by Lori Foster
As if surprised by her reaction, he looked up again. “I tried, but I didn’t really do you justice.” And then with a puzzled frown: “You don’t know how pretty you are?”
On the round table rested a stack of papers, more pencils and a drawing pad. Huh.
Curiosity got the better of her, and she lifted the top drawing, but it was a still life of the jukebox and a booth. The one below it was the moon through the big front window, obscured by the thick iron bars. In the drawing, people filled the seats around the window, but they weren’t the focus.
Ignoring his question, Arizona asked, “That’s what you do?” She gestured at the papers. “You sit here in the Green Goose and draw?”
“I have to order food, too.” He smiled shyly. “Otherwise they make me leave.”
“Why here?”
“The lighting is good.”
Yeah, right. Arizona eyed the dim lamp over his table. Only the bar area boasted real light, and even there it was more for effect than illumination. “Those strobe lights can’t make it easy to draw.”
“They give interesting shadows. And I can draw people without them knowing it, because they can’t see what I’m doing.” He frowned. “Or maybe they just don’t care what I’m doing.”
Sad. With his mismatched clothes and childish manner, Arizona wondered at his age—and maturity level. Definitely not a kid but…all there? She couldn’t tell. “You’re really good.”
He adjusted his cap, shifted uncomfortably, then thrust the picture toward her. “It’s for you. Keep it.”
“Seriously? Gee, thanks.” What the hell was she going to do with a pencil drawing of herself? Not like she could hang it in Spencer’s home or on a motel wall. But no way did she want to hurt his feelings.
The noise swelled and ebbed around them. Someone jostled her, a couple edged past, two men laughed loudly.
Done wasting time, Arizona rolled it up and stuck it in her purse. The sketch was large enough that more than half stuck out of the top of her bag. She’d have to take care not to lose it. “Appreciate it.”
Flickering lights gave a glimpse of his beatific smile.
Now where had Terry Janes gotten to? She’d lost sight of him, and no way could she go snooping in back rooms.
Spencer would have a fit.
But she needed to locate him. Had he known she was about to follow? Was he hiding from her? The smarmy bastard.
Before she could decide what to do, the artist caught her arm again. “I…I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be pushy.” Concern replaced his happiness. “But you don’t want to talk to that one.”
“Who?”
Swallowing hard, he hesitated, then darted a fearful gaze around the room. “The guy you were going to follow.”
Damn it, was she really that easy to read? Arizona put her shoulders back in a cocky stance. “What makes you think I was going to follow anyone?”
“You’ve been watching him.” Distressed, he removed the hat and twisted it in his hands. “I saw you.”
After a more thorough scrutiny, Arizona figured him to be somewhere from his late-twenties to mid-thirties. He wasn’t exactly homely, but, except for a small scar under his right eye, he was pretty nondescript.
At her lack of response, he shrugged. “Since I was drawing you, I noticed you asking about a job.”
Even in the ever-shifting low lights, she could see the sincerity in his kind eyes. “What of it?”
Agonized, he looked around again, and then, rather than continue shouting to her, he pulled her in close. In a barely there breath of sound, he warned, “You don’t want to work here.”
An ally? Well, okay, then.
Sliding into the seat across from him, Arizona put her purse on the tabletop and leaned forward to meet him halfway. Matching his whisper, she asked, “Why not?”
“That guy you were going to talk to? That’s Terry Janes. He owns the place.”
This close to him, Arizona caught his scent, but it wasn’t unpleasant. More like fresh honest sweat and the green outdoors. Maybe like how someone would smell after just walking in from a park or after mowing a lawn.
Her gaze went to the scar under his eye. “You know him well?”
“Sort of. I don’t think he’s…” He chewed on his upper lip. “Well, he’s not very nice.”
What an understatement! Arizona debated the wisdom of talking to him. It could be risky. The fewer people she interacted with, the better her chances of making a strong play and getting away unscathed.
But she sort of felt sorry for the guy; he reminded her of an overgrown puppy—too eager, too annoying, but still irresistible.
And if he knew anything helpful about Janes, that could assist her.
Giving him her most engaging smile, Arizona held out her hand. “I’m Candy. What’s your name?”
“Oh, I…um…” Again flustered, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it with too much enthusiasm. “Joel Pitts. You can call me Joel.”
With a name like Pitts, he’d probably been heckled a lot in school. “Okay, Joel.” With an effort, she freed herself from his hold. “I’m all ears. Let’s hear what you have to say.”
Undecided, Joel adjusted his glasses, shifted, then leaned forward in anticipation. “I don’t have proof, but I’m pretty sure—”
“At it again, Joel?”
Arizona jumped when a man clasped her shoulder. She saw Joel’s eyes go round in terror, his mouth slack with dread. For a moment, it almost looked as if he’d faint.
Senses sharpening, she peered at that hand on her skin, then up the leanly muscled arm to the intricate tribal tattoo.
Finally.
Forcing herself to feign an air of uncertainty, she waited until none other than Terry Janes himself moved to her side.
