Always Look Twice

by Dawson, Geralyn

  Annabelle tuned in to the shouts flying around the bar’s interior and replied, ‘‘Since an Irish-pub waitress started dating a Southern-fried do-rag, apparently.’’

  ‘‘They’re probably all corporate executives playing dress-up,’’ Noah observed.

  ‘‘Or dress down,’’ Tag fired back.

  ‘‘I doubt it,’’ Annabelle said. ‘‘Too many piercings and tats in places you can’t cover up.’’

  She counted seven grimy, leather-wearing thugs who hadn’t been there when they’d arrived. They were breaking glass and shouting at patrons, but so far it didn’t appear as if fists had started to fly. Yet. Their leader was a big bald guy with bad teeth and gold chains who had to be cold wearing a black leather vest with no shirt. The focus of his ire was the manager of the pub, a woman about Annabelle’s age who called the biker ‘‘honey’’ and begged him not to throw the chair in his hands at the mirror behind the bar.

  Mark glanced back over his shoulder, an unyielding set to his jaw. ‘‘This has nothing to do with us. Let’s go.’’

  The Fixers put their guns away and continued downstairs. There, Mark paused to pay their tab by shoving a hundred at a terrified waiter as Annabelle and the others threaded their way toward the door. She had just begun to think that they would make it outside without incident when the biker sent the chair flying, then made a terrible mistake. He grabbed a handful of the manager’s dark hair with his left hand and punched her face with his right.

  ‘‘Well, hell,’’ Annabelle muttered, knowing what that meant.

  Mark immediately changed directions and sailed into the fray, Tag and Noah on his heels. Annabelle took a second to analyze the situation—seven against three, no real challenge for her teammates there—and zeroed in on the manager.

  As she guided the sobbing woman away from the fight, she couldn’t help but watch her ex-husband in action. His movements were lightning-fast and graceful, practiced and controlled. Mark spun and kicked and dropped first one attacker and then the other with seemingly little effort. Then he picked up a pool cue and whirled to block the idiot coming after him with a knife.

  The injury wouldn’t have happened had a bystander not tried to help. A young corporate type foolishly decided Tag needed help. He rushed into the fray and into the path of Mark’s kick, which gave the idiot time to move close enough for his knife to draw blood. Mark’s blood.

  Literally and figuratively, Annabelle saw red.

  She registered a few facts immediately. The blade had caught him during a turn and sliced, not punctured, just below his ribs. Mark was still on his feet.

  The biker went down on his ass.

  Nothing too serious, then, Annabelle decided as the corporate type’s buddies escalated the brawl by joiningin. ‘‘For heaven’s sake,’’ she muttered with disgust as she shoved the manager into the kitchen and ordered, ‘‘Stay.’’

  If the corporate crowd was going to get involved, then she would, too. This might be just a normal bar fight, but who’s to say that Russo’s killer wouldn’t take advantage of the moment? The sooner the Fixers got out of here, the better.

  Anticipation caused her blood to pound and tension gripped her muscles, but when she turned back to the fight, her teammates had the situation under control. Tag was grinning like a fool, waving his fingers in a come-at-me taunt toward a pasty-faced biker in a yellow bandanna do-rag who was backing toward the door. Noah was shoving a pair of button-downs back into their seats, while Mark took the last fighter down by slamming the blunt end of the pool cue into the guy’s solar plexus.

  She was almost disappointed. Her blood was up and humming and the events of the past two days had her feeling a bit mean. The sight of the red bloodstain against the white cotton of Mark’s dress shirt didn’t help matters one bit.

  So when she spied one of the downed badass wannabes slipping a knife from his knee-high leather boot, she took great pleasure in rearing back and kicking it away, giving the offending hand a good whack in the process. The fool yelped and she smiled down at him. ‘‘Don’t make me draw my gun.’’

  As color drained from the biker’s complexion, Annabelle addressed the Fixers. ‘‘You high-speeds ready to roll?’’

  ‘‘We’re gone,’’ Mark replied.

