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.
When he’d first come to work here, Alex had been impressed. Today, seeing the buildings brought back his anger of the night before.
“Get a grip,” he muttered as he resisted the urge to slam the car door.
From the collection of cars in the small lot, he could see that Rich, Mason, Philip Jones and Seth Lewis were already on site.
There was no way of knowing whether Conrad had arrived since the director parked in the front and entered the secret headquarters from a locked door to his office.
Alex raised his face and stared into the lens of the security camera mounted over the entrance. In addition to taking his picture, it scanned his retinas, making sure he was authorized to enter.
When the computer inside confirmed his identity, the door lock clicked open and he stepped quickly through the door.
He headed directly for the conference room, then stopped short when he heard somebody inside mention the name “McMullin.”
The speaker was Mason Bartley. While Conrad had still been working as a U.S. Marshal, he’d caught the bastard red-handed in a liquor store robbery attempt. Mason had a rap sheet as long as Conrad’s arm, but the new head of New Orleans Confidential had seen his potential and had him released into the agency’s custody. In exchange for putting this case to bed, he’d walk away with his freedom. At the moment, it sounded like he was trying to win points by ratting on one of the other agents—namely Alexander McMullin.
Eyes narrowed, Alex listened to the jerk’s version of the events of the night before. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have assumed they were staking out two different bars.
“So, I think you should know that he left his post twice last night. And he barged into a fight at the door. If he’s not careful, he’s going to get his ass fired. And why is he late now?” Mason pushed.
“Business,” Alex answered.
Keeping his expression neutral and his temper under control, he stepped into the room, taking in the men seated around the conference table at a glance.
Mason’s blue eyes glinted with defiance. He and Alex had disliked each other from the first. Now Alex knew the guy had been looking for an excuse to stab him in the back. And the events of the previous evening provided what seemed like a great opportunity.
Everybody else, including Conrad Burke, who sat at the head of the table, looked slightly embarrassed. The short, curly haired Philip Jones slouched down in his seat, almost disappearing from view. Seth Lewis rolled his broad shoulders and stretched out his athletic legs under the table, but he kept his eyes fixed on a point somewhere near the floor.
Alex liked these guys. Each had his strengths and weaknesses, but they were all top-notch agents and he’d trust any of them to guard his back in a firefight. Any of them except Mason Bartley, of course.
Now he was sorry the conflict between him and Mason was making them uncomfortable, but he was glad he’d walked
