Nightfall

by Joey W. Hill

  A glance at the clock showed him two hours past closing time. Fucking hell. He really was worn out.

  She came around the bar, leaned against it, the cling of her shirt outlining her breasts nicely as she propped an elbow on the counter and laced her fingers beneath them. "So, Quinn Pedraza. Owner of this saloon and the Last Chance Ranch. Good name. Your choice?"

  "No. But I liked it." So she'd been finding out things about him while he'd been visiting the sandman. He didn't know if that was good or bad. She excelled at being unreadable, as if she'd spent a long time practicing a poker face. It was a trait of card players, con artists and people who knew the wrong expression could cost them more than they could afford to lose. It was also something people learned to do to cope with the deeper emotions beneath the surface, as if the expression was a dam on emotions too strong to let bust loose.

  He knew about strong emotions like that. So much of his childhood and teen years had been chaos. Though he'd been raised on a ranch, he actually hadn't been able to get past the noise to appreciate it, to realize there was a quiet to be found there, in the land. When he finally had figured that out--thanks in large part to Sam's first appearance in his life--he'd decided he wanted to own his own ranch more than anything.

  It had taken his years on the rodeo circuit to secure the Last Chance at a bargain price. In the five years since he'd taken it over, he'd worked his ass off building it up, making it a profitable operation again. Only about fifteen hundred of the five thousand acres were actually useable, but the rest of it gave him the privacy he craved, that he hadn't been able to experience during his childhood or on the frenzied rodeo circuit.

  From how much of his time was spent in the middle of this disaster, no one would guess how much he wanted that solitude. But here after closing, just her and him, he embraced that sense of being the only folks around. It was the first time he'd had that experience here. Usually he felt a huge weight bearing down on him the minute he crossed the threshold.

  The quiet wasn't at odds with the strong sexual heat he felt for her. Not at all.

  "Perhaps you should think of selling this place," she said.

  "I would if I had a buyer. Believe me. If I just close it up, all these people won't have a place to hang out. We're the only game in town."

  "Well." As she studied him, he had the uncomfortable feeling she saw through the partial lie. "It seems to me you have to make some kind of decision or it will be made for you."

  "I suppose you think you're the answer to fixing my problems here?"

  "I know I am. The question is whether you're the answer to what I'm seeking."

  It was a strange way to put it. But he rose. "Why don't we go to my office and talk about that?"

  When she nodded, he gestured to her to precede him toward the office hallway. She pushed off the bar and came toward him, filling his nose with her essence again, that aroma of soothing coolness and primitive earth. He had to restrain himself from pouncing on her right then and there. He bet her taste would be delicious and her body would be--

  Stop it, you jackass. What in the world is going on here?

  When she brushed past him, his body jerked at the contact. He hadn't done that before, but they hadn't been alone before. He slid a glance at her but she didn't seem to notice his reaction. Or have one of her own.

  "Sit down," he said brusquely when they reached his office, more order than request. That appeared to be the only way he could keep control of the situation.

  "Please," she told him.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Sit down, please," she repeated with exaggerated patience.

  "Please." He gritted out the word. Why did she seem to think she could give him orders? Or rather, why did it feel like he was waiting for her to do just that?

  Seating herself in the small chair beside the desk, she crossed her legs. Then she released the tie she'd put on her hair while she was working the bar. Shaking out the golden shimmer of locks brought him a wave of her provocative scent. His gaze latched on to the curve of her hip, the way her buttock pressed into the chair. He could scoop one hand under that firm cheek, put the other hand at her waist and lift her right off her feet. Let her hook her legs around him, slide her down inch by inch along his bare body. She'd feel so damn good against him, all that cool pale skin.

  Tease. That was the word that came to mind. Not the only one, but he was going to have to shut down his mind and put his cock in a coma if he wanted to get through this conversation. Looking at her conjured up all kinds of images. Her naked on his bed. Her golden hair spread out around her. Perfect round breasts with rosy nipples begging for his mouth. Legs spread wide so he could feast on her pussy. Would she be shaved or have golden down between her legs? He didn't care as long as slick pink lips tasting of her honey waited.

