He shrugs, pulling a bag of what looks like groceries out of the car after him. “Suit yourself.”

I watch as he takes long strides across the space to the stairs and mounts the steps three at a time. His cargo shorts show off his muscled calves and rear end, giving me a hint of what the rest of him might look like under his T-shirt. He must be the one using the weight-lifting equipment.

Felix whines at me again.

“Fine. I’ll let you out.” If he poops, I have Baggies. Surely there’s a dumpster around here somewhere. I open my door halfway and lower Felix to the ground, hoping he’ll be content with just investigating the space.

I’m not paying attention to him and only realize he’s given me the slip when I tug on the leash and it easily flies up and lands in my lap.

“What the . . .? Felix!” I’m whisper-yelling. “Get back here, you little punk!” I see a tiny shadow flitting across the floor near the punching bag.

“Felix!” I pause, waiting for the sound of tiny footsteps rushing to my side. “Felix!” All I hear is a Chihuahua investigating a new place. He’s gone adventure doggy on me at the worst possible time. My little guy can be very inquisitive and busy when he puts his cashew-sized brain to it.

Dammit. Now I have to get out of the car. If they have radiator fluid lying around in puddles, Felix will think it’s Gatorade and lick up every last drop. My sister calls him a mini-Hoover. He won’t stand a chance.

It’s way cooler out here in the warehouse than it is in my stuffy car. I use the few moments I have in the semi-fresh air to pull my shirt off my chest and shake it around a little. The smell that hits me in the face is not pleasant. Great.

“Felix, come on, stop futzing around.”

He ignores me, of course. He’s a Chihuahua on a mission, and I’m just the woman who feeds, bathes, cuddles, and fawns over him 24/7.

“No treat, Felix. No treats for a week. I’m not kidding.” I stare into the bleak corner of the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of his sorry little butt.

I see a flash of his brown and cream fur near one of the weight machines and change my trajectory to intercept his next move. He’s working his way toward the door we drove through earlier. If he gets out and starts running around the port, I’ll cry. I swear to God, I’ll cry like a big, blubbering baby. He’ll surly get squashed by a forklift or something equally deadly out here. The port is no place for six-pound Chihuahua mutts.

He’s busy sniffing the part of the machine where the black metal weights are stacked up, and I know exactly what he’s thinking.

“No, Felix! No! Don’t you dare!”

He lifts up his back leg and takes a wee on the metal.

I look over my shoulder in a panic, sure that someone’s going to come down the stairs and bust my dog for having the worst manners a mutt can possibly have.

Strike that. Make that the second worst manners a dog can have. Felix is now squatting next to the place he peed. A two-fer! Hurray for Felix! I’m going to kill him as soon as I get my hands on him.

I run back to my car and grab my purse. Rummaging through it, I find a small bag and some baby wipes. Felix is just finishing up his business when I arrive on the scene of the crime.

I snatch him up before he can get away, and shove him into my purse. I trap it between my ankles as I take care of the other mess he left behind. When I’m all done, I look around for a garbage can.

Dammit. Where do they put their trash around here? I walk briskly over to the automatic door and put the plastic Baggie down near the edge of it, my purse clamped under my arm. When I leave, I’ll take the evidence bag with me, but there’s no way I’m storing it in my car before then.

I open my purse as I walk back to the car. “No more Houdini-ing tonight, Fee, you hear me? You stay with me. Stay. Stay.” I glare at him.

He smiles and tries to lick me. I hate when he does that. I can never stay mad at a smiling Chihuahua.

I stop outside my car door. It’s so damn hot inside there, I really don’t want to get back in. But what else am I supposed to do? Call the police? That seems kind of silly at this point. Sleep on the concrete floor? I look over at the weight-lifting equipment. I don’t think I could sleep on the bench press. I’d roll over and fall off, probably breaking something in the process, like my nose. And I’m particularly attached to my nose keeping the same, small, straight shape it’s had my whole life.

My watch says it’s getting close to eleven o’clock. My clients are arriving at nine in the morning at my studio, and I’m going to need an hour to set up. That gives me seven hours to sleep, an hour to get home and shower, and then time to get to work. What in the hell am I going to do for seven hours? Because at this point, I’m starting to feel comfortable with the idea that I’m not going to be killed here, but that the guy who shot at me could still be roaming the neighborhood near my house. Surely The Beard and Hollywood would have already done the deed if that were their intention, right? I’m probably safe. I’m about sixty-five percent sure I am.

The big warehouse door begins to open again, and I immediately duck down, using the side of my car as a hiding spot. Who the heck is coming in now? Another hot guy? Another biker beast? Another murderer or another savior?

CHAPTER SEVEN

It’s an SUV this time, black, with tinted windows. It reminds me of an FBI truck like they have in all the movies. Half the time they carry around the good guys, but the other half . . . not so much. I peek over the edge of my car door to see through its windows. The SUV parks on the other side of the truck. I’ll have to wait until the people get out and move away before I’ll be able to see anything.

I hear voices, one male and one female.

“I don’t care what he says. I’m not on board with that,” says the male voice.

“I’d love to see you tell him no,” says the female.

“Just watch, then. Watch and learn, little grasshopper.”

The woman laughs. “Yeah, okay. Got my phone all charged up. I’ll run video for posterity’s sake.”

“Go to hell,” he says in response.

“Been there, done that¸ got the T-shirt,” she says. “Not going back. Not tonight, at least.”

They both laugh.

And then she comes into view. She’s petite, thin, and has long jet-black hair. I can’t tell if her pants are denim or leather, but man, they’re tight. Paired with her airy white spaghetti-strap blouse and high-heeled boots, they make her look about nineteen. I suppose if I had a body like that I’d be in skinny-wear too. I can’t hate her for making the most of things. She does make me feel kind of frumpy though, crouching down here in my Ann Taylor ensemble.

The man is behind her. He’s on the short side as well, same color hair, maybe slightly lighter, and compact. He’s in jeans and a black shirt, rolled up at the elbows. His shoes are black, something I’d expect to see on a guy going out clubbing. Both of them have Cajun accents, one of my favorite things in the world. It’s part of what drew me here to New Orleans from New York two years ago. That and my sister. Our family home in Florida didn’t interest me after I left it at eighteen.

I stand up a little as they climb the stairs, trying to get a better view and stop the circulation from backing up at my knees.

“You coming up?” the man asks me as he turns in my direction.

I look behind me.

Nope. No one there. There’s just me and Felix, stinking up the joint.

“Who, me?” I ask, just in case.

“Yeah, you. Who else would I be talking to?” He laughs good-naturedly. I swear I can see his eyes twinkle from here. He must smile a lot.