Roman's Gold (Underground Heat, Book 1) by Ann Gimpel

for a black market wrist computer preloaded with two hundred minutes, seventy-five texts, and fifty searches.
    Devon punched numbers into the computer from an alleyway next to the shop. Bums lined its sides, but they never gave him any problems. His size and obviously superb physical condition were quite a deterrent.
    She answered on the second ring. “Kate Roman.” It surprised him. He’d been expecting a recording.
    “Uh, hi. My name is Heartshorn. I got a referral from Dr. Adams to see you. I, um, wanted to make an appointment. And I guess I need to know how much you charge.”
    Laughter tinkled against his ear. “Sure. I know Dr. Adams. Let’s see. I had a cancellation this afternoon at five. Or there’s three tomorrow. Would either of those work for you?”
    “Your fees?” Devon tried desperately to act like a normal client.
    “Sure. First visit is seven hundred fifty credits. It includes a full assessment and a report back to your referring doctor. Subsequent visits are six hundred fifty credits.”
    Devon whistled. Steep. He thought about the hundred fifty credits Huong had charged. It didn’t matter; he would have paid any amount to get to Kate with her clothes off. She dogged his dreams every night. He wasn’t sure how the hell he’d be able to fake erectile dysfunction, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it.
    “If that’s too much,” she said, her voice kind, “I can give you the names of some women who charge less.”
    “No,” he blurted. “It’s fine. You said you had a cancellation at five?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Okay. I’ll take it. Bye.”
    “Wait. Don’t you need my address and directions?”
    “Aren’t they on the sheet the doctor gave me?” It wouldn’t do to tell her he knew exactly where her office was.
    “I don’t think so. They shouldn’t be. Do me a favor and check. You can tell me when I see you. I’m in a pale blue Victorian. The address is…”
    Devon floated down the street. This was working out better than he’d hoped. He was off work today and traveling on foot. Since he was new and trying to earn his chops, he would have stopped in at the station house anyway, but he couldn’t risk getting snared in an emergency. Besides, it was only about two hours until his appointment.
    Devon decided to splurge; he walked into a sit-down restaurant. No self-serve cafes for him today. Obviously successful businessmen dressed in suits and ties were scattered through the establishment in small groups. They looked askance at his worn jeans, pressed linen shirt, and the leather vest he rarely left home without, before quickly averting their gazes.
    A waitress wearing an über-short shirt and tiny top hurried over to him on ridiculously high heels. Bleached blonde hair frizzed around her face. Breasts spilled over the top of her low neckline. He caught a whiff of stale cigarette smoke mixed with sweat and cheap cologne. Damn. Those IV infusions really amped up his senses.
    “Did you have a reservation, sir?” she purred.
    “No, but I see lots of empty tables.” Sensing she was about to tell him to leave, he flashed his cop creds.
    “Oh, I see,” she breathed. “I’m sure I can find you something.”
    “I want that table.” He pointed to a choice spot near a window.
    “Certainly. I’ll have someone set it.”
    “Great. Bring a menu while you’re at it.” Devon loped to the table and settled his oversized frame into a carved wooden chair. After a few moments, the low drone of conversation picked up again. He figured folk would ignore him, and they did.
    He lingered over a salad, steak, bottle of red wine, coffee, and desert until it was nearly time for his appointment. His eyes widened at the bill and he shook his head. It had been an exceptional meal, but scarcely worth five hundred credits. San Bernardino didn’t have such a sharp demarcation between haves and have-nots. He tapped a few keys on his wrist computer and wrote the code on the bill. He assumed a