Stevie looked so pleased with herself that she positively glowed. “Now isn’t that better, M and M? You look ten years younger.”
Maggie’s insides rose, then dropped in a rush. Ten years. Okay, so it was really nine. God, was she out of her mind? He had been nine when she was eighteen. She could have baby-sat him. That realization made her want to put her head in a bag and never take it out. Who did she think she was kidding, anyway? This was never going to work. Never. She was just going to have to break the date. Did forty-plus women even refer to it as a date?
By Friday morning she had changed her mind so many times that she’d lost count. By seven o’clock that evening she had definitely decided that going out with Tony Parnelli was equivalent to throwing herself over the weir on the Bow River—suicidal. After pacing about the house for exactly forty minutes, she finally screwed up the courage to call. With her heart hammering at two hundred beats a minute, she phoned information and got the new listing, then dialed.
She let it ring twelve times. Panic assailed her as she hung up the phone. Then, without even realizing she’d changed, she found herself pacing around the house, this time with her hair freshly shampooed, her makeup and new clothes on. At that point she finally decided she was behaving like an idiot, and she made herself take ten deep breaths, then poured herself a large glass of wine. Thank God Kelly had gone to watch movies at Scott’s and wasn’t here to witness her mother having a nervous breakdown. This was not a big deal. It was an evening out, that was all. Only her stomach kept sending her an altogether different message.
It was one minute to nine when a knock sounded on her back door. Feeling as if she was fifteen and facing her first date, Maggie smoothed down the front of her slacks and went to answer it, her heart taking off in some sort of race. Pausing in the entryway, she took another deep breath, stuck a smile on her face and opened the door.
Tony had been standing with one arm braced against the door, his other hand resting on his hip, aimlessly whistling through his teeth. He glanced at her and his face grew very still. Then he slowly straightened, a glint of appreciation lighting up his eyes. Maggie closed her hands into fists. If he said something asinine, like “Gee, Maggie, you look terrific,” she was going to slug him.
His gaze traveled from the top of her head to the tips of her new shoes, as if he was cataloging assets; then he looked into her eyes and a slow, off-center, totally engaging grin appeared. “I gotta tell you, Burrows, you clean up real well.”
The knot of nerves in her middle abruptly let go, and she found herself smiling. She mimicked his perusal. He had on new jeans, some sneakers that looked very expensive and a yellow polo shirt that did not have the sleeves hacked to bits. He looked so sweet and adorable that she folded her arms to keep from hugging him. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Parnelli.”
He grinned again, then made an impatient gesture with his head. “Come on, woman. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Maggie fortified herself with another deep breath and picked up her handbag, which was lying on the wicker stand.
She had just jumped into the deep end. She only hoped she remembered how to swim.
Chapter 7
The Blue Hornet Bar was located in a seedy part of town, but Maggie knew from Frank, who was a big blues fan, that it had an international reputation and featured blues artists from all over North America.
Things were fine in the car—easy, comfortable, relaxed, as if they’d done this a hundred times before. Tony told her what he’d been doing in Vancouver; Maggie, on the other hand, did not elaborate on her week. Instead she told him about her kids.
By the time they arrived at the bar, she was feeling pretty stupid for making such a big deal out of this. It was a night out, that was all. And she was going to enjoy herself.
Tony warned her that the place would probably be jammed because a top-flight performer was in from the States. And he was right. The bar was dim, crowded and very noisy. Tony paid the cover charge, then touched the small of her back and pointed across the crowded room toward some tables along the wall. Following his direction, she wound her way through the maze of tables. She had never seen such a mix of people in her whole life—gray-haired businessmen, hard-core bikers, university students, punkers, office workers—all there because of their love of music. She smiled to herself. It was too bad they couldn’t turn the whole world into one big blues bar.
Having navigated through most of the tables, Maggie glanced over her shoulder at Tony, not even trying to make herself heard over the noise. He lifted his chin toward a table halfway down the wall, and she followed his glance, her stomach immediately dropping to her shiny new shoes. There were four people already seated at the table—two men and two women—and Maggie suddenly felt fifteen all over again. Lord, she wasn’t prepared for this. She wasn’t. Tony gave her a nudge in the small of her back, and she took a deep, uneven breath and stuck a smile on her face.
