Hunt Her Down

by Roxanne St Claire

  He was staring. Hard. Right down the scoop neck of her top.

  Oh, had she forgotten to wear a bra? They were small but mighty, as someone had once told her, and every once in a while the girls went free. She smiled at the customers she served, but the twinkle in her eye was for his benefit.

  She’d also purposely worn the tight hip-hugging jeans and a little extra makeup. It was true; she didn’t care if he came back for a third night—but she hoped like hell he would. Especially tonight . . . the one time she didn’t have a thirteen-year-old and his dog waiting at home.

  Tonight, Magdalena Varcek Smith was going to have some fun.

  Straightening, she nodded to him. “I’ll be right there,” she mouthed, taking the empty glasses from the table and wending around some chairs to make her way over.

  He made no effort to hide his long, slow appraisal of her, the hungry gaze leaving a trail of heat and a thousand chills over every well-admired inch of her. By the time he got back up to her face, she’d reached the table and slid into the chair across from him.

  “You want a Heineken?”

  “Among other things.” He added an imperfect, slanted, utterly decadent smile that took him from jaw-dropper to heart-wrecker in a pulse beat.

  “Name ‘em,” she shot back.

  He dropped his elbows on the table and folded his arms, a move that emphasized the power and size of his shoulders, and leaned closer. She got a whiff of peppermint and spice, a dose of raw sex appeal, and a chance to see that no, he hadn’t shaved.

  “Mrs. Smith. Are you married?”

  His question was direct, simple, and delivered with a baritone that made her wonder if his chest rumbled when he spoke.

  “Not anymore.” She met him halfway across the table. “Are you?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Well, now that we got that little detail out of the way, how about we finally introduce ourselves?” She held out her hand, bracing for the electricity she just knew was going to zing up her arm. “I’m—”

  “I know who you are.” He didn’t shake her hand. Instead, his long, strong fingers plucked at one of the silver bangles on her wrist. “You make noise when you walk, you know that?”

  She just stared at him, unable to look away.

  “I’ve been hearing you jingle in my sleep.”

  Oh boy. He was good. “What’s it sound like?”

  “Trouble.”

  She laughed. “I’m no trouble at all. Everyone calls me Lena, and I’m the owner of this fine establishment and jingler of your dreams. What’s your name?”

  “Dan.”

  “Just Dan?”

  “For now, just Dan.”

  “How about for later?”

  “That assumes there is a later.I don’t want to be presumptuous.”

  She crossed her arms and matched his position, as into the game as he was. “Go ahead and presume. We’ve been dancing around each other for three nights. How long are you in town?”

  “How do you know I don’t live here?”

  “Because I know everybody who lives in Marathon, which means you’re a tourist.”

  “Are you going to close up again tonight?”

  Another zing went through her, this time more of a mental alarm than a sexual buzz. “Maybe.”

  Since she’d just said she was the owner, it made sense she’d close the bar. But these days, she couldn’t be too careful. Not after she’d read the prison release list on that website. Ever since, she’d carried Smitty’s pistol in her handbag, made a habit of looking over her shoulder, and had one of the regulars walk her to her car.

  And sent Quinn for long weekends at his Uncle Eddie’s, so he wasn’t home alone when she worked late nights.

  “Can I meet you tonight?” he asked. “So we could talk when you’re not working.”

  Talk. Right. “It could be late.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “We make last call around one.”

  He nodded and stood, looming over her, easily surpassing six feet. “I’ll be back at twelve thirty.”

  She pushed herself up, pulled by that gaze and something else. A sensation that numbed her fingertips and toes.

  Familiarity. That was it. There was something weirdly familiar about him.

  “Have you been in here before?” she asked. “I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve met.”

  He just gave her that wicked half smile again, revealing the slightest overlap of his front teeth, the imperfection wildly attractive on an otherwise perfect face. “Maybe in another life.” He reached out and slipped his fingers right under her hair, flicking the three silver hoops so they clinked against each other. “See you later . . . Lena.”