  If he didn't stop this soon he'd have to step outside and take himself in hand.

  "Listen." He shifted in front of the desk, allowing his big body to take up most of the small space. It was a tactic he'd used to good advantage in dealing with anyone trying to intimidate him. "I don't know who the hell you are, but my trust isn't the best anymore. You came here, took over my bar--"

  She rose right up in front of him. "I didn't take it over." Putting that same finger against his chest, he was surprised to find the pressure strong enough to back him into his desk so he had to sit his ass down on the edge of it or let the digit shish-ke-bob a vital organ. That put her standing solidly between his spread thighs, and put them close to eye level, though he still had some height on her. He caught her wrist in self-defense, though he didn't remove the finger from his chest.

  Leaving her wrist in his grasp, she let her gaze course over him in that intimate way, like she was already seeing him sprawled in her bed. That ride was going two ways, for sure.

  "I simply kept it from imploding tonight," she said conversationally. "You want me to take it over, I can make you money and give you time to sleep. You're running the ranch during the day and working this place at night. You're plowing yourself into the ground and doing a half-assed job at both."

  "Thanks for the news flash. I have a mother already."

  "I hope you don't look at your mother the way you're looking at me now."

  He surged up off the desk. She gave way gracefully but stayed close. Way too close. "Quit showing off your body. That won't work with me."

  The look in her eyes told him she didn't believe a word of what he said. "I think you have bigger problems than my body."

  Still in control. She'd been holding the reins from the first, and it didn't annoy him the way it should. Instead, it gave him an odd mix of panic and arousal. He needed to act like a boss. The guy in charge.

  "You think being a wiseass is the best way to prove to me how good a bar manager you'd be?"

  "If the past few hours didn't prove that, you're not as smart as I assumed you are."

  He stared at her then shook his head. His chuckle seemed to surprise her. "Ah, fuck me. Whatever. Let's try this again." He gestured her back into the guest chair. "Sorry, I should have dusted that off first. I don't know the last time it was used. Okay, Miss Know-It-All. Tell me what else you saw tonight that will help me run my place better. Impress me."

  She already had, but apparently that was a gift that was about to keep giving. She reclaimed her seat with that sensual flow of motion, crossed her legs again. "As I said earlier, your bartenders are over-pouring, probably costing you about fifty percent of your potential drink profits a night, above and beyond what Artie was stealing. Yes, you only offer bar food so that you don't compete with the two restaurants in town, but there's no reason for it to be drowning in old grease and coming out with no presentation. I can help with that.

  "You have presentation problems at the bar too. Your good-quality spirits are hiding in the well instead of placed on the shelving behind it. There's no lighting to really draw people that way either. You could add a fresh coat of paint and some regional decorations th
at would give the place an inexpensive facelift until you can afford something snazzier. You're nearly out of basics like bar napkins and vodka, and that can be fixed by proper supply management."

  She lifted a brow. "Shall I keep going?"

  "Why not?"

  Her eyes narrowed, but she complied. "Your demographic may be small, but they have a good median income and you have the potential of attracting the business of other nearby small towns if you have something better to offer them than their current watering holes.

  "Your dance floor is run by an ancient jukebox. It's quaint, but you could keep the facade and install a computerized system with far more selections. As you said, you're the only game in town, and where else are they going to go, but the current setup makes locals reluctant to spend entertainment dollars here. You give them a quality place, they'll drop money, and I bet you might just attract people coming through town as well. Offer better food, occasional live entertainment and a fun drink list that's more than just whiskey and Coke, and warm draft beer--by the way, your cooling lines need to be checked--you'll do better on your bottom line.

