Wickedly Dangerous

by Deborah Blake

  Not his top three traits in a woman, for sure. It had been so long since Melissa . . . left . . . he didn’t really remember what those three were. But not odd and mysterious and infuriating. He much preferred his life predictable and calm. That’s why he was sheriff in a little corner of nowhere, instead of someplace noisy and crowded.

  Although The Roadhouse was certainly both.

  Liam eased the squad car into one of the few open spaces of the gravel parking lot in front of the long, mustard-colored wooden building. It didn’t look like much from the outside. Which was probably just as well, since it didn’t look like much on the inside either. Truth in advertising, you might say.

  Nonetheless, The Roadhouse was a favorite with the locals, a no-frills country bar with live music on most nights and all the fried food you could eat, including the best chicken wings in the county, if you didn’t mind having the skin on the inside of your mouth incinerated.

  He left his gun locked in the glove box, since he was technically off duty, and strolled in through the entrance, wearing the same thing most of the others inside were wearing: blue jeans and a tee shirt. A few of the women were wearing tight skirts and dancing to the band playing bluegrass-funk with more enthusiasm than talent on the platform to the right of the bar. Round wooden tables sat four to eight people each, with just enough space between them for the overburdened servers to slide through with trays of drinks and artery-clogging delicacies. The air was redolent with the scent of old beer, new cologne, and the occasional whiff of pot smoke from a dim corner, which Liam determinedly ignored.

  The place was packed—except for the area around Baba, who perched on a stool surrounded by empty space, as if she had an invisible Do Not Approach sign over her head. People were staring at her but trying to pretend they weren’t. He didn’t blame them. She looked damned good.

  Better than good, really, in a skinny black halter top that revealed lots of creamy white cleavage and bared her flat midriff and toned arms, and some kind of short, hippie-looking multicolored skirt. Spike-heeled sandals rested on the brass rail that ran along the bottom of the bar, and her dark mass of hair swirled around her shoulders and flowed down over her back. A half-empty beer bottle sat in front of her, some fancy foreign brand Liam would have sworn The Roadhouse never carried.

  Mouth suddenly dry, Liam walked up to her and noticed something remarkable. More remarkable than the smell of orange blossoms in the midst of a dusty country bar.

  “Those are some tattoos,” he blurted out. “Very unusual.” He slid onto the stool next to her and gestured to Tyler, the bartender, to bring him his usual Samuel Adams, wishing he’d thought before he’d spoken. Nice opening line, McClellan. Smooth. What was it about this woman that turned him from a tough rural lawman into a babbling idiot?

  Baba’s teeth gleamed in the dim light as she gave him the hint of a smile. “Thanks,” she said. “I’m quite fond of dragons.”

  Liam had the feeling she was teasing him, but couldn’t figure out how. Then Tyler put Liam’s beer down with a foamy thud, and Liam decided he didn’t care.

  Cool and slightly bitter, the first sip tasted like heaven and the second like wherever people in heaven went on vacation. “Ah,” he said with a sigh, “that’s better.”

  “A good beer is one of the great blessings of the universe,” Baba agreed, taking another swallow of her own.

  “You’ve got that right,” Liam said, making the “two more” gesture at Tyler when he could catch the bartender’s eye. The tall, skinny man with fading red hair moved so fast, pouring drinks and uncapping beer bottles, his hands were a blur of syncopated motion.

  The tip jar in front of him held a mountain of change, and he smiled cheerfully all night long, no matter how rude or drunk anyone got. If they hadn’t attended the same grief support group for a couple of months, Liam would never have guessed that old sorrow wormed its way through Tyler’s bones like bindweed in a field of corn. Losing a child would do that to you. Liam knew that better than anyone.

  “Here ya go, Sheriff,” Tyler said, full bottles dangling from one large, big-knuckled hand. He winked at Baba. “Nice to see you finally hanging around with a better class of people.”

  Baba bit her lip, clearly amused.

