What to do? What to do? She was losing it.

On the vanity counter, her cell phone pinged, announcing the arrival of a text message. She gazed at the device a moment, then reached for it. Hands shaking, she retrieved the message.

i miss u

pls dont b mad

He didn’t identify himself; he didn’t have to.

Riley.

Yvette reread the message, heart beating heavily. It seemed forever since she’d stormed out of Tipitina’s, pride wounded and heart broken.

In light of today’s news, her actions seemed childish and melodramatic. She wished she could take them back. Wished she could rewind to last Thursday night and stand up to June Benson.

Stand up for herself. Her feelings.

Maybe she could do it now?

She hit reply and typed:

i miss u 2

Holding her breath, she sent it. A moment later, her phone pinged. He’d responded! She eagerly read:

meet me tnite moonwlk

She wanted to, badly. To tell him how she felt, what his sister had done. How it had hurt. And ask if they still had a chance.

And she wanted to do it without a chaperone. How could she get rid of Stacy?

If you need anything, let me know.

She needed something, all right. Quickly, she typed a reply.

when

He answered almost instantaneously:

now

Smiling to herself, she typed:

ok wait 4 me

Yvette knew she had to come up with something urgent enough to propel Stacy from her post. Something that couldn’t be put off or ordered in.

She mentally thumbed though her choices: food, drink, reading material. Then she knew. Something every woman understood.

Smiling to herself, she got to her feet, went to the vanity cabinet. From it she retrieved an almost full box of tampons. She dug some tissues out of the waste basket, dumped the box’s contents in, then covered it with the used tissues.

Box in hand, she went to the bathroom door, peeked out. From where she stood, she had a straight view into the living room. The detective sat on the couch, reading a magazine.

“Stacy?”

The woman looked over at her. It occurred to Yvette that Stacy’s expression seemed off; she ignored the thought and moved her plan forward.

“I’ve got a problem.” She held up the empty box. “I just started.”

“You don’t have any?”

She shook her head. “There’s a drugstore up the block and around the corner. Royal Pharmacy.”

“Does the store deliver?”

“Not that I know of.” Yvette mustered what she hoped was distress. “I flow kind of…It’s going to get messy fast.”

Stacy made a face and stood. “Where’s the store?”

“Up one block, take a left. It’s right there.”

“Dead-bolt and security chain the door. Don’t open for anyone. Anyone. Got that?”

Yvette nodded and scurried out of the bathroom, joining the other woman at the door. “And Stacy?” When the woman looked back at her she sent her a weak smile. “Thanks.”

The moment she had closed and locked the door, she raced back to the bathroom. She rinsed her face again, ran a brush through her hair, then applied mascara, blush and lip gloss.

Snatching up her purse, she tiptoed to the door and peered out the peephole. The coast looked clear and she carefully eased the door open, half expecting the other woman to jump out with an “Aha!”

She didn’t. Nor was she anywhere in sight.

Yvette slipped out, locking the door behind her. Not glancing back, she hurried to meet Riley.

The Moon Walk was a scenic boardwalk along the Mississippi River, across from Jackson Square. Just steps from the water, it had been named for Mayor “Moon” Landrieu.

Yvette dropped a dollar in a street musician’s hat; he acknowledged without missing a note of “Blue Moon.” He wasn’t very good, but she figured he had to make a living-and the living for French Quarter street performers had been lean since Katrina.

She hurried up the ramp that led to the observation deck and promenade. She saw him right away, pacing, expression distraught.

“Riley!”

He stopped and turned, broke into a broad smile and strode to her. He caught her hands. “You came. I’d begun to lose hope.”

“I said I’d be here.”

He searched her gaze. “Since the other night, I’ve been by your apartment several times. You never answered your bell.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

“Figured you wouldn’t answer.” He tightened his fingers on hers. “June told me what she said to you. That’s not what I’m about, Yvette. I promise.”

“What she said really hurt.”

“She’s overprotective.”

Yvette firmed her resolve to stick up for herself. “What she said was just plain mean. She judged me without knowing anything about me.”

“She’s just crazy sometimes. Don’t hold it against me. Please?”

He tightened his hands on hers. “I like you, Yvette. And it doesn’t matter to me what you do for a living. No, that’s wrong. It does, but I still want to be with you. Whether you’re a waitress or a stripper doesn’t change that fact.”

She gazed at him. Could it be? Was he simply accepting what she did as a fact of her life? Neither condemning her stripping nor turned on by it?

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“That you’re too good to be true.”

“I’m not.” He drew her against his chest. “I’m real. And I’m here.”

She stood on tiptoes, lifting her face to his. “So am I,” she whispered.

He kissed her. Once, then again and again. Deep, drugging kisses. Ones that left her wanting him naked. Wanting her naked against him.

“Get a room, why don’tcha?”

That came along with snickers from a group of teenagers. Riley pulled away, faced flushed and out of breath. “Do you trust me?”

“Trust you? Why-”

“I want to show you something.”

“What?”

“It’ll ruin the surprise.”

“Where?”

“Not far.”

When she hesitated, he held out his hand. “Do you trust me?” he asked again.

Did she? With everything going on, she shouldn’t. After all, what did she really know about Riley Benson?

She shouldn’t, but she did. She prayed she wasn’t making another mistake. That she wouldn’t have her heart broken again.

She laid her hand in his. “Yes,” she said simply. “I trust you.”

56

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

9:45 p.m.

Stacy paced. The lying little sneak had conned her. And she had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. She wasn’t certain whether she was more pissed off or embarrassed.

She’d had to call Patti and tell her she’d been duped. By now, the rest of the team knew. By morning most of the department would be in on the joke-the one played on her.

She had to admit a bit of grudging respect for the woman. She’d come up with the one thing that would propel her to leave Yvette unsupervised. For twelve minutes. Twelve stinking minutes.

She’d gotten back and Yvette had been gone. She would have worried she’d been snatched by the Handyman, but while searching for her keys, Nancy had popped her head out and informed her she had seen Yvette leave-alone and smiling.

Stacy bet she had been smiling. Congratulating herself on outsmarting her archenemy, the hapless Detective Killian. Never mind that the archenemy was around to protect her from a madman.

How could such a bright girl be so stupid?

All this to meet a guy. Stacy had come to that conclusion after performing a quick search of the apartment. It didn’t appear Yvette had taken anything but her purse, and she had left makeup strewn on the vanity counter.

Patti hadn’t bought “the guy” angle. She feared that Yvette had decided to cut and run. And that on her own, Yvette would be an easy target.

The captain had sentenced Stacy to “stay put.” She needed Stacy at the apartment in case Yvette returned or the Artist showed. So here she was, pacing and stewing, while the rest of the team actively searched for the dancer.