by Cherry Adair
"Don't be angry, sweetheart." His voice was low and resonant. The voice of a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed. Immediately.
"I know you said you needed more time, but I was so blue without you, I had to come."
Like the commercial for the investment company, everyone in the bar stopped to listen to their every word. Taylor felt as though she was stuck inside the Twilight Zone. The situation got weirder by the minute. She suppressed a shiver and gave him a cool look.
"Pleasant as that was, sugah, you've mistaken me for someone else."
There was nothing pleasant about the half smile barely curving the sensuous line of his mouth as he watched her with dark, opaque eyes.
He lowered his voice to a breath. "I don't make mistakes. Blue."
Taylor swore under her breath. His arms were still wrapped about her, but she lost all feeling, as a bone-deep chill pervaded her body. He towered over her own five-foot-eight inches by at least six inches. Tall, implacable, intimidating.
Bluff or bolt? She straightened her shoulders under the steel band of his arm and locked her gaze on his face.
"I'm not the gal you're lookin' for, so that was just a plumb waste of time, now wasn't it? All I am is a lil ol' waitress—"
Eyes hard, voice light and mocking, he shook his head. "Knock it off. The tabloids didn't exaggerate when they said you couldn't act worth a damn. Despite the haircut, and the brown contacts, I recognized you immediately. Don't waste my time pretending you aren't who you are."
Quite a neat trick. If she could've figured that out years ago, she would have.
Feeling returned in a rush. The knot in her tummy turned to lead. Blood surged in her ears. The temperamental jukebox burst into song with Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire."
When Ruby, who religiously read the tabloids, hadn't recognized her, Taylor had thought herself gloriously incognito. Then in walks this guy, and her lovely life goes to hell in a handbasket.
His arm tightened around her back, reminding her that he still had her clasped like a boa constrictor. She shifted in his embrace. More a breath than tactical retreat. Surprisingly, he released her. His arms dropped to his sides, but his eyes kept her firmly in place.
Taylor tucked her fingers into the front pockets of her jeans. "Y'know, sugar, folks have been tellin' me I look a bit like that singer gal for years, but nobody ever thought I was really her before. Thanks for the compliment."
She cocked her head, trying to read his expression. The man must be damn good at poker. "I read in the tabloids that Blue's in Aspen or someplace." A pretty feeble bluff, but worth a shot.
"Marcy Stewart's in Aspen." His gaze slid impersonally down her body, taking in her plain, red cotton T-shirt, loose jeans, and inexpensive boots, then traveled back up again, just as slowly.
"Your doppelganger might have the press snowed, but she didn't fool me." His lips quirked in a parody of a smile.
"Although Miss Stewart looks a lot more like the Blue the world knows than you do at the moment."
"Whatever you're selling, I'm not interested." She dropped the phony accent and pivoted to go.
"Stay right where you are." A chilly command couched in jaw-clenched courtesy. "I've gone to a lot of trouble to find you."
They stared at each other like cobra and mongoose.
He made her feel prickly-hot, then shivery-cold. How did a guy she'd never met know the difference between herself and Marcy?
Her heart beat much too fast for a simple encounter with a stranger. Even a kissing stranger. For years Taylor had experienced life through a plate-glass window. Separated from reality by her celebrity. This man was more reality than she was ready for. Everything about him made her feel defenseless and vulnerable.
She didn't like the feeling any more than she liked the way he arrogantly expected her to stand there and hang on his every word while he toyed with her.
"Who the hell are you," Taylor demanded, teeth clenched, "and what do you want? Spit it out, and let's get this over with."
"The name's Huntington St. John." He braced his hand against the bar behind her, effectively blocking any retreat. "I have a request. And an offer you won't want to refuse."
She raised a brow.
"I want Blackman," he told her. "You'll be doing us both a favor if you tell me where your uncle is. Before his friends come looking for him, and find you, as I did."
Taylor's heart contracted at the casual reference to her uncle. If he was looking for Uncle Toby, he was involved with major-league gambling. And as far as Toby went, gambling meant Las Vegas. Realization prodded her fear into high gear. This man had nothing to lose by revealing her identity. Taylor took a calming breath. It didn't work.
"You came all the way from Las Vegas for nothing," she told him flatly. "My uncle died in a plane crash two months ago."
"No," St. John said coldly. "He did not."
Nonplussed, she stared back at him.
"Blackman is alive. I know it. You know it. And it won't take long for his associates in Las Vegas to know it, too. They aren't nearly as civilized as I am about things. Trust me. They won't ask politely."
"Look," she held on to her composure by a fraying thread. If this guy considered himself civilized, he was delusional, and she was in bigger trouble than she'd thought. "Believe me, Toby died in that plane crash. I wish it were otherwise, but it's not."
A quick glance showed Ray and Annie standing together across the room. Annie laid a hand on the cowboy's arm as he shot St. John a menacing scowl. Damn it! This was all she needed.
"Everyone's staring. Don't you dare make a scene."
"You're used to people staring at you."
She could actually hear her molars grinding. "No one here knows who I am."
"Is that so?" he said smoothly. "Then I'm sure you'd rather not discuss this in your place of employment."
"I'd rather not discuss it at all."
"Any more than you want the paparazzi to descend en mass on your nice quiet little hideaway. Then everyone in the free world would know who, and where, you are. Why don't I start by telling the cowboys over there how privileged they are to have the famous Blue in their midst?"
"Better people than you have tried, and failed, to blackmail me." Taylor set her chin and regarded his implacable face with hostility. Life was too short, her life was too short, to put up with this crap.
"Consider this conversation over." If the bastard alerted the press, she'd deal with it. Just as she'd dealt with everything else.
"I'm willing to cut you a little slack," he said, his voice cool. "If you're determined to maintain the fiction of being a waitress, I'd suggest somewhere private to finish this conversation. But finish it, we will."
Taylor snorted inelegantly. "Oh, please! You walk in here, grab me in a lip lock, threaten my privacy, tell me my dead uncle is alive, and then demand to take me somewhere private? And you think I'll go… willingly? Buster, get a reality check." She pushed at his arm so she could get past him.
He didn't budge, didn't even have the graciousness to acknowledge her efforts.
Out of the corner of her eye, Taylor noticed Charlie had joined Ruby, Annie, and Ray. God only knew what they must be thinking right now. Ruby said something to Charlie, then started walking toward them. The cavalry was moving in.
"I'm not interested in anything else you have to say," Taylor told him with finality. "Move so I—Mmmpf."
He kissed her again. And damn it, he was good.
Really good.
She gave him a few more seconds to cut it out… then slammed down her heel, hard, on his instep.
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CHERRY ADAIR lives in Northern California and collects people, teapots, and books. Lots of books. With their two grown daughters out of the nest, Cherry and her husband, David, have lived under the dominance of their feline, T.C. (Temporary Cat), for ten years.
Cherry owned an interior design business before discovering that writing was even more fun than decorating. When not glued to her computer or reading, the former RITA finalist can be found puttering around her flower gardens.
