But if there was one thing he knew about this woman, it was that she was a fireball, and stamping that fire out didn’t seem right. Plus, this was their so-called honeymoon, and if she wanted to celebrate for one more night before they went public, then he had no complaints.
Yet then she’d looked at him, their gazes snapping together like magnetized locks, and he’d seen something he’d never witnessed before in a female: a light, like she didn’t want to see anyone else on this earth but him. Like it mattered that he’d walked through the door and was here.
Hell, wasn’t she supposed to be acting like that as his wife? It was her job now, and even if they’d been all over each other last night in the limo, it was only because they’d been drunk. They didn’t know each other well enough to be glad to see each other.
Bit by bit, everything else in the room came back into existence—the music, the cheering crowd that’d raised a ruckus earlier than usual tonight. Then Ben’s vision expanded to include Kat, who was in Jimmy Beetles’ face, wagging her finger at him. Ben almost had to blink three times to realize that Kat had a little makeup on and had tamed her hair down.
Slowly, he glanced to the other side of the bar, where that stranger he’d seen this morning sat back in his chair, his hands behind his head as he reclined, very interested in Kat’s makeup, too, it seemed.
Kat’s voice slammed into Ben’s consciousness. “I’m out of the saloon for five minutes and you’ve already conjured trouble, Beetles!”
The oversexed deviant gave a belly laugh. “Some things are unavoidable in a man. Can you blame my testosterone for wanting to see her dance?”
Ben finally recovered, then went over to Liz, helping her off the bar, whispering in her ear. “Low profile, huh?”
She shrugged innocently, and his chest tilted, then righted itself. But why not when she was so appealing? Way more than was good for him if this was just going to be a business arrangement.
Would it have to be, though?
With the way Liz was looking at him, he wasn’t so sure. . . .
Beetles said, “I’ll give this to our guest, too—I didn’t even have to get her drunk to get me that money. First girl up there every night wins!”
“Money,” Liz murmured to Ben. Then she slapped a hand against her forehead, laughing. “Duh. The pail behind the bar. That’s a pot someone wins if they get a girl to dance for them. He told me it was a boot contest.”
Ben rested a hand at the small of her back, loving the feel of the graceful curve there. He spoke loud enough so that Beetles could hear. “He tells women much worse things to get them to do what he wants.”
Dillinger, who’d taken over behind the bar for Kat, had already handed the money over to Beetles, and the biker was counting it.
“Shit, Hughes,” Beetles said, “are you kinda protective about this one? If I’d known she’s yours . . .”
Ben started to walk Liz away from the group of bikers who were congratulating Beetles and laughing. Maybe he was protective. He should be—any husband would be.
He spoke to Liz. “I think this is a good time to talk about what husbands and wives act like in bars—especially this husband and wife.”
They ended up in a corner where black-and-white framed photos of the saloon hung. The smell of Liz’s spring perfume wound into him, clogging his head.
Business. That’s what they needed to talk about.
“I know, I know,” Liz said, leaning against the wall, one foot propped against it as she sent him a helpless look. “I’m supposed to be respectable now. It seemed like an innocent thing to do, though, taking part in a boot contest that’s an R and T tradition.”
Boot contest. Yeesh. But Ben had used some wilder lines in his time than that. “For future reference, watch out for Beetles. He’s a nomad in a motorcycle club, a gambler who doesn’t like to be crossed. He seems like a jolly little man, but he can be bad news.”
“Wow. Okay. I didn’t think he was that bad.”
“Just wait until the first fight breaks out. He’ll be in the middle of it.”
She was watching Ben with a smile and a velvety gaze. And when a slow, country-shaded song—John Lee Hooker—came on the jukebox, she swayed a bit, just like she felt the music inside of her.
“Liz . . .” he said. “Did you have anything to drink?”
“I’m as sober as a church mouse. But I never did have that salad.”