As if sensing her sudden reluctance, Tony slid his hand down her arm, then laced his fingers through hers, giving her hand a firm squeeze. She looked at him, and he grinned and winked at her, as if to say “gotcha.”
He led her over to the table, and without letting go of her, pulled out a chair. “Maggie, I’d like you to meet Spider Bronson and Jeanne Walker,” he said, then indicated the two at the back of the table, “and that’s Mark and Cathy Turner. This is Maggie Burrows.”
Maggie recognized Spider and Jeanne from Tony’s open house. She was a redhead who looked as if she might make her living as a mud wrestler, and he was a big, burly biker type with a beard and a tattoo the size of a dinner plate on his bicep. He looked as if he could rip apart a motorcycle with his bare hands. The other woman was pretty and petite, with a ready smile, and as soon as Maggie looked at her husband, she knew he was a cop. She wanted to pull a bag over her head. She just hoped to hell he hadn’t heard about her calling the cops on Tony.
Spider hooked the legs of a chair with his boot and drew it farther away from the table, giving her a big grin. “I remember you from Tony’s bash. You should have stuck around. You missed a helluvah party.”
Maintaining a firm hold on her hand, Tony waited for Maggie to slide into her chair; then he pulled out his own and sat down. Resting their joined hands on his thigh, he glanced at her, a wicked glint in his eyes. “She misses out on a lot of things, Spider.”
Spider chuckled, and Jeanne leaned her arms on the table. “Don’t let them rag on you, honey. They can both be a royal pain in the ass.” She leveled one finger at Tony, her very long, very scarlet nail looking lethal. “Now buy the lady a beer, Parnelli, and be nice.”
Cathy Turner lifted her empty bottle and waggled it. “And you can buy me one, too, Anthony. You welshed last time.”
Her husband leaned forward, digging his billfold out of his back pocket. Opening it, he drew out a twenty-dollar bill and tossed it on the table. He looked at Maggie, a twinkle in his eyes. “Nope, Maggie’s beer is on me. I would have paid a month’s wages to see Parnelli getting hauled out in cuffs.”
Wanting to crawl under the table, she slapped her free hand over her face. She should have known she’d never be that lucky. His voice ripe with amusement, Mark Turner continued, “I also heard that you put Parker flat on his back and that Lipskow is now singing soprano.”
Dropping her hand, Maggie turned her head and stared at Tony. He shot her a quick glance, then gave Mark a wry grin. “Lipskow is lucky he’s singing at all. The son of a bitch tried to get me down in a headlock.”
Cathy laughed and clapped her hands. “Oh, God. I love it! That must’ve wounded his ego.” She looked at Maggie, laughter still dancing in her eyes. “Lipskow thinks he’s God’s gift to women, and he struts around like he’s top cop.” She looked at Tony, raising her empty bottle in salute. “Congratulations, Ex-detective Parnelli. The women of the world salute you.”
Tony tipped his head in acknowledgment, a small, meaningful smile lifting one corner of his mou
th. “It was definitely my pleasure.”
The warm-up band started to play about twenty minutes later, and Spider looked at Tony and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised in an unspoken question. Tony nodded, then slid his chair back. He leaned over the table and spoke to Mark, nearly shouting to make himself heard. “We’re going to check out the back room. Wanna come?”
Mark looked at Cathy. She shook her head, then spoke into his ear. He nodded and rose. “Cathy’s going to stay here and hold the table for us.”
Tony downed the rest of his beer, then gave Maggie a light jab in the shoulder. “Come on. It’ll be quieter in there.”
The “back room” made Maggie smile to herself. Six pool tables squatted in the large room, canopied lights suspended over them, the players intent on their games. Two tables at the far end were not in use, and she followed Mark down the side of the room. She assessed the tables as she passed. Standard billiards tables, but they were high quality and in fairly good shape. She smiled again.
