her hand to knock. Before her knuckles made contact, the door was yanked open and she stared directly into the angry face of Jake McMillan.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

"Are you going to stand out there all night?" he asked. "You're drawing attention."

Mallory glanced over her shoulder at the parking lot. Empty. "Who exactly am I drawing attention from - the mosquitoes?"

"Just get inside," he ordered, and stepped back from the doorway so she could enter.

She'd taken one step inside the door when she saw the gun peeking out of the band of his jeans. Before she could retreat, Jake grabbed her arm, yanked her into the room and slammed the door behind her, positioning himself between her and the only exit.

"What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?" he asked.

This is it. I'm going to die and I'm not wearing underwear or a bra. Jesus, she'd be talked about for the next hundred years.

"Hel-lo!" Jake's voice boomed. "I asked what the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?"

It was too late for caution. Might as well try the truth. "You have a gun," Mallory said, and pointed to his waistband.

Jake threw his hands up in the air in obvious exasperation. "Of course I have a gun. Don't tell me you don't own a gun." He paused for a moment and frowned. "Okay, maybe given your situation you don't own a gun, but a lot of people do."

"I have a gun," Mallory said, irritated that her tone was a bit defensive. "But I don't wear it on me."

"That's because with the clothes you wear, there's no place to put it." Jake reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, then flipped it over and showed her the identification inside. "I'm FBI. I have a license to carry, and short of your uncle's casino and showering, this gun is always on my body."

The unbidden picture of Jake in the shower flashed across Mallory's mind. There was definitely a weapon involved in the visual, but it wasn't the gun in his waistband. Shaking away the thought, she tried to concentrate on what he'd just said because it was the last thing she'd expected to hear.

"FBI? What in the world does the FBI want with my uncle?"

Jake raised one hand in protest. "We don't want anything from your uncle, although given his list of friends, I'm sure there would be plenty to find."

"Reginald's no saint, but he's relatively small-time as far as I know. His crimes don't extend beyond Royal Flush, well, and probably New Orleans, but the FBI would hardly be interested in my uncle's taste for women of the night."

Jake grimaced. "I don't even want to think about it."

"Then who are you after, and does Reginald know who you are?"