He could see one on the bar in front of the stool where she must’ve been sitting; a prepackaged item from the general store. Kat, who was slinging drinks behind the bar now, had probably gotten it for her.
“Maybe we should take that home and have our talk about the contract while you eat there,” he said.
But she was still moving to the music. “I like it here,” she said.
“Liz . . .”
She reached up, curling her arms around his neck. She had some kind of determination in her eyes that he couldn’t guess at.
“Kat told me about your Rolexes,” she said.
It occurred to Ben that he’d had some fun with a few Rolex Bunnies right here in this very corner, and he tensed.
Liz noticed. “I’m not mad about it.”
“There’s no reason for you to be.”
Now it was her turn to tighten up, and her hands slid from his neck downward, leaving streaks of heat on his skin.
He hadn’t meant to be harsh. All she was doing was acting the part of a woman who’d soon be announced as his wife, showing everyone that she was into him and there was nothing false about them at all. He had no reason to get on her about sounding jealous.
“Another thing you should know,” he said, “is that I’ve left the Rolexes behind.”
“I sure hope mine was the last of them.”
He could feel everyone’s eyes on them, and since the press might take it upon themselves to sniff around the R&T when they decided that his quickie marriage was tabloid-worthy, he played the part of happily married person, too.
He placed his hands on Liz’s hips, pulling her toward him, swaying to the song like they were on a real honeymoon.
There. She relaxed against him, sighing, resting her head on his shoulder.
Her hair smelled so good. She felt so right. This whole act was going to be easy, wasn’t it?
She turned her head so that her lips were close to his ear. “There’s a girl in here who has a Rolex.”
“She saw me when I walked in, waved, then went back to her man for the night. She’s a long-distance trucker and doesn’t have any interest in another watch, Liz.”
“You say that like I’m nagging at you.”
“In truth, if you were a good wife, you probably would be.” Not that he’d know.
“Is that how marriage goes?” she asked.
She held him closer, and his pulse jittered.
Then she whispered in his ear. “Maybe I should try to show you what you’d be missing if you even looked at another woman in here tonight.”
When she scratched her fingernails down his back, he nearly took off, ricocheting around the room like a bullet from a trigger-happy shooter.
It was happening again—his sex drive growling, telling him he wanted her and there was no reason he couldn’t have her, especially since they were married.
All he could do was speak in gritted frustration as blood rushed to his groin, the friction of her hips causing more heat.
“What’re you doing, Liz . . . ?”
“Dancing with my husband during our secret honeymoon.”
He gripped her hips, wanting to put her at a distance, yet not wanting to. “Are you getting back at me for messing up this morning or for the Rolexes in general? Because your punishment’s working.”
“Fantastic.” She kissed his ear.
Shit. “We’re going to end up in the same room tonight if you don’t cut it out.”
“And why is that a bad thing, Ben?” she asked, her voice husky, inviting.
As she sl
id her mouth over his skin and to his lips, he asked himself the same damned thing, unable to come up with any good answers.
13
As Kat shoved bottles of beer into an ice-filled tub at the bar and watched Ben and Liz over in the corner of the saloon, she thought, Déjà vu.
She couldn’t count how many times Ben had taken a woman over to that shadowed area, a new Rolex shining from his partner’s wrist, a kiss turning into a caress turning into a hot rush of lust as he whisked her out of the saloon.
But, this time, it was a “wife” he was kissing.
Was this part of his braindead marriage plan? Was he going to break that sweet girl’s heart before long, even if his intentions weren’t bad, just misguided? Kat kinda liked Liz—she’d had a fine sense of humor with Jimmy Beetles and his shenanigans, and she seemed nice enough. Also, she’d given Kat the makeup when she didn’t have to.
Conscious of the color she’d lightly run over her lips, Kat pushed the tub of beer in front of Hooper and Dustin, two of her regulars. She’d been trying not to look at the other side of the saloon, though.
Isaiah Smith. At a table. Sitting there like he was waiting for her to make eye contact.
