AGAINST THE NIGHT.

Kat Martin.

To all my Rock Creek pals. You guys are the best! Thanks for the fun times!.

One.

Johnnie Riggs was a night owl. Tonight he sat at a table at the Kitty Cat Club on Sunset Boulevard, watching a little blonde pole dancer with the hottest body he'd ever seen and trying like h.e.l.l not to get an erection.

He reached for the Bud Light sitting in front of him, took a swallow and set the barely touched bottle back down on the table. He wasn't there to get drunk. He wasn't there to get turned on by some s.e.xy little piece of fluff.

He was there to make a collar and a nice chunk of change.

A former Army Ranger with a P.I.'s license, Johnnie spent most of his time in the bars and clubs of Los Angeles, digging up information for clients who could afford his fees. And the occasional recovery job, if the money was high enough.

He glanced around the club, one of the better run strip joints in the area, a place an out-of-town businessman could go for a little harmless fun and not feel like he was about to get mugged when he walked outside to catch a cab.

Johnnie knew the owner, a guy named Tate Watters, a reasonable sort who ran a clean operation. Tate knew Johnnie was there to collect a skip, but Tate was a stand-up guy who did his best to stay on the right side of the law, and having a pervert around-Johnnie's target-wasn't good for business.

It was dark inside the club except for the neon beer signs behind the bar and the soft glow of lights over gilt-framed photos of nineteen-fifties strippers that hung on the walls. A row of colored spotlights lit the woman performing onstage.

The place smelled like stale beer and cheap perfume, and rock music hid the sound of clinking bar gla.s.ses and the heavy breathing of the men. Customers sat in the darkness at small round tables sipping whiskey or beer, staring toward the entertainment with big smiles on their faces.

Johnnie didn't blame them. He'd be wearing a big smile, too, along with a raging hard-on if he wasn't there on business.

He watched the woman on the stage. She was twenty-five or -six, a pretty little exotic dancer wearing nothing but red sequined pasties and a matching G-string. She wasn't just pet.i.te, she was dainty, little more than five feet tall, with the shiniest, straightest, long blond hair he'd ever seen. Short bangs fluttered across her forehead above a pair of blue eyes that made him shift in his seat against his growing arousal, and muttering a curse between his teeth.

The music played, the beat steady, loud and erotic. She raised a red spike heel, wrapped her calf around the pole and slid up, then sank back down, rubbing the pole between her pale, perfectly proportioned legs. He felt a tug in his gut so strong he had to shove back his chair and get up from the table. Grabbing his beer bottle, he walked to the back of the club where he could survey the room and put a little more distance between him and the scrumptious piece of a.s.s on the stage.

He scanned the patrons, keeping a careful watch for his target.

Earlier in the week, he'd gotten a call from his Ranger buddy in Houston. Trace Rawlins owned a security firm with branches in Houston and Dallas. In the years since they'd left the army, they had worked together a dozen times, most recently on an abduction case that had led them into Mexico.

According to Trace, a guy named Ray Carroll had jumped bail and was on the run. Rumor was he had friends in L.A. and odds were good that was where he had gone to ground. Good ol' Ray had been arrested for possession and trafficking in child p.o.r.nography-the lowest of the low as far as Johnnie was concerned. He would have taken the guy down for free if he'd had to, which fortunately he didn't.

The case was interesting because Ray was the grandson of the late Texas oil billionaire, C. P. Carroll. C.P.'s widow was filthy rich and she doted on her grandson, which, with that kind of money at his disposal, made Ray a flight risk. His bail had been set at a half-million dollars, which his grandmother had posted.

But Ray had taken off for parts unknown, leaving grandma on the hook for a boatload of money if her boy wasn't caught and brought back to appear in court. For ten percent of the bail fee, a cool fifty thou less a referral fee to Trace, Johnnie had agreed to find him. Surprisingly, once he'd started digging, narrowing his search hadn't been all that hard.

Since leopards didn't change their spots and jackals like Ray were fairly predictable, it didn't take long to find out that Carroll hung out in the local strip clubs.

The Kitty Cat was his favorite. According to the bartender who ID'd the photo Johnnie had shown him, a guy calling himself Ray Conners had been in the club both Wednesday and Thursday nights. Johnnie had come in on Friday and again tonight but so far hadn't seen any sign of him. Not until now.

The black padded vinyl front door swung open, letting a thin slice of street noise into the club. Recalling the photo, Johnnie recognized Ray Carroll as he ambled over to the bar. He was an average-looking forty-year-old, with thinning brown hair and the kind of greasy smile you'd expect to see on a creep like him. He sat down on one of the black vinyl bar stools, and the bartender, a tall, spare, good-looking Hispanic guy named Dante, flashed Johnnie a heads-up glance before taking Ray's drink order, a double Grey Goose martini on the rocks.

