Give It All

by Cara McKenna

  Raina’s monopoly on the town’s nightlife would change when the casino was up and running . . . provided it ever got finished. Construction had been halted for a month now while the feds investigated Virgin River for widespread corruption. With progress frozen, Duncan didn’t have nearly enough to occupy him. And the idleness chafed at him like a cilice.

  He watched Raina chatting with patrons at the other end of the bar.

  Another woman was working—Abilene. A girl, really. She was plump and short and angelic, the perfect foil to her employer. She came over as Duncan set his empty tumbler on the wood.

  “Another?”

  He smiled. “I’ll wait.” He let his eyes drift to Raina’s profile. “Not that I find anything lacking in your bartending skills.”

  Abilene smiled back. “I don’t blame you. Those ones she mixes you must be, like, two-thirds vodka.”

  “Perhaps she thinks the tonic is a garnish.”

  Abilene was called away by another customer, and Duncan went back to studying the unlikely object of his fixation. The two of them made about as much sense as Duncan made in this bar, with its gritty floors, dusty rancher clientele, and ever-flowing river of watery domestic beer. Then again, none of the things that transfixed Duncan had ever made much sense to him. Perhaps Raina was simply par for the course.

  Plus, he doubted anything was ever going to happen between them. He was merely an amusement to her—an obnoxious, entitled outsider who tipped like an overzealous ATM, fit only for toying with.

  Which was perfect, really, as Duncan quite enjoyed the sensation.

  Abilene passed by her boss, saying something to Raina that Duncan couldn’t hear. But he could guess, as the woman turned and headed straight for him.

  Slender fingers circled his empty glass, but she didn’t take it away just yet. “Another?”

  “Please.”

  “Two’s usually your limit. Do I need to stage an intervention?” She was teasing—hers was a bar where men proudly boasted of downing a dozen shots just to celebrate the close of a workweek.

  “I’m afraid all the recent inactivity doesn’t suit me,” Duncan returned.

  “Poor baby. I’d kill for a night off. Don’t think I’ve had one in three years. But even if I got one, I’d probably spend it tattooing.”

  Ah yes, her side gig. Duncan rankled inside his expensive suit jacket to imagine her hands inching over strange men’s naked skin.

  “At least you’re still getting paid,” she said. “Want to feel bad for somebody, save your sorrows for the dozens of construction guys who’re twiddling their thumbs for nothing, waiting to find out if they’ll ever get to go back to work at all.”

  She mixed his drink and he tipped her outrageously, then watched as she gathered the empties scattered around the counter. The vodka was working, now. He felt warm and loose, urges and emotions slipping out from under the cap he kept on his vulnerabilities, to flurry about in his blood. To make him hungry. The vodka, or the lust? In either case, he ought not to trust the way he’d recently begun gravitating toward both. Yet here he was. Night after night.

  Raina had an ex, one she was still close with. Or at least Duncan thought Jeremiah Church was her ex . . . the way the man looked at Duncan sometimes, he had to wonder if there was still something simmering there. Though apparently not anything strong enough to keep Raina from flirting with Duncan, the virtual friction between them so intense it was a wonder their clothes didn’t catch fire. The question marks surrounding her and Church had gone from poking him to clawing at him as of late, however. The hazards of an idle brain. He was itchy for answers, wanted them even more than he wanted to maintain the flimsy illusion that he couldn’t care less who warmed her sheets.

  He made it ten minutes—half his drink and three laps of Raina around the bar—before he blurted, “So, you and Jeremiah Church.”

  She batted her lashes, posture changing utterly. She cocked her hip and chin, subtle as a cat hunkering down to stalk a mouse hole. He could just about see her tail twitching. “Yes?” she asked sweetly.

  “What exactly happened between you two that he gives me a look most men would reserve for their mother’s ax murderer?”

  She shrugged, graceful collarbone flashing beneath two layers of black lace—the straps of her top and the ink decorating her skin. “Guess my side effects include withdrawal or something.”

  “You turn a tame man feral.”

  She busied herself stacking nearby empties. “Don’t all women?”

  Not the ones I’m used to. “You dumped him, I take it?”

  She smirked. “I like you drunk, Duncan. Makes me suspect you might even be half human, under all that smooth, icy snakeskin.”

  A snake, am I? How terribly Edenic. Though Raina had clearly bitten into that apple ages ago, savored every scrap of its flesh, and spat the seeds at her jilted lovers’ feet.

  It didn’t matter that he’d helped her and her friends get to the truth surrounding the death of Alex Dunn. Or that Duncan had gotten pistol-whipped in the process—by the sheriff, right before Tremblay attempted to escape. That had been a month ago. Duncan’s broken tooth had been fixed and the stitches removed from his lip, and once again he was back to being a suspect outsider in Fortuity. He’d earned the cursory nod of greeting from Vince Grossier, but that didn’t change the fact that he was the face of the company that was bringing a massive resort casino to their sleepy town. He was gifted with dirty looks daily by any number of distrustful Fortuitans, and he knew what people called him. The names ran the gamut from faggot to cop killer. The former didn’t bother him, but the latter stung. He’d risked a lot to expose Alex Dunn’s actual murderer, but to some of these locals, his mere affiliation with the casino made him complicit. Guilt by association. He was probably taking a risk even drinking here, but if there was one thing Duncan Welch didn’t abide, it was intimidation. Especially when it tried to come between a man and his vices.

