“ Hurricane Roy has been upgraded to a category three as it continues to veer off its projected path to Florida and curves toward the Louisiana coastline. Meteorologists are scrambling to explain the sudden change in direction.”
Storm shutters rattled as another clap of thunder announced the coming storm.
Nothing good can come of this, thought Mick as he tore his eyes from the huge high def TV to take in the patrons jammed practically shoulder to shoulder in his bar as they danced to the zydeco band raising the roof.
It wasn’t that New Orleans couldn’t take another beating. She’d survived and come back after Katrina, scarred but stronger. But storms didn’t naturally change tracks like this. Not without . . . outside intervention. The whole thing made Mick twitchy.
He covered his unease by sliding a pint of Bass down the bar, where it slapped into the waiting hand of a customer. The warlock lifted the glass in salute and took a sip. Mick nodded and turned to scan the crowded tables of his bar, noting the mix of Mirus and human patrons as he filled orders on autopilot. The fiddle was hot and fast, and across the room feet tapped, hands clapped, and couples swirled in impromptu dancing. It was a full house, locals mostly, who’d decided to settle in for a last-minute hurricane party in the event the storm bitch slapped New Orleans. There was a betting pool on where Roy would hit and what category it would be when it did. Le Loup Garou was on the high ground and was buttoned down tight, so even if things went bad, everybody inside would be safe. That was exactly the way Mick liked it.
He continued to mix drinks and draw pints, beingsure to send a tray of the band’s preferred beers over to their table with one of his waitresses. It was best to keep their vocal chords lubricated. They were earning every penny of their fee with this gig. The last hurricane party he’d hosted had lasted ’til dawn, and the musicians had played long after the power had gone out, keeping the fear and worry at bay with their instruments and voices.
Mick’s attention shifted to a group of frat boys on the far side, and his sense of dread ratcheted up a couple of notches. They weren’t being rowdy, but they looked annoyed. One ham-handed guy reached out and snagged a waitress as she walked by. Charlotte covered her irritation, listened to the complaint: where was the service? She calmly took out her pad and scribbled down their orders. Not until she was on her way back to the bar did she absently rub her wrist. Mick’s eyes narrowed.
Charlotte set her tray down on the bar. “One Jack and Coke, two Bud Selects, a G and T, one Bond- style martini, and a bloody Mary for Table Six.”
Mick listened as she continued to rattle off orders, part of his brain filing and categorizing as he waited for her to finish. “You okay, chère?” His eyes flicked to her wrist.
His waitress rolled her eyes. “Fine. Just a little overactive, underfed testosterone. It’s Liza’s station. Apparently they’ve been waiting a while.”
He flicked his eyes around the other tables in Liza’s section, noting the waiting patrons, and frowned. “Liza isn’t in yet?”
Tracy, one of the other waitresses, sidled up, orders for the kitchen in hand. “No, she’s late. Helluva night to do it, too. We’re jumpin.”
“Either of you hear from her?” he asked. Both women shook their heads. Liza was never late. Could be she got delayed from the storm, but she’d have called.
Mick loaded Charlotte’s tray. “Keep your eyes peeled. Divide her tables among yourselves. I’ll see what Ican find out.”
It took a while to process all the orders, but eventually he squeezed into his small office in the back. Blistering fiddle licks chased him as he shut the door, blocking out the bulk of the noise so he could call Liza’s cell phone. It went straight to voicemail. He left a message for her to call on the bar line and hung up.
It didn’t necessarily mean anything was wrong. She might’velet the thing die, or she hadn’t answered the last call. But he didn’t like it.
As he stepped back into the bar, the band finished a rousing rendition of Hot Tamale Baby. The moment of silence before the audience burst into applause and cheers was interrupted by a sharp crack! up near the front.
Mick’s eyes went to the windows first, thinking one of the storm shutters had come loose to whack against the brick. Then he saw her standing in the doorway, hair whipping around her heart shaped face as the wind and rain poured in at her back.
Trouble.
That’s all Mick could think as he stared at her, mouth going dry. If she’d lifted her hands to send walls of water crashing over his customers, he wouldn’t have been at all surprised. And he wasn’t sure he could move to stop her. For that moment he was absolutely at her mercy.
Then another patron wrestled the outside door shut and she was just a woman.
A wet, slightly bedraggled and incredibly sexy woman, Mick corrected. He called himself a fanciful fool as she combed the dripping hair back from her face with both hands and took another step inside.
She was exactly the kind of trouble he liked between the sheets on long, hot summer nights when hurricanes weren’t threatening the city he loved. Though she was dressed casually in jeans and a leather jacket, she carried herself like she wore a suit, stiff and purposeful. He wanted to peel those wet layers off and make her forget whatever worries had pulled that lush pink mouth into a frown.
It was then he noticed the temper practically steaming the water off her. Mick tore his eyes and his mind away. No time for play tonight. No time for whatever kinda trouble she brought with her. She wasn’t a local and that meant she wasn’t for him. He had a business to run and a waitress to find.
Sophie hung back near the entryway, feeling almost as buffeted by the music as she had by the storm outside. She was off-balance and unprepared for the bar full of happy, dancing people. Were they crazy? Didn’t they know a hurricane was bearing down on them?
Her eyes flicked up to the big screen TV on the wall, as the band declared they would be back after a short break. The meteorologist announced that Roy had picked up speed and was predicted to make landfall by six AM. . Okay, yeah, they knew, they just weren’t going anywhere. Obviously. Because the logical thing to do in a natural disaster is have a drunken party. With a band. Gods.
She scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar dark head and not seeing it. Not that Liza was easily seen. She was just as vertically challenged as Sophie was, barely topping 5’2”.
There were humans mixed in with the Mirus present. Quite a few, actually. Which meant that Le Loup Garou was not one of the establishments that cloaked its presence from humans. That made the situation an iota better for Liza. It meant she wouldn’t stand out as much. When Mom had called earlier in the day to say that baby sis was working in a Mirus bar, Sophie had imagined the worst and come racing to New Orleans to bail her out of trouble. Again. But clearly this wasn’t the kind of place where young, impressionable human women were on display like gyrating sides of beef. It was just a bar. And chances were Liza was just a waitress.
Not that that was going to keep Sophie from ripping her sister a new one at the earliest opportunity.
“We’re pretty packed, but you could probably squeezein up at the bar.”
Sophie turned her attention to the waitress, who’d paused, heavy tray balanced expertly on her shoulder. “Thank you,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the music.
Before Sophie could ask about Liza, the woman nodded and sashayed onto the other side of the bar to deliver food. The spicy scent of jambalaya and gumbo lingered in her wake, reminding Sophie that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast in Atlanta, and that was hours ago. Maybe she could at least get a bite of something while she figured out how she was going to drag her sister out of here without making a scene.
When she reached the bar, a skinny guy in a bright Hawaiian shirt flashed her a smile and immediately stood up, drink in hand. He gestured at the stool. “You look like you could use this more than me, sugar.”
Sophie worked up a smile that she hoped didn’t resemble a snarl. “Thanks.”
She braced herself to fend off any flirtation, but the guy only saluted her with his beer and hollered down the bar. “Hey Mick! This one needs a nip to warm her up.”
Glancing down the bar, she saw a flash of tanned, muscled forearm passing a drink to someone before a shoulder leaned in and blocked her view. She slid onto the stool, grimacing as the wet denim of her jeans clung to her thighs. A change of clothes would be awesome but wasn’t in the cards. The rain was coming down so hard now, anything she could pull out of her car would get just as soaked. Besides, she wasn’t planning on staying.
The same brown arm thrust into her line of vision, a dishtowel clutched in his hand. Sophie blinked and followed the arm, past the faded blue chambray shirt, up to the very broad shoulders, and finally settled on his face. He wasn’t handsome. Not by any kind of movie-star standards. He was all sharp angles and flat planes that should have come together to look like some kind of backwoods hit man. But his eyes—golden as the whiskey on the shelf behind him—and the slight curve of a surprisingly sensual mouth softened everything enough to make him appear just this side of civilized.
“It’s not much, but it might help a li’lbit.” His voice flowed over her like spiced honey, warm and sexy. He shook the towel in a take it gesture.
Sophie realized she was staring and closed her mouth, reaching for the towel. “Thanks.” Embarrassed, she dropped her eyes, using the towel to squeeze water from her hair. She had often heard people speak of the animal magnetism of the Wylk, but this was the first time she’d experienced it herself.
She sensed, rather than saw, the wolf-shifter move on down the bar, continuing to tend other customers. Oh brilliant. This is really the perfect time for your libido to wake up and decide to tango. You’re here for Liza.
She plucked a menu out from between the napkin holder and a ketchup bottle and spun around on the stool to survey the bar’s patrons, still trying to find her sister. Instinctively she started categorizing people, pausing on each of the Mirus to identify their race. Felis. Witch. A couple of vampires. Was that a selkie? Damn, he was way far south. They tended to prefer colder climates.
The band had moved on to something more upbeat. Sophie observed, assessed, and paused when she saw a small plastic packet of bright yellow powder and a wad of cash changing hands.
Oh come on. Seriously? You’re going to sell drugs right under the nose of the IED?
Not that they were aware she was part of the Investigation and Enforcement Division since she was in plainclothes and wasn’t flashing her badge. And she wouldn’t unless it became absolutely necessary. Getting recognized as an agent while she extricated Liza from her latest harebrained adventure was the last thing she needed. It’d be just her luck that somebody would report back to headquarters and get her ass canned for her sister’s actions, what with the Council’s whole thou shalt not let humans know we exist edict.
“What else can I get you?”
The bartender was back, and Sophie realized she hadn’t even looked at the menu. She turned back around and studiously pretended she hadn’t been ogling him a minute ago. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Ain’t we all, chère?” His mouth curved into a smile with enough kilowatts to fry an alligator.
Put that away, Cajun, Sophie thought as her blood heated with something other than temper. “One of your staff members, actually. Liza Cunningham?”
The smile didn’t fade, but his eyes chilled. “What you be wantin’ with Liza?” Suspicion snaked around the easy tone, but Sophie couldn’t tell whether it was in the name of saving his own ass or something else.
What are you hiding?
While she debated for a long moment about whether to reveal their family connection, another of the waitresses leaned over. “I tried Liza again from my cell, Mick. Still no answer. Looks like we’ll be doing without her tonight. I need a long neck Michelob . . . ”
Sophie tuned out the order. Her brain was too busy focusing on what the girl had just said. Liza wasn’t here. She wasn’t answering her cell or her house phone. Sophie had tried both, of course, several times since she’d left Atlanta, but she’d assumed Liza was screening her calls and knew perfectly well that her ass was gonna wind up in a sling. But if she wasn’t answering for work and hadn’t called in . . . Well, that wasn’t like her. She might have a wild hair, as their mother was liable to say, but she always met her responsibilities.
When Mick finished handing over the latest order of drinks to the waitress, Sophie pulled out her badge. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”