Private Investigations - Jean Barrett Mills & Boon Intrigue

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her, cutting her off, trapping her. One of them, who had an overbite and a raspy voice, demanded of Christy, “Okay, tell us how we get to the Streetcar Named Desire.”

      New Orleans always treated its out of town visitors with warmth and courtesy. Or tried to. But, myth or reality, Christy was in no mood for Southern hospitality. “Uh, I don’t think it exists anymore, or else these days it’s a bus; either way I don’t know. Now if you’ll just let me by—”

      “Oh, not that one. I’m talking about the Streetcar Named Desire that’s a club. You know, the one featuring exotic male dancers?”

      Christy blinked at her. “No, I don’t know, so if you’ll excuse me—”

      The raspy voice sounded injured this time. “But he said you’d be certain to know.”

      “Who?”

      “That sweet man up on the levee who pointed you out to us.”

      That got Christy’s attention. “What man? What did he look like?”

      “Why, I’m not sure.”

      “I am,” piped one of her eager companions. “He had a dynamite smile and a butt to die for.”

      Dallas McFarland! Jolted by the knowledge that she hadn’t shaken him after all—because she didn’t doubt for the space of a heartbeat that it was him, and never mind how he’d managed to catch up with them—Christy beat her way through the ranks of conventioneers.

      There was another blast from the boat whistle. Frantic now, she sprinted up the stairs, arrived breathlessly on the broad top of the levee, but was too late. The paddle wheeler, passengers crowding the decks, was drawing away from the landing. Up near the prow stood a smirking Brenda Bornowski, not yet aware of the tall figure of Dallas McFarland stationed at the rail several safe lengths away from her.

      The wicked grin that her infuriating rival directed at Christy down on the levee, informed her that not only had she screwed up what should have been an easy surveillance, but that he had somehow managed to snatch another potential client from under her nose. And just to be certain there was no question of that, McFarland stabbed a finger in the direction of a small figure who had arrived at Christy’s side. She looked down to see a boy in a Saints T-shirt extending toward her a rectangle of cream-colored pasteboard.

      “Guy on the boat said to give you this.”

      He delivered the offering and melted away. And while the Dixieland band went on playing under the April sunshine, Christy looked at what he had placed in her hand. It was one of her own business cards printed with Hawke Detective Agency against a logo of a golden hawk. A bold, insolent black X had been struck across the face of the card from corner to corner.

      Chapter One

      It fronted on Royal Street, and it had just about everything an old building in the historic district is supposed to have—lacy wrought iron balconies, shutters at the long windows, gas lanterns. A dream of a place, Christy would think whenever she returned to it. Ordinarily, that is.

      The carriageway that tunneled through the building framed a view of the courtyard. Whenever Christy emerged from the dim passage, she would find herself delighted all over again by the fountain and vines and tubs of flowers. Ordinarily, that is.

      The old converted slave quarters were at the rear of the courtyard. Christy occupied the small structure, her agency on the ground floor and her apartment tucked above it on the second level. It was a cramped arrangement, but, hey, this was the French Quarter and rents were high. So she would count herself lucky that the regular tenant, in a hurry to take a job overseas, had subleased the place to her at an affordable rent. Ordinarily, that is.

      But not this afternoon. This afternoon Christy was oblivious to all this quaint charm—which she was in danger of losing anyway, reasonable rent or not—because the only thing she had time for as she stormed across the courtyard and through the door marked Hawke Detective Agency, was the image inside her head of Dallas McFarland sinking slowly in a bottomless pool of quicksand.

      The office was silent. But since her assistant, Denise, was bouncing and swaying happily at her desk, Christy assumed that the jazz music she relished was pouring through the radio plug stuck in her ear. Fond though Christy was of the woman, she didn’t consider her much of an assistant. However, as Denise was a retired bus driver with an adequate pension, she was willing to work cheap. This was because she had a regrettable longing for P.I. excitement, the kind of action that was in short supply lately at the agency, a situation Denise frequently grumbled about.

      The radio plug came out of her ear with a jerk as Christy slammed over to her own desk and slumped in her chair.

      “Uh-oh. Looks like the Prince of Darkness beat us out of the running again.”

      “I don’t want to talk about it!” Christy snapped. And then, surging to her feet, she proceeded to do exactly that as she prowled from one end of the small office to the other with Denise’s gaze solemnly following her. “I didn’t like the idea anyway! A controlling father wanting to spy on his daughter just because he thinks her boyfriend is no good and up to mischief! All right, so he’s a rich father, and we needed the money!”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “But a contest like that? Come on, it’s dumb! I shouldn’t have agreed to it!”

      “Uh-uh.”

      “I mean, why didn’t he just pick one of us, instead of pitting us against each other?”

      “Maybe he gets his jollies that way.”

      “And McFarland—McFarland just loved it!”

      “Sure, he’s bad.”

      “Got that right! Arrogant, unprofessional, no principles!”

      “And one sexy dude.”

      Christy rounded on her traitorous assistant. “What is it with you and the women in this town and that man? That—that bottom-feeder!”

      “Guess by that you don’t want to hear what happened here while I was out to lunch. Guess you’re in no mood for it, huh?”

      “What?”

      “That the answering machine got itself full up with messages, the fax machine is spitting faxes all over the place, the computer is loaded with e-mail and they’re all from your mama in Chicago lookin’ to hear from you.”

      “I see. And all this happened while I was gone. Could it be possible, Denise, that you had a longer lunch hour than you planned?”

      Denise thought about it. “Could be. Us full-figured gals need to keep up our energy.”

      “I don’t suppose there’s anything else on one of those machines. Like maybe someone needing to hire a P.I. with money no object?”

      “Nuh-uh.”

      “In that case…” Christy returned to her desk and reached reluctantly for the phone. She hated having to call her mother, knowing exactly what she was going to hear before she heard it. No way around it.

      She dialed home, or what used to be home for her, which was the main office of the Hawke Detective Agency founded by her mother and father back in Chicago.

      “Hawke Agency.” The familiar voice was cheerful, efficient. It belonged to her mother, Moura Hawke, the energetic doyenne of both the family and its agency, which had branches throughout the country operated by Christy and her four siblings.

      “It’s me, Ma. What’s up?” As if she couldn’t guess.

      “A celebration, my darling. I hope. Did you win the Bornowski case?”

      “Afraid not, Ma.” Oh, how humiliating it was for Christy to admit her defeat. She was twenty-six years old and still regarded as the baby who had to be protected from the big bad world, still fighting to be recognized by

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