  Duncan’s image didn’t do him any favors, either. He was corporate. He was overdressed; he was a British expat; he was wealthy. He was cold and clean and calculating. He was wrong here, in every possible way. Wrong for Raina Harper’s bed, as wrong as her ex was right. And yet ex was the operative word, wasn’t it?

  He sipped his dwindling drink and the alcohol spurred him to tell her, “I don’t think your ex is over you.”

  “That’s his problem, not mine.”

  “And you accuse me of being cold.”

  She grabbed some bills left by another customer and organized the register as she spoke. “Maybe we’re not so different, then, Duncan. In any case, I’m perfectly happy on my own.”

  “Handsome, rugged cowboys need not apply?”

  She smiled, the gesture indulgent. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re jealous.”

  “Simply curious.”

  “Well, I don’t need a man, handsome or otherwise. Not for more than a night or two. I’m already everything a woman wants to be—a mother to everyone who spills their drunken souls all over this wood,” she said, stroking the bar in front of him. “A sister to my closest friends. A lover when it suits me.”

  “A corruptor,” he added, lifting his glass.

  “That also suits me.”

  “I can appreciate your desire for impermanence.”

  She smirked at that. “I’m sure you can. I bet you’re counting down the days until the casino’s built and you get to book it the fuck out of Fortuity, move on to the next job.”

  “Indeed. Though it’d be unfortunate if the construction’s stalled indefinitely and I have to leave two years sooner than planned, with nothing to show for it. Just a load of unfilled foundations drilled into your foothills.”

  He anticipated her reply, something to the tune of glee at the idea of the casino never arriving to take over her hometown. But she surprised him, frownin
g thoughtfully. “You know, it seems like an odd match for a man like you—working on the Eclipse. Luxury resort or not, gambling seems too seedy to be your style.”

  “I’ll stoop to most any adjective you can think of, if the pay is good. I’m not bothered what my bosses are planning.” He sipped his drink. “Casino, water park, megachurch—it’s all the same to me. I came here only to do my job, and to do it well. My commitments are about as personal as a whore’s.”

  She smiled. “A high-class one, no doubt . . . Shame my town hasn’t treated you too gentle, so far.”

  Duncan’s tongue went instinctively to the smooth resin that now composed half of his left front tooth as Raina was called away to attend to other customers. He watched her at it.

  Her assumptions about him offered some comfort. It seemed he still appeared to be in control, above it all. In truth, his life was feeling anything but certain. And it went far beyond all this boredom, as everyone waited for Virgin River to get the green light to recommence construction.

  He tongued his imposter tooth again, feeling a kinship with it. The both of them were imitations. Passing for perfect but underneath . . . broken.

  * * *

  Raina was starting to think the evening was never going to pick up and that she’d have to send Abilene home, when a dozen regulars came through the door—a pack of young women and the ranch hands that followed them like lemmings. The lot of them tipped like shit, but they brought some much-needed energy on a quiet Thursday night like this. The jukebox made a U-turn, lazy country giving way to pop and dance music, the bass throb of foreplay.

  Raina watched them, her own hips swaying softly behind the bar, body restless. She’d been trying to ignore Duncan’s presence, but her body felt hard-wired to his. Like opposite poles, the two of them attracted. And the closer she let herself drift to him, the hotter she crackled, the harder the pull.

  Then it came on—her song of the moment. She didn’t even know who sang it, but the beat was infectious, relentless, the tone of it pure red wine, making a woman’s blood pump hot and thick.

  The opening notes drifted from the speakers like pheromones, and Raina knew her cue, as though this had been ordained. No patrons waiting on refills, everyone’s glasses looking refreshed, Abilene on top of the stock. The frayed tether that had lashed her back together with Miah finally cut. She skirted the bar and strode right over to where Duncan was scanning the glowing screen of his phone. He’d shed his jacket, crisp sleeves rolled up to display the elegant muscles of his forearms. She plucked the cell from his fingers. His face cocked up, gray eyes flashing cold as steel, then softening as he registered it was her, not some drunken local looking to start something.

  Raina smiled to know he thought her less dangerous than her male counterparts.

  “You dance, Duncan?” she asked.

  “No,” he said evenly, taking back his phone. “I do not.”

  “Perfect time to learn, then.” She took that smooth, manicured hand and led him to the space before the jukebox like a dog, wedging them between the younger bodies. He came willingly enough, though she suspected that it was merely some aversion to scene-making. Or perhaps the vodka’s doing. Either way, she turned, boxing herself into his space, bringing their thighs tight. Not much choice, in this crowd.

  A man led a waltz with his hands, but Raina led the dance with her hips. She glanced up, expecting discomfort on that flawless face, but if anything, her partner looked blasé. He moved a little more, a little more, answering her cues with minimal finesse, but also zero embarrassment. A snake indeed. She’d bet his blood ran cold as Dead Creek. She knew Miah’s would be coursing like lava if he were here, watching this.

