I'd like to start out this day by thanking everyone who commented on my Friday blog.  You guys brightened my day and kept me form being bummed out.  You are all unbelievably awesome people.  You totally rock!!!.....Now for the Monday stuff.

I don't write thrillers and don't know the first thing about crime fiction.  This is a minor character I've placed in one of my books.  Her appearance is brief and an editor might do away with her altogether.  I thought she merited a moment of life on the blog. 

They called her Ginger. It was the color of her hair and the shade of her favorite lipstick during the Summer months. When she walked the length of a room wearing that silk red miniskirt all eyes were on her. Each wiggle of a curvy hip was enough to lure a saint onto perdition. A cheap version of Chanel No. 5 had her smelling like she just walked out of a French whorehouse. She liked her men, adored her cat, and was the best damn undercover detective in the whole precinct.

Keith stood at the entrance to Maroon Steakhouse and waited for her to reach his side. He nodded his head in greetings, took her by the arm, and escorted the brazen goddess to a table. The spark of authority in her eyes prevented him from pulling out her chair.

“Did you get it?” she asked.

He reached into his pocked and produced a flash card. “It’s pretty graphic.”

A burrow formed between her brows. “Kid, I’ve seen things that would make your skin crawl. Now hand it over.” She placed a hand on the table.

He rubbed her wrist before dropping it in her palm. “Let me go with you.”

Amber eyes twinkled with amusement. “Do you have any clue what a white slaver would do to a boy like you?” She slipped the flash card into her purse.

“What do you think they’ll do to you if they discover you’re a cop?”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take to save those girls.” She stood.

He hurried to her side. “You could at least stay for a glass of wine.”

She patted the baby-fine skin of his jaw. “I don’t drink on the job.”

He held her hand in place. “What’s your real name, Ginger?”

“Keith, never mind that.  Just feed my cat.”

He released his grip. Her fingers slid slowly from his face. Sadness dimmed the bright amber of her eyes to a rich brown. The next few days would be critical. If she didn’t survive she’d find herself drugged and sold for prophet to some pervert on the white slave market. He watched her leave, and so did every civilian in the restaurant. Lustful eyes crossed envious ones, but she never went unnoticed. That was Ginger, his superior, and a woman after his own heart.