by Cara McKenna
Fortuity wasn’t much, but it had always been home, for better or worse. Now Raina felt her loyalty waning, knowing this town might not be recognizable two years from now.
Kim was right, and so was Vince: Raina owed it to herself to treat tattooing as a serious pursuit. They meant it as a validation of her talent, probably, but for Raina, it was just as much about survival, and adaptability. An escape route.
The window guy turned up shortly, and though she tried to pay, Duncan had beaten her to it. In no time the kitchen looked as though nothing had happened . . . Well, no, it looked better than before the brick, actually, as her guest appeared to have taken his anxiety out on her cupboards.
Her client arrived at noon, and he tipped outrageously once the piece was complete, beaming like a man who’d just been handed his newborn baby. He said he could come by Benji’s anytime for the photo stuff, and that he’d bring friends.
In no time it was pushing two, and she headed down to open the bar, humbled to register how satisfying her tattooing work was. Handing a drink to a patron was a nice enough transaction, but being extended the honor—and the trust—inherent in etching permanent art onto their skin . . . ? Nothing touched that.
Abilene was off until the evening, and Raina was looking forward to spending the afternoon slump diving headfirst into the small-business book she’d rush-ordered, making notes that might help her turn her hobby into something substantial enough to support her. Selling the bar would give her a beautiful hunk of savings, but she wasn’t stupid—that sale would supply her with a retirement fund, but with no plans to ever marry, her working days were far from over. If she did decide to sell up, she wouldn’t touch a dime of the money it brought her, not until she was sixty-five. The windfall would offer some security, but no leisure. She had to go into this next phase of her life the smart way.
She opened the bar and welcomed the old-timers, and had gotten two hours into the workday and fifty pages into the book when her mood suddenly took a nosedive.
An early drinker arrived—that fed, the one she’d ripped a new one in at the diner.
“Well, well,” she said, leaning on the bar. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Agent Flores?”
“Ramon’s fine.” He stopped on the other side of the counter, scanning the area and his gaze seeming to halt dead center along the bottle-lined shelf behind her. Dead center, on her dad’s urn. He quickly looked back to her. “Do you have a moment to chat?”
“What about? Duncan?”
“Yes.”
“What about him?”
“I understand you two are . . . involved.”
She smiled. “Wow, well done. Maybe we ought to make that Detective Flores.”
“So you two are a couple . . . ?”
“We’re fucking. And we’re friends.” What more did a person need?
“But you’ve never been professionally affiliated?”
She blinked. “A bar owner and a PR sniper? No, not remotely.”
“And Duncan has never asked you to do anything inappropriate on his behalf?”
“Oh, we’ve done all sorts of inappropriate things together, Ramon.”
Flores rolled his eyes. “I’ll be blunt. Have you laundered money for Duncan Welch?”
That one threw her. “Have I what, now?”
“Have you, say, accepted large sums of money from him and held it for him? Filtered it through the bar’s cash transactions?”
“Where is this even—” Oh, wait. “He gave me some cash, for room and board. Three hundred dollars. It’s upstairs.” All wadded up from having been forgotten in the midst of the sex, and run through the laundry, in fact. She’d been meaning to give it back to him.
“I understand that’s not the first sum you’ve accepted from him.”
She had to think a long moment before she caught on. “You mean last month? He did give me cash then, too, you’re right. A donation to a party we threw here. Three hundred bucks, maybe four. I can’t remember.”
“Off the books?”
“Kind of. Some friends covered the cost of the beers that night, and Duncan’s little gift paid for the open-bar expenses and then some. Everything went into the deposit bag at the end of the night, and I didn’t ring up drink orders. It’d just look like a really profitable day, if you checked the records. I probably made a couple hundred bucks off him in the end.”
“Right.”
“I don’t bother getting picky about the accounting for things like that—it was a friend’s welcome-home party. People chip in, I provide the drinks.” She shrugged.
“Yet it was held in your place of business.”
She put her hands on her hips. “My place of business is pretty casual, as you may have noticed.” She cast a pointed gaze around the no-frills barroom.
“Let’s hope your accounting’s a touch more organized, then.”
She froze. “Wait. Are you auditing me?”
“In a sense. I’ll need your accounting and tax records from the past three years—”
Her arms dropped. “Three years? You’re investigating Duncan, aren’t you? He’s been in Fortuity for less than three months.”
“Yes, but we need multiple years of records, in order to establish that no unusual patterns have emerged since his arrival. Now, have you ever accepted any other large sums of money from Mr. Welch, since you two became acquainted?”
“Aside from ten-dollar tips? No. This is ridiculous.”
“This is all in aid of clearing your friend’s name, I promise. Provided everything’s been aboveboard, of course.”