  Liam just rolled his eyes. “I’m a policeman. I usually spend my time with either criminals or lawyers. Hard not to improve on that company.”

  The bartender grinned, working some sort of alchemical magic with orange juice, vodka, and about six other ingredients. “I heard there was a commotion over at the fracking meeting. Did somebody finally take a shot at Peter Callahan?” His freckled face looked mildly hopeful.

  “Not this time,” Liam said. “Just high tempers getting the better of folks. No big deal.”

  Tyler nodded and moved off, taking his potent elixir with him.

  “You know that wasn’t just high tempers, right?” Baba asked, a serious look replacing her amusement at Tyler’s good-natured ribbing.

  Liam sighed, draining the rest of his first beer and plunking the bottle back down on the bar. On the other side of the room, the band surged enthusiastically into an Elvis medley.

  “We’re not going to be able to hear ourselves think in here,” he said. “I don’t suppose you play pool?”

  One corner of Baba’s mouth edged up, and she put her own empty bottle down decisively next to his. “I have been known to knock a few balls around, from time to time,” she said. An evil glint flitted into her eyes and then vanished before he could be sure he’d actually seen it. “I find it mildly entertaining.”

  They picked up their full beers and made their way through to the back room, where the repetitive clicking of hard-plastic balls could be heard over the blessedly muted noise from the front of the bar.

  Liam grabbed a pool cue off the wall and racked the balls while Baba chose her stick. He pondered the many questions he’d like answers to, trying to figure out which one to start with—and whether there was any point in asking any of them, since his companion seemed as disinclined to give him straight answers as the wind was to blow on command.

  He jiggled the rack a little until the balls were all sitting the way he liked them, then removed the white triangle and hung it back in its place on the wall. Across the table from him, Baba looked as cool and implacable as always.

  “So,” Liam said, his tone studiously casual as he chalked the end of his cue. “How about some stakes to make things interesting?”

  One dark eyebrow rose. “Gambling, Sheriff? I’m surprised at you.” She applied the blue cube of chalk to her cue, blowing the excess off with a gentle puff of breath that did risky things to the neckline of her top. “I’m afraid I’m not in the habit of carrying much cash.”

  He shrugged. “I was thinking of something less tangible, actually, but more valuable to me. How about for every ball I sink, you give me an honest answer to whatever question I ask?”

  The second brow rose to join the first. A slight rounding of her cheeks hinted at unexpressed mirth. “How very traditional of you. Questions. I truly dislike answering questions. Couldn’t we just play strip pool instead?” She eyed him pensively. “No? Too bad.”

  The base of her stick tapped the floor as she thought briefly. “Very well. For every ball you sink, I will give you an honest answer. But in return, for every game I win, you will grant me one day of grace out at the meadow; no harassment, no poking around. Peace and quiet to do my work.”

  He pondered that for a moment. It seemed like a pretty good bargain; he only had to sink individual balls to get his reward, she had to win entire games to reap hers. “Done,” he said, and gestured toward the table. “Ladies first?”

  Baba shrugged. “All right,” she said. “Although I’m no lady.” She assumed the classic stance, with her left hand forming a bridge to support the cue while her right supplied power to the stick. Liam was mesmeriz
ed by the sight of her bottom swaying as she bent over the table, but the resounding crash of balls colliding and ricocheting around the felt tabletop focused his attention back where it belonged. The innocent-looking cue ball spun slowly to a stop as three colored rounds plopped into the nets, one after another.

  “That’s solids,” Baba said brightly, and proceeded to run the table, sinking all of her balls with effortless ease, one after another. The steady thunk of her stick against the cue ball sounded like a clock tolling midnight. Liam just stood there, mouth open, as he lost the game without ever getting the chance to make a move.

  “I think I’ve been hustled,” he finally said, as the eight ball slid neatly into the corner pocket.

