by Kristi Gold
Forcing her gaze away, Fiona turned from the counter to the back shelf housing the coffeepot and realized the temperature had just risen about a hundred degrees. She poured some of the muddy brew into the mug, glanced in the mirrored wall, then tightened the band securing her hair high on her head as if that would improve her appearance. Her ponytail looked like a spastic bird’s nest, random tendrils falling around her face like loose springs. Her sleeveless blue blouse revealed the results of happy hour and displayed all the freckles on her pale arms. Just her luck. Hank the Hunk had walked into her life and she looked like warmed-over deer dung.
Fiona gripped the cup in both hands, hoping it didn’t slide across the damp surface and land in his lap when she set it down. Of course, then she would be forced to hop over the bar and clean it up, not an altogether unpleasant thought. But hot coffee on his crotch did not a good impression make, not to mention it might be painful if it seeped through his pants. Then he would have to take his pants off—
Earth to Fiona.
She turned back to the bar and set the cup before him, fortunately without incident. “It’s kind of strong.”
He kept his intense eyes fixed on hers. “I prefer it that way.”
He might as well have said he preferred randy sex, considering the way Fiona’s body reacted with a series of hot flashes and a fluttering heartbeat.
Fiona realized she should probably stop staring at him as if he’d grown a third eye. Moving a few feet down the bar, she pretended to straighten glasses that didn’t need straightening, sending subtle glances in his direction now and again. He swiveled around on the stool, one arm resting on the bar, his large hand wrapped around the mug as he focused on the television suspended in the corner above the pool table.
How silly that she should be having such a strong reaction to this guy. His gold loop earrings, one in each lobe, and collar-length dark hair hanging down from beneath the cap made him seem just a little bit too dangerous. Of course, she hadn’t been involved with anyone since the breakup with her erstwhile fiancé, Paul the potato farmer. Unfortunately, for the past few years, she’d been in a man famine. But Paul hadn’t been the adventurous sort, and he hadn’t given any credence to Fiona’s dreams of owning and managing her own hotel. He’d simply told her goodbye when she’d asked him to come with her. Granted, that farewell had stung like a hornet, but now that she’d had some distance, she realized that she wasn’t suited for a man like Paul. He’d preferred the quiet life and crops; she preferred bright lights and big city—and craved adventure.
Adventure was sitting only a few feet away in the form of a demigod with a black clothing fetish. A man who could probably show her the time of her life, if she worked up enough nerve to make the suggestion.
Fiona mentally cataloged all the bad pickup lines she’d experienced in her twenty-five years. Mind if I suck your lips off your face? Too obvious. Could I show you the back seat of my sedan? Too Benny Jack. Besides, her car was temporarily out of commission. And apparently so were her seduction skills.
Come-ons were not her forte, but she decided it was now or never. She would engage him in a conversation. Something simple. The weather. Jockeys or briefs?
Inhaling a cleansing breath, Fiona grabbed a moderately clean rag and began working her way back in his direction. When she was only inches from his hand, she asked, “Would you like more coffee?”
“Not presently.” He subtly surveyed the area, something that might be lost on any casual observer, but not on Fiona.
“Are you looking for someone?” she asked.
He shifted back around to face her. “Yes.”
A man of few words. But that would not deter her. Tonight she would become Fiona the Fearless Flirt. “A woman?”
“No.”
Fiona wanted to cheer. “Okay. What does your friend look like? Maybe I’ve seen him around.”
“He is definitely not a friend.”
From his acid tone, Fiona wondered if she would soon have a fight on her hands. “I’m guessing he’s an enemy, right?”
He gave her a questioning look. “Are you interested in astrology?”
A totally unexpected question. Fiona didn’t see him as an astrology kind of guy, and frankly she was hard-pressed to believe that planet alignment controlled fate. Where was the tall dark stranger who was supposed to enter her life when Mars was in retro-something? Sitting right in front of her.
