by Holley Trent
She whistled low as her eyes locked in on the stainless steel thing and nodded with appreciation. “A Ruger?”
“It is. You can tell that from all the way over there? You some kind of collector?”
Careful, girl.
She leaned over her coffee and took a long sip as he closed the door.
She knew guns, and she had a special fondness for Rugers. She’d inherited one from her granddaddy and kept the revolver in her safe-deposit box. “Is it a .44?”
“Yeah, you wanna shoot it? It’s got a beautiful grip.”
Hell yeah, she wanted to shoot it. She was geeked he’d even asked, but this was about business, not pleasure. She didn’t like making a habit of mixing the two, especially given what had happened the last time she’d done that.
“No, thank you, though.”
“Your loss.” He set a bottle of whiskey on the table and sat adjacent to her on the left with his coffee—his filled nowhere near as high as hers had been. She understood why the moment he sloshed a bit of spirit into it. He pushed the bottle across the table to her, and she nudged it back.
“I don’t drink when I’m on the job. Besides, I have to drive out of here in a few minutes. It’s going to get dark on the mountain, remember?”
The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened as a slow grin stretched his lips. It was a nice grin—the kind of grin that always made her question a man’s motives. For once, though, she couldn’t tell what this man was up to. He was too fucking pleasant—well, except for his apparent inability to keep his gaze above her neck—but this man was hiding from something and being way too fucking squirrelly about it.
Her cheeks burned from the intensity of his green gaze, and that really pissed her off. Best she could remember, the last time she’d blushed had been in tenth grade when she’d gone two periods without anyone informing her she still had a large plastic roller in her hair.
“Can’t hold your liquor?” he teased.
“Nuh-uh.” She put up a finger and waggled it at him. “Don’t even try it. I don’t take bets and I don’t have to prove myself with challenges.”
He leaned back in his chair and showed off his white teeth while crossing his arms over his chest. “Strong independent woman, aren’t ya? I bet you’re the sort who’s always cleaning up other people’s messes.”
She watched the iridescent surface of her coffee swirl as she slowly rotated her mug between her palms.
He continued. “You probably always have to be the one who remains sober and rational, because if you don’t, the world will collapse, right?”
You’re not gonna bait me, buddy.
She raked her gaze across the tabletop and let it land on his long, pale fingers, which were turning the whiskey cap over and over. No scars. No rings. No attachments at all beyond his pub, probably.
He continued. “I bet you’re so used to being the one in control, you wouldn’t know how to sit still unless someone forced you to.”
True.
She met his stare and found he’d turned down the intensity of his grin a bit. He actually looked a little sad.
That made her want to talk.
“Maybe you’re right, a little. Are you a psychologist in your spare time?” she asked.
He gave a slow shake of his head. “No, just a bartender, really. Most people are pretty easy to peg.”
“I’m not.”
“Maybe not to others, but to me, you’re practically see-through, sweetheart.”
Boom.
Up, her hackles went. They’d been waiting for a trigger, and activated just as they always did.
She smoothed her expression back into its usual blank. “Don’t call me sweetheart.”
It was a classic Dana move, really—derailing a conversation by blustering over the wrong thing.
She actually didn’t care that much about the term of endearment. Coming from his mouth—with that brogue—it was actually quite nice, even knowing he probably called every woman sweetheart.
That was the rub. She wasn’t like every woman, and didn’t want to be treated like it.
He put up his hands, palms-out, and nodded. “Fine. You have a name, so I’ll use it.”
She didn’t trust that smirk. “Thank you, but”–she nudged her cup away and pushed back from the table—“ I really need to go, so you don’t have to worry about saying my name.”
Funny, her feet didn’t seem all that interested in moving. Her legs weren’t so eager to stand. In fact, the longer she sat there, the more some long-suppressed voice in her head nagged that it would be nice for him to practice saying “Dana.”
Perhaps while he was sheathed inside her.
Oh, hell no.
She picked up her jacket and slipped her arms into the holes.
Patrick remained in the same spot, arms crossed over his chest again, wearing that damned smirk.
“What, dammit?”
“If you leave, Dana, you’ll never learn what I’m doing out here in Tick Country, USA.”
“Maybe I don’t care.”
“You care.”
A scoff escaped her mouth before she could squash it. “Oh, are you psychic?”
“I don’t have to be a psychic. I told you—I notice things, and to me, you seem like the kind of woman who isn’t content with simply solving a problem. You have to know all about why, don’t you, sweetheart? Motive?”
Her heart fluttered. She swallowed and narrowed her eyes. “If you call me sweetheart again, I’m going to punch you in the nose.” She turned her right hand’s ring so the stone faced inward. She hoped that was threat enough.
Didn’t look like it.
He lifted his shoulders in the tiniest shrug. “And I bet you could probably land a jab or two, but I’ve got you by, what?” He skimmed her body with his gaze, his smile broadening as he assessed her breasts, hips, and legs. “Eight inches, I’d say. And I’ve big hands.”
