Run the Risk

by Lori Foster

  His mouth quirked. Then he laughed. “Yeah, I wouldn’t object to it.” He traced a fingertip over her jaw, her chin and down her throat. “It doesn’t have to be all or nothing, you know. We can mix it up a little.”

  The way he looked at her, almost as if he meant it, as if he really did think her cute, had her drowning in need. She drew in necessary oxygen—and her cell phone buzzed in her purse.

  Rowdy.

  Oh, God, she had to get away from Logan, and fast. She didn’t know if Rowdy was watching them right now, and she didn’t know if Logan realized her phone was on vibrate. But she’d taken enough chances for one day.

  She opened the door and slid off the seat. “Sorry, but I do need to go, and no, I don’t want you to wait for me. Please don’t argue with me, Logan. I want to walk. I need the fresh air.” And then, because that all felt so abrupt and maybe even unkind, she added, “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

  Confusion narrowed his eyes. “That was an awful lot, said awfully quick.”

  “Logan, please.”

  He searched her face, scowled darkly, and nodded. “All right. If you’re sure.”

  “I am. Thank you.” She reached for her groceries, but he stopped her.

  “I’ll take them home. You can get them from me later.”

  Rather than debate with him, she agreed. “Okay, fine.”

  “And, Sue?”

  She detested that stupid name more each day. “Yes?”

  “You’ll answer my questions for me? Tonight at dinner, I mean.”

  Right. Rubbers, treadmill and cuteness. She could handle that. “Okay.”

  He smiled. “Tonight then.”

  She hurried off—forgetting, again—to shuffle her feet.

  Rowdy would have her head before this was over.

  But if Logan got her body, well then, she’d consider it a fair trade-off.

  CHAPTER SIX

  NOW THAT PEPPER HAD WALKED away, Rowdy relaxed. What the hell did Logan Stark want with his sister? Through the binoculars, Rowdy watched her cross the parking lot and enter the relative safety of the department store.

  Was he missing something?

  No, he didn’t miss anything, especially when it came to women, and most definitely not when it concerned his troublesome sister.

  Maybe Logan was after something other than the usual.

  He brought his gaze back to the neighbor. Sitting there in his truck, Logan Stark peered around as if he felt Rowdy’s attention. Huh. Perceptive bastard.

  Finally the neighbor put his truck in gear and drove away.

  Stowing the binoculars in the glove box, Rowdy got out of his car, locked it up and pocketed the keys. The bar he’d chosen to use for surveillance had an ideal location. With his binoculars he could see all the way up the road to the apartment building, as well as the grocery and small strip mall—basically any place his sister was likely to go.

  While debating his next move, he strode toward the bar. He noticed a “For Sale” sign crudely attached to the brick wall above a collapsing cardboard box of trash. Old papers, a few cans and a broken bottle had already spilled out. Hazardous.

  He thought of Checkers, the upscale club Morton owned. Pricey liquor, chic decor, classy-looking women and high-stakes activities. Checkers had been kept visually pristine, but he’d bet his life that more filth had happened inside its walls than could ever occur in the back alleys of the town where he now kept his sister under wraps.

  Checkers boasted three floors. It was the main floor where Rowdy had usually worked, overseeing lap dances, ensuring none of the ordinary men got too grabby or overstepped the services they’d paid for. More adventurous activity was reserved for the second floor and for men with deeper pockets. On the second floor, patrons could buy hand jobs, blow jobs and a variety of sex ranging from one partner to three.

  Morton’s sprawling office was on the third floor, along with a private boardroom and other, smaller offices.

  Rowdy had been paid well to know the difference in the clientele, to keep his mouth shut about illegal sex acts, and to alert the guards stationed at the upper levels whenever the law came calling.

  It all ran smoothly, even in moments of chaos. And when it didn’t… Rowdy closed his eyes, not wanting to think about the city commissioner who’d been murdered. Jack Carmin had died at a young thirty-two—and Rowdy hadn’t done a damn thing about it.