  I’m not his property.

  But she was his friend—a friend she’d shared strange but definite benefits with, and she knew she had the power to hurt him. Badly. Yet it was hard to parse lust and guilt at the same time and deny that the latter was an aphrodisiac in itself.

  She studied Duncan. Watched him change, ever so slightly. His lids looked heavier and his lips were parted. She saw him swallow, and in that tiny gesture she caught a crack forming, a glimpse of his humanity shining through.

  Or if not humanity, heterosexuality.

  She turned with the beat and moved against him, butt to crotch—Fortuity’s official mating dance.

  Finally, a hot palm at her waist. Then another, and a brush of his thigh against hers. Moment by moment, the heat of his body grew as he sealed them closer together. His hips against her ass, moving subtly, then bolder. The boy had rhythm. Who knew?

  He had more than rhythm, actually, to judge by the hard excitement rubbing against her. And his breathing had grown audible, exhalations hot at her temple. She felt the same heat wave settling around her body, but she’d be damned if she let him know it. One thing she craved more than sex just now was a chance to have the upper hand on the man who so clouded her instincts.

  She smiled over her shoulder and found his gaze foggy.

  “Dancing tells a woman everything she needs to know about how a man’ll be in bed,” she informed him.

  “I can’t imagine what dancing with me is telling you.” That buttery voice had changed, just like his breathing. Lower, darker. Distracted.

  She grinned, unseen. “Tells me you’re a quick study.”

  “I was always an excellent student.” More flippant words, but his tone said she had him. That she could have him, if she wanted. “You mix a very strong drink,” he said. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you wanted me to forget myself.”

  “Just your snooty manners,” she countered, dropping low for a moment, sliding back up. “What are you like in bed?”

  His entire frame stiffened for a beat, and he seemed to catch himself, gathering his misplaced control like a dropped jacket. “It’s amazing how little of your business that is.”

  Funny how his annoyance seemed to rouse her as another man’s excitement might. “Judging by your perpetually shiny shoes,” she said, “I bet you keep a box of wet wipes on the bedside table and shower the second it’s over.”

  After a pause, “That’s a theory.”

  “Or,” she drawled, grinding low against him, “maybe you’re a real freak in bed. Maybe that’s how you cut loose, when the stress of being so collected and perfect gets old. Maybe you’re into some real kinky shit.” To spank, or be spanked? “You like girls, Duncan?”

  He answered with his hand, spinning her around. Long, graceful fingers hooked into her belt loops, drawing their middles together. Still rock hard, against her mound now. Eyes burning down at hers. She reeled, her lead in this exchange lost in a heartbeat.

  “What do you think?” he breathed, his cock giving its answer with every veiled stroke, every motion of his hips.

  “I think I may have underestimated certain parts of you.”

  “Are you trying to seduce me, Ms. Harper?”

  “Trying’s not really my style. A girl doesn’t like to look too eager.”

  “Well,” he said, “I’ve already sacrificed a tooth to help you and your little hoodlum friends. It strikes me as greedy that you seem to want my honor as well.”

  She laughed. “I’ll have you tattooed within the week.”

  His smile was slow and dry as summer. “I’d sooner consent to most any other thing you could think of.”

  “Would you, then? I’ll give the options some thought.”

  His face came close. So close she discovered there was stubble on that seemingly flawless jaw, and felt his nose graze her cheek.

  That velvet voice turned to moss, lush and earthy in her ear. “Your intentions intrigue me.”

  Her intentions . . . In truth, she hadn’t intended to seduce him at all—just to wind him up, rattle him. Scandalize this man she’d taken for an uptight prude. And in further truth, she couldn’t say which of them was doing the s
educing anymore.

  “This is all just dancing,” she lied. “Shame on you, Duncan, for making it into something sordid.” She let her hand drift up, fingers seeking his hair. Soft as his skin and voice. Soft as the lips whispering along her temple.

  “Shame on me,” he agreed, and his own hand drifted—warm and sultry, fingers spread to snake up her waist, over her ribs, stopping just shy of her breast. “Mean old coldhearted corporate bastard, come to rape your innocent little hardworking town.”

  “Fortuity’s far from innocent,” she said, letting her hips underline that fact.

  “And its residents are far from subtle,” he breathed. And suddenly he was gone, hand falling from her waist, body drawn back by a step, then another. He gave her a look—a zing. Nice try, that sharp smile said, while his mouth said, “Thanks for the lesson, Ms. Harper.” He smoothed his tie from his collar to the V of his vest and they both wandered from the gyrating crowd. “Consider me educated.”

  “I’ll consider you warm-blooded.”

  Another smirk. “The alcohol must have ignited me.”

  “I got you dancing,” she mused. “You asked about my ex.”

  “And?”

  “So much humanity, all of a sudden. This all because you’re underworked? You only taking my bait because you’re bored?”

  “Does it matter? Business or biology—neither’s personal.”

  “You sure know how to make a girl feel special, Duncan Welch.” Though she shared that philosophy herself.

  “Apologies. But if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with my motel room and a box of wet wipes.”

  Snarky little fucker. “You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you, Duncan?”