Blue Fire

CHAPTER ONE

1965

"Dios mío... this is madness."

Jasmine narrowed her eyes against the July sun and looked across the street at the CID building. Once she walked through those doors, there would be no turning back.

Fort Worth in July was merciless. Sweat gathered at her temples, dampening the curl that stubbornly refused to stay pinned back. She brushed it aside and tightened her grip on her navy clutch.

She had never set foot inside a building like this before. Men who frequented Madame's establishment preferred discretion. Yet here she was.

A passing car slowed. The driver gave her a lingering glance before moving on. Before she could lose her nerve, Jasmine crossed the street.

Inside, the lobby was a shock of air-conditioned coolness. After the brutal heat outside, the cold made her want to sigh with relief. Perfumes and musks filled the air, but beneath them lingered the unmistakable smell of tobacco smoke.

Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor. She tried to soften her step, but the sound only seemed louder in the cavernous lobby. Every uniformed head turned.

At the reception desk sat a blonde woman in cat-eye glasses. She gave Jasmine a measured look without the faintest hint of a smile.

"I need to file a report," Jasmine said.

The receptionist's fingers paused over her paperwork. "What kind of report?"

Jasmine swallowed. "Assault."

Not a flicker crossed the woman’s face. “Write your name here.” She indicated a space beneath several names in an old register book. “Then take a seat. Someone will be with you.”

Jasmine scribbled down her name, then chose a chair at the far end of the room. She worried at a loose thread on her skirt while a lone fly battered itself against the nearby windowpane.

Each time the front doors opened, her stomach knotted.

What if someone recognized her? What if word reached Madame?

She forced the thoughts aside.

The clock on the wall seemed determined never to move.

At last, nearly half an hour later, a deputy emerged from one of the offices.

"This way."

Jasmine was on her feet at once.

The deputy led her past the curious stares of the men in the bullpen before stopping outside a frosted-glass door.

MAJOR.

The gold lettering had dulled with age.

He gave the wood two brisk raps. "Major. Someone for you."

"Come in."

The voice was deep and raspy.

The deputy opened the door.

Jasmine stepped inside—and stopped.

A large man stood at the window with his back to her. He was so broad across the shoulders he seemed to block the daylight altogether. Well over six feet, she guessed. His khaki uniform, crisp with starch, fit him perfectly, every seam precise.

Without turning, he said, "Sit down, Miss Fernández."

Jasmine obeyed. The chair felt harder than it looked.

Her gaze wandered around the office. No family photographs. No personal effects. Only a single abstract painting broke the room's severe simplicity. Almost unconsciously, she smoothed her skirt and tucked an errant curl behind her ear.

Just then he turned.

Her hand stilled.

His face was chiseled, deeply bronzed beneath sandy blond hair. Pale blue eyes, framed unexpectedly by thick black lashes, settled on her with quiet attention. Only his mouth softened what the rest of him insisted on keeping severe.

Jasmine lowered her gaze. She had the absurd feeling nothing about her had escaped him.

He crossed the room with unhurried confidence and took his seat behind the desk. Only then did he pick up his pen.

"You came here to report something."

"Yes."

"What happened?"

Jasmine drew a careful breath. "An assault."

The pen moved across the page.

"Start from the beginning, Miss Fernández."

"His name is Carl. I don't know his last name," she added quickly. "I can't prove anything. But he hurt me."

"When did this happen?"

"Two nights ago."

"Where?"

Her heart sank. She'd known that question was coming.

"A hotel."

"Which hotel?"

Oh, wonderful. She'd thought calling it a hotel would spare her the humiliation of saying what it really was. Instead she'd only made things worse. If she gave him the brothel's name, Carl would know someone had talked. Madame would know.

"I don't know."

The scratching of his pen stopped. Slowly, he looked up. "You don't know."

"It was dark." Irritation sharpened her voice. "I wasn't looking at the sign."

"You weren't paying attention."

"No." Her temper flared. "I was paying attention to the man who was about to—"

Her gaze dropped to her hands. His unwavering stare made her feel foolish and painfully small.

Just great. Perhaps next time she'd think before acting on impulse.

"Where did you go afterward?"

She almost jumped at the sound of his voice.

"A... a friend's house."

One fair eyebrow lifted. "A friend."

"Yes," she replied hesitantly, quite certain he must think her a simpleton by now. Oddly enough, she no longer cared.

He studied her in silence. The quiet lengthened until she found herself shifting beneath his gaze.

Then, almost gently, he asked, "Why are you really here?"

Her eyes lifted. "I told you. I want to report an assault."

"No."

The single word stopped her cold. "That's part of it. Not all of it."

Those intimidating eyes seemed to read her far too easily. Jasmine rose from the chair. "I should go."

She crossed to the door.

"Miss Fernández."

Her hand froze on the knob.

"If you want my help, I need a name."

Jasmine closed her eyes.

"I can't."

The major regarded her for a long moment before giving a slight shrug. "Then I can't help you."

Silence settled over the room. The clock on the wall ticked loudly.

She had a choice. Walk away and die in silence... or trust a complete stranger to fight for her. Bravery had never been one of her stronger qualities.

Perhaps she was making the biggest mistake of her life.

"...The Blue Parrot."

The major didn't look away.

"On Commerce Street."

He gave a curt nod. "Thank you."

Jasmine opened the door, pulled it quietly shut behind her, and walked past the men without meeting their eyes. By the time she boarded a taxi headed to the Blue Parrot, the major’s face was still lingering in her mind.

Why hadn't she seen him all this while? And why had he looked at her like that?

Men never looked at her quite the way he had. Most could scarcely conceal their fascination with her beauty. The major, however, had looked at her as though she were an inconvenience he needed out of his office.

And could she blame him?

