Enter Jared Cabral. He’d been eighteen when his father died. The kid had no experience with nightclubs, let alone strip clubs and their special problems. Never mind. The apple certainly didn’t fall too far from the tree. Jared stepped in and stepped up.
The kid took a year or so to acquaint himself with his inheritance. The dark, dank clubs that reeked of stale cigarette smoke and featured strippers well past their prime required major changes. He got rid of the “topless” signs and flashing neon lights. He remodeled the clubs, giving them a hip look, which included wallpapering the restrooms with Trojan Magnum XL wrappers. He also brought in younger “exotic dancers” who exuded a carnal energy that mesmerized men. The clubs boomed and you could almost hear the old man applauding from the grave.
The changes brought in a new, younger clientele who were willing to spend more money for call liquor and trendy drinks like Pimp Juice. They were also heavy tippers that kept the exotic dancers thrilled with their take home money. No doubt drugs thrived around Cabral’s clubs, but all the drug deals seemed to be conducted in the parking lot. The police had never been able to implicate Jared Cabral.
Saffron Blue was known for its back room, where it was rumored a high-stakes poker game went on every night. Acting on tips, the police raided the room a few times and found the players were betting toothpicks. Adam didn’t think it was worth the effort. There was enough crime in San Diego without trying to trap men gambling illegally, especially with all the legal gambling going on in the Indian casinos in the area.
From a homicide case he’d investigated years ago, Adam knew Jared Cabral arrived shortly after the club opened and stayed until it closed. According to his calculations, Cabral should be arriving shortly. Adam leaned back in the silver Lexus that had belonged to his uncle. He’d taken it from the garage even though it was part of the estate and still in probate.
His mind strayed to last night. Whitney came damn near being killed because of her cousin. Adam suspected the answer could be found here. Miranda had to have run through the insurance money and needed the cash stripping generated. She’d met someone or had seen something and become a liability.
Adam didn’t want Whitney to suffer for her cousin’s mistakes. She’d been through enough, he decided. A devastating divorce. Then the airhead second wife comes up with a crazy scheme to snatch the dog Whitney was crazy about.
A twinge of guilt hit him. He really should have told Whitney who had been responsible for Lexi’s disappearance. Then he assured himself that Whitney had too much on her mind to bother her with one more thing. Anyway, it was in the past, and it was the least of her problems.
He remembered the way Whitney had acted last night. She’d willingly come into his arms and allowed him to comfort her. His entire body had been tense with the urge to take her to his bed, but he knew better. She’d been too shell-shocked by the fire to know what she was doing.
Did he know what he was doing?
Adam had to be honest with himself. He wasn’t positive about anything the way he’d been before Iraq. He’d told himself to steer clear of Whitney until he was sure she was no longer entangled with her ex. Aw, hell. That was going to be damn near impossible with her living in the maid’s quarters.
How did he plan to go to bed when she was sleeping so close? Last night, he’d lain awake, imagining her naked. Her warm body and soft breasts were in his favorite T-shirt.
He sucked in air between clenched teeth. Admit it, buddy. You’re in real trouble here. How can you live in the same house and not touch her?
He ached to turn back the clock to last night. He would have hotfooted it down to the maid’s room. Peeling his well-worn T-shirt off Whitney would have revealed creamy smooth skin and full breasts. Just the thought of her naked bod sent heat through his groin.
He could almost feel Whitney pressing against him. Her warm body molding itself to his. Almost. He stopped himself. He needed to be in detective mode right now. What was the first thing drilled into raw police recruits? Detach emotionally.
Cabral whirled into the nearly empty lot in a lipstick-red Ferrari with vanity plates that read: CABRAL1. He parked in a reserved space near the entrance, then opened the door of the sports car and unwound himself from behind the wheel. Adam had to look twice to make sure the guy was Jared Cabral.
Since Adam had last seen Cabral, the man had changed his hair. He was now wearing it in a spiked mullet that added four inches to his tall, lean frame. Gone were the jeans and polo shirt that Adam remembered, replaced by camouflage pants and jacket. The number wasn’t a damn thing like what they’d worn in Iraq. This outfit was some idiot designer’s idea of desert chic.
Adam gave Cabral time to walk inside and across the lounge area to his office at the rear of the club. It was too early for the bouncer to be guarding the entrance. Adam entered and paused for a moment to allow his eyes time to adjust. It was dark inside Saffron Blue, but it wasn’t the kind of oppressive darkness Adam once associated with strip clubs. Saffron Blue was upscale all the way.
The leather banquettes surrounding the U-shaped bar were a shade lighter than the indigo-blue walls. Off to the sides of the room were alcoves with sofas and comfy chairs. Down lighting and lamps no bigger than his thumb cast a mellow glow across the room and reflected off the chrome trimming the bar and chair legs.
A waitress in a leopard-print thong and a matching something that might pass for a bra bounced up to him. Her boobs didn’t look like original equipment, but hey, who was he to criticize?
“What can I get you, hon?”
“Nothing. I’m here to see Jared.”
A mouth coated with lipstick applied with a painter’s brush formed an O. “Who shall I-”
“Don’t bother. I know my way to his office.” Adam took off across the club and noticed a surprising number of men were there despite the early hour. An exotic dancer was strutting up and down the top of the bar, jiggling her melon-sized boobs and smiling as if she’d just won the lottery.
The door to Cabral’s office was open. Adam paused, seeing Cabral seated inside, and knocked on the door.
“Wazzup?” Cabral asked. “Hunter. Adam Hunter, right?”
Adam nodded as he walked in. Cabral didn’t look the least bit wary or even surprised. Give the guy credit, he thought. It had been over three years since he’d questioned Cabral about a man who’d visited his club and was later shot to death outside his home. Thousands of men had passed through Cabral’s clubs during that time.
Adam stopped in front of Cabral’s desk. “Good memory, Cabral. How are things going?”
“Can’t complain.” He gestured toward a tall bottle of liquor on his desk. “Trying to decide if my bars should stock 10 Cane Rum. It’s made from the first press of virgin sugarcane from Trinidad.”
“I never got the virgin bit. Virgin olive oil. Extra virgin olive oil. Now virgin sugarcane.”
Cabral’s laugh broke free as if it had been chained down for years. “That’s what I liked about you. A sense of humor. Last I heard you were in Iraq and nearly bit the big weenie.”
Again, Adam was surprised, but he shouldn’t have been. With his wide blue eyes and ready smile, Jared Cabral seemed innocent. Far from it. He was a savvy businessman who played all the angles.
“Sit, sit.” Cabral gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “I didn’t mean to make a joke out of it. One of my buddies from high school bought it when an I.E.D. blew up the truck he was in.”
Adam sat in the chair. He didn’t want to discuss death, not after last night. “How’s business?”
“Couldn’t be better. We have our own Web site. We’re CampTempTation on MySpace and other sites. Brings in more new customers than my father ever could have imagined. It’s the Internet age, but nothing can replace real tits and ass.”