Say No To Joe?

by Lori Foster

  Peering through the obscuring smoke, she scanned the tables and booths, searching out each darkened corner. Country music blasted through tinny speakers, vying with the boasting and bragging of drunken men. It was the typical atmosphere of a seedy bar. Without thinking, she rubbed her stomach, feeling slightly sick with a rush of vivid memories.

  Then her gaze locked onto his. Wow. The past faded away under the impact of the present—his impact. She felt … invaded.

  Bright hazel eyes, radiant in the otherwise dismal interior, held her captive. She stared at him; he stared back.

  Never before had she seen such intense emotion in a man’s expression. For a moment, it knocked her off guard. Without moving, he appeared turbulent, frustrated, filled with determination and impatience.

  Because of his situation, or because she’d arrived late?

  Ha. She watched him a moment more, taking his measure. He was bigger than most of the men she knew or had worked with. And he had a more self-assured air. That he’d be trouble, she didn’t doubt—he fairly screamed it with a capital T. But how much trouble, that was what she needed to know.

  Lounged back in his chair, he allowed her perusal, and even took the time to look her over too. Slowly. But then, amazingly enough, he dismissed her by giving his attention back to the entrance of the bar.

  Cynical amusement nudged away the lingering nervousness. So, he hadn’t realized her identity? She wasn’t what he’d been expecting? Typical. And here, for only a brief moment, she’d thought he might be more astute than the others.

  Anticipating his reaction when she introduced herself, she started toward him. He sat at a solitary table at the far end of the room, his back to the wall so he could face the bar, a rear exit to his right. It was a guarded position she would have chosen, but probably mere coincidence for him.

  She wove her way around the tables, drunks and proffered drinks without once taking her eyes off him.

  As was her usual habit at such meetings, she’d dressed all in black, her clothes plain and unadorned. It made it easier to disappear if necessary, and didn’t draw added attention that more complimentary clothes might have.

  Her long-sleeved tunic hung to mid-thigh, loosely fitted so it wouldn’t impede her movements should she need to take physical control of the surroundings. Her jeans were slim, her lowheeled boots only ankle high. She never wore jewelry—in fact, she didn’t own any to wear—but she did carry a black briefcase. The case was an annoyance, but it usually proved necessary to have it handy.

  When she stopped in front of him, his gaze came to her face, arrested for only a moment. Then slowly, very slowly, he looked her over again, his attention lingering in certain places like her chest, below her waist, her thighs. His look was so intimate, so personal that it brought on a mélange of sensations—outrage, disgust and strangely enough, heat. Surely not embarrassment, she told herself. She was too old and far too jaded to be disconcerted by the likes of him.

  His visual inspection was appreciative and felt like a tactile touch. Damn it, she didn’t like being touched, not without permission.

  Her eyes narrowed, prompting him to a softly uttered, reluctant rejection. “Sorry, honey. It’s unfortunate, but I’m already busy tonight.”

  The nerve. Despite her exceptional control, antagonism bristled to the surface. Her every movement rigid, Ray hooked a chair and drew it out. She seated herself, placing the briefcase at her feet for safekeeping.

  He cocked one dark brow upward and braced his forearms on the rough, scarred table. The new position emphasized the width of his shoulders, the brawn of his arms. She’d expected another wimpy, slim GQ look-alike, but this man could be a bouncer. He wasn’t bulky, just big and hard and solid.

  Added to the fine physique were the eyes of a predator, now filled with annoyance. He leaned toward her with a scowl.

  “I’m Ray Vereker,” she drawled, refusing to back down from that concentrated stare. She didn’t say anything more, didn’t offer her hand in polite greeting. She just waited for the usual sign of disbelief and disparagement.

  It was slow in coming.

  Rather than gape, he leaned back and studied her anew. If she’d thought the earlier perusal was intimate, it was nothing compared to how he looked at her now. For a lesser person, for someone without her skills and background, it might have been an unnerving process. His eyes were such an unusual shade of mellow hazel, cat eyes, bright with intelligence, almost menacing. They went from heated notice to cool regard.

  Deciding to do her own up-close and personal inspection, Ray draped one elbow over the back of the chair and slouched down in the seat to get comfortable. Wearing an air of unconcern, she took in his appearance from his dark brown hair cut in precise lines to his straight, masculine nose and high cheekbones to his mouth, now flattened with irritation at her boldness. He had a stubborn jaw, she noted, proving he’d be plenty of trouble, indeed.