A c.o.c.ktail waitress walked past. The girls who performed also served drinks, though for that they wore a few more clothes. This one, a brunette, was tall and svelte, dressed in a little blue satin two-piece number, the bottom cut high on the sides, a built-in push-up bra shoving her heavy cleavage nearly over the top. Not indecent, but definitely less than the old bunny outfits they wore at the Playboy Club.

Johnnie sipped his beer, his attention fixed on Ray, who stared with fascination toward the stage. The dancer, Angel Fontaine, being not much bigger than a kid, was Ray's favorite according to Dante. He watched as she dipped and swayed to the music, the red sequins on her nipples flashing in the spotlight, the light changing color to the rhythm of the music.

Johnnie tried to look away, but found himself as mesmerized as the drunks at the tables. Like the rest of her body, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were perfectly formed, not too large, not too small and tilted provocatively upward.

Her face wasn't perfect, he had finally gotten around to noticing. Her mouth was a little too wide, making her pouty lips a little too p.r.o.nounced. Her cheeks were as flawless as rose petals but her chin was a little too pointy.

She was the s.e.xiest woman Johnnie had ever seen.

She turned, thrust her pale, luscious a.s.s into the air and wiggled it suggestively, and his groin tightened. If he didn't make his move soon, he wouldn't be able to walk, let alone make a collar.

Ray came off his stool just then and started toward the stage. Johnnie noticed the folded dollar bills in one hand as he approached the little blonde.

Another man beat Ray to her, leaning over and stuffing a ten-dollar bill into Angel's sequined G-string, the sc.r.a.p of red barely covering the spot every guy in the place dreamed of touching. Angel whirled away from him and smiled, mouthing a thank-you. When she turned her back, raised her arms above her head and began swaying to the hard rock beat, another man stuffed a bill into the glittering strip of red around her waist above that sweet little a.s.s.

Ray moved closer, hovering as Angel approached the edge of the stage. He leaned toward her, stuffed the money into her G-string. He was grinning when he turned away, his mind on p.u.s.s.y instead of escape.

Johnnie made his move, slamming into Carroll, knocking him over an empty table, both of them crashing to the floor. Ray struggled as Johnnie caught his arm, cranked it behind his back, lifted and hauled him to his feet. Johnnie caught sight of the club's big Asian bouncer moving toward them, but he didn't seem to be in much of a hurry. Guess he'd got word about the pervert, too.

Carroll squirmed in his grasp. "What the f.u.c.k? Who the h.e.l.l are you?"

"I'm your worst nightmare," Johnnie said, cranking the arm a little higher, eliciting a satisfying grunt of pain. "I'm the guy who's gonna make sure you get back to Houston safe and sound." Ray stumbled a couple of times as Johnnie's heavy frame propelled him forward, slamming him into the wall beside the door. "I'm the guy who's gonna put your sorry, sick a.s.s back in jail."

The moment the song ended and she stepped down from the stage, Amy started to tremble. Angel, she reminded herself. Angel, not Amy.

"You okay?" Her roommate walked toward her, Babs McClure, Sugar Babs, she used as her stage name. She was five foot seven with a curvy figure and chin-length dark brown hair she sometimes covered with a hot-pink wig.

Amy managed to nod. "I will be in a minute." It was one thing to be out there beneath the spotlights, dancing almost naked as Angel Fontaine, another entirely to be just a normal woman again. Onstage, she could fool herself into thinking she was Angel, a woman who enjoyed every catcall, every wolf whistle from the men she danced in front of without her clothes. An illusion she worked tirelessly to achieve.

But it didn't last long once she stepped out of the spotlight.

"That was quite a scene." Babs c.o.c.ked her head toward the side door where the brawny, dark-haired man had just hauled a sc.u.mmy-looking customer out of the club.

Amy followed Babs's gaze. As if she hadn't noticed the brawl just a few feet in front of the stage.

"Dante says the creep that guy busted is into kiddie p.o.r.n."

Amy shuddered. "He certainly looks the part." She crossed the backstage area and started up the stairs leading to the studio apartment she and Babs shared above the club. "So I guess the other guy is a cop or something."

"Or something." Babs fell into step beside her, pulled off her pink wig and ranked a hand through her dark hair. "He was in here last night, too."

"I saw him."

Babs grinned. "Hard to miss a guy who looks like that."

