Wrong Number, Right Guy

  Her brother glares at her, but she acts like she doesn’t care, shrugging and turning her back on him to face Ozzie.

  “You know as well as anyone else here how long I worked to cultivate those connections. Now they’re all blown, thanks to Little Bo Peep over there, and we’re back to square one. You want to tell me how I’m going to get my hands on their list now?”

  “Whose list?” I ask. The more they talk, the more interesting things are getting. So they’re not the bad guys, and yet they’re trying to infiltrate a gang? What’s up with that?

  “Never mind whose list,” Ozzie says, glaring at me.

  I don’t have any idea why, but when he does that, it makes me smile. Instead of holding back, I just let the lights bounce off my pearly whites. He reminds me of his dog—all scary and blustery, but really just a giant couch pillow for a tiny dog when all’s said and done. I’ll bet his stomach would make a great headrest during a movie.

  Say what? Did I just really think that?

  I must be losing my mind. It’s probably from lack of calories. I take a big spoonful of soup, just in case.

  “It’s a list of gang members with their contact info and stats,” says Dev.

  “Stats?” I look around the room, trying to pick up on some body language that would explain that little tidbit of info. No one’s helping me out, though. They all keep trading glances with each other, but none of them are looking at me. All I can think of when someone says they’re keeping “stats” is baseball scores and batting averages. Do gangsters rate each other?

  “Yeah, stats,” says Lucky. “Like kills, kilos moved, numbers on the street moving product, and so on.”

  I shake my head, feeling a little lost in the lingo. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” A shudder moves through my body. “I hope you don’t mean literally killing, like actual people or whatever.” I take another bite of my soup. “Who would keep stats on that?”

  The room is completely quiet. I look up in time to catch Thibault and Lucky exchanging meaningful glances.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You looking for work?” Thibault asks.

  “No!” Ozzie yells before I can even open my mouth.

  “She has experience,” Lucky says, appealing to the man I can only assume is the boss, now that I see he’s trying to lower the boom. “It’s not a ton of experience, granted, but she’s a professional photographer, and she can get past anyone.” He gestures at me. “Just look at her.”

  “Taking pictures of a cheating deadbeat one day in the park does not equal surveillance experience.” Ozzie’s head looks like it’s going to explode.

  Not that I’m interested in surveillance work, but it’s kind of offensive the way he keeps throwing up roadblocks in my face. He’s way too bossy for his own good. I’d probably be pretty awesome at surveillance work. I’m discreet, I’m an excellent photographer, and I have the equipment, at least for the picture and video-taking part. My jaw sticks out a little as the expression on Ozzie’s face gets darker.

  Dev gestures at me. “She’d totally blend into the crowd. Not like Toni.”

  “Hey!” Toni throws a spoon at him.

  He catches it in midair without blinking, saving himself from a thunk to the forehead.

  “Are you calling me plain?” I ask, pretty sure I should be offended. I know I’m no supermodel, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself ugly either.

  “She’s anything but plain—look at her!” Ozzie’s pointing at me, making a spectacle of us both. “She might as well be wearing neon lights spelling out ‘Look At Me’ right now.”

  All the heads around the table swivel in my direction. Then they look at each other, obviously confused.

  “Sorry, Oz, but I’m not seeing it,” says Lucky. He leans over and puts his arm on the back of my chair as he talks next to my ear. “Feel like earning a little money taking some pictures? We pay on receipt of invoice.”

  He’s too close for comfort. I lean as far away as I can without falling out of my chair or lying in Toni’s lap. “That depends on what the pictures are of.”

  Lucky laughs, sitting up straight and giving me my space back. “I like your style.”

  I sit back up, not sure if that was a compliment.

  “Well, I don’t, and what I say goes.” Ozzie crosses his arms, forcing his muscles to bulge out even more. He literally looks like he has boobs needing a bra, resting over the top of his forearms.

  Dev smirks and points at Ozzie’s chest, talking so only we can hear him. “Look. The kids.”

  Lucky tries not to smile, looking up at the ceiling instead of at Ozzie.

