He cursed under his breath long and low the third time he caught himself feeling vaguely disappointed when it wasn’t her. What was wrong with him?
About four o’clock he locked the door behind the last straggling customers and headed for his office in the back.
Ro was lounging on his sofa, already changed into jeans and a tank top. “Free drinks, Rafe? All night?” She scowled and pursed her lips. “That’s your idea of handling it?”
“My bar.” He plunked down in his chair, pulled the bank bag out of the desk drawer and stuffed all the cash from the night’s take into it. He’d count it later.
“It’s just that I’ve never seen you take on a charity case before.”
“It’s not charity.” What was Ro’s problem, anyway? “I got her out of here with the least amount of commotion. Commotion is bad for business.”
Ro looked suspicious. “So, is she gone for good now?”
“Yep.” But something told him the doctor’s situation wasn’t going to be so easily solved.
“So… you want to…” Ro dangled her leg off the edge of the sofa. “Let off a little steam?”
Normally, he might have taken her up on her offer. “Nah, I better get the accounts payable since it’s almost the end of the month.” He opened his accounts book and grabbed a pencil.
Ro blinked, and then got to her feet. “Sure. Some other time, maybe.” She sauntered to the door, opened it and then turned back. “I got a bad feeling about that strange woman, Rafe.” He looked up at her and she seemed genuinely worried. Then she stepped out and closed the door behind her.
Rafe studied the spot where she’d stood for a moment, ran a hand over his jaw and then turned back to his desk. He worked the books for half an hour, but he couldn’t concentrate. He was restless. Something did feel wrong, but he couldn’t place what.
Disgusted with himself, he slammed his accounting book closed and trudged upstairs to his tiny apartment. He rubbed his stomach, trying to ignore that hollow pit feeling he always got when the shit was about to hit the fan. The way it always did, sooner or later.
Things were going pretty well with his bar right now though.
For seven long years he’d worked like a dog on offshore rigs in the Gulf to save enough to buy his own place. Then, it’d taken months to find real estate he could afford in the perfect location for his bar. And after signing the papers for this place, he’d overseen a complete remodel, spending six months getting it decked out just the way he wanted it.
The old man had drummed into him night after drunken night that he’d never be worth anything. Turning a profit on this place had been a big “Screw you, you old bastard!” to the man who’d raised him from the age of twelve. And though his pappy had been long dead, it’d still felt good.
By the time Rafe stepped out of the shower and got in bed, the sun was almost up. He laced his fingers behind his head and stared at a spot on the ceiling. He’d done what he’d set out to do. He’d proved his pappy wrong. He had everything he wanted. So, naturally, something was about to take it all away. Story of his life.
That’s what was bugging him. Things had been going too well lately. And now some tourist had disappeared from his bar.
Oh, the cops would love that. They’d finally get that no-good, juvie, banger Rafe Moreau and lock him away where he belonged.
All because of that woman. Dr. Claire Brooks.
He’d known she was nothing but trouble.
At least she hadn’t pushed the cops on him yet.
But the last thought he remembered having before he fell asleep was what would the good doctor look like without her glasses?
3
“THE BLUE BAYOU FLEA MARKET, please,” Claire informed the cab driver after sliding into his backseat. As the cab pulled away from the police station, her stomach growled, but she hadn’t been able to eat this morning. Fear, anxiety and dread all churned inside her, and food would only have added nausea to the mix.
She’d gone to the police station first thing this morning. Now that it had been officially forty-eight hours since Julia had gone missing, Claire had hoped to be taken more seriously. But the desk sergeant hadn’t seemed particularly interested in her information about the necklace and the flea market.
He’d acted as if he still believed Julia was merely holed up somewhere with a Mardi Gras lover and would show up soon. At least he’d opened a case file and taken down all her information, Julia’s cell number, printed up her DMV picture and promised they’d check out the flea market. They even sent her to a sketch artist to describe the guy Julia had left the parade with, and put an APB out with the artist’s rendering.
Claire hadn’t mentioned Once Bitten. She wasn’t sure exactly why not, except Rafe had gone above and beyond helping her deal with that woman who’d had Julia’s necklace. If he’d had anything to do with Julia’s disappearance, would he have helped her like that? Or was she letting his masculine appeal blind her to any signs of guilt? When she was around him, she had difficulty concentrating. He made her… flustered and self-conscious.
But that was no reason not to be thorough. She owed it to Julia to do whatever it took to find her and save her. Just as Julia had saved Claire so long ago.
After checking with the cab driver to ask if he’d come back when the flea market closed, she paid him a generous tip from her fast disappearing emergency cash.
After tonight, she’d need to make arrangements for alternative accommodations. One of the most historic hotels in New Orleans, Les Chambres Royale wasn’t exactly the most frugal of lodgings. But she’d hated to leave the hotel in case Julia showed up. Claire had even requested the same room after returning from the airport in the hope that Julia still had her key. She’d been surprised the hotel still used the old-fashioned brass keys, but now Claire was glad. Maybe Julia was in their room right this minute…
The hotel knew to call her cell if Julia came back.
With a sigh, Claire headed for the first stall she saw. Who knew? Maybe she’d get lucky and hit the first person she asked.
Five hours later, Claire felt the urge to kick herself for being so naive.
She’d systematically approached each flea market stall beginning with the southwest corner and traveling north along a row and back south down the next, working her way steadily east. At every establishment she would produce the necklace, the picture of Julia and describe the guy with the blood drops tattoo.
No one had seen Julia or the necklace or the guy. To make matters worse it had begun drizzling a half hour ago and despite her trusty umbrella, Claire was bedraggled and shivering from the icy dampness. She didn’t even want to think about what her hair must look like in this moisture. Frankenstein’s bride had nothing on her when it came to frizz. But none of that would’ve mattered if she’d found whoever sold Julia’s necklace.
The rain finally stopped. She folded up her umbrella, took off her glasses and cleaned them with a piece of tissue from her tote. She needed to regroup. The aroma of Cajun spices drifted around her and her protesting stomach finally forced her to stop at a vendor.
Crawfish etouffe, shrimp gumbo and several varieties of jambalaya made Claire’s stomach growl and her mouth water. She chose a bowl of jambalaya with chicken and sausage and sat to savor the Southern flavors with a large chunk of French bread.
Her first bite made her moan in pleasure. She could learn to love a place that produced food like this. The people down here took polite to a whole new level and, despite the daily afternoon drizzle, the air held a soft fragrance that Boston could never match.