  Acid burned in his gut. Rumor had it that Morton would be expanding his enterprise into human trafficking. Rowdy knew he’d have to do something about that, and soon. But now, with Pepper’s admirer putting him on edge, he couldn’t act. He had to guarantee her safety first.

  His sister would always be his top priority.

  If it turned out Logan Stark was on the up-and-up, well then, maybe she’d be safe without Rowdy keeping tabs on her. At least for a short time.

  Long enough for him to take care of Morton as he should have two long years ago.

  A drunk loitered outside the bar entrance. Off to the side, two youths smoked and talked too loud.

  Distractions like that would never have happened at Checkers, but for here and now, an uninterested owner worked to Rowdy’s advantage; the less accountability at the bar, the safer it was for him.

  While wondering if the bar would end up abandoned, he almost missed the woman smiling at him. She stepped out of the shadows, tall, slender, sexy—and probably for sale. Too bad he avoided hookers. Not because of moral scruples, but because he never spent money so unwisely.

  “What do you say, sugar?” She traced a finger up and down her exposed cleavage. “Got some free time?”

  Nothing but. “Sorry, but you look out of my price range.”

  “For you, I’d offer a…special.”

  Yeah, he could just imagine. “Appreciate it, but not this time.” After a farewell nod, he entered the dim establishment. Sluggish music played. Regulars filled the booths and the bar. Up on a ramshackle stage, exposed bodies gyrated.

  More women looked his way, so he tried not to make prolonged eye contact. In his current mood, he didn’t want to encourage anyone. He had a few things to work out before he sought company for the night.

  A nod here, a halfhearted smile there. He always appreciated the female attention. But he didn’t always take advantage of it. Sometimes, though, when the dark past intruded and his turbulent thoughts made sleep impossible, he needed a woman’s softness to get him through the night.

  And at those times, he always despised his own weakness.

  Grabbing a seat at a small table, slouching back comfortably, Rowdy glanced toward one attentive woman who looked too young, another who looked too mature. He settled on watching a pole dancer who had a great ass.

  Other women worked the floor in skimpy dresses, some nearly topless, all in mile-high heels. Matching small aprons distinguished them as employees of the bar.

  He rubbed his mouth, wondering if a fast tumble would help clear his thoughts. Not that anyone had really grabbed his interest yet. Hell, he felt no spark, not even for the mostly naked blonde; he definitely didn’t appreciate her substantial curves as he should have.

  “What can I get for you?”

  At the intrusion of that brisk female voice, Rowdy glanced up—and got lost in pale blue eyes.

  But not for long.

  While the gyrating blonde left him cold, this woman set off a spark. He trailed his gaze over her, from thick, dark red hair held back by a headband, to a narrow nose and wide mouth, to her petite little bod.

  No sexy uniform for her.

  She wore straight jeans with slip-on shoes and a regular crew-necked T-shirt. That same apron, a little messier than the others, loosely circled her waist.

  Rowdy looked back at her face. “You’re a trim little package, aren’t you?”

  Her chin tucked in. “You have two options, okay? You can give me your drink order, or you can get a different table.”

  Well, well, well. A challenge? A chase?

>   The spark caught flame.

  Rowdy smiled at her—and saw her blink. A little predatory, a lot cynical, he kept quiet and watched her.

  “Okay,” she said. “I have to admit, that look is effective. Dangerously so. But as it is, I live on tips, so if you don’t want anything—”

  “I want.”

  She filled her lungs on a deep breath. Shifted her stance. Looked up at the ceiling, then off to her right. “The thing is, honestly, I need to take a drink order. But that’s it. That’s my job, nothing more.”

  “No pole dancing, huh?” He relaxed a little more, sliding back in his chair, one hand on the table, one resting on his thigh. “Well, damn.”

  Her brows pinched over his mild show of disappointment. “The place would go broke, believe me.”

  “I assume it’s already going broke.” When that confused her, he said, “The ‘for sale’ sign?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She scrunched up her nose. “Are you thinking of buying?”

