Bewitching: His Secret Agenda

by Carla Neggers

  A sharp-featured redhead in snug blue jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, carrying a bottle of wine in each hand, pushed through the swinging doors. With her short, spiky hair and slim figure, she deserved the second look the college kids gave her.

  Dean walked up to the bar. “Allison Martin?”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not Allie,” she said over her shoulder as she set the bottles with the rest of the stock in front of a large mirror. “I’m Kelsey Martin.” She took one look at him, her green eyes shrewd, and grinned. “But don’t worry, if you’re straight, you’ll get over any disappointment real quick once you meet Allie.”

  He blinked. If he was straight?

  He switched his hat to his other hand. “I’m Dean Garret. I—”

  “Hold that thought,” she said, before crossing to the cash register, where one of the businessmen waited.

  Dean drummed his fingers on the scarred wood, realized he was doing so, then stopped. He set his hat on the bar and studied her as she swiped a credit card through the machine. How should he play this? Over the past two years he’d had a number of jobs, each of which had required him to be an excellent judge of people.

  A trait he used to his advantage as often as possible.

  He jerked the zipper of his jacket down while Kelsey sent her customer off with a friendly goodbye. When she’d spoken to him, there’d been no personal interest or attraction in Kelsey Martin’s eyes, so he’d save his patented I’m-just-a-good-ole-boy-from-Texas routine for the one woman who mattered to him.

  “Sorry about that,” Kelsey said. “You’re looking for Allie?”

  “She’s expecting me.”

  “With Allie, that’s debatable.”

  He frowned. “Sorry?”

  “Sometimes...well...time gets away from her.” The guy at the end of the bar raised his empty glass and Kelsey nodded at him. She pulled a draft and indicated the swinging doors with her head. “Allie’s in the kitchen. You can go on back.”

  He picked up his hat and circled the bar. Opening one door a few inches, he heard the synthesized sound of a syrupy pop song. Great. He had a few simple rules, lines he didn’t cross. He didn’t cheat. He kept to the truth as much as possible. He didn’t get personally involved with the people he worked with.

  And he didn’t listen to crappy music or even pretend to like it.

  After all, a man had to have his standards.

  He stepped into the large, industrial kitchen. She stood at the stove, her back to him, wearing a fuzzy, deep purple sweater that slid off her shoulder ’80s style, as well as black, pointy-heeled, knee-high boots and a leather miniskirt. Her dark, straight hair was pulled into a high ponytail but still fell to the middle of her back, and when she did a little shimmy, it took him a moment to realize the harmonizing tones weren’t coming from the radio. They were coming from her.

  He clenched his fingers, bending the rim of his favorite hat.

  Turning, she spotted him and took a step back. Then flipped the radio off. “Is that a real cowboy hat or just for show?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your hat. Real or no?”

  He stared at the hat in question. “Real as it gets.”

  She clapped her hands together. “Am I imagining it or do I hear a hint of Texas twang?”

  “I don’t have a...a twang,” he muttered. A twang was the nasal sound his youngest brother made when he tried to sing along with Brooks and Dunn. What Dean had was an accent that he could downplay or exaggerate depending on the situation.

  “No offense,” she said offhandedly. “I’m just so excited because you’re exactly what I need.”

  “I’m Dean Garret,” he said smoothly. “We have an interview? For the bartending job?”

  She waved her hand in the air. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll get to that, but first we have something more important to figure out.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Just set your coat on the chair there.”

  Shrugging out of the garment, he laid it on the back of the chair, and crossed the room. “Ma’am, I’m not sure I—”

  She shoved a triangle of quesadilla into his mouth. “What do you think of this?”

  Since he had no choice, he chewed. It didn’t taste like any quesadilla he’d ever had before. And for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what she’d put in it—not shrimp or crab. Then, out of nowhere, the heat hit him.

  His throat burned; his mouth felt as if he’d just chowed down on a fireball.

  “I tried to get Kelsey’s take on it but she wouldn’t try it because it has tomatoes. Isn’t that the craziest thing you ever heard? Who doesn’t like tomatoes?”

  His face flushed and sweat formed on his upper lip.

  “I mean,” Allison continued, “she eats pizza and pasta sauce—both of which, I shouldn’t have to point out, are tomato based.” The woman paused long enough to take a breath. “Well?”

  He cleared his raw throat. “How much hot sauce did you use?” he wheezed.

  Her eyebrows drew together. “Did I add too much? The recipe called for four tablespoons, but I got called away in the middle of making it and couldn’t remember... I figured another tablespoon or two couldn’t hurt, right?”

  “You thought wrong.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” he said. “Didn’t you try it?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like spicy food, which is why I needed an opinion.” She smiled, and it was like being struck by a bolt of lightning. “But maybe I should get a second one. Opinion, that is. Just in case you’re like me and can’t handle a little heat.”

  He scowled. Which he knew was damn intimidating—especially when combined with his size. Even with her high heels, he had a good five inches on her.

