Man, oh, man, she thought. Her luck was really in.
“You’re not a tourist, sweetheart,” Alex reminded her, adding a firm nudge.
“Sorry.”
The vibrant excitement in her eyes was so out of place that he stared. Then, with a shake of his head, he jabbed a finger toward a chair. He was letting the rookie get his feet wet getting the vitals from Rosalie. Once they had her booked, he’d take over himself, using charm or threats or whatever seemed most expedient to make her talk to him about her two murdered associates.
“Okay.” He took his seat behind his battered and overcrowded desk. “You know the drill.”
She’d been staring at a young man of about twenty with a face full of bruises and a torn denim jacket. “Excuse me?”
Alex just sighed as he rolled a form onto his typewriter. “Name?”
“Oh, I’m Bess.” She held out her hand in a gesture so natural and friendly he nearly took it.
Instead, he swore softly. “Bess what?”
“McNee. And you’re?”
“In charge. Date of birth.”
“Why?”
His eyes flicked up, arrowed hers. “Why what?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Patience, never his strong suit, strained. He tapped a finger on the form. “Because I’ve got this space to fill.”
“Okay. I’m twenty-eight. A Gemini. I was born on June the first.”
Alex did the math and typed in the year. “Residence.”
Natural curiosity had her poking through the folders and papers on his desk until he slapped her hand. “You’re awfully tense,” she commented. “Is it because you work undercover?”
Damn that smile, he thought. It was sassy, sexy, and far from stupid. That, and those sharp, intelligent green eyes, might have fooled him. But she looked like a hooker, and she smelled like a hooker. Therefore...
“Listen, doll, here’s the way this works. I ask the questions, you answer them.”
“Tough, cynical, street-smart.”
One dark brow lifted. “Excuse me?”
“Just a quick personality check. You want my address, right?” She rattled off an address that made both of Alex’s brows raise.
“Let’s get serious.”
“Okay.” Willing to oblige, Bess folded her hands on the edge of his desk.
“Your address,” he repeated.
“I just gave it to you.”
“I know what real estate goes for in that area. Maybe you’re good.” Thoughtful, he scanned her attributes one more time. “Maybe you’re better than you look. But you don’t make enough working the streets to pop for that kind of rent.”
Bess knew an insult when it hit her over the head. What made it worse was that she’d spent over an hour on her makeup. And she happened to know that her body was good. Lord knew, she sweated to keep it that way by working out three days a week. “That’s where I live, cop.” Her temper, which had a habit of flaring quickly, had her upending her enormous canvas tote onto his desk.
Alex watched, fascinated, as she pawed through the pile of contents. There were enough cosmetics to supply a small department store. And they weren’t the cheap kind. Six lipsticks, two compacts, several mascara sticks and pots of eye shadow. A rainbow of eyeliner pencils. Scattered with them were two sets of keys, a snowfall of credit-card receipts, rubber bands, paper clips, twelve pens—he counted—a few broken pencils, a steno pad, two paperback books, matches, a leather address book embossed with the initialsELM,a stapler—he didn’t even pause to wonder why she would carry one—tissues and crumpled papers, a tiny micro-cassette recorder. And a gun.