She had behaved like an idiot.

The suit hadn't helped matters. She'd deliberately bought the most drab, unassuming suit she could find, hoping to blend into the crowd and keep Carl—or anyone else watching her—at a distance.

She glanced through the quarter glass, watching the streets pass by. A man crossing the road caught her attention, and for a second she could have sworn it was Carl.

She ducked her head on instinct, then remembered that Carl was rather stocky, nothing like the leaner man she'd glimpsed.

She chuckled softly at herself and sank more comfortably into the chair, though her heart still raced wildly.

"Stop running away with your thoughts," she murmured to herself. "Today was a success. You went unnoticed."

The familiar blue neon letters of the Blue Parrot soon came into view above the building. Even in daylight, they were impossible to miss.

Jasmine paid the driver when the taxi pulled over.

She had slipped out without telling a soul where she'd gone. Not even Lila or Mei.

Behind the hedges, she peered through the concrete breeze blocks. Mr. Buck, the head of security, stood beneath the front portico, guiding a Lincoln Continental onto the driveway, which was already crowded with Cadillacs, Mercedes, Buicks, and assorted sedans.

Quickly, she slipped past the wall and ran toward the side of the building.

The terrazzo staircase led directly up to the residential wing. It was an alternative to the main lobby, giving Jasmine the privacy she wanted. It allowed her to come and go without attracting attention, provided she was careful.

After midnight, however, the security men kept the glass door at the top locked. Anyone returning late had no choice but to use the main entrance.

She climbed the stairs quickly and walked into the corridor. Once at her door, she brought out her keys and unlocked it. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it for a moment, heaving a sigh of relief.

The coolness of the room welcomed her, along with the familiar scent of roses.

Her own little haven. Pink walls. Her canopy bed, its mattress very rumpled, with the nightgown she’d won last night lying carelessly across it. A white, intricately carved vanity, with an empty pizza box she’d left there since the night before. “Lovely,” she muttered, sighing as she flung her clutch onto the mattress.

Shoes came off next, followed by the suit, which she immediately dumped into the wastebasket.

Then she hurried into the bathroom, where she turned on the shower. By the time she emerged, she'd decided there was no point thinking about the afternoon anymore. She slipped into one of her more daring dresses, a gift from Emilio Pucci himself, the neckline low enough to leave little to the imagination. A moment later, she stood before the vanity and began running a brush through her hair.

She had just finished when a loud bang sounded against the door. Jasmine’s heart jumped.

Quickly, she shoved the empty pizza box into the wastebasket, covering the discarded clothes, then ran a hand through her hair and looked at herself in the mirror. Everything seemed in order.

She took a steadying breath and opened the door.

Madame stood there, scowling. The elegant black beret perched at one side of her head matched rather well with her tight-fitting Givenchy dress. The dress was exquisite, as all of Madame's clothes were, though it did little to flatter her rather portly stomach or narrow hips. Madame, however, had never been troubled by such details. As long as the clothes were of impeccable quality, the fitting hardly mattered.

"And what are you still doing in your room by this time, Jasmine?"

"I was down with a little fever, Madame," Jasmine replied, hoping her acting skills were good enough. "I thought I could sleep in a little."

"Huh."

The older woman looked her over critically before stepping inside. Jasmine's stomach tightened. Madame surveyed the room as though looking for signs that Jasmine was lying. She had always had a keen eye.

Jasmine tried not to look toward the wastebasket. For a moment, she was certain Madame would notice the tiny bit of navy peeking out. Instead, the older woman reached up and placed the back of her hand against Jasmine's neck.

"You look a little flustered, but otherwise perfectly healthy." Madame lowered her hand. "Why didn't you tell me you were feeling ill?"

"I didn't think it was anything serious."

"I certainly hope not. We can't have you walking around with a greenish pallor. Our gentlemen pay for a particular sort of beauty."

Jasmine managed a small smile. "I'm quite all right now."

"You'd better be. The gentleman waiting downstairs for you is a staggeringly wealthy man. He has hotels in five countries. Casinos. Political ambitions. The man is practically drowning in money." Madame gave her a pointed look. "Comport yourself like a woman worth twenty thousand dollars and more."

Jasmine nodded, wondering briefly if he'd been the owner of the sleek Lincoln Continental she'd glimpsed earlier.

Madame's expression softened, though only slightly. She reached into her reticule and brought out a delicate diamond necklace and matching earrings, then carefully looped the earrings onto Jasmine's ears.

This wasn't new to Jasmine. Madame was quite generous when it came to the dresses and shoes she earned, but she never gave her jewelry. Those were lent to her for particular jobs and returned afterward.

"And what have I always told you?" Madame asked from behind her, fastening the glittering necklace at Jasmine's throat.

Jasmine sighed. "Never tell anyone your real name."

"Good," Madame murmured.

Jasmine continued, almost automatically. "Listen, but don't commit yourself to private conversation."

When she finished, Madame stepped back and surveyed her with a satisfied look.

"You are the prize, girl. The less a gentleman knows about you, the more he wants to know. And how much he pays you depends on how mysterious you can remain."

Jasmine nodded again.

"Now, you can't loll around here all day," Madame added. "We've customers waiting."

"Of course, Madame."

Madame gave her another assessing look before turning toward the door.

"And don't take too long."

She disappeared into the corridor.

Jasmine waited until the sound of her footsteps had faded before letting out another sigh.

She hurriedly slipped on her red stilettos and applied a rather generous amount of scarlet lipstick. She studied herself in the mirror for a moment, wondering if the red dress made her look a little too red.

"Come on, girl! We ain't got all day!" Madame's voice carried down the corridor.

Jasmine nearly jumped out of her skin. With a small groan, she picked up her purse.

"Coming!"

She opened the door and fell in behind her.