Anticipation. JENNIFER LABRECQUE
was in control and decided he’d head to the bar downstairs for a burger and a beer.
SERENA CHECKED HER weapon in her purse before she left the stall of the hotel bar’s bathroom. That was one of the challenges of going undercover in a short skirt, thigh-high boots and a form-fitting top—it didn’t leave many options to carry concealed. Now she just had to find her man.
She entered the dimly lit bar, typical for a hotel lounge. As plans went, hers was pretty loose. She’d hang out in the bar, as if she was waiting for someone and pray that no one mistook her for a hooker—only because she wouldn’t be able to blow her cover by arresting any potential john that propositioned her.
She’d noticed a karaoke sign when she’d come in. If she didn’t find a guy fitting Slick Nick’s description, she already planned to get up and perform the old Devo song, “Whip It,” in hopes of catching Mr. Paddle-Me’s attention. And if that didn’t work, next she’d go to Boy George’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?” In the past Serena’s success came in having a loose plan and then punting—or improvising—as the situation unfolded. Although Captain Worth had argued with her more than once that she should always have a contingency plan, her way had worked just fine on all her other cases.
She hoped it didn’t come down to karaoke because she couldn’t sing, couldn’t dance and she didn’t look like a dominatrix. Not that she supposed there was a set formula for how a dominatrix looked, but she was fairly certain on most days she didn’t fit the bill.
She knew she looked like the girl next door with her honey-blond hair, snub nose and freckles. She looked like a girl you could trust and confide in, which was a big bonus in catching crooks, because for the most part, crooks couldn’t keep their mouths shut and they always thought she was the perfect person to spill their guts to.
After nine years, it still cracked her up, the look on the criminal-du-jour’s face when she whipped out her cuffs and started reciting the Miranda.
She slid onto a stool at one end of the bar, which afforded a sweeping view of the room without leaving her back exposed, and ordered a wine cooler. Lesson number one in bar crawling: Never order a drink with a wide mouth on the glass. It was too easy for a scumbag to slip in a date-rape drug. Martini glasses were the worst.
“Buy you a drink?” A guy with red hair slid onto the stool next to her. He had the look of a regular about him. She’d worked undercover long enough to recognize the signs—the casual nod to the barkeep, the ultracasual dress. And she’d found it sort of amazing that even hotel bars had a retinue of regulars, just like freaking Cheers.
“I’m covered, but thanks.” She made sure she sounded friendly and nonthreatening.
“Mind a little company?”
“Not at all. I’m waiting for my friend and it can be a little intimidating sitting in a bar alone, if you know what I mean.”
“Especially a pretty girl like you.” Cheeser. She pasted on a smile and managed not to roll her eyes. “I’m Stephen…with a ph.” His smile said he thought that was a clever line. She’d bet the farm it wasn’t the first time he’d used it.
“Serena. It’s nice to meet you, Stephen.”
“Serena and Stephen. Bet you can’t say that five times fast.”
Oh, boy, he was a live one. Small wonder he was alone. “I’d better not even try it.”
“You know, tonight’s karaoke night.”
“I saw the sign when I came in. Are you a performer?”
Stephen preened a bit. “I’ve been known to take the mike a time or two.” He pressed his knee against hers. “I’m really good in a duet…if you’re up for it…later.”
Heaven forbid. She shook her head, angling for shy and modest instead of horrified. “I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like that before.”
And if luck ran her way, she wouldn’t tonight. She basically sounded like a cat yowling in heat when she sang. Not pretty.
“I bet you’re a fast learner and I’d love to give you a lesson or two.”
“That’s a generous offer, Stephen.”
“Drink up and order another one. It helps take the edge off before you perform.”
“I think I’d better take it slow. What kind of songs do you like to perform? I’m sure you have favorites.”
Typical man. Ask him a question about himself and he was off and running. She just had to look interested and interject the occasional “hmmm,” “really” or “oh, that’s interesting,” and he’d drone on endlessly about his karaoke prowess.
Stephen was in the middle of a performance recount, when Slick Nick arrived. Serena spotted him the moment he walked into the bar. Six feet and a few inches, black hair, cut short and brushed back—a good cut, an expensive cut, not the twelve-buck, walk-in-off-the-street cut that she splurged on for herself. Nice clothes. Thirtyish. Obviously in good shape. He carried himself like a man comfortable in his own skin, assured, as if he was used to people looking at him.
A slight shiver of some second-sense recognition whispered through her. She recognized his face. Knew she’d seen him before. That grainy photo was better than she’d thought because his face definitely registered with her. This was her man. She felt it bone deep and the flush that spread through her wasn’t attraction. It couldn’t possibly be. She was merely excited she’d finally found Slick Nick.
She remained calm and zeroed back in on Stephen-with-a-ph who was generously sharing his tips on audience control when you had the mike.
Stephen’s pager buzzed. He checked it and made a face. “It’s my mother. I’ve got to run her over to bingo at the VFW.” He stood up. “But I’ll be back in time for the karaoke.” He snapped and pointed his finger at her. “Don’t sing that duet without me.”
The dark-haired man pulled out a chair a couple of tables away from the bar.
Serena bit back the observation that if she was singing without him, it wouldn’t be a duet. “I promise—no duets without you.” And she no longer had to worry about how to get rid of Stephen. Thank you, Mom and bingo at the VFW.
Stephen left and she sat alone at the bar. Heat tingled over her skin. She looked up. The dark-haired man was watching her. She held his gaze with her own. Something ancient passed between them, a recognition, an acknowledgement, an attraction that sent a tremor through her. She looked away first, thoroughly disconcerted by the potency of just that glance.
She busied herself sipping her wine cooler and reconnected with her equilibrium. Serena checked him out from beneath her lashes. Her fishnets and thigh-high black boots had definitely snagged his interest. She smiled and crossed her legs.
His answering smile, a slow sensual acknowledgement, set off a flutter low in her belly that had nothing to do with being a cop and everything to do with being a woman. Easy there, girlfriend. He was a criminal and a pervert, and all of that aside, he had a little thingie—and God knows two of the three guys she’d dated in the past ten years had fallen into the little thingie category.
He deliberately looked away from her, as if he’d caught himself staring. That was okay—he’d definitely noticed her and had liked what he’d seen. It was about time this case started going somewhere.
The waitress approached his table and Serena took advantage of his distraction to assess him, strictly for ID purposes, of course. Hair with just a hint of curl that said it would riot out of control if he skipped a trim or two. His shirt hugged broad shoulders. She’d guess somewhere between one-eighty and one-ninety-five pounds. Muscle weighed more than fat and he was definitely carrying lean muscle on that body. From where she sat, no moles, scars, tattoos—of course, she was sure he was sitting on the tattoo—or other distinguishing marks were visible except when he turned his head to look at the