  She didn’t move a muscle as he walked away, didn’t take a breath or blink an eye.

  Lena. He said it as if the name amused him, as if he knew she didn’t even think of herself as the name she’d adopted the day she showed up at this bar.

  But he couldn’t know. No one knew. Except Smitty, who’d given her a new, safe, sane life, along with a completely different name.

  “ ’Scuze me, miss? Can we get another round?”

  She just held up a hand, making her grandmother’s silver bangles ding against each other. A tendril of déjà vu curled up her spine and raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  From another life? If so, it must have been a good one.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DAN PARKED THE rented Porsche directly across from the bar at twelve twenty-five. He had damn good reasons for coming back to Smitty’s night after night since he’d arrived in the Keys.

  He wanted to be certain she was safe. He wanted to know how she’d fared over the years. He wanted to make sure none of the “tourists” were plants from the Jimenez family, looking for retribution. He wanted . . .

  Her.

  Magdalena Varcek had grown from a teenager into a glorious woman, with sultry dark eyes and masses of chocolate curls and a translucent complexion that hinted at the Hungarian blood she had claimed made her part Gypsy. She had the same sass and spunk, the same playful smile, the same glint of erotic invitation in her eyes, but now it was all part of a woman’s package, and ten times more attractive because she knew exactly how to use it.

  She’d always been a sex pistol, but now she was a freaking AK-47, loaded and clearly looking for a target. All he could think of when he looked at her were those secret, steaming, sexy nights in the shed when nothing was offlimits. Nothing.

  Well, she’d been off-limits. But that hadn’t stopped him. He could have gotten his information a half dozen other ways, but something about Maggie Varcek made him crazy and achy and more willing to take risks.

  Which was why he was sitting in this car right now, just as crazy as he had been then.

  Once he’d seen her, smelled her, heard the siren call of her silver jewelry and throaty laugh, he just kept coming back with unanswered questions. What in the world ever brought her to this place? Why?

  And other questions, like . . . would she taste the same? Move the same? Scream when he made her come?

  He pushed the car door open and climbed out, already tasting the first kiss, the first heat of her skin.

  Maggie would never know who he was. One night. One time. All his questions answered, all his needs met, all his curiosity sated.

  How could anyone get hurt by that? Her signals were unambiguous, and he was just responding the way any red-blooded male would. It didn’t matter that he knew more about her than she knew about him. Tomorrow, he’d be gone.

  Inside Smitty’s, only a few people were left: two guys at the bar, a couple making out at a table, and some twentysomethings doing sloppy shooters with limes.

  The waiflike blonde named Brandy looked up from wiping the bar and curled a come-hither finger at him. He took one of the empty seats and matched her conspiratorial smile.

  “She made last call five minutes ago,” Brandy said.

  “Guess she was eager to en
d the night,” Dan suggested.

  “Or start it.” She turned to the fridge, pulled out a Heineken, and snapped the top against a bottle opener near her hip. “This one’s on the house, Mr. Dan-with-nolast-name.”

  He took it. “Gallagher. Thanks.”

  Two seats down, a man turned and looked sharply at him.

  Dan nodded, immediately remembering the dude who’d come in five minutes after he did. He looked pretty damn sober after camping at the bar for three straight hours. He had a draft in front of him, but it was flat and the glass had no condensation.

  He’d been nursing that drink for a long, long time.

  “How ya doin’?” Dan nodded to him, noticing the Mediterranean features, the black hair and olive skin contrasted with eyes so pale blue they were nearly silver.

  “What did you say your name was?” the other man asked.

  “Dan Gallagher. You?”

  “Constantine Xenakis.”

  Dan tilted his bottle in greeting. “Just in from Athens?”

  “Something like that. Where are you from?”

  “New York.”

  The other man shifted over one seat, keeping one between them but obviously inviting conversation. “What brings you to Marathon? Business or pleasure?”

  “A little of both,” Dan said, vague by habit. “What about you?”

