by Cara McKenna
Miah nodded. “Good.”
“And I’ll find out exactly which site Alex was visiting, when he saw whatever got him spooked.”
“Jesus, Vince. This why you called Casey back?”
Yeah, it was. Though between Raina’s and Miah’s reactions, he was starting to feel pretty fucking foolish about it all. “He’s long overdue, no matter the occasion.”
“What makes you so sure he’s actually coming this time?”
“He will.” Vince’s little brother might be pumping a hot gallon of their father’s drifter blood, but even he could be called home. “I can be persuasive when it suits me.” Vince felt a rare pang as those words left his lips. He hadn’t told Case why it was he really wanted him home—his suspicions about Alex’s death wouldn’t have been enough to bring that vagabond back. Instead, Vince had lied. Nasty lie, too, and it didn’t sit well. He couldn’t claim many virtues, but honesty had always come easy to him. The gift of the tactless.
“What bull’d you feed him?” Miah asked. “’Cause I know you weren’t fool enough to lead with this theory you’ve got about Alex.”
You know me way too well. “Nothing I can’t fix. And I’m not being irrational. I’m smelling something rotten, real as if it was under my nose. I need Casey here. I need you, too, for that matter.”
“Listen, Vince . . . Maybe if I’d had the conversation you did with Alex, I’d be mixed up, too.”
“I’m not mixed up.”
“Just listen. If this really is something to worry about, I’m right there with you. Promise. But I need more, before I set aside all the shit that’s already on my plate to go chasing after riddles with you. So talk to Tremblay, get yourself some answers. Then if it looks like you’re wrong, let it go. And cut yourself some slack for it, too. Natural you’d be feeling all this, with Alex one day in the ground.”
Vince moved the matchstick around, missing cigarettes like a long-lost lover. Before he could continue the argument, Miah’s eyebrows rose to punctuate the slap of the screen door, his attention nailed to the entrance.
Vince turned in his seat and felt his own brows rise at the sight of the woman standing at the threshold.
“Now that’s different,” he said with a wicked smile. And if ever such a distraction had been welcome, it was now.
Chapter 3
The matchstick shifted between Vince’s lips as he surveyed the stranger.
Young woman—thirty, tops. Dressed to impress, but not in the way that chicks from Fortuity might. She covered the assets those girls flaunted, held them in reserve. The type who’d make a man buy the cow first, as it were.
The bar had filled up around them, tables dwindling and the volume rising, body heat making up for what sunset had stolen.
Miah frowned at the woman. “Sunnysider. Has to be.” Sunnyside Industries was the conglomerate that had won the development bid on the casino, and whose hospitality tentacle would be sweeping in to run the place, once it was built. Miah wasn’t any more a fan of the project than Vince, although in his case it was mostly because the construction had already begun to cause the ranch headaches over road access.
“Well, speak of the devil,” Vince muttered, still eyeing the stranger. “Corporate ambassador.”
There was a small tech company on the more civilized, western side of the tracks, but the outsiders who worked there didn’t look like this girl—they were all doughy, sunburned men in polo shirts and sand-colored slacks. She was too stylish, too pressed and polished—all shined up like a diamond in a place that recognized only coal.
She was here to dazzle.
And sick to death of all the heavy shit running through his head, Vince gave her his full attention.
“Wonder what the angle is this time,” Miah muttered, eyes narrowed in suspicion. The Churches had been deflecting buyout offers on their land and water reserves ever since the casino had been a glimmer in Mayor Dooley’s beady eye.
The girl was a corporate rep, to judge by the getup. Crisp short-sleeved shirt tucked under the shiny belt hugging her waist, tailored gray skirt out of a catalog aimed at millionaire secretaries. Wavy near-blond hair—but not the honest kind of wavy, not like Raina’s. No, this was the kind of wavy that demanded an early wake-up call and at least two plug-in devices. Raina’s hair said, I just got laid. Eat your heart out. This chick’s hair said, Hands off. This took me an hour.