Poor Joel nearly slid off his seat. Stammering, he said, “Hey, Mr. Janes. I was just… I was only drawing her, that’s all.”
“Is that so?”
Keenly aware of that warm hand pressing down on her bare shoulder, Arizona said, “He’s really talented.” After withdrawing the sketch and rolling it out on the table, she turned her face up to Janes and met his gaze with a sweet smile.
He went still at her expression, looking her over as if enthralled.
That’s it, sucker. Take the bait. She made a point of licking her lips, of lowering her lashes and playing coy.
His fingers tightened on her shoulder in reaction.
“The drawing is so complimentary. Don’t you think so?”
At her prompt, a small frown pinched his brows, and he shifted his attention to the artwork.
It gave her the opportunity to study him up close.
“She said she likes it,” Joel babbled. “That’s why she’s sitting with me.”
Janes gazed from the picture to her and back again. “Not bad, Joel, but you’re missing some of the raw sex appeal.” His thumb caressed Arizona’s shoulder joint.
Smaaarmy. His getup of snug black jeans, a snowy-white wifebeater shirt and pointy-toed boots looked absurd. She supposed the shirt was so he could show off his tat.
Bad decision.
Unlike Spencer, Janes had a scrawny chest, bony shoulders, and his biceps were far from impressive.
Arizona pasted on a smile. “So you’re Mr. Janes?”
“You can call me Terry. Or Cowboy if you like.”
“Cowboy?” Where the hell had that come from?
“It’s what the regulars call me. I saw you in here before, and you plan to become a regular now, right?”
As if she weren’t used to someone of his esteemed ilk sizing her up, she widened her eyes theatrically. “You noticed me?”
“Oh, yeah, honey, I noticed.” Liftin
g that proprietary hand off her shoulder, he signaled the bartender.
Immediately, two shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey were put on the table between them.
She’d never been much of a drinker, but out of necessity, she’d learned to hold her own. Sometimes it got forced on her, and being drunk weakened her defenses. Right now she’d rather keep her wits, not dull them with liquor, but it didn’t look as if Terry would give her a choice.
He filled both glasses.
Playing dumb, Arizona started to push back her chair. “Well, I’ll just get out of the way so you two can—”
Catching her shoulder again, Janes pressed her back into her seat. “Drink up.” He tossed his back and poured another.
Arizona toyed with the glass. “You don’t look like a cowboy to me.” More like a weasel. Or a worm. “Why do they call you that?”
Gaze dark and heavy, he stared into her eyes, and a smile curled his hard mouth. He said softly but with clear command that cut past the noise, “Drink.”
Wanting to groan, Arizona lifted the shot glass, drew a breath and sipped.
“Ah-ah.” He touched the bottom of the glass, keeping it at her mouth, tipping it up. “All of it.”
“But…” Pushy jerk. “I’m not that much of a drinker.”
“So you’ll learn.”
Damn it. The way he pressed the glass to her mouth, she really had no choice. Knowing there’d be no denying him, she gulped down the whiskey and plopped the glass back onto the table.
The wheeze of her breath was only partially faked.
“Good girl.” He immediately poured her another. “I got my nickname because I break in the wild ones.”
“Wild ones?” Was the dumbass actually admitting to human trafficking? Would he really make it that easy for her?
Or did he somehow consider that a boast of his sexual prowess?
“That’s right.” His grin showed very strong, straight white teeth. “Tell me, brown sugar, you been broke in?”
Umbrage stiffened her spine and drew back her shoulders.
Oh, to slug him. Just once. Maybe in the balls.
No way in hell could she keep from reacting to that jibe. Forgetting her act for the moment, she stared up at him and asked with soft menace, “Was that a racist slur?”
“That was a compliment, honey. You’ve got striking looks—like the perfect mix of features.” He ran the back of a finger up and down her arm. “Where’d you get the suntan? Momma or Daddy?”
Killing him sounded better and better. “My mother was dark.”
“Was she a beauty like you?”
Good grief, how had this gotten so personal? She’d expected him to say crude stuff, to come on to her.
To be disgusting.
She hadn’t expected him to talk about her parents. She hadn’t expected him to expose the personal demons of her past.
“I don’t really know,” she lied. “We lost her a long time ago. I barely remember her.” If only that were true. She remembered her mother all too often.
It was her dad she’d like to forget.
“Grew up motherless, huh? So maybe you’re one of the wild ones, then. Is that it? Or has some lucky bastard already gentled you?”
Arizona stared at him, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. But it sure felt as if he did, as if he looked at her and knew how her father had sold her, as if he could recognize the taint human trafficking had left on her soul.
Almost frozen in apprehension, Joel sat there watching the byplay. Janes stood right beside him, blocking any escape, using his presence to bully and intimidate.
And for poor Joel, that worked.
For her…yeah, she didn’t intimidate that easily. She just anticipated the moment when she’d get to knock him off his power trip.
But for now, for Joel and Quin and any other innocent person caught in this bastard’s net, she had to play it cool.