  “Lady,” he growled, “I can handle spicy food. That—” he jabbed a finger at the offending quesadilla “—isn’t a little heat. It’s a blowtorch. My lips are still tingling.”

  She burst out laughing.

  Women. He’d spent a good deal of his life studying them, but he’d learned only one thing for sure.

  They never did what you expected.

  * * *

  THE BIG COWBOY BRISTLED, but his hooded eyes gave none of his thoughts away. Allie swallowed the rest of her laughter. Some guys just had no sense of humor.

  Too bad. He was seriously cute though, with his sandy-blond hair and aquamarine eyes. Cute in an earthy, masculine, too large and with a heavy dose of ride-’em-cowgirl way.

  She preferred dark-haired guys who dressed more conservatively than jeans and a striped, button-down shirt.

  He picked at the top layer of the remaining quesadilla on the plate. “What’s in this, anyway?”

  She turned her grill pan off. “Hot sauce—”

  “Obviously.”

  “Tomatoes, some lime juice, onion, scallions...” She ticked each item off on her fingers as she spoke. “Cheddar cheese, cream cheese and lobster.”

  He jerked his hand back. “Lobster?”

  She stirred the big pot of tomato sauce simmering on the back burner. “Sure. Why not?”

  He scratched his cheek. “I’ve never heard of a lobster quesadilla before, that’s all.”

  “That’s why I made it. I wanted something different.”

  “It’s different all right,” he murmured in his sexy drawl.

  She tapped the spoon twice on the edge of the saucepan. It didn’t matter what this...cowboy thought about her menu. The Summit belonged to her and if she wanted to liven things up with fancier fare, then she would.

  Besides, if she had to cook one more boring cheese-chicken-and-mushroom quesadilla for the next Tex-Mex Monday, she’d stick a fork in her eye.

  She slid the band off her heavy ponytail and combe
d her fingers through her hair. “Well, let’s get on with your interview. Why don’t we sit down?”

  He pulled a chair out for her at the small table. She thanked him and took her seat. Studied him as he sat opposite. Okay, so he was polite. She couldn’t help it if she had a weak spot for courteous manners.

  She flicked her hair over her shoulder again as she picked up the file containing Dean Garret’s résumé, as well as the job application he’d sent in.

  “So, I guess we’ll get right to the basics,” she said. “I need someone to tend bar in the evenings from seven to three Tuesday through Saturday. We’re closed Sundays...except during football season.”

  “Football’s big here?”

  “We have our fair share of fans. Although if I had to guess, I’d say we’re packed Sunday afternoons because people go a little stir-crazy around here in the winter. They need to get out, and since social opportunities are limited to church functions or skiing, they wind up here.”

  He leaned forward. “Please tell me there are other things to do in this town beside church dinners and going a hundred twenty miles per hour down a hill on a pair of toothpicks.”

  “I take it you’re not into religion or winter sports?”

  He glanced around as if checking to make sure they were alone in the room. “If my mama happens to ask, I attend church every Sunday.”

  He was afraid of his mama. God, that was sweet. “So, it’s just skiing you have a problem with?”

  “I prefer warmer activities.”

  Her mouth went dry.

  Oh, this wasn’t good.

  She got to her feet. And about fell back to her seat when he stood, as well. Yeah, those manners were mighty impressive. She went to the refrigerator. “Most guys avoid the ice rink—except for the Tuesday and Thursday night hockey league. And since we’re on Main Street, we don’t get any snowmobilers coming in, either. They all stop at The Pineview on the edge of town.” She opened the fridge door and pulled out a diet soda. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am.” He glanced out the window at the falling snow—and she could’ve sworn she saw him shudder. “Is there anything to do here that doesn’t involve the threat of hypothermia?”

  She couldn’t help but grin. “Not too much. At least, not between the months of November and February.” She pursed her lips as she opened the can. “And sometimes March.” He winced, but covered it quickly. She sat back down and he did, too. “Since you’re not a fan of cold weather, I have to ask—are you staying in Serenity Springs long?”

  He leaned back, the picture of relaxed, confident male. “I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon.”

  Talk about a nonanswer. “I need someone I can rely on. I’ve been through too many bartenders to count.” He just nodded—in agreement? Pity? Who knew? “To be honest,” she continued, “it’s getting really annoying to hire someone, only to have them walk away a few weeks—or in one case hours—later. I need someone dependable who’s not going to leave me in the lurch.”

  She sipped her soda and waited, but he didn’t say anything. And the intense way he studied her made her squirm.

  She cleared her throat. “Now, that’s not to say if I hire you I expect you to stay forever....” The idea of staying at The Summit forever caused a chill to run up her spine. “But,” she continued, shoving aside the uneasiness she always felt when she thought of her future, “I would appreciate at least two weeks’ notice, not to mention a few months’ worth of work first.”

  He remained silent.