Man, Vince would pay good money to mess that hair up against his pillow. Pretty face, too. The kind of pretty they didn’t make in Fortuity. Too clean, too . . . pedigreed.
“Glasses,” he noted. Stylish, bold ones, very hot librarian. He could roll with that.
The girl gave the entire place a good long study; then Vince—and every other man in attendance—watched as she headed for the bar.
“Chardonnay,” Miah guessed.
“Nah, fruity cocktail. Something with a cherry.”
“Five bucks says it’s white wine.”
Vince murmured, “I’ll take that,” and they shook.
But neither made a dime, as Raina set a double whiskey before the woman.
“Damn.”
Vince shrugged. “Just pandering to the local color. Back home, wherever she came from, that would’ve been a cosmo.”
The woman settled herself at one of the small, high tables in the middle of the barroom, and Miah shifted in his seat to face Vince, scrutiny shelved.
But Vince’s eyes stayed locked right where they were, questions knocking around his head like pool balls—and a different persuasion of curiosity rousing a bit farther south.
“Glasses,” he muttered again. “How come I never noticed how sexy glasses were before?”
“You’re not her type, Vince.”
“Like you’d know—you had her ordering white wine a minute ago.”
“Leave the girl alone.”
The matchstick rolled from one side of Vince’s lips to the other. “Wonder what’s in that bag.” She’d brought a purse, plus another not-quite-purse—a weird shape on a long strap, decked out with zippered pockets like a miniature, misshapen hiking pack.
“That’s no briefcase,” he noted aloud, also thinking that the handbag was too small to be packed with propaganda. Every other Sunnysider who’d breezed into Benji’s had been toting reams of “educational materials” outlining the zillion and one benefits of a casino coming to Fortuity. One asshole had even shown a slideshow on his laptop, right there on the bar. He’d been laughed out of the place. That’d been ages back, though, before the referendum. Now the project had a name, an estimated opening date, logos. Many former skeptics had since adjusted to the idea, grown curious about the construction and hospitality jobs Sunnyside and the mayor promised to bring to the area, all the money that’d supposedly trickle down into the limping local economy and tempt young people back.
“What’s your game?” Vince breathed, eyes on the stylish stranger standing in one of the most familiar corners of his dusty little world. The evening temperature had already taken a dive, but Vince shed his old leather bomber and tossed it on the bench, feeling suddenly stifled. “Think I’ll introduce myself.”
Miah shook his head. “I know that look—leave the poor woman be. A second ago you had her employers tangled up in a murder plot.”
“Never said that.” Not her employers, necessarily. All he knew from Alex was that bones had been found at one of the construction sites. That didn’t mean Sunnyside had anything to do with them. “And putting aside whatever Alex may have seen, I’m anti-Sunnyside as a rule. I like my town the way it is.”
“On that we agree, at least.”
“And if this innocent woman’s gotten herself mixed up with evil corporate monsters,” Vince added, “it’s my moral imperative to seduce her away from the dark side. By any means necessary.”
Miah’s eyes rolled. “Oh yeah, fucking Saint Vincent over here. Anyhow, she’d bore you to tears. Look at her.”
“Even vanilla tastes exotic when you�
��re only used to rocky road.”
“Whatever she’s here for, it’s not depravity with the locals. I can tell you that for free.”
“City girls got needs, too.” Vince slid out from behind the table and grabbed his jacket. “Plus, I’m an ambassador myself for this town. This is my civic duty—winning hearts and minds. And any other willing parts that might present themselves.”
Miah exhaled in a huff, abandoning the protest. He knew better than anybody, trying to change Vince’s mind was a waste of breath. Particularly with the fairer sex involved. “I’d better head home, check on that fence. Leave you to your lost cause.” He stood, abandoning his half-drained bottle.
“Thanks for coming out. This talk ain’t over, incidentally.”
“It probably is for me, Vince, unless the sheriff gives you some answers worth worrying about. He does, I’m first in line to help. Otherwise, let a good man rest in peace.” With that, they traded grumpy good nights and Miah headed for the door.