She cleared her throat. She’d noticed.
Still, he splayed the fingers of one hand and pointed to it with the other. “It wouldn’t be that hard for me to get you under control. I’m a professional bouncer as part of my job.”
She imagined bouncing, her knees wedged against his sides as she rode him rough, and then she actually heard him. Her voice ratcheted up to a pitch she didn’t know she was capable of. “Control me? Are you out of your fucking mind? I’ll have you know I’ve taken down men twice my size without ever having to draw my gun. I was a damned good cop.”
He didn’t even flinch. “Was?”
Her hands formed tight fists at her side and she shifted her weight. She wasn’t going to let this guy set her off—to turn her into that shrew her ex had hated so much he’d signed her up for a goddamned clinical study hoping to cure it. Three deep breaths and she let it go.
Doc would be so proud.
“Was. Yes.”
He nodded and the knavish smile flattened into a tight line. Instead of goading her with his gaze, he stared into his coffee mug. “It’s shit being a grown-up, thinkin’ you’re all established and stable and suddenly something happens that knocks you on your ass and you’ll never get back to where you were.”
Story of her life, but he wouldn’t have known that.
“Are you speaking from experience, Patrick?” Her voice was low and modulated again. Tender, even, although soft had always been difficult for her. Something about this man, though, made her feel safe in exposing that layer. He wasn’t going to tease her about it—about showing a womanly emotion. That didn’t seem to be his style.
Was he for real, this magical bartender? Or was this another man who’d set her up for a trap?
His turn to scoff. “Sweetheart, I’m living the experience. I’m on my ass right now, trying to get up. It’s why I’m in this fuckin’ cabin and not back in Durham managing the dolts at my pub.”
She studied his face, his placid expression. Observed his chest’s normal rhythm of inhales and exhales.
He wa
s telling the truth. At least for the moment.
“Patrick, if you tell me whatever it is you’re holing up here for is important, I won’t talk. I won’t check in. I’ll leave it to you to tell your staff your whereabouts, or not.”
“Thank you.”
“Believe it or not, I always find my man. Never once have I left a case unsolved since I opened the agency.”
He bobbed his head toward the living room and she took the hint.
She picked up her coffee mug and walked ahead of him into the space.
The room had taken on a chill during the time they’d chatted in the kitchen, and Patrick obviously noticed it, too, because closed the storm door. He left it unlocked. Probably didn’t want her to feel shut in.
The brown corduroy sofa looked comfortable enough, so she took a seat on it and set her mug on the coffee table.
“How long have you been doing this private eye gig?” he asked, slumping onto the opposite end of the chair and turning so his right arm draped the back. His green gaze on her was intense, but not uncomfortable. She’d been stared down by much more malevolent opponents than Patrick O’Dwyer.
“A couple of years. Durham Police booted me three years ago and it took me six months to get back on my feet.”
“What happened? Got shot?”
“If only. That might have been easier.”
She shook her head and studied the back of her right hand. The same hand that’d been stabbed countless times with IV needles—some of which delivered relief, and some that had caused the problems she needed the relief from.
When she cast her stare at him again, his expression had morphed from one of polite curiosity to outright concern.
“I…”
What would she normally have done when asked about that time in her life? She’d get defensive—put up some shield. Snap at the person. Tell them it was none of their business.
But, what had that gotten her? Nothing, besides more trust issues than she had even before she’d been a victim of the study.
She closed her eyes and emptied her lungs, meditating on the sound of her wind—willing herself to be calm.
When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her expectantly.
How did this search mission turn into a therapy session for her?
“I didn’t get shot,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”
He opened his mouth, but before he could follow up, she put up her hands. “Wait, you’re probably thinking my attitude got me fired. Insubordination, right?”
His smile was answer enough.
She gave him a playful jab and crossed her arms.
“It’s not like that, Patrick. I may be bitchy, but I was a damned good cop. That’s not bragging. It’s just truth. I got fired because of a physical issue beyond my control.”
“Physical?”
This time when he inspected her body with his penetrating gaze, it was as if she’d removed a layer of her shielding, leaving her vulnerable to his sight. Her skin prickled as he assessed her from eyes to ankles, and she wrapped her arms over her breasts to hide her traitorous nipples.
“Nothing visible to the naked eye.”
“I was gonna ask.”
She figured she’d try him—use him as an experiment like she had been. See what it felt like to share something so very personal, that sounded so completely insane…even to her. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and worried at it as she bolstered her reserve.
Come on, this guy is no different than any other man. You’re not scared of anyone.
It was easy to be brave in her head, but her body wasn’t quite so courageous. Her booted foot tapped against the hardwood floor on its own volition. Her stomach clenched, sending torrents of acid up her throat. Her heart rate sped. Her cheeks burned.
What’s wrong with me?
His forehead furrowed, and he scooted over one seat to rest a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right. You don’t have to say anything. I can tell it’s personal.”
“I’mamutant,” she mumbled and slapped her hands over her mouth.
