Page 21 of Devil's Bargain

“Hey, I’m down with Metallica, too,” Jazz said. “I’ve got layers. Let’s move. We’ve got two hours before the flight.”

Nobody followed them. Nobody Jazz could spot, anyway. Without discussion, Lucia kept scanning crowds once they’d reached the airport, even while giving rote answers to the security questions and submitting to a wand scan and bag search. Jazz was passed through without a second glance. She waited, checking her watch, as Lucia patiently underwent the security process and finally ducked through the crowd to join her. They took off at a jog for the far end of the terminal.

“What was that about?” Jazz asked. Lucia looked at her, unsmiling. There was a glitter in her dark eyes.

“Think about it,” she said. “You’re blond and pink. I’m not.”

“Racial profiling’s—”

“Illegal, yes, but you’d be amazed how many random searches I turn up on,” Lucia replied. Her voice sounded tight. “I’m lucky I’ve got federal credentials. As much as I travel, this could get to be a real problem.”

The flight was full. The vast majority of travelers were sour-faced businesspeople with more bags under their eyes than in the overhead compartments. She and Lucia had wing seats, midcabin, next to an emergency exit. Jazz didn’t think it was luck. Lucia seemed to think about these kinds of things.

They chatted about light stuff during the inevitable delay and the bumpy takeoff … family, to start. Lucia had none to speak of beyond an aunt in Spain who didn’t approve of her. They moved on to favorite movies and bad dates. Jazz didn’t have a lot to offer on the dating story front, although she was hell on wheels with the movies. She was content to listen to Lucia spinning stories, after a while.

“Chefs are the worst,” Lucia was saying, as the plane leveled out its climb for the relatively short arc to New York City. “Never marry a chef.”

This was a novel sort of idea. “You’re kidding, right? Don’t marry a guy who can actually cook?”

“That’s their day job. Sure, theycancook. And while they’re trying to impress you and charm you into bed, it’s crème anglaise and shrimp soufflé, but after that, it’s all too much work for them. You’ll never get anything right, and you can’t go out to dinner with them, either. Everything’s a review. The soup’s too thin, the meat’s too tough, the dessert’s not served hot enough.” She shook her head and-flipped pages in theCosmoshe’d retrieved from the magazine rack. “And God forbid you shouldn’t ever care for something they create. There’s less drama on HBO.”

“Did you marry him?” Jazz asked.

“Hmm?” Lucia lifted her eyes from contemplation of the Fall Fashion Lineup. “Michel? Oh, no. He would have been a disaster as a husband. He never met a hostess he didn’t greet, if you know what I mean.” Those dark eyes appraised her for a Cop’s hard second. “How about you?”

“Hey, I can promise you I never greeted Michel. Hell, I don’t even know any man French enough to be named Michel.”

“I mean—”

“I’m clear on your meaning,” Jazz said. “You’re trying to find out if I’m gay.”

Lucia blinked. “No … I was actually wondering if you and Ben McCarthy…?”

Sore subject. Jazz swallowed and fixed her gaze on the beverage cart slowly trundling its way down the narrow aisle toward them. She felt like a drink, early morning or not. Maybe she could get away with something disguised as healthy, like a mimosa. “None of your business,” she said. It sounded hard and cold.

Lucia stared at her for a long second, then went back to her magazine.

Sex, and Ben McCarthy. Jazz sighed, leaned her head against the backrest and closed her eyes.

Maybe, with the help of the mimosa, she could sleep the rest of the way to the city, without dreams.

JFK felt crowded, breathless and a little grubby. Lucia led Jazz past baggage claim and toward the outside, where New York was having a fabulously—probably unexpectedly—golden day.

She slowed in her stride before they reached the doors.

“What?” Jazz asked. She was already alert, but Lucia’s change in body language elevated it a sharp notch to outright paranoia.

Lucia jerked her chin sharply. “Look.”

A uniformed chauffeur, cap under his arm, was holding up an erasable board on which were written in block letters the names MS. GARZA/MS. CALLENDER. He was a tall guy, long in the torso and wide in the shoulders, probably pumped under the well-tailored coat. A burr haircut, light blond heading toward gray. Eyes to match. Ex-Marine, Jazz would have said, straight out of Central Casting.

“My ID,” he said, and produced a picture ID card with watermarking and some kind of fancy holography on it, with the bold logo of Gabriel, Pike & Laskins, LLP under the lamination. “Can’t be too careful these days. May I see yours, please?” He held out his hand. Lucia wordlessly produced her ID. Jazz fumbled hers out a second later, watched him scrutinize the postage-stamp picture and then turn those laser-beam eyes on her. She revised her estimate of his rank upward to drill sergeant. “Nice flight?”

“Fabulous,” Lucia said. “I didn’t arrange for ground transportation.”

The Marine settled the cap back on his head, adjusted it to his exacting specifications and nodded. “No, ma’am. The firm arranged for it.” He reached out and took their bags with the proprietary air of a man who never expected to be refused. Jazz let him do it, though her impulse was to stiff-arm him and snarlBack offin her most intimidating voice. She restrained it mainly because she knew picking a fight with this man wasn’t just stupid, it was damn near suicidal, and besides, he hadn’t done anything.

Yet.

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