Vince didn’t honestly know what he wanted to get out of the mystery woman. But he was curious about her role in the greater development machine. If a bit of reconnaissance flirting happened to lead someplace interesting . . . ? So much the better. His bottle was empty, so he headed for the bar.
As she opened his beer, Raina gave Vince an open scan, taking in the arms that the quarry’s punishing work had given him, and all the black ink that decorated him from the wrists to the shoulders. Not Raina’s work—she’d done the tattoo on his neck, but been away when he’d gotten the sleeves. Still, the way her eyes always narrowed at them, you’d think he’d cheated on her.
“Funny how you lost your jacket the second everybody else zipped theirs up,” she said. “Who’s the striptease for?”
“Just hot, that’s all.”
“Over who?” Like she couldn’t guess.
“You served her. What’s her story?” he demanded.
Raina broke his ten and spoke quietly, a touch of conspiracy in her voice. “She just got in. Something to do with marketing.”
Ah. “Marketing to who?”
He’d leaned in real close, and Raina forced him back by the shoulders. “Find out for yourself.”
“I love when you get handsy. How come we never started something?”
“Because I know you too well. Go prey on the innocent—you’ll stand half a chance.”
Vince snagged his bottle and turned, locking crosshairs on his target. She was checking her phone, that pretty face lit blue-white by the screen. Through the speakers, on came Tammy Wynette and “Run, Woman, Run.” How was that for mood music? Vince closed the distance in a half dozen lazy paces, but she didn’t look up. Not until he set his bottle beside her glass with a clunk.
Her eyes found him first, swiveling up above the frames of her glasses. Her chin followed. “Good evening.” Sexy voice. Confident, unimpressed.
“You’re from Sunnyside, aren’t you?”
He’d expected a little taste of intimidation at his tone, but this girl looked cool and dry as the desert after dark. Fine by Vince—he loved a challenge.
“Not exactly.” She reached for her tumbler and slid it close, away from Vince’s beer, as though her toy poodle had wandered too close to a frothy mongrel.
“Not exactly?” he echoed. “But kind of.”
“They’ve hired me, but I’m a free agent.”
Vince hunkered down with his forearms on her table. He caught her scent, something light. The essence of some rare flower he probably couldn’t spell. He wanted to curl a fist around her collar and bring his face real close to hers, breathe that perfume in so deep he got drunk off it. Goddamn, when was the last time he’d gotten laid? Weeks? A month or more? Maybe Miah was right, thinking he’d grown irrational—maybe he was going crazy from sex deprivation. Maybe a good tumble would clear his head.
“Free agent?” he asked. “Free to do what?”
She leaned over to lift her weird little bag onto her lap and unzip it along three sides. She opened the flap, revealing a camera with a lens about as long as Vince’s foot.
“Don’t tell me they’re printing travel brochures already? Casino ain’t much to look at yet. Bunch of pits and unlaid pipe, far as I’ve seen.”
“No, not yet. They need promotional materials to wow their investors—shots of the progress and the natural beauty of the area and all that. And I need work, so . . .” She tilted the glass to her lips and Vince watched her throat work. Goddamn women had no clue what it did to a man, the way they looked sipping liquor, or sucking a long pull off a bottle. Or maybe they did. Maybe this one could guess exactly how suffocating Vince’s jeans were suddenly feeling.
He focused with some effort. “You’re a city girl, if I’m not mistaken. You travel far?”
“Portland, Oregon.”
He nodded at that, unsurprised. Sunnyside’s parent outfit was California-based. God forbid the hypocrites hire a local, eager as they claimed to be to stimulate the town’s economy.
“You got somebody showing you around while you’re here?”
“No need. Job’s simple—take pretty pictures. I wasn’t told I’d require a tour guide for that.”
“Fortuity’s got its rough areas. Though stick to the daylight hours and you’ll probably be fine.”
“That’s generally good advice for landscape photography.” Her smile was wry, and it made Vince feel funny. Dirty-funny. Made him want to bite her lip, or maybe get bit in return.
He nodded to the camera. “Hell of a weapon you got there.”
