Jase wasn’t sure what he expected to find tonight—maybe nothing that would do them any good. But according to Tabby, the building was also owned by a corporation connected to Schram and Wiedel. Tab was still trying to locate the other two massage parlors in Houston.
At the top of the stairs, he urged Kate toward the second bar, more of a lounge, with comfortable dark blue leather couches set around low, black glass tables.
A maître d’ approached, silver-haired and oddly dignified for a crowd like this. “Good evening. My name is Arnold. I understand this is your first visit to the Blue Bayou.”
“That’s right.” Information Jase had dropped to the bouncers at the front on his way in.
“The owner, Mr. De Santos, would like to extend a personal invitation for you and your companion to join him.” Arnold stepped back and indicated a lean, black-haired man on the sofa in the far corner of the bar. A sexy blonde sat on one side of him, a dynamite redhead on the other.
“Lead the way,” Jase said. “Kitty?” She fell in behind the maître d’ and Jase followed.
Rafael De Santos rose to greet them, extending a slender manicured hand. Jase accepted the handshake, his own nails carefully trimmed and buffed. He knew how to play the game. Under the right circumstances, it was how he got paid.
“Welcome to the Blue Bayou, Mr....?”
“Devlin. Brock Devlin.”
“Rafael De Santos. I own this place.” He reached out to Kate, who extended her hand, but instead of shaking it, De Santos brought Kate’s hand to his lips and kissed the back. “Rafael De Santos at your service, lovely lady.”
“Kathryn Cordell,” Kate said, nicely adjusting to the moment. “My friends call me Kitty.”
De Santos smiled. “My friends call me Rafi. Welcome to the Blue Bayou.”
The guy had two female companions of his own, but he was clearly interested in Kate. Had to give De Santos credit for balls. He had shit for brains or he’d know Jase was thinking about stomping those balls into grease spots on the carpet.
“Please...” De Santos said, stretching a hand toward the opposite sofa. “Won’t you join me?”
Jase nodded. “All right, thanks.” He took a seat across from De Santos, and Kate sat down beside him. Jase made a point of toying with her wrist, linking their fingers together, staking his claim, which De Santos seemed to ignore.
“Your drinks need refreshing.” De Santos snapped his fingers at a passing waiter, and the guy turned around so fast his head nearly spun off his shoulders.
“Lagavulin single malt, I understand,” De Santos said.
Jase nodded.
De Santos looked at Kate. “And yours, Beluga Gold lemon drop.”
Kate smiled and held up her empty glass. The waiter set it on his tray and took off at a run toward the bar, and Jase’s gaze followed, snagged on the man in the short white jacket working behind the counter. Black hair a little too long, olive complexion, high cheekbones. The guy looked familiar.
Jesus. Mark Kingsley, special agent FBI. They’d met a couple years back when Jase was hunting a skip and Kingsley was working undercover—which apparently he was now. They’d formed a wary partnership that had become stronger over time. Kingsley and the feds arrested a well-known drug dealer and Jase brought in his skip, worth 15 percent of a three-million-dollar bond.
For an instant, his gaze locked with Kingsley’s. Recognition was instant, the message clear.You keep quiet and I will too.
“I would like you to meet my friends, Dolores and Bunny,” De Santos said, regaining Jase’s attention.
“Pleasure,” he said, thinking the buxom blonde looked more like aBunnythan the redhead.
“Nice to meet you both,” Kate said.
Their drinks arrived. “So, Mr. Devlin, you are here on business?”
“Of a sort,” Jase said, taking a sip of his drink.
“Where do you come from?” De Santos asked.
“Atlanta.”
“I see. And what sort of work is it you do in Atlanta?” De Santos pressed.