  The black tee he wore looked softer than heaven, fitted over that broad chest. Even his jacket bespoke wealth, made of fine leather and deliberately scuffed to appear fashionably worn. The watch on his thick wrist probably cost as much as her truck. Maybe more. And his nails were impeccably clean.

  Thanks to the table, she couldn’t see below his waist, but she’d be willing to bet the rest of him was as sturdy and strong as what she could see. Maybe it was a good thing half of him was hidden. Half was about all she could take at one time. The man made her heart race.

  Though she doubted he’d ever been in such a ramshackle bar in his life, he didn’t look the least bit ill at ease. Even her presence, which had to be a shocker, hadn’t really rattled him.

  To be honest with herself, she admitted he was very fine to look at. She appreciated strength and self-control. Apparently, he had both in spades.

  Not that it mattered. He was still rich, and given what she’d seen so far, too arrogant for his own good. What fool came into such a place and advertised himself as an easy mark? And that was exactly what he’d done by wearing the watch and the jacket.

  He was a fool, all right. And for the next few days, she owed him her service.

  As the silence stretched on, Ray sighed and crossed her legs. She knew his tactic. He hoped to remain silent so long that she’d begin to babble nervously, giving herself away as a fool also. He underestimated her. He could sit in strained silence as long as he wanted. Time was money, his money, and she didn’t mind wasting it if he didn’t.

  He looked at her mouth, rubbed his own, then pinned her in place with a laser-sharp gaze. In a flat tone devoid of any telltale emotion, he said, “I requested the meanest son-of-a-bitch they had.”

  She gave a slow smile. “I know what you requested. I have your papers with me.”

  “And?”

  She lifted one shoulder, held up her hands to indicate her presence. “And they complied.”

  Eyes closed, he pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. Ray noticed that his hands were large, sprinkled with brown hair. They looked like capable hands, not the pampered, smooth hands of a rich boy.

  Catching herself, she jerked her attention back to his face. He scrutinized her, then asked with some disbelief, “Do you have any idea what it is I want from you?”

  “Sure.”

  With a touch of disbelief, his gaze slid all over her again, appraising, before both brows lifted. Ray never moved a muscle. He could look a dozen times if it helped. She wouldn’t be changing.

  “I assumed ‘Ray’ would be a man.”

  “Assumptions are nasty things. They can get you into trouble.”

  He waved that away. “What’s your whole name?” “Why does it matter?”

  Ray could feel his growing tension deep inside herself. It was an odd sensation, one she’d never experienced before. She half expected an explosion at any minute and braced for it, making herself tense too.

  “I’m wondering,” he said slowly, his unnerving attention on her mouth again, “if there’s some
feminine nuance I’m missing.”

  She smirked. “In me, or my name?”

  His gaze snapped back to hers and he barked a laugh. “Honey, despite the hard attitude, your appearance is most definitely unmanly.”

  He said that with … interest? No, no way. She was lousy at judging men and their various moods in regard to the whole man–woman thing, but she understood reality very well, thank you. No man in his right mind would be thinking of anything but the mission. Not with her. Not now.

  And most definitely not after the mission ended, when her special skills had been revealed.

  During her ruminations, the silence grew and finally, because she had no reason not to, she said,

  “Ray Jean Vereker. But I go by Ray and only Ray. You’re given fair warning right now not to use my middle name, ever.”

  Oddly enough, her warning evoked amusement. Oh, he didn’t laugh, didn’t even smile. But she saw the lightness that entered those mysterious eyes. “Yeah? Or what?”

  Done with the small talk, with the nonsense, Ray said, “Or I’ll walk out and you’ll be left to settle for the second meanest son-of-a-bitch there is.”

  Please turn the page for a preview of

  STANDING IN THE SHADOWS

  by Shannon McKenna.

  Available right now from Brava.

  “Hi, Erin.”

  That low voice sent a shock of intense awareness through her body. She stumbled back against the door.

  Connor McCloud was standing right there, staring at her.