She lifted it out of its case with loving care, unscrewed the massive telephoto and replaced it with a stumpier lens from one of the bag’s many pockets. The camera whirred to life with a wink of green, and she held it to her face, aimed at Vince.
“Cheese,” he offered, beaming his best panty-melter at the contraption’s eye.
Nothing seemed to happen, but digital cameras were quiet. Vince dropped the grin, then swore at the sudden flash, then another, and turned away, spots dancing.
She checked her screen, looking pleased. Looking smug, which was Vince’s rightful shtick. “They’ll probably go with the mountains and hot springs, but it’s always nice to showcase the local wildlife. What shall I caption these? What’s your name?”
“Vince. Grossier.”
She stuck out a small hand. “Kim Paget.”
Her skin was just as it should be—all lake-stone smooth in his gravel-roughened mitt. Exactly what he needed to soothe the warm ache she’d stuck him with. “Pleasure,” he said.
“Indeed. What’s with the match?”
Her gaze had moved to his mouth, and he dropped his own to her lap, smiling. “Got an oral fixation.” He hauled his attention up in time to catch her expression of complete and total disinterest. Fine. “So, Kim . . .”
She batted her eyelashes, parroting his coy act. “Yes, Vince?”
“How much would it cost a redneck like me to get you to take nothing but photos of the landfill and the sulfur springs and the trailer park, and scare these greedy motherfuckers out of their plans to wreck my town?”
She flinched at the cuss, but barely. “I’m just here to do a job. And I hate to break it to you, but it’s an easy one. I’m sure Fortuity’s got flaws—every town does. But there’s a reason people would pay good money to visit. I got a hell of a preview on the drive in. It’s gorgeous country.”
“For now, maybe. From down here.” Until they cluttered the mountains up with condos and polluted all the water, then caught sight of the east side of the tracks from their hilltop penthouses and decided the trash needed taking out.
“I’m not interested in getting drawn into the politics,” she said gently, more calm than meek, and drained her shot in two swallows, scarcely wincing. “I just need the payday.”
“What for?”
Another little smirk, straight out of Vince’s own playbook, and she slid from her seat. “I’ll see you around, maybe.”
“Hey
, don’t let me run you off, now.”
“You’re not,” she said. “I only came here looking for a quiet drink, and that’s just not going to happen.” She looked around them, seeming to mean the general volume of a Friday night, not Vince specifically.
In a voice that welcomed no protest, he told her, “Follow me.”
Chapter 4
For no good reason, Kim tailed the huge, tattooed roughneck to the edge of the crowd milling before the bar. The guy had a certain momentum, and she was too bushed to argue. Plus, she kind of wanted another drink, after the day she’d had.
The man was beyond big. Six foot three or four, and jacked. Black tee. Black steel-toed boots. Jeans. Old leather jacket draped over his arm, its hide cracked and faded from the sun or the dust. His dark hair was short on top, military style, shaved almost to the skin at the sides to showcase black ink—a crow’s wing, crooked at the joint, its tip tucked behind his ear like a cigarette, etched black feathers caressing his neck. There were two beauty marks on his other cheek, which she’d mistaken for prison teardrops at first glance. Not loving how interested her eyes were getting, she turned to study the busy bar.
Odd place. If not for the twenty-first-century clothes and the wang-rock blasting from the jukebox, she might half expect somebody to pull a six-shooter from his hip and demand satisfaction, illustrate exactly why this place was called Benji’s Saloon. The chaos was getting to her, crowding her.
What she really needed was a quiet drink. A chance to mull and mourn and wallow in her own guilt. Not some impromptu blind date with a thug sporting a neck tattoo. Maybe there was a liquor store close by. She could buy a six-pack and nurse a beer in the privacy of her motel room.
“I think I’ll go,” she shouted over the din.
Vince looked down at her. “Nonsense.”
“I was really hoping to just collapse on a stool and relax. This is a bit too much.” She glanced around demonstrably at the assorted grinding couples, gesticulating arms, the pool game that looked as though it might escalate to a brawl at any moment.