  "Your bartender and cook are hard workers," she said. "They're just slow and need training. Your other girl can be taught how to pour a decent drink, if she's as eager to please as Maria. Once they realize a good bartender can get better tips than a bad one, no matter the size of her rack, that will be a good incentive, though Maria's not lazy. She's just young and has lacked proper supervision."

  Pretty much what he'd realized tonight, thanks to her temporary management. She stopped, leveled those killer blue eyes on him. "That's plenty. You already know I'm an experienced bar manager who knows what I'm doing. I need a job and you need me."

  "Correction. I know you can handle being a bar manager. But I don't know dick about you as a human being yet, and that's part of this job too."

  A surprising yet very appealing twinkle passed through her gaze. "I might not qualify in that regard."

  "Let me be the judge of that. What's your full name?"

  "Selene Torres."

  "But you're not from around here."

  "Not recently. I was working up north, in New York." She lifted her chin, gave him an imperious look. "Does that disqualify me?"

  Quinn had to swallow a grin. "Only if you talked like you were from there, which you don't. Do you have references?"

  "Did the man you just threw out?"

  As she did the leg crossing thing again, he had to restrain himself from throwing her on the desk and yanking down her jeans to fuck her senseless. But she did have a point. "How about this?" she suggested. "Try me for a month. If I haven't whipped this place into shape you can toss me back out on the highway."

  "A month, huh? You think you can turn this place around in that time?"

  She nodded. "I know I can."

  Quinn studied her with shrewd eyes. "I may prefer to work with cattle, but I don't have manure between my ears, Selene. You have the skills of a big-city bar manager. Why would you want to work here?"

  "I'm tired of the north, big cities and lots of attention."

  "You running? Abusive boyfriend, something like that?" Though he couldn't see this one being slapped around unless it was the last thing the poor bastard ever did, for some reason the flicker in her eyes raised something protective in him. That really made him a dumbass. Don't get into trouble you don't want to invite, Quinn.

  "I needed a change of scenery. Beginning and end of story." The set to Selene's jaw said that was all he was getting out of her on that point. For now.

  He let his eyes roam over her again. Pedraza, you've been without a woman too long. This could be a worse mistake than Artie. Anyone could see there was more of a story here than she was telling.

  "A month," he said at last. Scribbling on a sheet of paper, he shoved it across the desk to her. "That's the salary. That suit you?"

  He expected her to laugh, ball it up and toss it in his face as she sashayed out. Instead, she scanned it with serious eyes, then nodded, folded it neatly and reached behind her to push it into her rear jeans pocket, making him wish he could slide his fingers into the same snug place. Maybe a couple other snug places too.

  "We're open from seven at night until two in the morning," he said. "You can clean everything up when you close and set up for the next day or come in early and do it."

  "After we close. I like to leave the bar ready to open. But you don't need to micromanage. It will just annoy me. You have a problem with how I'm doing something, tell me. But otherwise, let me run it the way I want. Bitch at me if the bottom line isn't what you want it to be."

  God, the combination of her wraithlike appearance and her go-to-hell attitude turned him on like a six-burner stove.

  "We're not open on Monday. Otherwise it's a six-day work week." He narrowed his gaze. "Think you can handle it?"

  "Yes." She didn't blink. "But I have three conditions."

  Okay, the other shoe was about to drop. He braced himself. "Let's hear them."

  "One, I don't work before sundown. Ever. I'll do extra hours from two a.m. to dawn if needed, but every daylight hour is my own time. I'll make sure I coordinate with deliveries and suppliers so that doesn't cause you any hassles."

  He'd been ready to point that issue out. Still, he pursed his lips, unwilling to show her how quickly she'd anticipated his concern. "Not sure how well that will work, but we'll see how that goes. Do you have a problem with daylight?"

  "I have a condition that requires me to sleep during a lot of daylight hours and stay out of sunlight. You can call it vampirism, since that's what most people do."

  He gave her an odd look. "Does your doctor have a longer name for it?"