  I think they’re talking about Ozzie’s pecs. They are pretty impressive. Then our text conversation comes back to me and more of it makes sense. When I said kids, I was talking about two nieces and a nephew; he thought I was talking about his boobs. No wonder he got so cranky. I try not to smile too.

  “This ain’t no dictatorship,” says Thibault, his tone even. “We take a vote. That was the deal when we started five years ago, and it’s still the deal today.” He gently puts his fist on the table. “First thing’s first . . . what do we do with her?” He points a finger unrolled from the fist at me. “Let her stay or make her go?”

  “I think maybe you should ask me what I want to do first.” I’m having a hard time keeping the annoyance out of my voice.

  Thibault’s eyebrow lifts up. “You want to go back to your house and be a sitting duck for a drug dealer who wants to shoot you in the head?”

  My face blanches. “Uh. No. I don’t want that.”

  “That’s what we thought.” He looks around the table. “She stays here; all in favor?” His hand goes up.

  I look around the table as all the guys raise a hand—everyone except Ozzie, of course. And Toni. She’s just staring at the table like she’s not even aware of what’s going on.

  Ozzie’s reaction pisses me off. “You want me to get shot in the head?” It’s actually kind of hurtful that Ozzie’s voting me off the island. I thought we’d had a moment in that alley together. He rescued me . . . I was rescued . . . that means something, right? Damn, he even called me a cab and paid for it, so why is he kicking me to the curb now?

  His expression changes to one of chagrin. “Of course I don’t want you to get shot in the head . . .”

  Dev cuts him off before he can finish. “Excellent! So she stays. Now let’s vote on giving her some work.”

  Ozzie and I both hold out our hands in front of us like stop signs.

  “Now wait a minute . . .” he says.

  “Hold on,” I say.

  We both stop and stare at each other. He glares. I narrow my eyes.

  “Sure. Go ahead and vote,” I say, flipping my hands around like I’m totally cool with everything happening right now. “I could use some extra work. Not a lot of weddings going on right now.” I’m kind of serious and kind of just yanking Ozzie’s chain. Some extra money would be nice, but I’m not sure taking pictures of drug dealers is the best career move for me.

  Ozzie stares at me, his jaw clenching and unclenching. For some reason, it cheers me up to see him getting all pissed about me being here. Is he scared of me? Ha! He must be. I did do a pretty good job of evading that guy who tried to kill me, even before Ozzie was helping me out. Some might even call me brave. I did lead him down into a cul-de-sac.

  Or maybe I hurt his feelings about his beard. My smile falters. I guess since I’ll be staying at his place of business, I should probably apologize for that.

  “Listen, Ozzie, I’m sorry for the horrible beard comments. It was just . . . way bigger than a beard has a right to be. I couldn’t help myself.”

  Thibault speaks up as he laughs at me. “Oh my lord . . . all in favor of giving Little Bo Peep a trial run, say aye.” He’s still smiling at me.

  “Aye.” I hear the word three times. Then there’s a long silence. I ignore Toni and turn to face Ozzie instead, smiling before I too say, ??
?Aye.”

  He looks like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he storms out of the room, yelling, “Sahara!” The giant dog slowly gets to her feet and ambles out of the kitchen, with Felix following closely at her heels.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I’m given a camping cot, a sleeping bag, and the corner of the kitchen for my very own. It’s either this or risk going home and being spotted by that guy who was following me in the neighborhood too close to mine for comfort. I stare at my setup, wondering if I’m going to get even a single minute of sleep tonight. Things are not looking very promising. I would never call myself the camping type. More like the rent-a-hotel-room-and-lie-by-the-pool type, actually. I’m itching to call my sister, but I know it’ll send her into a tailspin of panic if I do that. She’ll never be satisfied with half-explanations and excuses. I need to wait until I can sit down and tell her every last detail.

  “You going to be okay?” Lucky asks. He doesn’t look that concerned. More like amused.

  “I guess.” I look around the room. Besides Ozzie, who still hasn’t shown his face since storming off, Lucky’s the only one left here with me, but he’s heading toward the exit now. “Aren’t you staying?” I can’t quite keep the neediness from my voice. This place is full of samurai swords. What if I trip over one in the middle of the night and cut off a limb? I absolutely need all my limbs, every single one of them.