Damn, he was probably going to think she’d put on the lipstick and watered down her hair in the general store restroom for him. But why else would she have done it? For her own vanity? Good one.
Kat didn’t have long to wonder about what was on his mind, because when more staff showed up to help with the Friday night rush, thanks to the R&T’s Tubs o’ Beer weekends and the band, Kat was able to take a breather, look up from wiping her hands on a towel, and find Isaiah Smith crooking his finger at her from his table.
Come on over.
It was like arrows were shooting through her veins and leaving drifting hearts behind. Or . . . whatever. Shit, how dumb. Still, she flooded up with hot and cold sensations that mixed together, not knowing what to do with them.
But she was on duty and he was a customer. Maybe he needed something, so she skulked from behind the bar and through the crowd that was drinking and dancing to the band that’d started up in the courtyard, the rowdy tunes coming through the open door. By the time she arrived at Isaiah’s table, he’d already set down the paperback he’d been reading—an urban legend book she hadn’t liked the look of—and stood from his chair, tall and big, making her pulse stomp to the heavy, down-home beat of music.
She hoped to God he wasn’t going to quiz her about urban legends, seeing as she’d contributed to a secret one she still couldn’t believe had happened all those years ago.
Tell me, Katrina—did Clay take the silver with him or are you hiding it somewhere for him? You know I’m gonna find out sooner or later, so just tell me now . . . make this easy on yourself . . .
Kat put that behind her, though. She’d made sure this particular chapter of her book was closed, taking great pains to see that she wasn’t a part of those pages anymore. That no one outside the few friends who knew the story would ever find out.
Looking straight ahead at Isaiah as he casually reached over to her, she put her guard up when he took one of her hands in his and put his palm on her hip, moving to the music.
He wanted to dance?
“I don’t have time for this,” she said loudly, aiming it high so he could hear it. He loomed over her, and his strength and presence made her feel light, like he could carry her anywhere he wanted and she’d let him. Like she could leave everything that’d weighed her down for the last decade behind if she’d let it go and let him spirit her off somewhere else.
“Make time,” he said, smiling, those beautiful stained glass green eyes sparkling.
At first, she fought against giving in to his easygoing demand. But . . . what if she did make time? What if she leaned into him a tad closer, just like . . . this?
As she gradually pressed against him, only slightly, enough so that she felt how hard his chest and stomach were, she held her breath.
Or what if she allowed herself to put her hand on his arm as he snuggled his hand in the small of her back, like . . .
This.
She hadn’t felt a man’s arm, with all its muscles and stalwart contours, under her palm for so long. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it, either, even if what she’d had with a man ten years ago had ended in a nightmare she’d been hiding from ever since.
When the sound of a smashing bottle crashed over the music, Kat started, primed to grab her bat or shotgun from behind the bar, but Isaiah wouldn’t let her go. And when she saw that it was only Jimmy Beetles getting clumsy with a beer, she jerked her chin for Dillinger to clean the mess.
As her employee went to tidy up, Kat’s gaze strayed to Ben, who was pulling Liz through the crowd, no doubt because the sound of a crashing bottle never led to good things in the R&T. Smart guy, pulling Liz away now that the night was just getting started.
But it also looked like Ben was getting his wifey out of here for another, more impassioned reason altogether. . . .
Isaiah bent down to Kat’s ear, and she got jumpy again, her belly tickled by the near contact. He smelled like pines, clean and fresh, a layer of musk underneath.
All male.
“You’re sure wired,” Isaiah said. “You always this way?”
“Wouldn’t you be with this crowd?” His barely curly hair had brushed her cheek as he moved to listen to her, and her skin sizzled to a damned flush. “Hell, I gotta get back to work, so . . .”
“Not yet.” His mouth. Her ear. “I’ve got you until the end of this song, Baby Blue.”
Was he talking about the color of her eyes? He’d noticed?
“You look extranice tonight,” he added.