  The dark-haired woman shrugged again, eyes twinkling. “Hey, the stakes were your idea, not mine, Sheriff.” She took a long swallow of beer, then started racking the balls again. “But I expect you to hold up your end of the deal and give me the day I won.”

  “Fair’s fair,” Liam said. “As long as you don’t do anything illegal.”

  “Who me?” Baba gave him her best attempt at an innocent look. A man two tables over tripped on his own cue and fell into the guy next to him, almost starting a fistfight. Liam snorted, not impressed.

  “My break,” he said. He’d been playing pool in this bar since he was in high school, sneaking down the big elm tree outside his bedroom window to come hang out with his friends. If he couldn’t manage to sink a ball when it was his turn, he’d turn in his badge and take up spot welding.

  He blocked out the chatter from the neighboring tables and the music from the front room. The elusive ribbon of scent that teased him from Baba’s direction was harder to ignore, but he bent over the smooth green felt and inhaled the odor of chalk dust and spilled beer instead. The cue ball shot off the tip of his stick with a solid, meaty thud and turned the geometric precision of the amassed balls into spiraling chaos. The number three ball raced away from its fellows and slid into the corner pocket with a satisfying whoosh, like a rabbit diving into shelter with a coyote hot on its heels.

  Liam felt a slightly predatory rush himself as he straightened up, cocking his head at his opponent. “Stripes,” he said. “And my first question is this: who did you think was responsible for causing all those people to get so out of control at the meeting, and why?”

  He bent down to take his next shot, gesturing with the stick toward the side pocket. “Five ball,” he said. “Well?”

  Baba shrugged. “A waste of a perfectly good question, Sheriff, since I was going to tell you that anyway. But I should make it clear from the start that I don’t have any evidence; just a very strong suspicion.”

  “Considering I’ve got nothing,” Liam admitted with chagrin, “that still puts you at an advantage over me.”

  Baba muttered something that sounded distinctly like, “You have no idea,” then added more to the point, “I think it was the woman who works for Peter Callahan. Belinda said her name is Maya something and that she got here right before children started disappearing.”

  Liam was so started by this pronouncement, he muffed the shot, sending the ball skidding into one of Baba’s and nudging it into a better alignment for her next turn. Profanity made it as far as the inside of his lips and hung there, largely unspoken.

  Baba stalked around the table, eying all the possible angles. Liam just eyed her.

  “What makes you think Maya Freeman has anything to do with this?” he asked. “She may have shown up around the right time, but I’ve looked into her background and everything checks out.”

  One solid-colored ball zoomed past him into a corner pocket, rapidly followed by another two in a blur of rainbow colors. “Appearances can be deceiving,” Baba said coolly. “And that woman is not what—who—she appears to be. All I can tell you is that I saw her do something suspicious at the meeting. Maybe it had nothing to do with the ensuing upheaval, but I wouldn’t want to bet your town’s safety on that, would you?” The eight ball followed all its fellows in as if to punctuate her statement.

  Liam sighed, as much in anticipation of more futile phone calls as at the loss of the game. “I’ll delve a little deeper, see if I can turn anything up.” He started racking the balls again, trying not to be distracted by his opponent’s amber gaze. “I have to admit, there is something about the woman that makes the back of my neck itch.”

  Baba’s shoulders relaxed microscopically as she realized he wasn’t dismissing her suggestion out of hand, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her he still found her a heck of a lot more suspicious than Peter Callahan’s fancy assistant.

  “That’s two days you owe me now,” she said in a satisfied tone. “Are you sure you don’t want to quit while you’re ahead?” A tiny smile played at the corner of her full lips.

  He shook his head and leaned into the break, pushing his frustration into the forward movement of the stick. A yellow ball raced across the green surface, hung for a moment on the edge of oblivion, and then fell over with a swish. Liam grinned at Baba as he knocked a second solid ball in right after it.

  “No thanks, I’m good,” he said. “And you owe me two more answers.”