  Outside, Annabelle smothered the impulse to ask Mark about his wound and responded in turn to her ex-husband’s question about each of the Fixers’ accommodations.Of the four of them, Annabelle was the only one who’d already checked into a hotel.

  ‘‘That’s where Colonel Warren is staying,’’ Noah told them.

  ‘‘Let’s all get rooms there,’’ Mark said. ‘‘We can meet for breakfast and I’ll ask Colonel Warren to join us. I prefer that we hang close until we get a better handle on what’s going on.’’

  A little over an hour later, after she’d showered and pulled on her favorite sleep shirt—the University of Kansas basketball jersey her dad had given her following KU’s Final Four appearance this year—she’d just pulled back the covers to climb into bed when her phone rang. ‘‘Hello?’’

  Mark said, ‘‘I’m next door and I could use a bit of help. I’ve already unlocked my side of the connecting door. Would you come here for a minute, please?’’

  Her gaze flew to the door in question. Stupidly, she repeated, ‘‘You’re next door?’’

  ‘‘It’ll just take a minute. I just . . . well, crap. My hand gets too slippery with blood to hold on to—’’

  Annabelle didn’t hear the finish because she slammed down the phone and headed for the connecting door.

  Mark stood in the bathroom facing away from her, wearing only a towel around his waist, and when he twisted his torso, her pulse jumped and she sucked in a breath at the sight.

  He could have been a muscle jock posing for the cameras. The twist of his broad shoulders revealed cords of muscle that bunched beneath his tanned, toned, and battle-scarred skin. His dark hair, still wet from his shower, curled at the nape of his neck and dripped water slowly down his spine. Her gaze snagged on the exit-wound scar high on his torso. That had happened not long before their blowup in New York, when he’d tangled with a tango out to kill the woman his brother Matt loved.

  So many scars, she thought. And not all of them on the outside.

  Her stare drifted lower, noting another new scar across his rib cage, then past his narrow waist to where he held a washrag against the small of his back. The damp towel clung to his buttocks, and her palms all but itched as she recalled running her hands over those firm, muscled cheeks. He stood with his feet apart and Annabelle knew she was in trouble when she realized that even his high-arched feet looked sexy to her tonight.

  She cleared her throat. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

  Green eyes flicked to her reflection in the mirror. ‘‘Damn cut. The shower started it bleeding again. I could use some help with the butterflies.’’

  He lifted the white washrag away from the cut and Annabelle sucked in breath to see the bloodstain. ‘‘Jeez, Callahan. If it’s still bleeding that much, you probably need stitches.’’

  ‘‘Nah, it’s a side effect of the medicine I’m taking.’’

  ‘‘Medicine for what?’’

  ‘‘I was on a job in Malaysia a few weeks ago. Caught a bug. Here.’’ He gave her a handful of bandages. ‘‘I’ll hold it together if you’ll keep it dry so that the butterflies stick.’’

  She frowned and gave him another once-over, this time keeping clinical about it. He hadn’t lost weight, didn’t appear pale or wan. The man looked healthy. In prime shape. Fit for anything.

  At that point, clinical observation failed her and her traitorous mind continued its dangerous assessment. Fit for exercise. Strenuous exercise. Horizontal exercise.

  Dear God. What was wrong with her? She had divorced this man. She didn’t much like him anymore. She certainly didn’t trust him. He’d stolen her heart and stomped all over it!

  It had to be the hotel-room phenomenon. The two o
f them and a hotel room were a dangerous combination.

  She dragged her thoughts back where they belonged and hoped that he’d blame the flush in her cheeks on a reaction to the lingering hot steam from the shower. He was on something for a bug. With any luck, it gave him gastrointestinal issues. That thought should keep my libido in check. ‘‘Is it contagious?’’

  ‘‘The bug? Nah. Don’t worry.’’ When she still hesitated to approach him, to touch his bare skin, he said, ‘‘Annabelle? Are you going to let me bleed to death?’’

  Chapter Five

  Mark thought he had quit playing with fire the night he and his brothers accidentally burned down the boot factory in Brazos Bend and put a quarter of the town out of work. Looked like he’d been wrong. He’d damn sure struck a match when he’d picked up the phone and called the room next door.