What the heck. She’d play along. “I find astrology somewhat intriguing. In fact, I’d bet you’re a Scorpio.” The oversexed sign.
“Correct.”
Bingo! Darn, Fiona, you’re good.
His eyes narrowed. “Are you a Leo?”
No, she was a Pisces. But if he wanted her to be a Leo, she could do that. She liked lions. In fact, he made her want to growl. “How’d you guess?”
He hesitated a moment then said, “I did not realize you were a woman.”
Ouch. Did she look that awful? And did he think she had bowling balls stuffed in her shirt? Granted, she’d always considered being a bit top heavy somewhat of a curse for someone with such a small frame, yet she’d never expected anyone to believe they weren’t real, or that she was a cross dresser. But, after all, this was Vegas. And it would be just her luck if he was gay. “Yes, I’m a woman. If you want a drag club, you might try downtown or the Strip.”
“My apologies.” His gaze settled on her breasts. “It is quite obvious you’re a woman. I meant I was not informed of your gender.”
Okay, she could forgive him. But she was still a trifle confused and a whole lot warm when he leaned forward and asked, “Have you seen anything?”
She saw the crease framing the right of his mouth that probably turned into a dimple when he smiled, something he had yet to do. But Fiona smiled, a coy one, or at least she hoped it looked flirtatious and not forced. “I’ve seen just about everything. What exactly are you looking for?”
Before he could answer, the drunk Fiona had ousted not more than hour ago picked that inopportune time to burst through the door, clamoring for a beer.
Fiona pushed back from the bar and said, “You don’t need to be in here, Chuck. I’m not going to serve you.”
Ignoring Fiona, Chuck staggered behind the bar. “Just one more brewsky.”
Fiona scowled at him and pointed at the door. “You’ve had enough, now leave.”
“Aw, come on, Fee-Fee.”
He was pushing his luck now. “Go home, Chuck.”
“After you give me another drink,” he slurred, bringing his foul breath with him as he leaned forward and pointed a bratwurst finger in her face.
“Do what the lady asks or you will have to answer to me.”
Fiona glanced at Scorpio who now stood by the stool, looking and sounding like a dark knight bent on coming to her rescue. And they’d said chivalry was passé. What did they know? Regardless, even if she didn’t have a black belt in karate, or any color of belt for that matter, she was quite capable of taking care of herself. “He’s harmless,” she assured him before regarding the drunk again.
When Chuck clutched Fiona’s collar in both beefy fists, Fiona grabbed his wrists and shouted, “Back off!” thrusting her knee upward toward the intended target, but Chuck moved back before she could do any damage. No, not moved back. Yanked back by Scorpio who had somehow scaled the bar and now had the drunk pinned against the counter. He muttered something in a language that Fiona couldn’t understand, but she didn’t think he was telling Chuckie to have a nice night.
He shot a glance at Fiona. “What do you wish me to do with him?”
“Just put him out the door. I’ll call the police if he comes back in.”
Chuck looked as if he might blubber as Scorpio grabbed him by the nape and guided him toward the exit. Fiona felt like blubbering, too, as she watched her one opportunity to have some adventure walk out the door, probably never to return.
Darn. Another night in Dullsville.
As Darin stepped
into the warm night, he silently cursed the drunk, cursed the fact that he’d been caught off guard by the FBI operative’s gender. He’d expected a man when Kent had told him the agent would operate under the code name Leo, not an attractive woman with hair the color of a sunset, large green eyes and perfect breasts that he had not been able to ignore. But he must ignore her if he intended to complete his mission. He had no time for a liaison or lover even if he’d entertained those thoughts when he had first set eyes on her. That was before he realized she would serve as his partner in apprehending Birkenfeld, not his partner beneath tangled sheets.
