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Unfortunately.
“So we are all set then? Where shall we meet tomorrow?” she asked him. Her cell phone dinged on her clipboard as she spoke, and she murmured, “Pardonnez-moi,” and glanced at the screen. It was Dieter informing her that he was outside of Stella Malone’s, and she quickly texted him her locale.
“So how do you know what stuff I have? Because you know, there is a whole creepy-stalker Big Brother factor to this list,” Johnny said, running his finger down the itemization of the contents of his apartment.
“We have our ways,” she said vaguely. Ways that usually involved someone on the Retrieval team breaking and entering. Dieter had accomplished that the day before. But in these modern times, there was an element of technology to the process. “It’s amazing how much of a paper trail we create without being aware of it. I was surprised that you only have a bank card, but it did allow us to trace your purchases for the last several years.” He seemed to spend a large amount of his income on drumsticks and downloaded movies.
“That’s invasive. Illegal. Unethical.”
Lizette was not intimidated by his irritation. “It’s also perhaps the only way you can prove that you are in fact Johnny Malone.”
He gave her a long stare. “You’re one of those logical chicks, aren’t you?”
“I would say so.”
His eyes moved past her to the door, and he frowned. “Who is this douchebag?”
Lizette turned. “Oh, that’s Dieter, my assistant.” She raised her hand in greeting.
Johnny snorted. “Dieter? Perfect name for a tool. What do you need an assistant for anyway?”
Mildly insulted by his assumption that her job was easy, Lizette felt herself frown. “He has his useful qualities. Plus it is less noteworthy for me to be traveling with a man, than as a single woman. Especially in a city full of tourists, like New Orleans. People will simply assume we are a couple.”
“The two of you do not look like a couple.”
Dieter reached her and immediately placed his hand on her back, something he didn’t normally do, and Lizette realized the men were glaring at each other. There was some sort of alpha-male standoff going on. Dieter was larger than Johnny, his German roots giving him broad shoulders and eyes so light they sometimes appeared opaque. There was nothing personal between her and her assistant, nor had he ever indicated interest in such an arena, but at the moment it appeared the men would lock antlers in competition, if they’d had them.
It was rather bizarre, and unnerving. And yet, it was also a teeny bit arousing.
Alarmed at the thought, Lizette leapt to her feet and shifted out of Dieter’s touch and away from Johnny, swiping her list out of his hand. “Excellent. I will see you tomorrow at seven then, at your apartment. It’s been a pleasure. Have a good evening.”
He just gave her an amused smile and a nod. “You, too.”
As she walked out of the bar faster than was strictly normal or appropriate, Dieter ambled along beside her, glancing down at her from his substantial height. “How did it go?”
“Fine,” she said, in a clipped tone.
“That guy was a pig, by the way. His apartment was a disaster.”
“Is that so?” Lizette stared at the sidewalk as she walked, concerned her Louboutin might land in a hole again. It was none of her business really if Johnny Malone was a poor housekeeper. Yet it didn’t surprise her.
“Want to go out dancing on Bourbon Street?” Dieter asked.
Lizette shot him a glance. Dieter was grinning, because he already knew her answer.
“Absolutely not. I would like to do an architectural tour of the area, then perhaps see a film.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow night. I’m going to hit the bar scene.”
“Do not be conspicuous.”
“Do not insult me. I know.”
He did. It was their job to blend. Lizette gave him a distracted smile of apology. Dieter went off down the street, and Lizette stood for a second, getting her bearings. If she walked to Bourbon Street, she anticipated she could easily get a cab, but the distance of only two blocks seemed daunting. She would have to reconsider her footwear while on this trip. Even Paris wasn’t as crumbling as New Orleans, though she would never recommend traversing Montmartre in four-inch heels. The air was so warm and humid it felt like it surrounded her, embraced her, and Lizette was curious about the city, and somewhat amazed that it was her first trip there. How was it that her work had taken her to Atlanta, Georgia, but never to New Orleans?
She planned to explore as much as possible while she was here, when she wasn’t attempting to stay professional around Johnny.
Glancing back toward the bar, she realized he had come out and was standing on the street corner, watching her. When he caught her eye, he saluted.
Embarrassed to be standing around like she was uncertain, Lizette gave a half wave and strode off in the direction of Bourbon Street, head up, purse on her shoulder, determined to look professional. Only to let out a shriek when she walked over a grate and her skirt blew up, exposing her thighs and possibly another thing or two.
It was not an auspicious beginning to this case.
Chapter Two
IT’S A NICE DAY FOR A DOMME WEDDING
“WHO the hell would marry Saxon?” Drake shook his head in disgust as he watched the newly wedded groom chatting merrily with a man in an expensive suit.
Any idle observer would have thought the man in the suit was the groom, not the goofy-looking guy with blond hair poking out all over his head like he’d stuck his finger in a light socket earlier in the day.
“Well, he did marry a dominatrix,” Cort, Drake’s good friend and bandmate, pointed out, taking a sip from a plastic champagne glass filled with something that looked like it had been ladled out of some backwater bayou. Cort grimaced as if it tasted about as good, too. “Besides, is that how the best man should be talking about the groom? Saxon showed you the love. Where’s the love for him, man?”
Drake snorted. “Yeah, he showed me the love all right.” He gave a pointed look down at his best-man attire. Ruffles of linen and lace spilled down his chest and dripped in cascades from his wrists. “I look like Adam Ant, for Christsake.”
Cort sputtered, trying to stifle his amusement, but failed. Miserably.
“I particularly like the pants . . . you can really pull off knee breeches. And shoes with buckles. Although those look a little more leprechaun than pirate,” he said, barely getting the words out before dissolving into an outright chuckle.
