moss hanging from a Cypress tree. He wore a wide leather bracelet on his left wrist and a thick onyx ring—a bat with its wings wrapped around his right ring finger. She lifted her gaze to his hard chest outlined by a tight black tee.
Claire opened her mouth but nothing came out. “Have y-y—” She felt her face heat and her throat close up as he stared at her expectantly. Two decades of therapy and determination to overcome her stutter destroyed in an instant of anxiety.
Anxiety for her friend, of course. This breathlessness was in no way attributable to the proximity and attention of the bartender. The only true friend she had was missing. It was natural to be distraught.
Remembering her purpose, Claire drew in a calming breath, lifted her phone to the bartender’s eye level and clicked the button to bring up Julia’s picture again. “Have you seen this woman in your bar tonight?
The bartender’s gaze shifted down to her phone and back to her eyes without the rest of him moving a muscle. “No.”
“But you r-recognize her? She was here l-last night.”
He moved his weight from one foot to the other, causing his hips to shift, as well. “Cher, I’ve got hundreds of customers coming through here.”
Claire gritted her teeth, biting back a stinging rebuke. “Please.” She shifted her phone in front of his nose. “She’s missing and I have to find her.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “If she’s missing, call the cops.” He turned away.
As if she hadn’t already tried the police first thing this morning. Julia was an adult, they’d said. Must be missing for forty-eight hours, they’d said. They hadn’t taken Claire’s fear for her friend seriously at all. As if Claire didn’t know when something was really wrong with Julia.
She’d known Julia since third grade and Claire knew without a doubt that this was not just a case of Mardi Gras hangover. Sure, Julia had ditched her last night to hook up with that weirdo with the tattoo. Claire was accustomed to Julia’s free-spirited ways. Even when she hadn’t returned to their hotel room by this morning, Claire had calmly packed their things and gone to the airport, assuming Julia would come racing up to her at the last minute, full of false chagrin and a scintillating account of her adventures with the “vampire.”
But she hadn’t.
And Claire wasn’t leaving New Orleans without making sure Julia was alive and well.
“She might’ve been with a guy who had three blood drops t-tattooed down the corner of his mouth,” Claire called after the bartender.
The bartender froze, and several people at the bar around her quieted and stared at her. He turned back and leaned in close, conspiratorially. At last, she would gain some useful information. She leaned forward and caught a hint of his spicy intoxicating cologne.
“This is a vampire bar. Lots of people have that tattoo.”
Hope deflated. And irritation flared. He was taunting her. Then understanding dawned. She yanked her purse open, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and slipped it across the bar toward him. “Perhaps this will help you r-remember the man or my friend?”
His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened, harsh and cynical. “You want a drink, I’m your man. Otherwise, I can’t help you.” He gave his attention to the waitress who’d stepped up with an order.
Claire fumed. “I’ll have a strawberry d-daiquiri,” she called out.
He glanced at her, brows raised. “A strawber—” His lips curved up at the corners. “Coming right up.” As he shook the hair from his wary eyes, a tiny silver loop in his left ear gleamed in the light.
He moved gracefully, spinning back and forth, grabbing bottles and pouring alcohol, and drawing beer into mugs with speed and precision. Tall, but slim, except for his wide shoulders and large biceps, he could’ve been a member of the Boston rowing club. Yet, unlike those privileged boys, this man seemed unaware of his masculine good looks.
Finally, the waitress left with her filled tray. Then he bent to lift a clear plastic bowl from under the bar.
Her gaze shot straight to his behind and the worn jeans outlining his impossibly sexy derriere. Wait. Was she actually checking out a man’s bottom? In her twenty-eight years as a female, she’d never understood why other women noticed things like that. But, now, now that her best friend was missing and possibly in danger, now she… noticed?
He peeled off the lid, grabbed a handful of large, red-ripe strawberries and dropped them into a blender. As he prepared her drink, he stole a strawberry from the bowl and popped it into his mouth. He glanced at her and she looked away, feeling her cheeks heat with embarrassment.
She should be searching the bar for her friend or that guy, showing Julia’s picture around. Claire spun, putting her back to the bar, and scanned the room.
“Here you go.”
She jumped and turned back as he set the fruity drink in front of her and took the twenty still lying on the bar. He sauntered over to a computer, touched the screen and made change when a drawer popped open.
Digging a business card from her purse, she scribbled her hotel’s name and her cell number on it and shoved it into his hand as he offered her the change.
“Please. Keep the change and if you see my friend, would you call me? My cell’s on here and where I’m staying—the Les Chambres R-Royale.”
Before he could refuse, she snatched up her drink and plunged into the crowd.
His fingers had been hot and rough. Claire swallowed back the tingle she’d felt at the brief contact.
Bringing up the picture of Julia, she began stopping each person and asking if they’d seen her friend. Someone here had to have seen Julia last night. Or that creep she’d left with during the Mardi Gras parade. It wasn’t even eleven yet. The night was young.
RAFE WATCHED THE WOMAN stop his patrons one by one and show them the picture on her phone. That couldn’t be good for business. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to throw her out. Her big brown eyes behind the thick lenses had sparked with intelligence, and… authentic concern.
Not your problem, Moreau.
He eyed the card she’d forced on him, debating whether to pitch it in the circular filing cabinet.
Dr. Claire Brooks, PhD Senior Scientist/Group Leader Cell Line Generation Cambridge, Mass 555-496-4949
Doctor? He whistled. What the hell was cell line generation?
He glanced at her again. She was still grilling his customers.
Boy, was she out of her element. The frizzy chestnut hair and decades out of style clothing couldn’t have stood out more if she’d been dressed like a nun. All it would take was her asking the wrong person… Plus she was corrupting the vibe. Tourists came here to enter a different world, and the freaks and true believers came here to get their crazy on.
If he looked up the word sensible, there’d probably be a picture of this woman. And yet. She’d braved this place to look for her friend.
As he watched she stopped one of his regulars, a die-hard vamp who had the three blood drops tattooed down the corner of his mouth. The guy tried to brush her away, but she moved to block his path.
He scowled and shoved her into another dude Rafe didn’t recognize and her drink splashed down the front of his T-shirt. The fact he was wearing a collar with sharp metal spikes was not a good sign. Dog Collar Guy grabbed her by the throat, his face inches from hers, his teeth bared.
Her eyes widened and filled with fear.
Damn it. Rafe leaped around the bar, shoved his way to the altercation and inserted himself between the collar-man and the good doctor.
“What the—?”
Rafe