  “Nah. I’ve gotta go feed my goldfish. I’ll catch you tomorrow.” He walks to the door that leads into the ninja room.

  “Is anyone staying here tonight, or will I be here alone?”

  “Oz’ll be here. He never leaves except to go to work. His bedroom is just down that hall there.” He points to the place Ozzie stormed off to a half hour earlier. “If you need anything, just yell.”

  I pick up the sleeping bag and hold it against me, sighing. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “No problem. Welcome to the Bourbon Street Boys’ bed and breakfast.” He winks and leaves the room, flicking off the main light on his way out. I hear his chuckle and the digital beeps of the lock pad, followed by the sound of a heavy metal door closing.

  “Bourbon Street Boys,” I mumble to myself as I try to spread the sleeping bag over the cot, using the light from over the stove to guide me. “What kind of name is that for a security company? We’re not even on Bourbon Street. It’s miles from here.”

  I look at the entrance to the hallway where Ozzie sleeps. Felix hasn’t emerged yet, and I’m starting to worry. Should I worry? Yes, I should. Felix could wee at any moment. His bladder’s the size of a grape. I have to have him near me so I can read the signs of him needing to go out before it’s too late.

  “Felix,” I whisper as loudly as I can.

  No answer. Not a single clicking of a claw on tile comes to my ears.

  “Felix!” I whisper more loudly, cocking my ear and focusing everything I have on the possible sounds of a Chihuahua on the move.

  Nothing.

  “Dammit, Felix! Get in here!” My voice is louder than I plan for it to be.

  At first there’s no response, but then I hear some swearing.

  “Oops.” I sit down on the edge of the cot and wait for the big bad Ozzie wolf to come out and scold me for waking him from his beauty sleep.

  I snort out loud over that idea. Before, when he was sporting that horrible facial hair, I would have said he needed about six months of beauty sleep to get things right, but now I’d say he should probably stay awake for a few weeks. Months, maybe. He’s prettier than a man should be allowed to be with that body of his. His face, as harsh and angry as it looked tonight, is enough to have me thinking thoughts I shouldn’t be. I’ve always been a sucker for high cheekbones and a chiseled jaw. Even the scar he has on his right cheek isn’t enough to make him anything less than ruggedly handsome. Damn. Just the memory of him is enough to heat up the room.

  Never, ever would I have thought that the man-beast I met at Frankie’s could have revealed himself to be the real Ozzie that lay underneath. That was one hell of a cover. I can kind of see why he’s so pissed he had to get rid of it, because he really stands out now. Before he was just another big, hairy biker guy; today he’s a dream come to life. One of these days I’m going to ask him if it was a press-on beard or if he actually grew it that way and shaved it off.

  Suddenly he’s in the entrance to the kitchen, scowling at me. “Are you calling me?”

  “Not unless your name is Felix.”

  “Who’s Felix?”

  I shake my head. “For a security professional, you sure aren’t very observant. For the third time, Felix is my dog. You know . . . the Chihuahua mix that’s probably sleeping in your bed right now?”

  He folds his arms across his chest. Not intimidating at all, by the way. Kids. I almost giggle.

  “Dogs don’t sleep in my bed,” he says.

  “Tell that to Felix. Trust me, he always finds a way.” I gave up on kicking him out of bed long ago. Besides, he’s awesome in the winter as a foot warmer, preferring to sleep under the covers at the bottom of the bed to being anywhere else. I have no idea how the little guy gets enough oxygen to survive, but he wakes up just fine every morning, no worse for the wear.

  Ozzie leaves, and a few seconds later there’s yelling.

  “Son of a bitch! Get out of my bed, you mutt!”

  Then there’s a low, horrific growl that I know didn’t come from my little baby.

  Ozzie’s clearly offended. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me . . . Hey! Lady! Get in here, would you?!”

  I guess that would be me. Lady. May “the Lady” Wexler. I sigh.

  “Little Bo Peep! Need you in here for a second!”

  I think I prefer “Lady” to this nickname.