  SIX

  LIAM PONDERED HIS next two questions, not wanting to waste either one—since there was a distinct possibility he wouldn’t get another chance. The woman played pool like she did everything else, with an almost scary competence and cool grace.

  Baba’s sly half smile didn’t help his concentration any. He didn’t understand what it was about her that shook his usual self-possession. Yes, she was beautiful—in the same way a bolt of lightning is beautiful when it shatters the night sky, or a lioness is beautiful as it races across the veldt. This was not a safe or gentle woman, no damsel in distress in need of rescuing. Any knight in shining armor who dared such a thing would probably find himself picking bits of his own sword out of his teeth.

  Not that he was any kind of knight. Or interested in having any woman in his life, much less this prickly, mystifying, cloud-haired stranger with her secrets and her lies. That all ended long ago, when the world fell out from underneath him, changing in an instant from a place of warmth and joy to a dark and cruel mockery, empty and cold.

  He’d tried to stay strong for Melissa, because that is what you do when you love someone. But she couldn’t be strong for him. Or even for herself, more’s the pity. And then she was gone, swallowed up in an ocean of secrets and lies, and he vowed never again. Never again. And meant it.

  As much as he missed sex, nothing was worth putting himself through that kind of pain and betrayal again. And being a sheriff in a small town meant he couldn’t exactly get away with temporary, meaningless liaisons, even if that were his style, which it wasn’t.

  So why did his fingers itch to run themselves through the silken length of that dark hair every time he saw it? Why did he catch himself staring at her lips, her eyes, the sway of her hips? It’s like that feeling you get when you stand at the top edge of a tall, tall building . . . that momentary urge to step into the abyss, and see what it would be like to fall, and keep on falling. And to hell with the crash that would hit you at the bottom.

  “Sheriff?” An amused-sounding voice cut into his reverie.

  God, he had to get more sleep.

  “Right. First question,” he said after a brief pause. “Have you lied to me?” Liam felt as though the world was holding its breath as he waited for the answer; although why he thought she would tell him the truth now if she hadn’t before, he wasn’t sure. Even so, for whatever reason, he believed she would stick to their bargain.

  Baba gazed at him steadily, amber eyes clear and guileless. “Not nearly as much as you think I have, and not about anything important.”

  A weedy teenager approached the table with a quarter in his outstretched hand, ready to put it in the slot that would reserve the next game for him. A frown and a minute shak
e of the head from Liam sent him scuttling toward one of the other tables. Liam turned the look on Baba, who wasn’t nearly as easy to intimidate, unfortunately. Apparently that was all the answer he was going to get from her on that subject.

  Fine.

  He walked around the table, ostensibly gauging his next shot, and ended up standing close enough to feel the heat of her skin. The room held six tables, and maybe twenty people, but for a moment, it seemed as though they were alone, held in isolation by a bubble of reality in which only the two of them existed.

  His voice was low and serious. “Second question: what are you really doing in this area?”

  She took a long swallow of beer before saying in a matterof-fact tone, “I came because Mariska Ivanov called me for help in finding her granddaughter.” A tiny smile flickered on and off like a lightbulb in an electrical storm. “But there are some very interesting plants growing in Clearwater County, so I didn’t lie when I said that was why I was here. I just didn’t tell you the entire truth.”

  Huh. Liam rocked back on his heels; whatever he’d been expecting, that hadn’t been it. “I didn’t realize you knew the Ivanovs,” he said, trying to figure out if he believed this any more than he did her previous story.

  “I don’t,” Baba said in a calm tone. “But I like Belinda, and I want to help.”

  Liam was confused. “Are you some kind of private detective?”

  “Not at all,” she said, gesturing at the table and the cue he was holding. “I’m a professor and an herbalist. Were you going to take another shot anytime soon?”

  He drew in a deep breath through his nose, trying to curb the impulse to strangle her with her own flowing locks. Odd, mysterious, and infuriating. The woman was going to drive him insane. Even when she was telling the truth, he couldn’t get a straight answer out of her.