Shit.
His eyes went wide. “Pardon?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Patrick didn’t think he’d heard her right. Had she said I’m a mutant? That was what her outburst had sounded like, and his hearing was a little better than the average man’s.
He cocked up an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”
She closed her eyes and cringed. “That didn’t come out right. It’s not something I’ve had to explain a whole lot other than to lawyers and the unemployment commission and so on.”
“Lawyers?”
“Do you like soap operas?” she asked.
“Do I look I watch soap operas?” Hell, he didn’t even have a television at the cabin.
Now it was her turn to eye him from head to toe. He hoped she found him nearly as attractive as he found her, although that was a tall order. Even when she was scowling, Dana Slade was one of the most attractive women he’d ever encountered in real life, and that was with almost no enhancement, make-up or otherwise.
“I imagine you sleep until noon most days, so I guess not.”
He laughed. “I wish I could sleep until noon. You’ve seen my kitchen manager. Would you let him have free reign of the place during the busy lunch hour?”
“Damn, that reminds me.” She patted her various pockets then leaned back to wedge her cell phone out of her pants. She dialed and put it up to her ear and stared at Patrick while she waited.
What’s she up to?
“Hey, Tamara. Do me a favor?”
His pulse raced and cold fear trickled through him.
Hadn’t she said she wouldn’t tell?
He found himself leaning in, waiting to grab the phone if necessary, but he kept his hands curled into loose fists to stave off the compulsion. If she were going to trust him, he’d give her the benefit of the doubt, no matter how hard that was.
“We don’t have a protocol for this, but I guess we need one. I found him. He’s safe. No foul play.” As if anticipating his reaction, she put a finger up to his lips and stilled them. Because she was very bright, she moved her finger away before he licked it, but he grabbed her hand in his two and gave it a gentle warning squeeze.
“No, do not report to Mr. Drake. Mr. O’Dwyer will deal with the fallout when he returns to Durham.”
Not out of the woods yet.
“Don’t worry about the billing.” She narrowed her eyes at him, but didn’t pull her hand away. “Mr. O’Dwyer’s going to compensate me off the books for my expenses, so go ahead and destroy the file.”
Thatta girl.
“No, nothing like that. We’ll discuss it later.”
No you won’t.
Now it was his turn to hold a finger against her lips. He shook his head and she cocked up one elegant eyebrow.
“Go ahead and lock up. If any urgent cases come in, you know how to get me. I’ll be on my way home in the morning.” She ended the call and placed her phone on the table.
“Now, Dana, what was this you were saying about being a mutant?”
She yanked her hand, rolled her eyes, and shifted on the sofa so her back was against the armrest. “Like I said—not too many people know this about me.”
“And I don’t plan on spreading it around. What kind of pub-keep would I be if I spread my customers’ business around?”
“A shitty one. Just like I’d be a shitty private detective if I didn’t respect your confidentiality.”
“Please. Tell me, sweetheart.” ’Cause, boy, do I have a doozy of a secret myself. Try to top it.
“I’m pretty bitchy.”
He wasn’t sure he heard her right. The words were comprehensible, but maybe they’d come out in the wrong order. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s a simple matter of fact. I’m naturally surly. Always have been. I’m impatient and people who lack common sense annoy the shit out of me. I don
’t tolerate foolishness.”
“Well, that eliminates most men from your acquaintance, I’d imagine.”
“Ding ding ding!” She rolled her eyes. “Anyhow, the last smooth-talking fool I fell for thought I could use a bit of sweetening up. I’m a Carolina girl, right? I’m supposed to be sweet as tea and compliant.”
Now that he couldn’t imagine. That little firecracker? Compliant? Hell, he’d like her less if she were. One of his biggest turn-offs was women who seemed to have become lobotomized from one date to the next—they’d be these voracious vixens one day, and the next, eager to bend over backward for him—to ensnare him with their charms.
Fuck charm.
He wanted genuine personality, even if it happened to be snarky.
“God, family, work, home, everything else, self. That’s supposed to be our priority system. If we bump our needs up a little higher, we get maligned for it.”
“So, he told you he wanted you to be more selfless, or what?”
“No. There was this clinical study. He signed me up and I went for it, because they all lied about what the investigation was. They said it was about workplace stress and they administered this serum that was supposed to keep us calm when under duress. Of course, my job was stressful. I wasn’t the kind of cop who liked to stay behind her desk, so I figured I’d give it a shot.”
“What was the study actually for?”
“Behavioral modification through drug introduction. It was supposed to alter brain chemistry—that’s what I learned after the fact—but instead…” She laughed and shook her head. “It warped chromosomes. We were guinea pigs. No, guinea shrews. That was the codename of the study. Shrew.”
“Ah. As in Taming of the…”
She nodded. “They didn’t even test the formula on lab animals before they administered it to us. They just assumed it’d be safe since it was derived from some other drug. Well, it wasn’t. Nearly killed me. I spent months recuperating—waiting for my body to adapt to the changes.”
