“He was just reinstated yesterday.”

“That won’t last long.”

“It never does,” Ryland agreed. “But when he’s working, he’s the best there is.”

“I thought you were the best. That’s what the paper claims.”

“And we know that every word the paper prints is gospel, right, hero?”

Reminded of the harassment he’d endured over the past year due to freedom of the press over his “heroic deed,” Blu snorted.

“So Brodie’s willing to wrangle with Spoon Thompson on your behalf for a few days? That should be worth a front-row seat.”

Blu grimaced. “Oui. Those two are about as agreeable as two cottonmouths fighting over the same rat. No, Brodie’s not too happy about me taking time off, but he’s a good friend.”

“He proved it last year,” Ryland agreed. “Not too many men I know would have lived through the beating he took from Denoux’s men to protect you and Margo. No, Brodie Hewitt is a good man. Though I would certainly like to know where he calls home. No one seems to know his story. A man who keeps himself a mystery is a man who usually has something to hide.”

Blu remained silent. He knew Brodie’s story, but he’d sworn to keep it to himself. When Brodie was ready to deal with his past, he’d head home. But until then, Blu would value Brodie’s friendship and the big guy’s loyalty to the duFray Devils.

“Do you think this girl has something to do with your pal, Patch? You made quite a few enemies when you were working for him. Maybe she wants revenge for some old, unsettled score.”

“Then why didn’t she just shoot me? She had plenty of time if that’s what she wanted.” Blu walked away from the window and the warmth of the morning sun and sat on the chair in front of Ry’s desk. “She asked me if I knew a man named Salvador Maland. She seemed to think I should. And when I said I didn’t, she called me a liar.”

“You’re sure you don’t know him?”

“I don’t think so. Does the name mean anything to you?”

“Not offhand.”

“She had the damnedest eyes,” Blu mused, still unable to forget their warm color, or her sexy little mouth.

“This is personal, then?”

“Hell, yes, it’s personal. Damn personal when a fille you’ve never seen before points a gun at your nuts and threatens to blow them off.”

Grinning, Ry said, “Sure would have made a helluva headline for the Times-Picayune.”

Blu evil-eyed Ry. “The girl pulled a gun on me and you’re making jokes.”

“You make it sound like it was the first time you’ve ever looked down the barrel of a gun.”

“It was with a young fille backing it. Claiming to be a nun, no less.”

“Is that what’s bothering you, that it was a woman?”

“You’re not listening. She was little.” Blu held up his hand. “About this big.”

“So she’s maybe five four, not a woman, and not a nun?”

Blu swore and was halfway out of his chair when Ry pulled a notepad from his drawer and said, “Not so fast. Give me some facts.”

Blu eased back down onto the chair. “You mean, a description?”

“Yeah. What did she look like? What was the color of those damnedest eyes?”

“Brown. Soft brown.”

“Hair?”

“Didn’t see it.”

“You said she’s young?”

“Real young. Eighteen at the most, And she’s…” He held up his hand again. “Five feet, four inches sounds right.”

“Any identifying marks? A mole or birthmark?”

“Didn’t see any.”

Ry glanced up. “I thought you were going to give me a description.”

“She was covered in black from head to toe. You’ve seen a nun, haven’t you? They wear black…everywhere.”

“Everywhere?”

Blu refused to let Ry get under his skin. “I’ll let you know once I find her.”

“So what we’ve got is a pair of the damnedest brown eyes, and she’s maybe four inches over five feet. And she’s wearing black…everywhere.”

Blu wished he had something more to offer. “Ah, her mouth…”

Ry was waiting with his pen poised. “Yeah?”

“Ah, she’s got… She’s got great teeth.”

“Teeth?” Ry tossed the pen onto the desk. “Well, hell, that makes all the difference in the world. We’ll see her coming, then.”

“I’m out of here.” Blu was on his way up once more.

“Sit down,” Ry growled. “I need some coffee. You want some?”

“No.” Blu watched his brother-in-law stand and head for the coffeepot in the corner. Ry was an inch shorter than Blu’s six-three, and where Blu’s eyes were a deep chocolate, almost black, Ry’s were as blue as the morning sky. His sandy-brown hair was cropped close to his head, and the comfortable jeans and boots he refused to give up after making detective, fit the rugged Texan perfectly.

At thirty-four, Ry’s status with the NOPD had steadily climbed. He was not only considered a fine homicide detective, but the next in line for a promotion. But more importantly was his claim to being the luckiest man alive since he’d married Blu’s sister—a beautiful nightclub singer twelve years younger than him, who kept the Toucan Lounge in the French Quarter packed to full-house capacity three nights a week.

“She gave me another name, too,” Blu drawled. “She asked if I knew a woman by the name of Kristen Harris.”

“And do you?”

“No.”

Ry returned to his chair with a cup of coffee. He jotted the name down beneath Salvador Maland’s. “So how did you and our little nun part company? How did you disarm her? Did you get the gun? We could trace—”

“No gun.” Blu confessed.

Ry eyed the cut and fresh bruise on Blu’s forehead. “What’s that from?”

Blu hadn’t intended to go into the details of how she’d gotten away from him, but if he didn’t… “She, uh, she told me to…”

“She told you to what?” Ry prompted.

“To strip,” Blu confessed grudgingly.

Ry was in the process of taking a sip of his coffee. He promptly choked and messed his shirt. “Dammit.” He eyed the brown stain spreading on his broad chest, then, still scowling, looked back at Blu. “And did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Strip?”

“I took my boots off.” Blu rubbed his temple, remembering the way she’d smashed the heel into his head. “I toppled her before I lost my pants. But then she hit me over the head with my boot.”

While Ry laughed, and patted dry the stain on his shirt, Blu climbed out of the chair, jammed his hand into his jeans’ pocket and paced back to the window. “It wasn’t that damn funny.”

“Normally I’d agree if it had happened to someone else. But you’ve got to admit it’s not every day a nun asks the Blu Devil to strip at gunpoint, then knocks him out. With his own boot, no less.”

When Blu only grunted, Ry sobered—a little. “Okay, let me run these names through the computer and give Jackson a call. When he finds out something he’ll be in touch.”

Before Blu could agree, his sister opened the door and stuck her head inside. Surprise filled Margo’s eyes when she saw who stood in her husband’s office. “Blu? What are you doing here?” When she spied the cut on her brother’s head, she gasped. “Oh, my God! What happened?”

Blu touched his temple. “It’s not worth mentioning, so don’t ask.” He shot Ry a look that told him to keep his mouth shut. His sister was as protective as a mama bear over a newborn cub. If she thought Blu needed her, she would likely cancel her trip to Texas.

Margo frowned at him, then glanced at Ry. “Is he telling the truth or is he hiding something?”

When Ry hesitated, Margo faced Blu, her hands landing on her trim waist. Her dark eyes—a matched pair to her brother’s—narrowed with suspicion. “All right, let’s hear it. You promised me and Mama that you were done working for Patch Pollaro.”

“I am,” Blu insisted.

“Then what’s this?” She gestured to the cut on his head. “And why are you here? I can count on one hand how many times you’ve willingly set foot in this office.”

“Margo.” It was Ry’s voice that brought her up short. “You promised you would back off and give it a rest. Harping ain’t pretty, baby.”