Amy grinned back. "No kidding." Six feet of solid muscle, barrel-chested with a thick neck and shoulders. As he'd walked-more like swaggered-toward the stage, she'd noticed a tattoo of an eagle on his very impressive biceps. Every move he made spoke of power and strength, and in a rugged, masculine way, he was handsome.

"I asked Tate about him," Babs said. "Says his name is John Riggs. He's an ex-Army Ranger. Does P.I. work and pretty much anything else he can make a buck at." Babs rolled her eyes. "What a hunk."

Just hearing the words brought his image to mind: dark brown hair and eyes such a deep brown they looked black, strong jaw roughened by the shadow of a beard. He was the kind of guy who should have Dangerous stamped on his forehead.

Amy's mind slipped back to her performance onstage and the way he had looked at her, his eyes following her every move. She had never felt a gaze so intense.

It was late, nearly closing. Amy blew out a breath, suddenly exhausted.

"You look like you could use a cup of coffee," Babs said as they reached the small apartment they shared and Amy unlocked the door. There were other small apartments down the hall, cheap places for the girls to live. "I put on a fresh pot before I went downstairs."

"Sounds good." The rich aroma filled the room as she stepped inside. She and Babs hadn't known each other long yet Babs watched out for her. She was Amy's only confidante, the only person who knew the truth, knew she wasn't really an exotic dancer, had never done anything in her entire life remotely as wild as what she was doing now.

She wasn't a stripper, a pole dancer, a lap dancer or anything the least bit similar. She was a schoolteacher from Michigan, a woman who had absolutely no business being naked up onstage.

They crossed the studio apartment: two single beds, a kitchenette, and a small living area with a sofa and chair. Babs went to the kitchen counter and took down two mugs, pouring coffee into each one. Amy grabbed her robe from the hook beside the door, slipped it on and breathed a sigh of relief once she was more decently covered. Babs was still wearing her dark blue satin c.o.c.ktail waitress costume, s.e.xy but no worse than the bikinis women wore on the beach.

She took the mug Babs held out to her and they carried them over to the tiny round table in the corner.

"So what about the hunk?" Babs asked, watching her over the rim of her cup.

Amy's blond brows went up. "What about him?"

"He was certainly giving you the eye."

Amy just shrugged. "When you're up there naked, they all give you the eye."

"This was different-and don't tell me you didn't notice."

Oh, she'd noticed all right. She could feel the heat in those dark eyes all the way across the room. It was what that hot look did to her that was startling. The Kitty Cat Club was filled with men every night. None of them made her stomach flip the way a single look from John Riggs had. Two nights in a row, he'd sat in the shadows watching, his fierce gaze singularly focused on her. At the same time he seemed aware of every other person in the room.

"He got his man tonight." Amy sighed. "We won't be seeing him again."

Babs sipped her coffee. "Wanna bet?"

Amy glanced up. "You don't think he'll come back because of me?"

"I've been doing this for almost three years, hon. One thing you learn to recognize is when a man is interested. And let me tell you, honey, John Riggs has a major interest in you."

Her stomach contracted. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the heat in those dark eyes burning into her. "You're crazy. He was here on business, that's all."

"Five bucks?"

Amy laughed. "You're on."

Two.

The club was closed on Sunday, and John Riggs wasn't there the next night. As Amy finished her first dance set Tuesday evening, she felt oddly disappointed. She told herself it was just that she had been thinking she might ask him for help. He was a private investigator, after all-or something close to that-and he had been an Army Ranger. They were tough guys, she knew, and even if she hadn't read about them, one look at that hard jaw and powerful body would have made that clear.

But he didn't come back and the truth was she didn't have enough money to hire him if he had. She loved teaching, but it didn't pay that much to start with and she wasn't a very good saver. Seemed like there was always something she needed for the kids in her cla.s.s, and everything else went to rent and bills.

Amy thought of the weeks before her arrival in L.A. Back home in Michigan, the children at Grand Rapids Elementary School had been ready for summer vacation. Amy was packed to leave the afternoon of the last day of school. As soon as she had seen the final child safely out of her kindergarten cla.s.sroom, she had headed for the airport to catch her flight to L.A. From the airport, she had come directly to the Kitty Cat Club.

It was the place where her sister, Rachael, was working when she had disappeared.

The music stopped. Her set was over. Pulling dollar bills out of her tiny costume as she left the stage, she hurried upstairs to change into her c.o.c.ktail waitress outfit. Thoughts of her sister crept in, along with a sharp pang of loss. Rachael had gone missing more than six weeks ago. The last place she had been seen was the Kitty Cat Club where she worked as an exotic dancer.