For the first time all day, she felt on absolutely solid ground. She had started shooting billiards when she was six years old, when her father had sawed the end off a broken pool cue for her. Her father had been a top-seeded player, and she had played in competitions until she got married. And somewhere in the storage room there was a box of trophies. Aunt Kate might have been able to rebuild a carburetor, but Maggie could shoot pool. It had delighted her father no end when she’d beat him—and she’d beaten him regularly. She wondered what Tony would say if he knew.
Jeanne didn’t want to play, so Maggie sat at the table with her, watching the men. Tony was good. Very good, as a matter of fact. Stretching out her legs and folding her arms, she maintained a conversation with Jeanne, but never took her eyes off the game. She wanted to pick up a cue so badly that her palms itched.
His cue in his hand, Tony came over to the table and took a swig from his fresh bottle of beer, then looked down at her, giving her a small smile. “Are you bored out of your mind?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. I like to watch.”
Setting his beer down, Tony turned, then made a disgusted sound and swore. Maggie looked from him to the table. Three men were standing at the end talking to Mark, and there was something about all three that singled them out as cops. Mark said something, and they looked across at the table. The one who appeared to be about fifty came over to Tony. He grinned and reached out his hand. “Hey, Parnelli. I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age. How the hell are you?”
Resting the end of his cue on the floor, Tony grinned and took the other man’s hand. “I’ll be damned. I figured they would have pink-slipped you by now, Kennedy.”
Kennedy chuckled and slapped him on the shoulder. “Naw. They got me flying a desk.”
He jerked his thumb at one of the other two men, who’d come up behind him. “This is Dennis Larson—he’s new since you left.” He gave Tony a deliberately even-faced look. “And you know John Lipskow, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Tony, a nasty little smile appearing. “We’ve met.”
Maggie had to bite down hard on her lip to keep from laughing. John Lipskow was probably in his late twenties, big and blond, with a body that had seen hundreds of hours pumping weights. And it only took one glance to see that Cathy’s assessment was dead-on. This man definitely thought he was God’s gift to women. Tony turned his back on the younger man, excluding him as he introduced Jeanne and Maggie.
It was a deliberate snub, and Maggie watched the little performance, biting down harder on her lip. She saw John Lipskow look from her to Tony, then back to her, and the big blonde telegraphed his intent the instant he tucked his T-shirt into his jeans, tightening the fabric down his chest. He stepped from behind Tony, reached out his hand toward Maggie and turned on the charm full blast. “Hi, there,” he said, looking directly into her eyes and giving her a boyish grin. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Maggie.”
Somehow managing to keep her face straight, Maggie shook his hand, the urge to laugh compounding when he held her hand far longer than necessary. Withdrawing her hand, she looked up at Tony, expecting to see at least a glimmer of humor. There wasn’t a trace. He was watching John, his eyes narrow and hard, his jaw rigid, and she saw John give him a challenging look. Maggie rolled her eyes heavenward. At least some things never changed. They looked like two bull moose ready to do battle.
Kennedy slapped Tony on the shoulder, breaking up the hostile staring match. “How about letting us in the game, Parnelli? I want a chance to clock your butt.”
Tony gave him a wry grin. “You wish.”
There was a debate about who was challenging whom, and Mark came over to where Maggie and Jeanne were sitting, an amused grin on his face. “I think I’ll head back and keep Cath company. If something happens and all hell breaks loose, come get me.” He glanced at John Lipskow, his grin deepening. “I think Johnny Boy is itching to start a fight.” Setting his empty beer bottle on the table, he gave the two women a little salute. “Stay cool, ladies.”
Spider and Tony paired off against Kennedy and Dennis Larson in a game of eight ball, and Maggie slouched down in her chair and watched, intent on the strategy. John Lipskow came over to the table, a beer in his hand. Leaning against the wall, he took a swig from the bottle, then shifted so the muscles in his chest flexed. He took another swig, then crouched down beside her, tipping his head close to hers. “Can I get you a drink, Maggie?” he asked, trying to sound sexy.
Maggie shifted away from him, giving him a level stare. “No, thank you.”
He did the eye thing again, looking directly at her with a slow, sensual smile, and Maggie experienced a flicker of irritation. It was evident by his muscle flexing and his phony charm that she was supposed to be flattered that he was paying attention to her. She remembered the type—the big, muscled jock so stuck on himself that he figured every woman he met should fall at his feet. Maggie wondered how he ever managed to fit his massive ego into a patrol car.
