Foster Justice (5 page)

Someday she'd write a book about all this, when she was married, with her Juris Doctor degree, and had about five kids. She tied the dressing gown more tightly over her G-string, wishing she hadn't promised to fill in for a sick waitress, so she could go home and study. She'd made over five hundred dollars tonight, even without Chad Foster's twenty.

A smile played about her lips as she recalled the look on his face as he stared up at her. He didn't like it, one bit, but he was drawn to her just like all the others. Jasmine suspected he'd never been in a strip club. Still, she hoped his promise to talk to her had been an empty threat; he was a Texas-sized complication she didn't need. Thomas was right about this, as usual: Whatever the conflict between Chad and Trey, it was between the two of them.

Or so she tried to tell herself. She glanced at her message light, but it wasn't blinking. She was worried sick about Trey. Why hadn't he called her back? It had been over a week since she'd left a message on his new cell phone with the California number. She knew he was busy getting ready for the art exhibit, but still . . . this was a cold, lonely place for people like Trey, who looked at a refuse heap and saw only the wildflowers.

She touched up her makeup, staring at the tattoo she still wasn't used to. Maybe Mary had been right, and she should get rid of it. She stroked it with her fingertip. She already felt like she had the word
whore
branded on her forehead because of her job, and this flighty symbol of what she did, not who she was, didn't help.

A knock came at the door. Herman, the club manager, peeked inside. “Jasmine, there's a former cop here who wants to ask you some questions.”

“About what?” Jasmine touched up her lipstick but she knew the answer.

“He says a disappearance. Somebody he says you know may have been the subject of foul play.”

She froze in capping her mascara.

The door was shoved wide and someone big stepped through. She looked up, way up, at a hard face granite would envy. At her pleading look, the manager stepped inside, too, closing the door. The “cop” glared at him but Herman shrugged.

“Policy. Don't allow my girls to be alone with anyone, even cops.”

Cop my Aunt Hattie, she thought. Even if she hadn't met him at the gallery, she suspected she'd have recognized a Texas Ranger when she saw one. Because of her dad, she knew what they went through to become Rangers. They were the elite of the elite special forces in Texas. Known not just throughout the nation, but the world. Jasmine had never understood the mythological sway things Texan held over so many people. This living example of the still vibrant West was in reality only a brass-balled asshole who'd been a harsh surrogate father to his much younger brother. Who made Trey so miserable he'd pulled up stakes and moved to Los Angeles partly to get away from the jury, judge, and executioner eyeing the world from wintry gray eyes.

Chad opened his mouth, looked at the way she crossed her arms over her bosom, closed his mouth. Then he took a long, deep breath, closing his eyes as if to steady himself. She saw how long and dark his lashes were, almost feminine, like Trey's. She would have sworn he whispered something that sounded like “pat—ience” to himself.

He ran his hand around the back of his neck, as if the hair curling about his shirt collar bothered him. And only when that six-feet-plus of male pride exhibited a little-boy charm was her anger disarmed.

Something intrinsically feminine in her, which she normally quashed, surged in response to his intensity. Her nipples hardened. It had been a long time since she'd been attracted to a man. She tightened her arms across her breasts as the true import of this meeting hit her.

If he'd left the high skies for the smoggy ones, he must have a damn good reason. He obviously viewed strip clubs and LA in general as populated by lowlifes, so he hadn't come by choice. He'd come because he was worried about Trey . . . Jasmine felt her robe gap open as she waved him to an adjacent bench. His eyes were glued to her tattoo. It hit her then—Chad had mistaken her for Mary. Both tall redheads with identical tattoos.

Chad's voice was soft, almost respectful. “I saw you in the gallery today. You looked—different.”

She eyed his clean clothes and shining dark hair. “So did you. You clean up well. Did you bring your horse?”

“Yeah.”

“I used to have a horse. A long time ago. I miss him.”

Chad's head tilted as if he couldn't quite compute her owning a horse.

She'd been about to make an offhand comment indicating yes, she knew Trey but hadn't heard from him in over a week, the truth, but she didn't like the way he apparently thought she was lying to impress him. He slapped that worn Stetson against his thigh, veiling his silvery gray eyes, but contempt behind the empty smile hit Jasmine like a slap to her flushed face.

More importantly, it revived her anger.

He wanted her, but he didn't like it that he wanted her. He was classic type three, a typical macho redneck who had one use for women. She wondered if he wore spurs to bed. She glanced down at the front of his tight jeans at the telltale bulge, her look telling him wordlessly that his mind might find her repulsive but his body sure as heck didn't.

He needed an attitude adjustment. She wouldn't tell him a damn thing about Trey, especially if Trey was avoiding him as Thomas had said.