Babs had been Rachael's roommate and one of her closest friends, the person who had reported her missing when she failed to return to the apartment in time for her performance the following night.

"At first I just thought she was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g off," Babs had told Amy on the phone, the first of many conversations that followed. "Maybe she got drunk or something, you know? Not that she usually did that kind of thing. But she'd been acting strange for more than a month, being secretive, staying out all night. She was seeing a couple of different guys, but she didn't talk much about them."

More and more worried, Babs had called the police, who had taken a statement and started an investigation into Rachael's disappearance. It was Babs who had first contacted Amy. Several times a week after Rachael's disappearance had been reported, Amy had phoned the police from Michigan, pushing them, trying to make sure they were doing everything in their power to find her. So far the police had come up with nothing-though Babs didn't believe they had tried very hard to find a missing dancer who worked at a place like the Kitty Cat Club.

Babs had also kept calling, figuring two people pressing the police would get more results than one. Babs had also done some digging on her own. She had talked to everyone who worked at the club-the bartenders and waitresses, the guys and gals on every shift. She hadn't expected any of them to be involved in Rachael's disappearance and that was the conclusion she had come to in the end.

If something terrible had happened, Amy sensed it had to have involved one of the club's customers, or someone Rachael was seeing.

From the start, Babs and Amy had connected. Both of them cared about Rachael and both were beginning to suspect the worst-Rachael had either been kidnapped or killed. As the weeks slipped past with no word from her, the devastating scenario seemed more and more likely.

Amy's chest tightened. Though she and Rachael hadn't been close for years, they were still sisters, best friends once. Amy had decided to come to L.A. to find out what had happened. Since there was no way she could just walk up to a customer, tell them she was Amy Brewer and ask them if they had murdered her sister, she and Babs had come up with a plan. Amy would go undercover, take the job Rachael's disappearance had left vacant, and start digging. Amy would find out what happened to Rachael-no matter what it took.

Amy raced up the stairs to the apartment to get ready for her waitressing shift, hoping that maybe tonight she would turn up something useful. Her costume, a two-piece dark blue satin number just like Babs's, lay on the bed, ready for her to put on.

Before Amy got to L.A., Babs had spoken to the club owner, Tate Watters, and told him she had a friend who was looking for a job. Watters had hired her sight-unseen, even though she had "limited experience." Fortunately, Amy and her sister had both been blessed with good figures, and faces that weren't too bad, either, so he didn't seem to regret giving her the job.

Babs had promised to show her the ropes, and after her first self-conscious, clumsy efforts, she had been able to get through an entire performance onstage. A couple of summers ago, she had learned a self-hypnosis technique at a teaching seminar in Detroit. The trick was good for controlling anxiety and aiding in memory work. Amy had used the technique to help her get over her stage fright and embarra.s.sment.

She had always been a pretty good dancer, not the exotic sort, of course, and she had been on the cheering squad in high school. Her movements were fluid, and if she could forget she was almost naked and gave into the suggestions she put into her head, if she could manage to let herself go, she wasn't half bad.

Which surprised the heck out of her. She guessed a person never really knew themselves completely.

A last glance in the makeup mirror above the dresser, a few quick strokes of the brush through her long blond hair, a dab of blush and a fresh application of lipstick and she was ready to go.

Her stomach tightened. By some ironic twist, being onstage as Angel Fontaine was the easy part. Mingling with customers, putting up with the risque remarks while quietly digging for information that might lead to finding her sister-that was the tough part.

And no amount of self-hypnosis had helped. She was nervous and edgy the entire time she worked the floor, always trying to stay just out of a customer's reach, trying to keep a smile on her face as the men flirted and propositioned her.

Not that they were usually that bad. Tate wouldn't put up with hara.s.sment. And there was a house rule that the girls couldn't date the customers, which all of the regulars knew. And after a warning or two, if any of the men got too far out of line, big Bo Jing, the bald-headed, oversize Asian bouncer who stood at the door with his legs splayed and his arms folded over his ma.s.sive chest, looking like a half-ton Mr. Clean, made sure they left the club and never came back.

The club allowed lap dancing, both in the bar and in private VIP rooms, which was a good way to make a little extra money, but so far she had never done one, and it wasn't something any of the girls had to do if they didn't want to. Tate was clear on that.

Making her way over to the bar, Amy picked up a tray and headed for the table of new arrivals in her a.s.signed section. One of the other dancers, a redhead who called herself Honeybee, kept their attention fixed on the stage until Amy could get their drink orders.