  “Business is a pleasure.”

  The barmaid stopped her wiping right in front of them and looked from one to the other. “Look at you two. The man gods have been good to Smitty’s tonight.”

  “ ’Scuze me, sweetheart,” Xenakis said, reaching over to put a friendly hand over hers. “Can you give us some privacy?”

  She backed up, surprise and a little disappointment darkening hazel eyes that had gotten a retouch of mascara since Dan’s last visit.

  “Anything you want.” She walked to the opposite end of the bar and Dan waited, curious as to why the stranger would prefer to talk to him than flirt with the obviously interested bartender.

  The other man turned toward Dan, locking on him with an intense gaze. “You here to see Mrs. Smith?”

  Dan just nodded, not willing to commit to anything.

  “She’s a fox,” Xenakis said, lifting his beer. “How’d you meet her?”

  “Here,” he said.

  He settled back on the stool a little, eyeing Dan. “When?”

  “A few nights ago. Why?”

  “No reason. I noticed her.”

  Who wouldn’t? “She’s noticeable, that’s for sure.”

  The other man looked side to side, as if he wanted to make sure no one could hear him, then leaned a little closer to Dan, his silvery eyes piercing. “Have you had any luck?”

  Was he serious? “Why, have you tried and failed?” Dan asked.

  He got a long, hard look in response. “I never fail.”

  “Good for you.” But he was the one nursing a flat beer, and Dan was the one with the midnight rendezvous.

  “Don’t think for one minute I don’t know why you’re here, Gallagher. I can’t be the only one after it.”

  “I’m sure the line is long for Ms. Smith’s attention.” Dan lifted his beer and gave the guy a warning look. “But there’s only one in the queue tonight, pal.”

  “You’re not getting it tonight.”

  What the hell? Dan drank and turned back to the bar, hoping to end the conversation.

  “I’m serious,” he continued anyway. “You are not getting it.”

  Dan set the bottle down. “I don’t discuss my personal life with strangers.”

  The man laughed softly. “You can keep your personal life all to yourself. You’re not getting her fortune.”

  Maggie had a fortune? That wasn’t in the Bullet Catcher dossier. “You want some advice?” Dan asked coolly.

  He got a raised eyebrow in response. “No.”

  “Well, I’m giving it.” Dan added an edge to his voice and leaned closer to deliver his message. “Stay away.”

  The other man just smiled. He stood, put a bill on the bar, and gave Dan a half-assed salute. “You might think you’re real good, Gallagher, but trust me, I’m better.”

  Dan watched him leave, memorizing his gait and posture, and every detail he could. Including the bulge of a gun on his hip.

  “You know that guy?” he asked Brandy when she came back to his end of the bar.

  “Wish I did.” She glanced at the door as it thudded closed. “I managed to find out his name is Constantine and he’s Greek.”

  “Does he come in here a lot?”

  “Never. All he did was ask questions about Lena, even after I told him she was, uh, taken tonight.” She added a saucy wink. “But I really think he was hanging out to see if you’d reappear or not.”

  “Of course I’d …” The door next to the service bar opened and Maggie stepped into the dim bar, her eyes sparkling at the sight of him. “Reappear.”

  “Hey.” Her smile was warm and wide and glistening. She’d put lip gloss on for him.

  “Hey yourself. How was the night?”

  “Long.” She eased onto the bar stool next to him, sending the softest scent of cinnamon perfume mixed with the citrus from a lot of limes she’d probably squeezed that night. “And yours?”

  “Longer.”

  That made her laugh, soft and low, drawing him closer. “I’m done now.”

  He nodded in Brandy’s direction as the bartender disappeared into the back carrying a load of clean glasses in a dishwasher bin. “Letting your employees do all the dirty work?”

  “She doesn’t work for me, she’s my business partner, and Milk Dud’s still in the kitchen. Dudley’s our chief cook and bottle washer. Anyway, I’d do the same for her if she had a hot date.”