  "That's my business and not yours, long as it doesn't interfere with how I do my job. It won't. Condition number two. In your storage cellar, you have a backroom filled with old junk. I want it for a place to crash. I'll handle cleaning and reorganizing what's in it, and furnishing it."

  "I can do better than that." He hoped he wasn't going to regret this. "There's a two-room apartment above the saloon that you can have as part of the job. It probably needs a good scrubbing, but if you can manage for one night I can get a couple of the hands to come out and help with the worst of it."

  "Fine. I'd like both rooms. If I'm working late nights, I want to sleep somewhere dark and quiet during daylight hours. Having a cot in that backroom will give me that. I'll take care of the cleaning. No need to pull hands from your ranch. Sounds like you have plenty for them to do out there."

  "You know, you haven't told me dick about your experience," he said bluntly.

  "I watch a lot of Bar Rescue," she said without missing a beat. "That Jon Taffe, he's the bomb."

  "Yeah, reality shows definitely set you up with the skills I saw tonight." He didn't smile, but neither did she. "You're sending me one of two messages, honey. Either 'hands off, my past is off limits' or 'I've already proven I can do this job, unless you're too much of a dumbass to see it'."

  "I think we already covered the latter," she responded, then flicked a glance over him. "But the hands-off part is my final condition of employment."

  That look said she wasn't just talking about her past. His brow creased. Was she suggesting he needed to keep his hands to himself? Hell, except for him holding her wrist a couple times, she'd been the one doing the most touching. Though the chemistry was undeniable. Maybe she'd noticed he'd been nursing a perpetual hard-on since she'd walked into the bar.

  Hell, honey, there isn't a man alive who could control that around you, and you know it. Maybe that was why she felt she had to reinforce the hands off. Maybe there were guys who'd had trouble with the word no. Well, he wasn't one of those dickheads.

  "You don't have to worry about that," he said, meeting her gaze head on. "I don't go where I'm not invited. Ever."

  "Your behavior behind the bar earlier tonight suggests you're not that well-behaved." Her tongue slid out between her full lips, the tip of it touc
hing the lower one. Her gaze was a lick of flame along his skin.

  Oh sweet Jesus. His balls already ached from her proximity, enough he knew he'd be jerking off tonight when he finally hit a bed.

  "You misunderstood me," she said. Her blue eyes did that laser thing that speared him right down into his scrotum. "Condition number three. You're one of my employment benefits. And that starts right now."

  Chapter Three

  Selene knew this was a mistake. She was hungry, and she knew better than to make decisions when she was hungry. For a young vampire, hunger was more than a quick carb-protein snack. It was an all-consuming, all-encompassing need for nourishment. For the body, soul and libido. Particularly the libido.

  She'd actually detected Quinn Pedraza when she first entered the bar. Amid the moderate-sized crowd of about seventy people, she'd looked around, seeking the source of that wonderful smell. Red blooded, male, strong. A powerful man, and not just physically. She'd drawn him in through her all her senses, the potential nourishment tailored to her specific requirements like a chef catering her favorite meal.

  It was hard to explain how she could pick that out. It was a skill that wasn't usual, even for vampires, so she kept it low key in her shadowy world. But this had been too appealing to resist. She'd targeted that hallway to the office area and, though she couldn't see him, she'd known he was there. He was the only blood in the building she wanted.

  She'd always been a picky eater.

  God, she was in Texas, of all places. Since most vampires weren't attracted to places where the sun could fry an egg on a rock, it was a good choice. She wanted to be away from where other vampires were, particularly one vampire. Texas was as far from New York City and Laurent's normal milieu as she could imagine without leaving the country. That had been her primary concern, until she'd seen Quinn and realized the last time she'd really fed had been three days and eight states ago.

  He was the quintessential alpha male, stepping right from the pages of a Marlboro Man ad. He wouldn't expect her to know what that was, any more than he would expect her to be sixty-two years old. But he'd picked up on the different maturity level pretty quick, as well as some other things she hadn't expected.