Hell on Heels

“So, there’s nothing popping?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Anyone else around?”

“James and Brian are playing cards and keeping me company, bitching about the slow night.”

“Thanks, Monica, I’ll check in sometime Monday.” Chantal ended the call as the valet arrived with her car.

As she drove away from the hotel she contemplated her options. She could go straight home and get out of the sinfully short, clingy, red Valentino dress and the Gucci heels that made her long legs looks sexy but pinched like hell, or she could swing by Ruby’s and see if Wesley Baker was as dumb as his rap sheet implied.

She decided on the latter. She headed toward the west side of town where Ruby’s was located. As she drove, her thoughts were scattered, shooting first in one direction, then another.

For the last eight months she’d been living a lifestyle that would please a schizophrenic. Her life as Chantal Worthington revolved around fundraisers and parties, lunch dates and social events.

When she wasn’t being socialite Chantal, she was working hard at being Carol Worth, bounty hunter. From the moment Big Joey had hired her she decided the smartest thing to do was keep the two lives as separate as possible.

She was wise enough to understand reverse snobbery, that the men she worked with at Big Joey’s wouldn’t trust her, wouldn’t respect her if they knew where she came from and what her bank account contained. As it was, even after several decent collars she didn’t feel as if she’d gained the respect of her coworkers at Big Joey’s.

As a bounty hunter she used the name Carol Worth and worked from a post-office box. Only Big Joey knew that in reality she was heir to Worthington Boat Industries and worth a small fortune.

Ruby’s was a hole in the wall, a bar that catered to a leather-and-Harley clientele. Chantal parked across the street, shut off her engine and rolled down her car window.

You could always tell how business was at Ruby’s by the number of motorcycles parked out front. Tonight there was an even dozen, all chromed and shiny in the illumination from a nearby streetlight.

For the last four nights Chantal had been watching Ruby’s, waiting for one Wesley Baker to show up. Baker’s latest crime, an attempted robbery using a Slim Jim beef stick as a pretend gun in his pocket had gone bad when the convenience-store clerk had pulled a very real gun on him.

Baker had no known address, unless you counted Ruby’s, where on most nights before his arrest he could be found. He’d missed his court date a week ago and Chantal had a feeling it was just a matter of time before he showed up back here.

It was a funny thing about criminals…most of them were stupid.

Closing time was two and she settled back in her car seat to wait and watch. As always, a small kick of adrenaline filled her as she anticipated catching her quarry. The burst of adrenaline was as addictive as Godiva chocolate.

It had been her personal assistant, Harrah, who had gotten her into the bounty-hunting business. Harrah was a struggling jewelry designer who had come to work for Chantal a year ago as a stepping stone into the society she hoped to cultivate as clients.

Harrah had come up by way of the school of hard knocks. One of four children raised by an alcoholic mother and an absentee father, Harrah had big dreams and a willingness to work for success.

One day while she and Chantal were working together, Harrah confessed that her brother, Jimmy, had a court date in two days and had disappeared.

Harrah had gone through Big Joey’s Bail Bonds to secure her brother’s bond and was scared to death he didn’t intend to show at court and Big Joey would come looking for her.

On a lark, Chantal told Harrah not to worry, that she’d help her find her errant brother. For the next forty-eight hours Chantal and Harrah had pounded pavement, knocked on doors, and had finally located Jimmy two hours before court time.

It had taken every minute to talk him through his fear and convince him that it was in his best interest to show up and take his punishment.

In those forty-eight hours, a couple things happened that had changed Chantal’s life. She’d met Big Joey and she’d realized she loved the hunt.

Harrah’s brother had gone to prison to serve a three-year sentence on drug charges and Big Joey’s Bail Bonds had hired Chantal as a bail-enforcement agent.

She sat up straighter as she saw a tall young man approaching the bar. Despite the heat of the night he wore a jacket, the collar pulled up as if to hide his facial features from view. Dark hair, a lanky build and suspicious clothing. She had a feeling it was her man.

Adrenaline once again twisted in her gut as she grabbed her purse from the seat next to her. She peeked inside, making sure she had both her handcuffs and her pistol.

Even though she’d been watching Ruby’s for the past four nights, she’d never ventured inside. It definitely wasn’t the kind of place she’d choose for a night out.

As she got out of her car she wished she were wearing black leather instead of Valentino. She had a feeling she was going to stick out like a bad cubic zirconia among a scatter of Harry Winston diamonds.

She approached the entrance, her heels clicking against the pavement that still radiated the heat from the day. Raucous music and laughter poured from the opened doorway. She began her mantra.

“Prada handbags…sunny days…lunch with Mom…Chloe jeans.”

Whenever she was going into what might be a dangerous situation her habit was to list in her head all of her favorite things. That way she figured if something went wrong and she was killed, the last thing her mind would remember was something she loved.

“Facials at Mimi’s…sad movies…slumber parties with Belinda…” She stopped as she walked through the front door of Ruby’s.

The smoke was as thick as socialites at a Versace sale. The bar was to her left, a long expanse of scarred wood holding up a handful of drunken men and women. To her right were the biggest, meanest men she’d ever seen playing at two pool tables.

She scanned the people inside and spied Wesley Baker at the far end of the bar. He’d removed his jacket and looked at ease as he nursed a beer.

As she moved toward the empty stool next to him, she consciously made no eye contact with anyone. She didn’t want trouble. She just wanted to get Baker outside and into handcuffs.

“Hey, baby, slumming tonight?” a deep voice said from behind her.

“Get lost on the way to the prom?” a woman laughed.

Chantal ignored them and wove her way toward the empty stool, walking as if she was lit like a Christmas tree. She sat on the stool and slumped forward, elbows on the bar. “I think I’m lost,” she slurred. She offered Wesley a loopy, but friendly grin.

She knew from all the information she’d gathered on him that Baker considered himself a real ladies’ man. Maybe in a worm colony, she thought.

“Where are you supposed to be?” Wesley asked, then raised a finger for the bartender.

Chantal giggled. “I can’t remember the address. Maybe a little drink will help.” She grinned at the bartender, a bear of a man sporting more tattoos than hair. “How about a little top-shelf Scotch on the rocks?” She turned to look at Wesley, who had a cheap beer in front of him. “How about a Scotch on me?”

“Now you’re talking.” He shoved the beer aside as the bartender poured the two Scotches.

For the next few minutes Chantal small-talked with Wesley, who proved to be as charming as a Brazilian wax. Although anyone seeing the two of them interacting would assume her attention was focused solely on Baker, she was conscious of everything going on in the bar around them.

She needed to get Baker outside. There were too many men in the bar who looked as though they walked on the wrong side of the law, and if she tried to take him down inside she had a feeling she’d wind up wearing her own handcuffs, or worse.

She wasn’t just worried about the men she could see, but there were others hanging out in the hallway near the bathrooms and in the poolroom. Chantal didn’t mind taking risks, but she wasn’t suicidal.

“I just remembered where I’m supposed to be,” she said, after taking only two tiny sips of her drink. “At the Radisson Hotel.”

“Sweetcakes, you’re about two freeway exits off. You need to get back up on the interstate and take the Broadway exit.”

“Is that left or right?”

He stared at her blankly. “Where are you parked?”