  She sighed. Why were good-looking men always such a trial? “I’m not sure if you understand how a conversation works, but that would be your cue to speak.”

  He hesitated. Her experience as a defense attorney told her he was readying a lie. But when she searched his expression, she saw no hint of deception.

  Which just went to show she’d made the right decision to quit practicing law. She obviously wasn’t as good at reading people as she’d thought.

  “I’ll be in Serenity Springs for a while,” he said. “But I can’t guarantee how long.”

  “If I hire you, I need to know you won’t leave me in a bind.”

  Still no response. He didn’t try to persuade her he was best for the job, didn’t promise he’d stick it out as long as possible. He sure didn’t seem all that desperate for work. So, why was he here?

  She glanced over his résumé again. After graduating from Athens High School in Texas, Dean had worked at a Dallas establishment called Benedict’s Bar and Grill for three years before joining the Marine Corps, after which he’d served in both Afghanistan and Iraq. “I see you tended bar before you went into the military, but your recent work record has quite a few gaps. Care to explain those?”

  “I was trying to find something that suited.”

  “Since you’re here, I take it you didn’t find what you were looking for?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She picked up a pen and tapped it against the table. “See, this is where we get back to me being able to rely on you to stick around. And from what I can tell of your work history—or at least, your work history over the last two years—you don’t stay in one place long.”

  He clasped his hands together on the table. “After my discharge I did some traveling. For personal reasons.”

  “Hmm...” He was hiding something. She could feel it. “So, you had a difficult time adjusting back to...what would you call it...civilian life?”

  “No more than anyone else who served.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ear and studied him. Maybe he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. She was far from an expert on PTSD, but knew that a person affected by it could have trouble keeping a job. Or it could be something else. Wanderlust. The inability to get along with his employers or fellow employees.

  And then it hit her why he was so secretive. Why he gave such vague answers. Why there were periods of up to three months unaccounted for in his work history.

  “Have you ever been convicted of a criminal offense?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

  “The gaps. I’m just wondering...”

  “Are you asking if I was in prison? Is that even legal?”

  “In New York State, a prospective employer may ask if a prospective employee has been convicted of a criminal offense, just not if they’ve ever been arrested or charged with a crime.”

  Something flashed in his eyes, something like respect. But before she could be certain, he said, “That makes no sense.”

  “That’s the law for you. Besides, being arrested or charged with a crime in no way means you were convicted of said crime.”

  “You could always run a background check on me.”

  She sipped her soda. “I could—after I informed you of that fact, of course. But I like to form my own impressions of the people I hire based on what I see and hear from them. Not what the state of New York tells me.”

  “Would you refuse to hire me if I had a criminal past?”

  “Article 23-A of the New York Correction Law prohibits employers from denying an applicant employment because the applicant was previously convicted of one or more criminal offenses.” She caught herself and shook her head. She wasn’t a lawyer anymore. No need to talk like one. “I just mean that it’s illegal, not to mention unethical, to refuse to hire you because of your past. So no, that wouldn’t be a problem.” She paused. “But you lying about it would be.”

  “You make a habit of hiring convicted criminals?” he asked, his accent so sexy it made her want to do whatever it took to keep him talking. She tilted her head in a silent question. “Just wondering what type of people I’ll be working with if I get the job,” he explained.

  She took a long drink. “If you get the job, you can
be assured that none of your coworkers have a criminal record.”

  After all, Kelsey’s juvenile record didn’t count, and while Allie’s kitchen assistant, Richie, had some past troubles with drug use, he’d never been formally charged with possession.

  And Allie’s sins hadn’t landed her in jail.

  Just her own purgatory.

  “But,” she continued when Dean remained silent, “if you have a problem with people who’ve paid their dues to society, reconsider if you want this job.” And really, did she want someone so...judgmental working for her? “One of my good friends spent time in prison and he stops by quite often.”

  Dillon Ward, Kelsey’s brother, had served time for manslaughter after killing their stepfather while protecting Kelsey. After his release, Dillon had battled prejudice and his own guilt. Luckily, he’d gotten past all of that and was now able to move forward in a relationship with local bakery owner Nina Carlson.

  Allie smiled sweetly. “I wouldn’t want any of his criminal tendencies to rub off on you.”

  “You don’t have any problems with his past?”

  “No,” she snapped. She inhaled a calming breath. “I don’t have a problem with anyone’s past.” Well, except her own—but that was what she was doing here, right? Her penance. “I have a bigger problem with people in the present. Out of the last three individuals I hired, one stole from me, one walked off the job and one...” Allie squeezed the can she was holding, denting the aluminum. “She was the worst of all. She lied.”

  “Lying pissed you off more than desertion and theft?”

  “Deserters can come back,” she said coolly. “A thief can return what he or she stole. But a liar? You can never take back a lie.”

  He inclined his head and slowly straightened. “I’ve never been imprisoned or convicted of a crime.”