Rebecca York - Undercover Encounter

Her first night as a prostitute, and she’d blown it. Well, not exactly, she corrected, cringing at her choice of words.

She sent an invisible dagger in the direction of Lieutenant LeBarron, who was probably home in bed at this very moment.

From the second she’d come under his command, he’d taken an interest in her career, which meant he’d urged her to grab this “choice” assignment.

It wasn’t easy being a female cop in a big-city police department. The guys forced you to prove yourself—over and over. You had to shoot better than they did. Hold your own in hand-to-hand combat and stand up to their locker room comments. This assignment was a chance to show what she could do. And to shut off the supply of a dangerous new drug threatening the health and welfare of her city. Category Five was what they were calling the highly addictive drug that they suspected was being riddled by prostitutes to increase their business.

Truthfully, she’d been nervous about playing her assigned role, which was why she was out here tonight—practicing.

She’d known that a supersecret government agency called the New Orleans Confidential was teaming up with the N.O.P.D. for this operation. She hadn’t known that Alexander McMullin was working for that agency. But there was no other explanation for his presence behind the bar in Bourbon Street Libations. She knew the man pretty well. He was a straight arrow and he certainly wasn’t working as a bartender because he liked mixing drinks.

Once, when she’d been in a squishy, sentimental mood, she’d looked up his name in a baby book. Alexander meant “Great Protector.” It fit. Except where she was concerned. He’d sworn to protect humanity. With a capital H. The big picture. He just wasn’t too good when it came to relationships with women.

As she headed for the darkened side street where she’d parked her car, she found there was no way to avoid thinking about him.

“Damn you!” she muttered, then pressed her hand against her mouth. Mom hated cursing, and she rarely indulged in bad words, even mild ones.

But apparently Alexander McMullin brought out the worst in her.

As he’d stood with the solid barrier of the bar between them, she’d felt those blue eyes of his pierce all the way to her soul. And she hadn’t liked the sensation. Because it made her feel as though she was back where she’d been two years ago.

For long stretches of time, she’d been able to forget about him. Then he’d come leaping back into her mind. Something as simple as a whiff of spaghetti sauce could do it. He hadn’t been much of a cook, but that had been his specialty.

He’d said one of his stepmothers had taught him to make it. When she’d asked how he’d had more than one—he’d clammed up. Which wasn’t unusual, because he never talked much about his family. Except another time when he’d said he’d arrested one of his half brothers. For car-jacking. From what she gathered, he hadn’t gotten his values from his parents or siblings. And, as far as she knew, he tended to avoid them. And long-term commitments, as well.

She grimaced. Two years ago he’d broken her heart. And she damn well should have known better.

They’d had a relationship that had been as fast and furious as it had been passionate. And then he’d told her it wasn’t working for him.

Before they’d dated, she’d heard a lot about Alexander McMullin. He was tall of body, lean of hip, a real heartbreaker with wavy jet-black hair, a firm jaw and sensual lips. Other women she’d known had gone out with him. And the relationships had always ended the same way. If he was interested in you, he gave you the big rush.

Then he left you with your head spinning, wondering what went wrong.

She’d boldly told herself that she was the woman who was going to change things. For a while she’d dared to hope that she was the exception to the rule. She’d lasted longer than his average. Over four months. But in the hidden depths of her soul, she’d been waiting for the crash. Still, it had been a bitter shock when he’d told her it wasn’t working for him anymore.

After Alexander McMullin she vowed to be a lot more careful about getting involved with anybody. Unfortunately, since Alex there hadn’t been many guys who’d made the cut.

As she headed back to her apartment on one of the less gentle side streets off St. Charles, she couldn’t hold back a bitter laugh. In the next few weeks she was going to meet a lot of guys, but she was pretty sure none of them were going to be suitable marriage material.

Lord, what if Mom and Dad found out about her undercover assignment? They’d been upset enough when she’d worked as a cocktail waitress to pay her college tuition. “Quit that job and do something respectable,” she’d heard almost every week. How were they going to like hearing she was playing prostitute?

Well, she’d just have to make sure they never found out.

ALEX WOKE FROM A BAD dream, where he was shouting, “Where the hell are you going?” as Gillian Seymour disappeared into the fog.

Sitting up in bed, he ran a hand through his dark hair, then turned off the alarm before it could ring. The automatic coffeepot filled the house with the aroma of French roast, so he got up and ambled toward the kitchen.

After grabbing himself a cup, he leaned against the counter and took a sip.

He’d bought his traditional courtyard house in a foreclosure sale almost two years ago, not long after breaking up with Gillian, and he’d poured a lot of energy into making the rundown place into an oasis where he could walk inside the garden gate and shut out the world. It was proof that he could create a life for himself that had nothing to do with his miserable past.

He’d installed a flat-screen TV and a king-size bed in the bedroom, then remodeled the bathroom to include a huge soaking tub. After that he’d outfitted the kitchen with new appliances and tile countertops. He’d stripped and stained all the woodwork. And he’d refinished the floors himself.

Mostly he was content here. But seeing Gillian again had brought back the loneliness that he could usually hold at bay.

So he dealt with his negative emotions the way he always did, with heavy labor. This morning he started adding a better mix of soil to the garden. After an hour’s early morning work, he cleaned up and went online to do some research before heading for the New Orleans Confidential headquarters on Tchoupitoulas Street, down near the river, where the rent was cheap and the buildings were rundown.

The cover for the operation was a trucking company called Crescent City Transports, and the location requirements had been very specific. Conrad Burke had needed two back-to-back warehouses—one where the main trucking operation was located. There was a fleet of trucks in the cavernous garage, a nicely appointed executive office complex and a secret entrance to the other building through the common wall.

Although only in business for a few months, Crescent City already employed fifty drivers who carted everything from fresh produce to small appliances around the city. Backing them up was an office staff of six—including Burke.

The New Orleans Confidential’s secret headquarters were in the other warehouse around back, which also housed part of the trucking operation. But it was kept separate from the regular delivery service. Although the trucks driven by the special agents looked the same on the outside as the ones assigned to the regular drivers, the undercover vehicles were jammed with state-of-the-art electronic surveillance equipment.

There were many similar warehouses in the industrial area, so the new company fit right in. But, like the special trucks, the exterior hid a boatload of surprises. The interior was soundproofed and bug-proofed and hooked up to a spy network that included satellite feeds, access to the CIA intelligent computer system, and secret transmitters. The walls also hid a weapons room, a science lab, a communications room and an electronics room.