Cindy Dees - Navy Seal Cop

LeBlanc placed a hand on the small of her back as he guided her into a crowded elevator, but she was prepared for the contact this time. It was nothing personal, of course. Surely a man like him would see nothing of interest in a shy, antisocial girl like her.

She did notice that he was using his big body to block her from the other riders in the elevator car. Was he protecting her, or was he subtly taking custody of her? It was hard to tell.

Darned if she could think of anything else but that big, warm palm resting lightly on the small of her back as they rode the elevator down to the first floor. Normally, she disliked men touching her. But this one’s hand was sending all kinds of crazy responses through her body. And they weren’t all bad. Which was a little shocking. Since when had she decided men—cops—were okay?

She breathed a sigh of relief when he guided her out of the crowded elevator and into the morning hustle and bustle of the French Quarter. His hand fell away from her, but the memory of it was still sending bolts of lightning zinging through her and still confusing her completely as to what it meant.

“I know a little joint around the corner that makes the best beignets in the Big Easy.”

She normally didn’t do dessert for breakfast, but this morning, she was all over the idea of a huge greasy donut doused in powdered sugar. “Lead on,” she declared.

The “joint” turned out to be long and narrow, barely wider than its double front doors, as if it had once been a bar. The detective spotted two open, high swivel stools near the back and pushed through the crowd toward the seats. He took her hand and curled his arm behind his back, not releasing her hand as he towed her along behind him in his wake. Which was just as well. People never moved out of the way for her. She was about as intimidating as a baby bunny rabbit.

She perched on her stool beside him and jumped as the man behind the bar bellowed, “’Ey, Bass! Where ya been, man?”

“Here and there,” LeBlanc said. “Saving the world. You know how it goes.”

“That I do,” the older man said shrewdly.

A portly tourist sat down on the stool beside hers, crowding her over toward LeBlanc. Her left thigh was forced into contact with his right leg, which felt like freshly forged steel pressed against hers. Their shoulders overlapped a little, although his were a hand span taller than hers.

His presence surrounded her, enveloped her. And, for the first time since the attack last night, she felt safe. Which was totally weird. Cops usually made her feel exactly the opposite. But this morning, in his presence, she could finally breathe normally again. She relished the easy slide of air in and out of her lungs.

She glanced up at him, vividly aware of the intimacy of their seating arrangement. “Bass? Is that what your friends call you?”

“That, or Catfish, which is a nickname from my work in the military.”

“Hah! You were military!”

He blinked down at her, looking surprised. The flecks of silver against a background of ocean blue fascinated her as they danced in his eyes. “I still am military, part-time. But how did you know?”

“You said, ‘Roger’ to me last night, and I figured you might have been a soldier.”

He studied her keenly. “You’re an observer of people, then?”

Swear to God, she was getting a little breathless sitting smashed against him like this. “It’s my job to look at everyone through the lens of how my camera would see them. Details matter.”

“Indeed they do. How long have you been working for Gary Hubbard?”

“Three seasons.”

“Ahh. That explains the change in the quality of the show three years ago.”

It was her turn to stare at him. “How do you know that?”

“Last night I watched a bunch of clips from America’s Ghosts .”

“Shouldn’t you have been out looking for Gary?”

“The bars were all closed. And I took a walk through Pirate’s Alley before I went home. I couldn’t find any forensic evidence to help us identify his captors. Frankly, the best evidence we’ve got is your film of the incident. It’s a rare thing to get actual high-quality video of a crime under investigation.”

“Glad I could help,” she replied wryly.

The coffee arrived in an old-fashioned chrome pot, and Bass poured her a cup of what turned out to be delicious chicory coffee, strong and aromatic. A moment later, a huge plate covered in fried, spiraling donut batter and powdered sugar was plunked down in front of her.

She took a bite of the hot, crispy pastry, tender and moist on the inside, and groaned as her taste buds orgasmed. “Ohmigosh, this is fantastic.”

Bass grinned, watching her as she took another bite...and groaned again. “You like it?” he drawled.

“God, yes.”

“So you appreciate good food, but you don’t cook.”

She picked up a napkin to wipe away what had to be a confectioner’s sugar mustache. “I like food too much to mangle it, so I let other people cook it.”

“Cooking’s not that hard. Someone just has to show you how, and then it takes a little practice.”

“Do you cook?” she asked him curiously.

“I’ve been known to putter around a bit in a kitchen.” He flashed her a thousand-watt smile that all but knocked her off her stool. Was he flirting with her? Surely not. But still. Dang, that man oozed charm. With difficulty, she recalled the general thread of their conversation.

The big bad detective was an amateur chef? Interesting. “Have you got a specialty?”

“Folks seem to like my jambalaya.”

“That’s some sort of stew, isn’t it?”

He grabbed his chest theatrically, which made her grin. “Woman, you’re killing me. Jambalaya is not just stew. It’s seafood and sausage in a base of rice and vegetables in broth, the whole thing seasoned until your eyes water from how good it tastes.”

She frowned. “I don’t do spicy food. My eyes would water from the heat.”

“Ahh well. A taste for heat can be learned.”

His voice had a rough edge that shivered across her skin. Or maybe that was just her shivering in response to his double entendre. She glanced at him sidelong, and he was frowning down into his cup of coffee.

Her heart tumbled to the floor. He seemed annoyed with himself, maybe for making the inadvertently sexy comment. Drat. He wasn’t attracted to her in the least. She looked away, more disappointed than made any sense to her at all.

“Where are you from that you don’t know what jambalaya is and you don’t like a little heat?” he asked, the sudden question startling her.

His expression was closed now. Stubborn. The man had no intention of flirting with her. At all. She mumbled, “I live in New York City. But I’m originally from upstate New York.”

“Ahh. A Yankee. That explains a lot.”

Nope. Not attracted to her at all. He was backing off that heat comment as fast as humanly possible. Well, hell.

“What does my being a Yankee explain?”

He merely shrugged and took a sip of hot coffee. They ate in silence for a moment, and then, in an abrupt change of subject, he said, “I put out a BOLO on your boss.”

“What’s a BOLO?”

“It stands for Be On the Look Out. The entire NOPD got copies of the picture you gave me and will be watching for him. If he’s out and about anywhere in the city, we’ll find him and bring him in.”

“What if he doesn’t turn up?” she asked, dread thick in her throat.

“Then we’ll see what the forensics guys find in his computer. If that doesn’t give us anything to work with, we’ll pursue other leads until we find him. You haven’t had any phone calls from anyone since last night, have you?” he asked.