Pretending indifference, she turned a shoulder on him. She made her voice coarse. “What can I help ya with, mister?” She began adding shadow to her already accented eyes, which were the luminous green color of aspen leaves in spring. So men told her. She saw plain old dishwater green.

“I'm trying to reconstruct the movements of a young man who just moved to Los Angeles,” Chad replied. “An artist, with an opening of his work scheduled at that gallery in Beverly Hills I saw you in earlier. Trey Foster.”

Slowly, Jasmine put down the mascara tube and met the Texan's eyes in the mirror. “Why have you come to me?”

“I have reason to believe he . . . knows you.”

And I know you, too.
It wasn't her duty to tell him a thing, especially as Trey obviously didn't want his brother to know where he was. She went back to applying her mascara. “I might have met him a time or two, but I have no idea where he is.” Partially true. She knew where Trey was moving, in with Mary when Mary returned from her mysterious business trip, but at this precise moment she truly didn't know where Trey was.

“Oh yeah? Bit strange, isn't it, since he came out here because of you.” He slapped a crumpled card before her.

She glanced from it to his hard eyes in the mirror. “So? Lots of men take my card.”

“I found it in Texas. That means he already had it on his last trip out here six months ago when he met a redhead. A redhead he wouldn't talk about much because he knew I'd disapprove of her job.” He looked at her figure in the thin wrap, his lip curling. “Could be.”

Jasmine gave an “OK” look at Herman, who slipped out of the room. She looked back at her accuser, because that was certainly the best term for his attitude.

Mary. He was talking about Mary. She'd pretended to be a dancer, too, when she met Trey. At Thomas's insistence, for a reason Jasmine still didn't understand.

While she had no idea why Trey would have had her card, much less leave it behind in Texas, this explained a lot. But she had no intention of setting this balls-to-the-wall SOB straight. It would be far more fun to lead him astray. For Trey.

For herself and for her momentary weakness. There was a reason why half the dancers she knew hated men, and she was looking at it. Strong, arrogant, handsome, and a hypocrite big as Dallas, appropriately enough in his case.

She tilted her head to the side as she studied him. And then she gave that slow, sensual, bedroom smile she'd perfected onstage. “Oh, I think you like me more than you'll admit. I have many . . . dimensions.”

“Yeah, I can see 'em.” He slapped his hat back on his head. “Honey, I wouldn't take it if you were giving it away free.”

Legal training had aided her natural inclination to hold her cards close. Her smile actually sparkled under the lights. “Shall we put it to the test?”

His eyes narrowed under the thick lashes. “Oh, I forgot. This is the part where you do your lap dances to make the really big bucks. Thanks, but no thanks. Besides, I tipped you twenty bucks already.”

What a jerk. She'd been about to tell him she didn't do lap dances anymore, but now she gave him that little sexy north-south appraisal designed to tickle men right below the belt. And based on the way he shifted his weight from hip to hip, as if his pants felt too tight, it worked whether he liked it or not.

Jasmine said softly, “Tell you what, you follow the rules and avoid touching me and I won't even charge you my usual going rate.”

“How much is that?”

“Two hundred bucks.”

He almost flinched, but his hard gray eyes delved into hers. “Tell you what, if I don't touch you, you answer two questions for me. Straight on. In more than one syllable.”

“You're on, Mr. Policeman. Just give me a half hour to change.”

T
hirty minutes later, Chad's heart thumped faster than ever, and she was only serving drinks. She hadn't even removed her top, but still, his eyes zeroed in on her over the other topless women, gorgeous though they were.

He'd always had a thing for redheads.

And she knew it, damn her. Worst of all, she was hiding something. She knew Trey better than she let on. Still, his suspicions couldn't stop his libido from running amok. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, vowing he wouldn't touch her no matter what. He'd certainly extracted information in physically painful ways before, but this would be sheer torture.

He didn't remember the last time he'd had such a hard-on. And never in the presence of a suspected perp.

Finally she came over to him and offered her hand. Feeling like a bull led by his balls, he took that dainty hand and followed her to the very back of the club, to a tiny alcove.

Oh hell. He knew what that meant. Now no one could see them. City ordinance forbade men touching the strippers, but that was about as enforceable as the old law still on the books in Texas that you could get arrested for spitting on the sidewalk.

As slow, sensual music began, she shoved him down in the wide, soft chair. It was shadowy behind the curtain, but not shadowy enough. He could smell her, he could feel the warmth of her body, and man oh man, could he see her. She was seductive in the spotlights. In the soft glow cast by the sconces on the wall behind them, she was every man's dream: angel and whore.

She started out slow, dancing in front of him, almost but not quite between his knees. He planted his hands on his thighs and vowed to keep them there, a resolve taxed incrementally more with every move she made.