As soon as he deposited the drunk in the parking lot, he would return inside to the agent and discuss their plans before Birkenfeld’s scheduled arrival in one hour. He would also attempt to keep his eyes off her attributes, though that might prove difficult. But if all went well tonight, Darin would be back on the plane tomorrow morning and Birkenfeld would be back behind bars. And he would leave the woman behind without discovering if the fiery passion she seemed to possess held true in bed. Under different circumstances, he might attempt to find out.
Darin guided Chuck down the steps while the drunk whined, “Don’t hurt me, man.”
He had no intention of hurting him unless he attempted to harm the agent, although he suspected the woman could handle this troublemaker. After all, she had been trained by the best.
As they reached the walkway at the bottom of the steps, a passing man with a shaved head, his eyes lowered to the ground, muttered, “Excuse me.”
Darin’s blood ran cold at the sound of the voice.
With one hand on the drunk’s neck, the other poised on the gun beneath his jacket, Darin turned and said, “Roman Birkenfeld.”
The man spun around and their gazes connected. Recognition dawned in the demonic doctor’s beady eyes before he shoved Chuck into Darin and took off.
Pushing the drunk aside, Darin gave chase, adrenaline pumping through his veins, his heart pounding with every step as he closed in on the criminal, but not before Birkenfeld disappeared around the back of the building.
Flattening himself against the brick wall, Darin moved into the dimly lit alley, his gun drawn, and came upon two figures struggling on the ground. He saw the shock of red hair then the silver glint of a knife poised above the woman’s chest as she fought to hold Birkenfeld’s arm at bay, shouting, “Get off me, you jackass!” Memories of another place, another time, another woman assaulted him.
Sheer instinct drove him forward to grab Birkenfeld by the arm. In a split second of stupidity, Darin took his attention from the fugitive in order to make certain the woman was not injured, allowing Birkenfeld the opportunity to strike.
The knife hit home, slashing first across Darin’s left thigh, then his side. Anger overrode the pain but he couldn’t see well enough to take a clean shot without risking shooting the agent who’d entered the fray, pummeling the back of Birkenfeld’s neck but doing little to hinder the criminal’s knife-wielding. Darin kicked out, landing the toe of his boot in Birkenfeld’s ribs, and at the same time the blade cut across the back of his right ankle. The blow proved to be too much, dropping Darin to the gravel surface. The gun, wrenched from his grasp at the impact, skittered across the pitted pavement, leaving them both vulnerable.
Darin heard the sound of harried footsteps and rolled to his belly, fumbling for and finding the gun, but not soon enough to prevent Birkenfeld from escaping into the night before he could fire off a round.
He eased onto his back, his chest heaving from labored breaths, his head swimming from the wounds and the tactical errors he had committed. The mistakes of his past seemed bent on recurring whenever a woman’s safety was involved.
Turning his head to his right, he found the agent on her knees next to him. At least she was alive. “Are you hurt?” he managed.
“I’m fine.” She gave him a visual once-over, pausing at his thigh. “Oh, God, you’re bleeding!”
Darin worked his way into a sitting position to assess the damage. The guard light above them provided enough illumination to see the slit in the T-shirt on his right side below his ribs. Fortunately, the jacket had provided enough protection against severe damage to his flesh. His thigh injury was worse, a dark stain fanning from the perimeter of the gash in his pants, indicating blood. But his ankle ached more and he suspected Birkenfeld’s knife had done the most damage there. Nothing that would not heal, but it would hinder his pursuit, at least tonight.
He muttered several oaths in Arabic directed at his carelessness.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” the agent said, her voice surprisingly calm.
Darin clasped her wrist before she could stand. “No hospitals. No doctors.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you nuts?”
“I’ve had worse injury, I assure you. Did you not have your gun drawn when you encountered Birkenfeld?”
“Birkenfeld?”
Obviously she was somewhat in shock. “The fugitive whom you were engaging in hand-to-hand combat.”
She frowned. “First, I don’t own a gun. Second, he ran into me when I was coming out the back with the garbage. Third, I don’t know any Birkenfeld.”
