The Spy With The Silver Lining. Wendy Rosnau

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      Ruza sensed a pair of eyes watching her. She shoved her dark glasses to the end of her nose and scanned the room. There, at the bar. It was the shady-looking character who needed a haircut.

      As he began to swagger over to the table, she wondered what was taking Cassie so long. She wasn’t up for conversation with a stranger. She was simply too exhausted.

      She took a gulp of her martini to fortify the upcoming confrontation.

      “Oui, a fine-lookin’ woman, Cookie. A classy maman, who looks like she’s lived a life of experience, no?”

      “It’s true,” she answered. “I wasn’t born yesterday, so before this gets awkward, I’ll say no, thank you. Now run along.”

      “Oui, a spirited maman. I enjoy a woman who can teach an old dog a new trick on all four.”

      Ruza lifted her glass to her lips again. “Well, Mr. Dog, you must have a hearing problem. I said, run along.”

      Instead of moving off, he chuckled. “So you like my place, do you, mon coeur?”

      Ruza removed her glasses, momentarily forgetting about her black eye. “I have no—”

      “Ma douce amie, you’ve been injured. Who has hurt you, my sweet? I’ll kill the bastard.”

      She arched her shapely gray eyebrows above her damaged eye. “You said you’re the owner of—” she looked toward the stage “—this cheap acting den?”

      “Oui. The very one. Saber Lazie at your service, mon coeur.” He pulled out a chair and sat. “I haven’t seen you here before. Have you come to my city on business or seeking pleasure?”

      “That would be my business.”

      Another chuckle. “Oui, a spirited woman, with a snake’s bite. The man who hurt you, does he still have his legs?”

      She studied him a moment, got a whiff of his cologne, but couldn’t recognize it. It smelled familiar. That was odd.

      “All you need to know—Lazie—is that I’m not ripe for plucking. I’m waiting for my daughter. You’re sitting in her chair. As you can see, I’ve bought a drink from your lacking establishment, so I’m not loitering.”

      “Ruza-a…do you dance?”

      “How do you know my name?”

      He stood. “It’s a fittin’ name, for one so lovely. I like slender women, and memorable names. You’re a feast for a man’s eyes and his imagination.”

      His sharp eyes drifted to her chest.

      Ruza considering going for the mace in her handbag, which lay on the table. Not yet, she thought. He still hadn’t explained how he knew her name.

      She emptied her martini glass, then asked again, “Who told you my name?”

      He shrugged, checked his watch. “It’s time to go.”

      She saw him step around the table. Then his hand was on the back of her chair. With a sudden jerk he pulled it away from the table, and then lifted Ruza off her chair and tossed her over his shoulder. It happened so quickly she had no time to react or reach for her mace.

      The bar crowd was too busy watching the stage to notice Ruza being carried out the back door. She began to pound her fists into his kidneys as he stepped out into the back alley.

      Screaming, she fought harder, but the man was stronger than he looked. He ignored her blows as he rolled her inside the trunk of the car parked next to the building.

      “Don worry, Cookie. I’ll let you out soon.”

      Then he slammed down the trunk and the car’s engine roared to life.

      Ruza started to scream again. Maybe someone would hear her. That hope turned to dust as the radio speaker inside the car began to vibrate and drowned out her cries.

      The car sped away as Aaron Neville began to sing “Use Me.”

      Oh, God. Lazie—if that was his real name—was going to assault her, then kill her.

      Worse, at her funeral she would be sporting a black eye.