She didn't just dance, she . . . undulated, upper torso moving in the opposite direction to her gently swaying hips. Her arms reached teasingly toward him, fingers moving as if to weave through his hair, almost but not quite touching him. He held his breath, hoping, but then she backed off a step and did a quick three-hundred-sixty degree turn on one spiked heel before facing him again.

Still perfectly in balance, she started dancing again, eyes half closed as if she heard some mysterious inner rhythm more seductive than the soft jazz tune. Those endless legs, arched to a beautiful shape by the high heels, begged for the touch of his hands. She was supple as silk, he could see it, yet warm, soft, and living. Curved exactly where she should be.

And that silly scrap of a butterfly bodice, well, it was more suggestive than bare skin. Her nipples thrust provocatively at him as she shimmied, moving closer, closer . . . and then she was brushing herself against him. Slowly, in rhythm with the sexy tempo of the music, she nudged his spread legs apart. Then she pressed her entire length against him from his upper chest to his calves. She rubbed herself up and down, front side, then back side.

It took every ounce of willpower he had, not to mention breaking a couple of nails as he clenched his own knees, but he managed not to touch her. She rubbed herself sideways against him, letting him feel the soft warmth of her breasts, and then moved away again, dancing lazily while she watched him in the dim lighting.

He broke out in a sweat, pulling his hat down over his face, hoping she couldn't see his expression. She did another spin, her elbow catching his hat as if by accident. It went flying, leaving his face bare before her. For a moment, he looked at her with a hunger so basic, powered by a loneliness so deep he never let anyone touch it, that she froze mid-step, staring at him.

She looked like a handmaiden on a Greek urn, her arms clasped above her head as she arched toward him. He knew from her expression that she'd caught him at a vulnerable moment.

And he felt naked.

Much more naked than she was. He was embarrassed and infuriated by the pulsing ache below his belt that both proved him human and shamed him. Stumbling to his feet, he brushed past her and shoved the curtain aside.

He was so rattled he didn't realize he'd left his hat until she followed and offered it to him.

He took it, slapping it on his thigh as if to brush away her touch.

She was intuitive about human behavior, he had to give her that, because her half-concerned expression went cold at his gesture. “Good luck with your investigation.” She made to turn away

He stopped her with the only defense she'd left him—his voice. “Not hardly. I didn't touch you, did I?” When she turned back to face him, he finished softly, “I'm never led by my appetites. You're beaucoup sugar, honey, but I'm allergic to . . . butterflies.” His gaze fixed on her breasts.

There was a moment of silence. When she spoke, her tone was sweet, but he heard anger seething under every nuanced syllable. “Fancy word for a redneck. Then I guess I don't need to define this for you: stalemate. You left before I finished, remember? Or should I say you bolted.”

Her implication that he was a coward literally made him see red as her proud auburn mane shone in the lights. His voice remained calm, though his West Texas twang got thick. She aroused damn near every one of the seven deadly sins in him. “Honey, if I'd had one iota of doubt about your guilt, you just ended it. You like plain talkin'?” He smashed his hat onto his head. “I'm gonna get you. I'm gonna see you pay if Trey's been hurt.”
Or worse
. He didn't have to say it, but she caught that fear, too. He'd started to turn away when he caught the look on her face.

Shock widened those unusual eyes. “You really think I had something to do with luring him out here, don't you? You think I killed him? Okay, I admit, Trey is my friend!”

Half turned away, he froze, delving deep into her eyes, deeper than he'd dared all night long. Was the pain and shock he read genuine? She swayed on her feet, and with automatic Texas male courtesy, he reached out to steady her.

She slapped his hand away and ran. Through the tables, jostling a waitress who dropped a tray in a patron's lap. Half the place stopped to stare at her, the shock on the faces of the other waitresses proof they'd never seen Jasmine Routh so distraught because of a patron.

As she leaped up on the stage, she even wobbled on one high heel, the only ungraceful move she'd made that night, and dashed behind the curtains.

Chad stood stock still, uncaring of the curious looks and unkind thoughts. What the hell had he just seen? Had she truly been so shocked to hear his worst fears about Trey, or was she as good an actress as she was a dancer? She'd admitted to knowing Trey, but what precisely did that mean?

When he shoved a hand in his pocket and felt that expensive card slice into his finger, he was brought back to his senses. Of course she was a great actress. She was expert at emitting sexual vibes and yet according to everything he'd learned, she didn't even have a lover.

Nope. She was primo, all right. A primo user. She used men like toilet paper, and he wasn't going to fall for her act.

He spun on a booted heel and stalked out.

He had a couple more leads to follow up. He'd give her about a week, long enough to think he'd forgotten her. And then, if he still hadn't found Trey . . .

Maybe next time, he'd let her give him a
real
lap dance. He had no illusions about what happened sometimes behind those curtains. It would cost him a fortune and he'd sure as hell use a condom, but maybe once this wrenching ache was gone from his gut—and lower—he'd be able to think clearly. Face his best lead without all these seething, unseemly emotions.