“Tame me? I don’t know what you mean.” Oh, Arizona, not coy enough. Play along. Tease. She forced a twittering laugh. “Whatever it is, it sounds naughty.”
Janes laughed, then cast a sideways look at the artist. “This one’s not for you, Joel.”
“Oh, but I wasn’t…” With them both looking at him, Joel cowered in on himself. “I wouldn’t. I swear.”
Arizona knew she had to temper her anger, but there was something about Terry Janes that rubbed her wrong, made it nearly impossible for her to play little Miss Innocent.
Understanding his level of immorality exaggerated everything about him, every look, smile, even the way he moved his hands and the tilt of his head. He could have been someone’s odd but favored uncle—instead, for many people, he’d become a living nightmare.
“Joel is fine. I appreciated his company.”
Stunned by her daring, Joel gaped at her. “No, no, I…I didn’t…”
“You’re defending him? Really?” Janes tugged at his goatee. Tone flat, infused with threat, he murmured, “Get lost, Joel. Now.”
In a near-panic, Joel started gathering up his papers. But before he’d finished, Janes hauled him out of the chair and sent him away with a shove. Papers and pencils scattered over the floor.
Mortified, Joel dropped to his knees to gather up everything.
* * *
WITH EVERY SECOND that passed, Spencer got more rigid. It was bad enough getting felt up by the woman now hoping to score with him. She thought arousal caused his growing tension. And under other circumstances, maybe, just maybe he’d have found the idea of sleeping with her a little less repugnant.
But now, this moment, he was so aware of Arizona tilting ever closer to violence that nothing and no one could divert his attention. Terry Janes’s deliberate cruelty toward the smaller man would cause Arizona to see red. He knew, because he abhorred bullying, too.
A surreptitious glance at his watch showed they had another twenty-two minutes. Not much time to come up with a solid plan to extricate her from the situation without notice.
But more than enough time for Arizona to start removing heads.
* * *
LOCKING HER TEETH against the need to lash out, Arizona made a move to help Joel.
Janes said, “Don’t.”
He spoke with such command that she paused. But she couldn’t bite back her censure. “That was cruel.”
“No, that’s life. Don’t make the mistake of encouraging him with kindness.” Leaning forward, Janes caught her hand and pulled it toward him so that she had to lean over the small round table. Now that he had her close, he didn’t have to speak loudly to be heard. “Joel is like a mongrel. If you feed him, he’ll never go away. Even with me kicking him every so often, he comes back.”
She could practically feel Joel’s trepidation as he struggled to collect his things off the floor. And she felt Janes’s intention, both sexual and controlling; he made no attempt at subtlety.
The reasons to demolish him kept adding up—especially when he reached out to finger her hair.
In a low, crooning voice, he murmured, “I bet you’re this silky and warm all over.”
Even though her skin crawled, Arizona didn’t pull away. The differences between Spencer and a scumbag like Terry Janes had never been more obvious. She should be concentrating on her next move, but instead, she thought about how Spencer made her feel. Around him, her worries lifted. He gave her respect and affection.
He gave her equality.
Such a hero.
Sure that she’d find him seething, Arizona glanced toward Spencer. He was still in the same spot, sitting in the booth.
But the a-hole now had the redhead sitting with him, all spooned up to his side,
his eyes closed as she sucked on his neck, one of his hands cupped over her rear.
That son of a…
Yeah, so maybe it was for cover, but did he have to be so convincing?
So that no one would notice her anger, Arizona let her gaze slide right on past him and turned it into a “searching for an escape” type of look.
“Now, don’t go getting nervous on me.” Janes wrapped her hair around his fingers, holding her like a leash. “You and I have unfinished business.”
Hoping to reestablish her scam of demure naïveté, Arizona whispered, “It’s getting late.”
Mouth curving in a malicious smile, he tugged a little harder on her hair. “But I thought you were interested in a job?”
“Oh.” Right. A job. She started this, so she needed to finish it. “I am.”
“Well, honey, bars stay open late, and as a new hire, you’d have the shittiest hours. That means being on the clock until closing.” Under the table, his feet encased hers. “Is that going to be a problem?”
Only then did she realize that poor Joel had slunk away. But where did he go? She peeked around and didn’t see him. “No problem at all.”
She made a point of not looking toward Spencer again. The way he’d been going at it, she might see something she didn’t like.
Or rather, something she disliked even more than what she’d already seen.
Man, would she give him hell later.
“Glad to hear it.” Janes let her hair drop and refilled their glasses. “I like you, Candy.”
Yeah, well, he wouldn’t—not after he really got to know her. She batted her eyes at him. “You are so…sweet.”
His expression held no amusement. “Down the hatch. Then I’ll show you around the place, get you all set up. You can start tomorrow.”
“That soon, huh?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Nope.” Somehow she’d figure it out. She had to go to Dare’s for her stupid birthday—a circumstance she’d never anticipated—but starting work at the bar would give her the perfect excuse to cut things short, to make the trip as quick as possible. “Actually, that’d be great.”