  He’d known exactly what he was doing, too.

  The why of it was more of a problem.

  She’d challenged him back there at the bar. You don’t get to comment on my personal phone calls, my social life, my jewelry, or my freaking hairstyle. And We need to do it without egos or pride or tape measures.

  Tape measures. Since she was the one who’d brought up the subject of his penis, he figured he’d show her tape measures. She’d all but asked for this. And he was getting to her, he could tell.

  Not that he intended to do anything about it, because he didn’t. Really. He just wanted to show her that walking the walk was more difficult than talking the talk where the two of them were concerned, and that she shouldn’t be all sanctimonious when it came to dealing with him.

  Because Mark knew her. He knew that no matter how many men she’d taken to her bed since their split, he would always be special. He was her first. He didn’t doubt that he was her best.

  God knew she was his best. He’d had more than his share of women all over the world and better simply didn’t exist.

  I’ve missed you, Belle. I’ve missed us.

  The words remained unspoken. He knew better.

  She glanced down at the butterfly bandages he’d given her. ‘‘Wait a minute. I’ll be right back.’’

  He scowled as she turned and fled, and he gave the cut another look in the mirror. He could use her help. Surely he hadn’t scared her away. He hadn’t said one single suggestive word.

  Of course, with Annabelle he didn’t need to say anything aloud. She knew him as well as he knew her.

  She returned carrying a travel-sized first-aid kit and wearing an impersonal expression. Yet, when she stepped all the way into the bathroom, awareness thickened the air like steam from a hot shower. ‘‘Put down the washrag, Callahan.’’

  He dropped it onto the counter and worked not to reach for her. Focused on the slice in his skin, Annabelle didn’t notice. ‘‘The cut is longer than I realized,’’ she said. ‘‘He got you during a spin, didn’t he?’’

  ‘‘Yeah.’’

  She set her kit on the counter, then removed a two-inch square pack. She tore it open and unfolded an alcohol wipe. ‘‘Lift your arm.’’

  Her instruction didn’t register with Mark because she’d moved close to him, which allowed him to see down the gaping neckline of the basketball jersey. The sight of those full magnificent breasts sent his blood rushing south. That’s what I needed to stop the cut from bleeding.

  He hissed when she slapped the wipe against the wound with an ungentle hand. ‘‘Stop it, you perv.’’

  Not even the bite of alcohol on an open wound was enough to distract him from those perky, coral-tipped globes just made for his mouth. Nothing perverted about it. He was a man. She was a woman. They were in a hotel room. . . .

  ‘‘Callahan!’’ she warned, slapping her hand against the neckline and interrupting his visual feast.

  He dragged his gaze away from her, grabbed hold of the granite counter’s rim, and stared into the mirror.

  And remembered making love to her in front of a mirror in a hotel in Hong Kong.

  Shit. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea at all. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, but immediately opened them again, looking for a distraction from the memory played in living color across his brain. ‘‘You sleeping with college boys now, Annabelle?’’

  Her incredulous gaze flicked up to meet his in the mirror. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Where did you get the jersey?’’

  Her hand stilled. The alcohol stung. ‘‘Nick Koldus played at Kansas.’’

  She’s with a pro basketball player now? ‘‘He’s with Seattle.’’

  A devilish smile played about her lips. ‘‘He has good hands.’’

  Witch.

  She finally decided she’d tortured him enough with alcohol and brought out the antibiotic cream. The first soft brush of her hand against his skin both soothed him and stirred him. This had been a dumb idea.

  He sucked in a breath and smelled . . . Annabelle. While he always used whatever shampoo the hotel provided, Annabelle brought her own along with a lotion of the same tropical scent. It was subtle, yet earthy. Exotic. Erotic. Annabelle.

  This had been a spectacularly dumb idea. He should have slapped a bandage or five on the cut and gone to bed.

  The bathroom seemed to shrink to the size of a closet. He closed his eyes and forced himself to think about other things. He mentally made a shopping list for the Seattle condo. Debated the breed of dog he’d get when his lifestyle would allow one. Considered what to get Luke and Maddie’s twins for their next birthday.