  “Could I reassign you to the pole if I do?”

  “Not if you wanted to continue employing me.”

  Had the current owner already tried that? Interesting. “Got other prospects, huh?”

  She gave a hesitant pause, then without invitation, she pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. Prim and proper. Spine straight, shoulders back. “So what’s your name?”

  “You can call me anything you like.” As long as it wasn’t his actual name. For those who might care, Rowdy Yates had fallen off the face of the earth, and he planned to keep it that way.

  “All right. Here’s the thing, Walter.”

  “Walter?”

  “That’s the name I’m choosing. You did say anything would do.”

  He chided her with a small frown. “But not Walter.”

  She let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m working, sir.”

  “That’s not much better.” Hell, no one had ever called him sir. The people he associated with either had no manners at all, or were the ones he deferred to, not the other way around.

  She forged on. “I have responsibilities, sir. I know that the bar encourages outrageousness. I understand that. It’s a guys’ hangout.” She glanced around with clear contempt, murmuring low, “There’s a lot of sexism, and a lot of inappropriate activity going on.”

  “Yet you’re still here,” Rowdy pointed out softly.

  “Yes, sir. For the pay, which I need. But I’m not part of any of…” She waved toward the floor. “That.”

  He ignored the “sir” business. “By choice?”

  She dropped her head to the table with a thunk. Rowdy winced for her. She looked tired and a little fed up.

  Unable to resist, he ran his fingers through the dark ropes of red hair spilling over the table. Warm, thick, silky.

  Was she a true redhead?

  Something primal in his nature gave him a real weakness for petite women. For a redhead…yeah, he was a goner.

  Without raising her head, she snagged his wrist, lifted it away from her hair, and sat up.

  She maintained her hold on his thick wrist. Her slender fingers didn’t quite circle all the way around him.

  Rowdy didn’t object, and she didn’t let go. The physical connection felt more intimate than it should have.

  Anticipating what she’d say or do next, he watched her.

  She met his gaze squarely. “On the off chance that you might be a buyer for the…establishment, I want you to understand that I’m too short, too lacking in curves and far too modest to ever do justice to any stage performance.”

  “You think?” Because he didn’t. “You could audition and let me make that decision—”

  Cutting him off, she held up her free hand. “And if you’re not a buyer, then know that I have no interest in flirting, the nuances of sexy banter elude me, and no way, ever, would I date anyone from this bar—regardless of how attractive he might be.”

  Date? He didn’t date. No time and no interest. He said only, as a taunt, “Bet I could change your mind.”

  She made a funny sound. “Take a look around, sir. Plenty of other women are hoping you’ll notice them. I’m sure they’ll provide an easier route for your intentions.”

  She didn’t know his intentions, and he didn’t look, because he didn’t care. “I think you’re attractive, too.”

  That gave her pause. She glanced down at her person and made a face. “I was going for something altogether different.”

  “Like?”

  “Perhaps plain, uninteresting. Maybe even invisible.”

  So the clothes she wore were supposed to…hide her? He again took in her shoes which, despite being unadorned, were still feminine, almost like dainty little ballet slippers. The straight-legged jeans, likely new, showed the length of her legs. And that crew-necked T-shirt, even being a little big, displayed the narrowness of her bone structure and the soft swell of her breasts.

  Whatever her intent, she made an enticing, overall package. Small, female, understated.

  But with that dark red hair…

  Intriguing.

  That made him frown. Did Logan look at his sister like that? Did he see beyond Pepper’s outward image?

  It wasn’t at all the same thing, given this woman only downplayed her looks instead of attempting to conceal them. But his sister…

  “I’m glad we were able to clear all that up.” Mistaking his silence for lack of interest, she stood. “So would you like a drink or not? And believe me, if you give the wrong answer this time, I’ll leave and let another waitress deal with you.”

  Not for a second did he believe that, but he played along. “I’ll take a beer.”

  “Of course. I’ll bring that to you right away.”