  I get up and go down the hall, passing framed photographs of the people I had dinner with and some letters behind glass too. I stop near one to skim it. It’s a thank-you from the New Orleans chief of police, thanking Bourbon Street Boys for helping them catch a criminal.

  Hmmmm. More evidence that I’m actually in the good-guys’ lair. Sweet. This is a total Batcave. I feel much better about closing my eyes and trying to catch some sleep tonight. Maybe I won’t have huge blue bags under them during my shoot tomorrow after all. A girl can dream.

  I reach a room that has an open door and light spilling out of it. Two more steps has me in the entrance, where I can see the interior of Ozzie’s bedroom. It’s as one would expect of a guy like him—cold, sterile, lots of metal and a flat screen TV on the wall along with some big speakers, a computer on a glass desk, and a dock that holds a phone. The sheets on his bed are black. The fact that they’re satin has me going a little warm. I didn’t expect that at all. It makes me wonder how many women have enjoyed them with him. Then my face goes red as I realize the next scene in this fantasy film includes him being naked.

  Whoa. Stop right there, brain. Don’t take another step.

  “What’s up?” I ask, leaning on the doorframe pretending like I’m completely cool and not all flustered over the idea of being in his black satin–sheeted bedroom. Oy, those muscles . . . what they do to me!

  Ozzie points to the mattress. “Your dog is in my bed.”

  I shrug. Felix is so bold. I’m actually a little jealous of him right now. I want to be in those satin sheets, rolling around, sliding across the top of that bed . . .

  Ack! Stop that, brain! Stop that right now!

  “So?” I shrug my shoulders. So cool. So not affected by all that satin. “Get him out.”

  “I tried.” He glares at me for a second before moving toward the bed.

  A big orange head pops up from the floor next to the mattress. Sahara. She growls, and when she does that, she really does look like one of those hellhounds. Yikes.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Ozzie sounds shattered.

  Poor Ozzie. I could only imagine what it would be like to have my little Felix turn on me. And it’s partially my fault this is happen
ing. Or it’s Felix’s fault for being so adorable, so I’m his accomplice for bringing him here in the first place.

  This will never do. I can’t be held responsible for coming between a man and his dog. Feelings of righteous indignation well up inside me and take over my good sense.

  I shake my head and advance into the room. “Cut that out.” I use a firm tone, barely giving the big beastly dog the time of day. “Felix, get your furry butt out of that bed right this second.” Felix dips his head down and looks up at me with his tiny brown eyes, knowing he’s in the wrong and using his I’m-too-cute-to-discipline maneuver.

  Sahara keeps growling.

  “Shut it!” I yell at her.

  She goes silent instantly and lowers her head. Wow. I’m going to have a hard time disciplining her too. She’s cute when she’s feeling guilty.

  “I’ll be goddamned,” Ozzie says in a low tone.

  I sweep Felix off the top of the bed and tuck him under my arm. “I told you he likes to sleep in the bed. You should listen to me more often. I’m usually right, you know.” I cut myself off when I realize I’m sounding like what Jenny calls “naggy.” For some reason, having Ozzie consider me a nag makes me sad, and that just makes me confused. Why do I care what he thinks about me? Time to abandon ship.

  I nod once, putting an end to the moment. “Have a good night.” I leave the bedroom without a backward glance, refusing to give in to the instinct to run.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Settling Felix at the bottom of the cot, I do what I can to get comfortable. My shoes go under the bed, and my hair band goes under the tiny pillow I was given. I lie down on my back, placing the sleeping bag over me, and stare at the ceiling, considering my situation.

  I should probably be more scared than I am, but I can’t seem to muster the adrenaline or fear response from anywhere. Maybe my system is broken. I was pretty much scared witless for a solid hour or two tonight. I probably used all my fear juice earlier. Now all that’s left is the power to analyze, so analyzing is what I’m going to do.

  I chew a dry spot on my lip and contemplate the facts. These guys work with the police, so they’re the good guys. They’re on my side. If they have weapons here, it’s probably just to do their jobs. I was the perfect target if killing innocent women is what they’re into, but instead of shooting me, freezing my corpse, and putting it in a wood chipper, they fed me soup. And not just any soup . . . amazing soup.