  “Is that what this is?” He fought the urge to slip his hand into her curls. They were so soft and plentiful, framing her pretty face and cut so that wisps of dark hair fell over her finely arched brows.

  “This is whatever you want it to be,” she said, taking his beer. “May I?”

  Without waiting for a response, she took a long, slow swig, the creamy skin of her throat undulating with each swallow.

  “Mmmm.” She put the bottle down and pointed at him, the bracelets clinking on her arm, instantly reminding him of days gone by. And nights. “Now, you don’t drink another thing and I’ll let you drive the yacht.”

  He gave her a surprised look. “You have one?”

  “No, but I figured you did.”

  “Sorry to disappoint. Just a Porsche.”

  “That’s almost as good.”

  “Rented.”

  She nudged him. “You want to lose me forever? Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Sightseeing.”

  “At midnight?”

  “Sure.” She slid off the barstool and tugged his hand to do the same. “That Porsche ought to do some damage on the Seven Mile Bridge, and we can sit under the palm trees at Bahía Honda beach and . . . talk. That’s what you wanted to do, right?”

  So she still liked outdoor sex. “Right.”

  The lights of the Key’s signature bridge stretched so far it looked as if it ended in Cuba. Dan glanced from the endless stream of white lights to the woman on his right, who kept the conversation so light and teasing that he really didn’t have a chance to ask many questions, or tell her much about himself.

  Of course she wanted to keep it impersonal. To her this was a hook-up, plain and simple. She dodged the few questions he asked, and the only new tidbit of information that he learned was that Smitty, her husband, had died four years ago of a brain tumor, leaving her his bar, which evidently was deep in debt. She’d brought in a partner to help share the burden and they had some plans for renovation and growth, but it was slow going.

  Nothing about her security, safety, home life. None of the things he ostensibly came to find out.

  “What about you?” she asked, adeptly turning the questions away. “I still don’t know your l
ast name.”

  “Gallagher.”

  “Oh, that explains the Emerald Isle eyes. What’s your business?”

  “I’m a security specialist.”

  “What does that mean? You install alarms?”

  He laughed. “I am the alarm. I’m a bodyguard, a personal protection specialist.”

  “Really? That’s very cool.” She reached for his right hip and he flipped his hand from the gearshift and snagged her wrist before she touched him.

  “It’s on my ankle, but that’s not a smart move.”

  “You have a gun on you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Me, too.”

  He shot her a look. “You carry concealed? Are you licensed?”

  “I’m friends with the deputy sheriff.” She wrinkled her nose. “Does that count?”

  “Only if he’s the one to arrest you. What do you have?”

  “A .22 pistol.”

  A water gun. But still, why carry? “I didn’t think there was an inch of your lovely body I hadn’t checked out. Where you hiding your iron?”

  “In my purse.”

  “Where it would do absolutely no good if you were attacked.”

  “Spoken like a genuine bodyguard. Don’t worry, it’s just for peace of mind.”

  “Have you been threatened?” His brain flashed to the big Greek fortune hunter at the bar.

  She didn’t answer, but pointed to a turnoff as they reached the end of the bridge. “That’s Bahía Honda State Park. If you park way down at that other end, we can easily jump the gate.”

  He gave her another look of disbelief. “It’s closed?”

  “Come on.” She tapped his arm. “Like anything we’re doing tonight is going by the rules. Live dangerously.”

  “I’m a bodyguard.”

  “All the more reason for me to feel perfectly safe. Honestly, I’ve been here a million times for night fishing. It’s fine. Marathon goes to sleep at eleven, and all the criminals are down in Key West.”

  He parked, and in minutes she had them over an admittedly pathetic gate, and guided him by the closed concession stand, bathrooms and showers, then up a path to a secluded beach. Palm trees and heavy foliage lined the sand, providing shade in the day and shadows at night.

  “Here’s a nice spot.” She found a patch of grass, tucked under a tall palm and within view of the silver-white waves and cream-colored sand.