  He heard the rip and tear of paper and opened his eyes. ‘‘Gauze? Can’t you just use the butterflies?’’

  ‘‘I know you consider a Z-Pak and butterfly bandages as your medical cure-alls, but this cut requires something more. Turn around, Callahan, so I can reach.’’

  He hesitated, knowing he couldn’t hide the tent in his towel if he did as she asked. Then their gazes met in the mirror and he saw the knowing in the warm brown depths of her eyes.

  He saw knowing and a vulnerability he’d never seen in her before.

  She licked her lips and said, ‘‘Let’s just get this over with, please?’’

  Mark turned. She stood mere inches away, so close he could feel the heat radiating from her body. Unable to stop himself, he lifted a hand and brushed back the silky fire of her hair, tucking it back behind her ear so that he could see her face. He skimmed his fingers down the softness of her cheek and spoke a hollow truth that went beyond the moment. ‘‘I don’t want it to be over, Annabelle.’’

  Her hand trembled as she gently pressed a pad of gauze against the seeping cut in his skin. She was so close, so warm, so soft, her deliciously erotic fragrance teasing his senses. Mark almost threw away the last of his good intentions at that point and bent his lips to taste her.

  Even as instincts propelled him forward, she grabbed hold of his hand, of the fingers stroking her skin, and wordlessly moved his hand to the gauze and stepped back. Quickly and efficiently, she tore strips of tape from the roll and fixed the bandage to his skin. Stepping back, she drew a deep breath, then looked him in his eyes. ‘‘To quote Mick, you can’t always get what you want. See you in the morning, Callahan.’’

  Then he was alone.

  Again.

  As always.

  Annabelle watched rainwater drip from a stone angel’s trumpet. What an awful day to be standing around a cemetery. Yet better to be standing than lying like poor Jeremy.

  The storm had rolled in during the funeral mass and cold, steady rain brought solemn, dampened moods even lower. Frances Russo sat sobbing beneath the shelter of the graveside tent. Her stoic mother-in-law patted the distraught widow’s knee as the priest lifted his hands to the sky and announced, ‘‘Heaven weeps with happiness today to receive such a fine man as Jeremy.’’

  Standing beside Annabelle, Tag leaned over and murmured in her ear, ‘‘As long as he’s the only one of us heaven gets today, I’ll be happy.’’

  Annabelle’s lips twisted with a rue
ful smile. Actually, she wasn’t worried about their safety at the moment. Mark had hired private security for this event—extensive private security who had established a perimeter that would make the Secret Service proud.

  She was glad of the respite. This was the first time since she’d realized the Fixers had a problem that she felt able to relax, able to mourn. Listening to Russo’s friends and family talk about his plans and hopes and dreams created a lump in her throat the size of a baseball. Hearing them talk about his ‘‘accident’’ made her mad. Jeremy deserved better.

  Her gaze drifted to Mark, Tag, Noah, and Colonel Warren, and determination dissolved the lump in her throat. Jeremy would have better, by God. They’d catch the person who killed him if it was the last thing she ever did.

  Now, there’s a positive thought.

  Annabelle choked back the hysteria-edged giggle that wanted to bubble from her mouth. Her emotions pulsed with turmoil today. Funerals for friends tended to make a woman both cranky and a little crazy.

  Having to hang around her ex-husband placed the freaking cherry on top.

  And yet, that stubborn part of her psyche made her determined to quash everything but the professional within her. She refused to allow anyone to see her fear or her fury. As far as the feelings Callahan stirred inside her . . . well . . . maybe this contact would help her rid herself of those last few tenacious tentacles of attachment.

  Mark Callahan had proved difficult to get over. While she lectured herself against comparing other men with her ex, she found herself doing it every single time she dated someone new. No one measured up, not enough to intrigue her beyond a few dates, and certainly not enough to go to bed with—even after she’d relaxed her standards in that regard. The day her divorce was final, when she’d been weak and lonely and afraid, she’d poured too many glasses of wine and the whole miserable story to her brother, Adam, who’d been visiting with his family at the time. He had promised to keep her secret if she promised to listen to his advice.