Darin scowled. “Did they not inform you that he was the man we would be apprehending?”
“Who are they? And who are you?”
Darin suddenly realized he had made two grave errors. “You are not FBI?”
She attempted a weak smile. “You have the F and B right, but that would be for Fiona the Bartender.”
He gritted his teeth, braced his elbows on bent knees and lowered his head. Ben had been correct in assuming he was not the right man for this mission. Yet, now more than ever, Darin wanted Birkenfeld to pay.
She came to her feet and wiped her hands over her jean-covered thighs. “Let me get the bartender who just came in to relieve me. He can help me get you inside.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because the bartender was more than likely the real FBI agent, and Darin did not want the man to know what a fool he’d been. Letting Birkenfeld escape had been Darin’s mistake, and he would correct it. But how? He was injured. He could not do this alone. He would need help, something he hated to admit.
Darin leveled his gaze on Fiona, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern. Even if she was not FBI, she was his only ally at the moment. He would be forced to rely on her assistance, if she was willing to give it. “Do you live nearby?”
“I have an apartment a couple of miles away.”
“Take me there.”
She braced her hands on her waist and stared down on him. “First, you have to tell me who you are and what this is all about.”
He would only tell her what he must to reassure her. He would not subject her to more danger by revealing everything. “If you will see me to your apartment, I will give you details. I will say that I am working for law enforcement. The man named Birkenfeld is very dangerous. I’m here to apprehend him.”
Fiona’s expression brightened. “So you’re one of the good guys?”
“Yes.”
She frowned. “How do I know that?”
Darin lifted his arms from his sides. “In the right pocket of my pants, you will find my credentials.”
She crouched down and rifled in his pocket for a few moments. Had he not been in such pain, he might have enjoyed the activity. After she withdrew the black folder, she looked at the fabricated license, looked back at him, then back at the license. “Frank Scorpio? Texas Peace Officer?”
“That is correct.” He shifted his leg and winced from the pain in his ankle. “Could we possibly leave soon?”
“I have to call a cab. My car’s in the shop.”
“I have a rental in the lot.”
“Okay, but I’m driving.” She rose to her feet again. “I’ll have the new guy lock up. It’ll only take a sec, so don’t go anywhere.”
“I promise I will be here when you return. And do not te
ll him I am here. The fewer people who know, the better.”
“Okay.” She pointed to the gun still in his grip. “Could you put that thing away? It makes me nervous.”
Darin holstered the Beretta for now, but he would take it out again in case Birkenfeld returned. “Anything else I might do for you before I bleed to death?”
She gave him a self-conscious smile. “I’ll hurry.”
Fiona sprinted back into the building, leaving Darin alone in the alley with his pain and the strong sense that getting involved with this woman could be the third mistake he’d made since his arrival in Vegas.
But he had no choice.
Roman Birkenfeld ran into the night. Ran until his lungs burned and his eyes teared. Ran aimlessly through the darkened streets. His throbbing side slowed his progress somewhat and he paused behind an odious commercial trash bin to feel along his ribs where Shakir had kicked him. Nothing broken, only bruised, he suspected. No punctured lung, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to breathe at all.
Damn the woman who’d run into him. He should’ve killed her. He would have, had it not been for that bastard, Shakir. The recollection of his knife slicing through the man’s skin gave him added strength and a good deal of purpose as he continued on at a sprint. He didn’t have to guess how Shakir had found him. The idiot Larry Sutter. The blood-sucking attorney had no doubt ratted him out, setting him up with a promise of money, enough money to purchase passage out of the country. He should have known not to trust him. Should have known that Sutter had lied when he’d said he was leaving the hospital, the meeting tonight a ruse to protect Sutter’s ass.
Damn Shakir and Sutter. If Shakir wasn’t dead, and he hoped he was, he would find a way to take him out. He would take them both out, beginning with Sutter. But how? He couldn’t get close to the hospital; they would recognize him.