  On impulse, he sat forward. “Let me ask you something first.”

  She cocked her hip in a stance ripe with attitude. “I have other tables to wait on.”

  “I’ll double your tip if give me the truth.”

  “Truly?” Her eyes gleamed. “I promise not to sugarcoat a single word.”

  She hadn’t pulled her punches, so he believed her. “Is this getup meant to turn off guys, to maybe cover your assets?” As his sister tried to do. “Or is this how you usually dress?”

  For several seconds she studied him, probably trying to figure out his angle.

  Not in a million years would she even come close.

  She gave in without any fuss. “I started here a few weeks ago. Other than the apron, there isn’t a dress code, so I wore my regular wardrobe, which, believe me, isn’t designed to beguile.”

  Interesting. “No low-cut tops or miniskirts or anything like that, huh?”

  “I’m casual clothes all the way.”

  If the clothes came from her everyday attire, did that mean she didn’t own any low-cut tops or miniskirts? If so, it’d be a pity. Even being petite, she had long legs. He’d love to see them. Hell, he’d love to be between them. “So, the other women?”

  “I believe they dress to get tips.” She showed not a single sign of judgment.

  So her derision was aimed only at the male customers, not the female workers? By the second, his interest grew. “Dressing sexier works for them?”

  “Yes, it does, but it also comes with a lot of extra hassle.”

  Spoken like a woman who knew. “In your regular clothes, you got hit on?”

  She didn’t confirm or deny that. “I decided it’d be better to discourage interest as much as I could.”

  Rowdy didn’t bother telling her that all she’d done—at least for him—was stimulate his curiosity. “So this—” he nodded at her body “—is your attempt to dial down the sex appeal?”

  “Yes, and I’m sure I’m successful.”

  Raising a brow, Rowdy sat back in his seat. “Sorry, love, but I’m seeing it all, every sexy inch.”

  “Annnnd…” she said, “there goes your last chance.”

  Amused by her drama, Rowdy watched her march off. He appreciated the back view of
her as much as he did the front.

  She probably stood no more than five-two, and he doubted she’d weigh over a buck-ten. But with each step, that thick auburn hair caught the bar lights, coiling down her back to the bottom of her shoulder blades, sort of pointing the way to that pert little ass. Even the baggy seat of her boy jeans couldn’t detract from that nice asset.

  Yeah, he saw it all. And one way or another, he’d get her under him.

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t even thought to ask her name. If she wore a name badge, he hadn’t seen it. Another deliberate move on her part?

  For now, wondering if Logan also saw his sister in spite of her camouflage kept Rowdy from turning on the charm.

  First things first. He would put a GPS tracker on Logan’s truck to see where he went. That’d give him a starting place for unraveling the neighbor’s mysterious interest in his sister. He’d take care of that tonight.

  If Logan Stark had anything to hide, Rowdy would find out, and then he’d deal with it.

  A woman sidled up to his table. “Hi.”

  Rowdy glanced at her. Light brown hair tumbled over her shoulders, framing a lot of cleavage. A cloud of perfume wafted in her wake.

  Unlike the waitress, this woman had all her curves on display, and they were many. She suited his normal preferences, but tonight didn’t feel ordinary in any way.

  Already bored, he said, “Hey, yourself.”

  “You’re not drinking alone, are you?”

  Normally, at that point, he’d start the process that’d ensure he had a bed partner for the night. This time, he flat-out didn’t feel like it. Never mind that minutes ago he’d been thinking a tumble was just what he needed. “Yeah, I am.”

  “How about I join you?”

  “A persuasive offer, if all you want is conversation.”

  She paused, coy, suggestive. “And if I wanted more?”

  “Tonight’s a no-go for me, honey. Sorry.”

  His rejection surprised her and set her to pouting. “Should I ask why?”

  “I have something I need to do.”

  She slipped into the chair opposite him. Touching his shoulder with one manicured fingertip, her eyes heavy, her mouth smiling, she whispered, “Do me.”