Headed for Trouble - By Suzanne Brockmann Page 0,4

shame?

“I guess we all need savin’ at some point or ’nother,” the singer said, straightening back up.

“Yes, sir,” Frank agreed. Some more than most. The man closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and started to sing.

It was strange hearing that rich voice coming out of that scrawny, dried-up husk of a body. Clearly the Lord worked in mysterious ways.

Frank closed his eyes, too, letting the familiar words wash over him, the melody soaring and dipping, carrying out into the unnaturally warm Louisiana night.

He sensed more than heard the girl as she moved to stand beside him, and he mentally inventoried his valuables. Wallet was in his front jeans pocket. It wasn’t getting picked without him noticing, that was for damn sure. He wore his dive watch on his left wrist. His hotel keycard was in his back pocket—easy to lose, but not a problem if it got taken. What was she gonna do? Go into the Sheraton and try every room on every floor, looking for the lock it opened? Security would escort her out the back door within thirty seconds.

She shifted slightly, and Frank caught a whiff of her perfume. She actually smelled nice—like vanilla. Mixed, of course, with whiskey. He opened his eyes and as he turned to look down at her—she was about an entire foot shorter than he was—she smiled again.

“He’s incredible, huh?” she whispered.

Frank nodded. Up close, she was even prettier than he’d first thought, with clear, perfect skin and lively eyes in a heart-shaped face.

She opened her mouth to speak again, but he spoke first. “Ain’t lookin’ to get hoovered, Sugar, even by a mouth as pretty as yours. Don’t waste your time on me.”

She blinked at him, clearly confused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t … You said, you’re not looking to get …?” Ah, shit. Her accent and words were pure well-educated Northerner. Her voice wasn’t that of a seventeen-year-old, either. She was closer to ten years older. And Frank could see now that her bedraggled state was merely from being caught in the rain that had poured down a few hours earlier, as if someone had pulled the plug in heaven.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I thought … I was wrong.” Just his luck, she wasn’t drunk enough to let it slide. He could see her replaying the words he’d said, trying to figure out the ones she’d missed—or misunderstood.

“Hoovered,” she said with a laugh, comprehension dawning. “As in … Right. Okay.” She quickly turned back to stare, as if fascinated, at the singer, color tingeing her cheeks. “I’m feeling pretty friendly tonight, but not that friendly. Wow.”

Shit, now he was blushing, too. Great. “Sorry,” he said again.

She turned to look at him again. “You really thought I was …?” Amazingly, she wasn’t offended, just curious. Interested even.

Frank tried to explain. “Most women … out alone, this time of night …” He shrugged.

She nodded, accepting the misunderstanding as an honest mistake. And if he weren’t mistaken, she was more than a little thrilled to have been taken for a prostitute. Go figure.

They stood there then, just listening to the music, to the timeless words. I once was lost but now I’m found, was blind but now I see …

Silence settled around them as the last notes of the song faded away. The singer didn’t open his eyes, he just launched into a bluesy rendition of an old torch song. “Crazy.” Another of Frank’s mother’s favorites.

The girl—woman—standing next to Frank cleared her throat. “See, I lost my jacket,” she told him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was with a group of friends and … It’s gone. I don’t know where I left it. I went back for it, but …” She shrugged, an action which did some amazing things to the plunging neckline of that barely there top.

“They let you come out here, all alone?” Frank had to ask, working to keep his gaze on her pretty face. What kind of foolish friends did she have?

“Of course not. But we’d only gone a block when Betsy felt sick, so Jenn flagged down a cab. She told the driver to take me to the bar we just left and then right back to our hotel, and the first part of that plan worked. But when I came out, the cab was gone,” she reported. “It was a toss-up between staying there and trying to flag another while getting hit on by bozos, or walking back. I opted for walking. I attached