Blue Fire

"Do you really want David?"

Jasmine's eyes widened. Her hands instinctively fluttered to the collar of her blouse.

"I... what?"

"David." He grimaced. "You spend the day with him. You laugh with him. Do you want him?"

Her chin came up. How dare he stand there and question her relationship with his friend!

And then suddenly she was calm beneath the darkening sky, a strange rush of joy breaking through the anger beneath it. He was jealous. Rudolph was jealous of David.

"David is handsome," she said, her voice steady even as her fingers twisted in the fabric of her shirt. "He's caring. He's very kind to me." She paused, letting the words sink. "What's not to want?"

Rudolph's jaw flexed. "He isn't the man for you, Jasmine."

"Oh?" Her voice was soft now. Quietly dangerous.

She took one slow step toward him.

"And you are?"

Rudolph didn't answer. He couldn't. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

When Jasmine met his gaze, she didn't see the cold Major; she saw a man keeping himself in check, desire fighting with a trace of doubt.

"He can't—" Rudolph's shoulders slumped. "He can't give you what you need."

Jasmine's eyes flashed with a sudden, hot anger. "You told me yourself he knows how to love a woman like me. Without breaking her." Was it a lie? Please, tell me it was a lie.

"Was that a lie, Rudolph?"

Rudolph swore under his breath. "You're right. I did say that."

He stepped closer, so close she had to tilt her head back.

"But tell me something, Jasmine."

She waited, her breath loud in her own ears. She prayed he couldn't hear it.

"Do you want him the way you want me?"

* * *

Chapter One

"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. Heat shimmered above the pavement. Sweat gathered at her temples, dampening the dark 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 such as those 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.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

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. "Take a seat. Someone will be with you."

Jasmine 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 down a long corridor 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, distracted.

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—not the loose thread at her hem, nor the curl that refused to stay pinned back.

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."

As she spoke, the stubborn curl slipped free again, brushing her cheek. She pushed it back impatiently. It fell forward at once.

The major watched the small gesture without comment.

"When did this happen?"

"Two nights ago."

"Where?"

"A hotel."

"Which hotel?"

She hesitated. "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—"

The words caught in her throat.

Her gaze dropped to her hands.

The major waited.

"Where did you go afterward?"

"A friend's house."

One fair eyebrow lifted.

"A friend."

"Yes."

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. If Madame found out—

"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 softly.

Jasmine's fingers curled around the doorknob until her knuckles ached.

At last she spoke, her voice scarcely above a whisper. "The Blue Parrot."

The major didn't look away.

"On Commerce Street."

Only then did he give a curt nod.

"Thank you."

Jasmine opened the door.

She stepped into the corridor and pulled it quietly shut behind her, leaving before she could lose her nerve.

Rudolph remained seated, staring at the door after she left.

Joy by Jean Patou. The faint scent still lingered in the air. Expensive perfume. Didn't match the cheap suit.

His gaze dropped to the file on his desk. She didn't strike him as a tramp.

The Blue Parrot was a well-established brothel, according to his men. So why hadn't he seen her before?

There was something about the way she talked—that soft accent that made her words feel almost intimate.

"You're nuts," he muttered to himself.

Even so. He couldn't shake the terror he'd seen in those sapphire-blue eyes.

He'd felt the urge to comfort her. He grimaced. Thank God he'd kept his distance.

One thing was sure: Miss Fernández was hiding something.

He picked up his pen and underlined THE BLUE PARROT.

His coffee sat forgotten near the corner of the desk.

He took a sip. Cold. He drank it anyway.