  He was slouched against an ancient, battered beige Cadillac, parked in a tow zone. The stub of a glowing cigarette was pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He sank into a crouch and stubbed it out. His face was hard, and grim with what looked like controlled anger. He straightened up, looming over her. She’d forgotten how tall he was. Six foot three, or something ridiculous like that.

  Her hand was pressed hard against her open mouth. She forced herself to drop it. Head up, shoulders back, don’t lock your knees, she told herself silently. “Why are you lurking in front of my building?”

  His dark brows twitched together. “I’m not lurking,” he said. “I was just having a smoke before I rang your bell.”

  His tawny hair was longer and wilder than it had been at Crystal Mountain. His chiseled, angular face was even leaner. His green eyes were so brilliant against the smudges of weariness beneath them. Wind ruffled his hair around his broad shoulders. It blew across his face, and he brushed it back with his hand. The one with the brutal burn scar.

  He could be a barbarian Celtic warrior heading into battle, with that hard, implacable look on his face. Stiffen his hair with lime, give him a bronze helm, a torque of twisted gold around his neck, chain mail—except that most Iron Age Celtic warriors had disdained armor to show their contempt for danger, the fussy scholar inside her reminded. They’d run naked into battle, screaming with rage and challenge.

  Oh, please. Back off. Don’t go there.

  She didn’t want that image in her head, but it was too late. She was already picturing Connor’s big, hard, sinewy body. Stark naked.

  Her eyes dropped, flustered. She focused on the cigarette butts that littered the ground beside his battered boots. Three of them.

  She glanced up. “Three cigarettes? Looks like lurking to me.”

  His face tightened. “I was just working up my nerve.”

  “To ring my doorbell?” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Oh, please. I’m not that scary.”

  His lips twitched. “Believe me, you are. For me, you are.”

  “Hmm. I’m glad I have that affect on somebody, because the rest of the world doesn’t seem too impressed with me these days,” she said.

  His eyes were so unwavering that the urge to babble was coming over her. “Why do you need to work up the nerve to talk to me?”

  “Your last words to me were less than cordial,” he said wryly. “Something along the lines of ‘get away from me, you sick bastard.’ ”

  She bit her lip. “Oh, dear. Did I really say that to you?”

  “It was a bad scene,” he conceded. “You were upset.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “For the record, you didn’t deserve it.”

  His eyes were so intensely bright. How could such a cool color give out such an impression of heat? It scorched her face, made something clench up low and hot and tight in her body. She wrapped her arms around herself. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Yeah, there sure as hell were. Are you OK, Erin?”

  Wind gusted around them, setting his long canvas coat flapping around his knees. She shivered and clutched her thin denim jacket tightly around her. No one had asked that question in a long time; she’d forgotten how to answer it. “Is that what you waited three whole cigarettes outside my building to ask?” she hedged.

  A quick, hard shake of his head was her answer. “So … what, then?”

  “I asked my question first,” he said.

  She looked down, away, around, anywhere else, but his gaze was like a magnet, pulling her eyes back and dragging the truth right out of her. Dad used to say that McCloud was a goddamn psychic. It had made Dad nervous. Rightly so, as it happened.

  “Never mind,” Connor said. “Shouldn’t have asked. I need to talk to you, Erin. Can I come up to your place?”

  The thought of his potent male presence filling her dingy little apartment sent shivers all down her spine. She backed up, and bumped into the wrought iron railing. “I’m, uh, on my way to visit Mom, and I’m in kind of a hurry, because the bus is about to come, so I—”

  “I’ll give you a ride to your mom’s house. We can talk in the car.”

  Oh, great. That would be even worse. Stuck all alone in a car with a huge barbarian warrior. She couldn’t bear his burning scrutiny when she felt so weepy and shaky and vulnerable. She shook her head and backed away from him, toward the bus stop. “No. Sorry. Please, Connor. Just … stay away from me.” She turned, and fled.

  “Erin.” His arms closed around her from behind. “Listen to me.”

  His solid heat pressed against her body nudged her shaky nerves toward what felt like panic. “Don’t touch me,” she warned. “I’ll scream.”

  His arms tightened around her ruthlessly. “Please. Don’t,” he said. “Listen to me, Erin. Novak’s broken out of prison.”

  RENEE AND JAY

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  Copyright © 2003 by Lori Foster

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  ISBN: 978-0-8217-7512-7