She tried to give him a subtle brush-off by turning her attention back to the game, but Lipskow did not know the meaning of subtle. By the time the other men were down to the last few balls on the table, she wanted to smack him. She knew he was trying to rile Tony, and she resented the fact that he was using her to do it.
And she knew by the look on Tony’s face that the patrolman was getting to him. He looked as if he’d like nothing better than to ram his pool cue down the cop’s throat.
Tony sunk the last ball, his jaw as rigid as granite, and as he straightened and looked over at them, his eyes were brittle. A small smirk appeared on John’s face, and he ran his knuckles down Maggie’s arm. “So, Maggie,” he said, his voice deliberately husky. “You ever played?”
She gave him a flat look. “Once or twice,” she said, her tone short.
He rubbed his knuckles up her arm. “How would you like a lesson?”
She jerked her arm away and stared at him, about to say something cutting, but then saw him glance at Tony, as if checking his response. Her irritation turned to outright annoyance. If anyone needed a lesson, it was this ego-inflated Lothario.
She gave him a big, plastic smile. “I suppose I could give it a shot.”
Dodging his closeness, she got up and went over to the pool table. She stopped in front of Tony, giving him a tight smile. “John’s going to give me a lesson,” she said.
Tony’s eyes narrowed and he looked at John, the muscles in his jaw tensing; then he looked back at Maggie. There was something about the heated, protective glitter in his eyes that kick-started her sense of humor. She winked at him and grasped the pool cue he held in his hand. “Just hang on, and trust me, Parnelli.”
Tony narrowed his eyes and considered her, a glint of speculation in his eyes. Then he released the cue. A funny flutter unfolded in her middle, and Maggie avoided looking at him. She rolled the cue on the table to check for straightness, then undid the cuffs on her blouse and folded them b
ack. Picking up the cue, she smiled across the table at John Lipskow, who strutted over and expanded his chest. He dropped the coins in the slot, releasing the balls. “When you run into trouble, you just sing out and I’ll show you what to do,” he said smoothly.
Maggie gave him an innocent look. “I’m sure you will,” she said. Not daring to look at Tony, she watched the cop rack up the balls, then gave him another saccharine smile. “You go ahead and break. I’ll watch.”
It was a sloppy break, scattering the colored balls across the table. The butt of her cue resting on the floor, Maggie wrapped both hands around the top, assessing the table. It was the kind of messy break that any good player prayed for. She looked at her opponent, resisting the urge to flutter her eyelashes at him. “It’s my turn now, right?”
He came over and stood beside her. “That’s right.” He dropped his voice into a drawl. “How about if I help you line up your first shot?”
Up to that point, Maggie had been considering toying with him for a while, but the thought of him pressing up against her made her skin crawl, and she abruptly changed her mind. John Lipskow definitely needed to be taught a lesson.
“No,” she said, leaning over the table and lining up the first shot. “I think I can do it all by myself.” She sighted down the cue and called her shot. “Blue ball in the corner pocket.”
And with that, she set out to annihilate him. Her concentration focused, she sunk one ball after another, deliberately choosing shots that were nearly impossible. She wasn’t going to give him one single reason to think this was a case of beginner’s luck.
That end of the room had gone suddenly very still, and Maggie was aware of the figures standing off to the side, watching the game. But she kept her attention focused; the last thing she wanted to see was the expression on Tony’s face.
With the last of the solid colors gone, she sank the black eight ball, then straightened. Avoiding eye contact with everyone else, she met John Lipskow’s gaze. His face was flushed and there was a furious glint in his eyes. She gave him a steady stare and shoved her cue into his hand. “Thanks for the game,” she said flatly. Then she brushed past him and went over to the table, experiencing another rush of irritation. He was so thick that he probably hadn’t even realized what had happened. She slung the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and turned, startled to find herself face-to-face with Tony. His arms folded and his head tipped to one side, he studied her, his gaze thoughtful. Then a small, amused smile appeared. “So what was that all about?”
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