Chad Foster walked out into the busy LA nightlife, blind to the neon lights that had dazzled him, blind to the tattooed, pierced, and scruffy pedestrians he'd scorned.

All he could see were butterflies.

Dancing over every inch of his body.

 

The next morning, Chad rubbed his stubbly chin wearily as he sat up in his sleeping bag beneath the tent he'd pitched at the equestrian center. “I'm too old for camp-outs.” He wriggled out of the bag and stretched his aching back. He checked his phone for messages and found the one he hoped for from Corey. It was hushed and fast. “Chad, I ran all we have on Thomas Kinnard, Beverly Hills. Seems to be a respected businessman, lots of money he used to open that gallery. Can't find much background on him though; he just appears about ten years ago. I'd dig some more but Sinclair's watching me like I'm the last tank in his pasture—” Corey hit the End button, but Chad had heard enough.

Jasmine wouldn't tell him diddly, Kinnard was denying he knew the artist of the best work in his gallery . . . all in all, LA had pretty much met his very low expectations.

Sighing heavily, Chad put his wrinkled clothes back on and faced the inevitable. Time to spend some of what was left of his last paycheck on a new suit. He couldn't expect to sneak around the Beverly Wilshire looking like this—even he knew that. Trey had said he was meeting Jasmine at the Wilshire, so tonight he'd see if he could surprise them. While his gut told him she was involved in Trey's disappearance, his gut also told him to sweep her into his arms and test her standoffishness to prove it was a lie. His reaction to her was too visceral for it to be one-sided. If he could just see that Trey was all right, he'd try one more time to talk his brother home. If it didn't work, he'd go back to Amarillo and beg for his job.

Or as close as he knew how to beg . . .

The other alternative, he shied away from. That Trey wasn't at the Wilshire. That he hadn't called in so long for one reason. Chad violently shoved away the thought of the lead of last resort: the morgue. Too soon for that.

That night, Jasmine decided to see if she could shrug off her funk along with her stage costume. She'd swapped shifts with another girl and had impulsively accepted a date with Roger Larsen. While she had no interest in him romantically, he'd offered to lend her access to his law books and answer any questions she might have. She had no yen to be a corporate or tax lawyer, his specialties, but she knew he was well respected in Beverly Hills and could be a powerful ally closer to graduation when she was ready to network.

And he was as different as he could be from Chad Foster. In her current state of mind, that was a huge advantage for him.

Still, she'd chosen a conservative black skirt and ruffled white blouse rather than anything revealing. His eyes widened appreciatively when he saw her that night as she met him at the Beverly Wilshire. “How're classes going?” He offered his arm.

She took it. “Good. I especially love my real estate law classes.”

“You think you might want to specialize in real estate?”

“I'm not sure yet. I still have a couple of years to decide. So why did you pick the Wilshire?”

“Thomas suggested the restaurant here.” Roger pulled out her chair at the table covered with white linen. “He knows the general manager and they just brought in a Michelin chef.”

Jasmine managed not to roll her eyes. LA was the most trend-conscious place in which she'd ever lived, and Roger was all about money and power. Like Thomas. They both belonged here, but she was coming to the reluctant conclusion she didn't. A conclusion that had strutted into her life on six feet two inches and boots.

Jasmine twisted her napkin in her hands and forced herself to listen to Roger.

 

Outside, Chad drove up Wilshire Blvd for the sixth time, looking for a place to park. He hated using valets and knew they didn't much like parking his double-wheeled dually. He was about to give up and turn into the valet line when he noticed a limo pull away about a block down. He wheeled into the spot just in time to beat another limo. The driver glared at him but Chad ignored him, locked his vehicle, and crossed to the hotel.

He went to the front desk. “You have a Trey Foster registered here?”

The froufrou desk clerk had a matching attitude. With an exquisitely manicured hand he pointed at a house phone. “You can try the operator, sir. I'm not allowed to give out names.”

Chad dialed zero, eyeing the busy lobby. The operator was taking a while to answer. Chad shifted in his new dress shoes, hating the button-down shirt and dress pants he'd purchased. In anything but jeans, he felt like he was wearing a straitjacket. When the operator came on finally and denied there was a guest registered under that name, Chad gave an irritated sigh. “And what about Jasmine Routh?”

A brief pause, then, “No, sir, no one under that name either.”

“Thanks.” Chad slammed down the phone. Now what? If Trey had said he'd be at the Beverly Wilshire and wasn't there, he'd already gotten his own place or . . . Chad quashed the thought, but one thing was sure: His few leads were drying up. LA had way too many hotels for him to call them one by one, and Chad had a feeling it would be a useless exercise anyway.