Double blush.
“Nice enough,” he said, “to distract me from my research. I’ve been digging around for that story about the gunfight that took place in here a hundred years ago. You know, the altercation between those miners who were playing poker.”
His arms . . . so muscled, so firm. Couldn’t she stay for just a minute more?
“All right,” she said as he leaned over again to listen. “Simple story. A miner named Terence Hicomb cheated a table of players, and Rascal Bingwood, another miner, didn’t take kindly to it, so he shot Terence.” As Isaiah subtly rubbed her lower back, Kat tried to calm down her heartbeat. “He fired and missed more times than he landed a bullet, but his aim was true once, which is what counted.”
“I hear there’re bullet holes somewhere in the saloon.”
“In the wall behind all those bikers.” Damn, her pulse. It wouldn’t even out. “You can look another time, when the boys are gone.”
Isaiah stared at the spot where Jimmy Beetles was watching Dillinger sweep up glass while his buddies made out with women in different stages of sex play. Just as long as there was no screwing or porno moves in her place, she tolerated it.
Apparently, Isaiah was halfway satisfied with her shoot-out story . . . but then his eyes went brighter, and he said, “Now that I’ve got you giving me some history, how about yours, Kat?”
She froze, right there in his arms. Her heartbeat, which had been feeling so alive again, sputtered. Why’d he have to say such a thing? Why couldn’t they have finished out the dance and that would be that?
Her taut posture didn’t escape Isaiah’s notice. “I only ask because I find you interesting. There’s something secretive about you, and it’s driving me crazy.”
Memories flashed again: holding back the fear as she was pulled through the desert behind the mountains near Rough & Tumble. Show me where that silver’s at, Katrina, or you’ll find yourself in another one of those graves the mobsters used to dig out here. . . . Getting pushed to her knees, the rocks eating at her skin. A knife needling her side. I can make you talk, you bitch, so talk! The knife, shoved up under her shirt, the blade cold against her ribs. The taste of blood in her mouth as she bit the inside of her lip, willing herself not to say anything, because she didn’t want to
get Clay in trouble. She didn’t know where any silver was anyway, hadn’t even known there was silver because he’d never told her about any during the ridiculously short, heart-and-head-spinning week she’d opened her heart to him, letting him in too fast, too stupidly, like she’d never done with any other man before. . . .
Then the cut, deep enough to be more than just a warning. A flinch at the pain, the sharp wetness. Talk, you bitch!
A second of not knowing what to do, having nothing to say. The blade digging into the slice of pain in her skin again . . .
Out of nowhere, a shot fired in the air, echoing through the dead of night—
Kat pushed back from Isaiah, and he stood there with his arms open and empty, his expression blank. He probably didn’t know to what make of her, and that was okay, that was the way she needed to keep it, because she hadn’t spent ten years in a hole of her own making for nothing. Not even for a man with green, green eyes.
By the time she went back behind the bar, smoothing out her breathing and her hopping pulse, he was gone.
And even though she told herself that was a good thing, she felt lonelier and more buried in her past than ever.
***
When Ben had ushered Liz back to the house—a short, moonlit walk that seemed like it took forever—they hadn’t spoken much. The live music floating from the saloon had filled the silence as she’d tried to keep up with him while they hoofed it down the gravel-sided road to Boomer’s picket-fenced home.
Liz had taken Ben’s rush as a good sign. He was taking her away from the saloon because she’d gotten him all hot and bothered, right? Welcome to the honeymoon!
But she was still going to teach him a little lesson about treating her like less than she deserved yesterday and this morning. No matter how much a woman wanted a man, she had to show him that she wasn’t there to be taken for granted.
Even if she was definitely there for the taking.
After they’d entered the house, she expected Ben to lose his cool, pin her against the nearest wall, start kissing her like a fiend. She’d been aching for it. Yet when he went to the kitchen and pulled out a chair for her instead, she hesitated.
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