“Of course. Jesus, you’re a pain in my asshole.” She sighed, knowing there was no way out of this. And also that yes, it could theoretically help Duncan’s case. “Fine. When do you need this stuff by?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
There went her date night, once again. She’d be stuck in the office until all hours, trying to get her shit together. Thank goodness three years covered only her tenure, though—she’d be fucked if she had to make sense of her dad’s so-called bookkeeping. “Fine. Tax shit, inventory, bank statements . . . What else?”
“Anything with dollar signs printed on it, basically.”
“I’m gonna kick myself for even offering this, but I’m also a licensed tattooist. You need to check those records for signs of money laundering, too?”
Flores smiled. “That was my next bit of business. Please.”
She shook her head, annoyed as fuck. But her records on that front were already in good order, computerized.
Christ, her entire life would be so much simpler if that was her sole gig. What was the bar these days, really, other than a ten-ton weight slung around her neck?
“Anything else?” she asked. “You need to pry my walls apart, check for stacks of bills? Rip my mattress open?”
“One step at a time.” Flores checked his watch. “And one more thing.”
“What?”
“An Amstel, please. Provided that little threat about spitting in my drink was an idle one.”
She grabbed a bottle from the fridge and opened it, set it on a napkin before him. “Four bucks.”
He left her a five and took his beer to a table by the front, dropping off the empty ten minutes later. He nodded politely. “Raina.”
“That’s Ms. Harper to you.”
He smiled. “As you like it, Ms. Harper.”
She glared at his back until he was gone, then pulled out her cell. She cued up Casey’s number and listened to the tone for four rings. She was poised to hang up and text him instead when—
“Yeah?” He sounded breathless.
“This a bad time?”
“No, this is fine—unless you care that I’m naked. Just ran in from the shower—”
“Yeah, fine. Visual established. Moving on. I need
your help tonight at the bar.”
“Fucking shit. You realize I’m on stakeout tonight, don’t you? From what—two till dawn? Is a man not allowed to sleep?”
“I just found out I’m getting audited by the feds, Case. I can’t dig through my filing cabinets and mix drinks at the same time, and I don’t want Abilene getting stressed-out, manning the taps on her own.”
A noisy sigh crackled the line. “When?”
“Seven till close?”
“Goddamn . . . Okay, fine. It’s my night off Mom duty. Probably would’ve wound up there anyhow.”
“Thanks, Case. I owe you.”
“Fucking right you do.”
They hung up, and Raina wiped her phone’s screen with her thumb, heart suddenly beating quickly for no good reason. Duncan’s number was listed under Welch, which felt funny now. She hit CALL and he answered after a ring.
“Hello, Ms. Harper.” Damn, that voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“What are you up to?”
“Aside from dwelling on the memory of your sex against my mouth?”
Raina flushed hot from her heels to her hair, his phantom tongue and lips whispering between her legs. “Aside from that.”
“I just got back. I’m due to have a long call with my accountant in just a couple minutes.”
“Wow, I can sympathize there . . . I’m afraid I need to cancel our dinner party, darling. Just had a visit from your little fed buddy. I have to spend the evening digging up my financial records from the past three years, to prove I’m not laundering your bribe money.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“I know. Anyhow, guess we’ll be even now—you stand me up, I stand you up.”
“Nonsense. We’ll eat in the office.”
She pictured it, the two of them camped at the desk in mismatched chairs, papers piled everywhere, bar din drifting through the door. A weird sort of date, but more charming than the ones she normally got taken on. “Okay, then. You’re on.”
* * *
Late that afternoon, Duncan hung up after a marathon of a phone call with his accountant. He sank back on the couch and registered the morning’s ride. He had blisters from the stiff new boots, sunburn warming his neck, aching wrists, a twinge in his lower back. He must’ve covered a hundred square miles with nothing to show for it, and the urgency of yesterday’s pursuit had bled out of him, leaving little more than weariness and frustration. He dragged himself to the bathroom to shower away the dust.
At least he and Raina would have their date, he thought as he soaped up. He was looking forward to helping her with her accounting tasks—he was good at paperwork. And he desperately needed to feel useful after the waste he’d made of his day.
And the other task set before him—cooking—he was good at that as well.
Not quite an hour later, he was kicking at the bar’s office door, hands busy with steaming plates.
Raina opened it and smiled. “Guess you didn’t decide to stand me up again, then.”
“Perish the thought.” He slipped past her to set the plates on the cluttered desk. Not caring to dwell on his shortcomings as a biker, he’d dressed like a gentleman. And he’d made his specialty, minus a few components not stocked by the small supermarket in the next town—no saffron for the chicken, and olive oil in place of grape-seed. Asparagus, red bell peppers, baby potatoes, plenty of rosemary. It seemed he was a failure as a detective, but at least he still did civility well. “Dinner is served.”
“Wow.” She accepted the utensils and napkin he procured from his pocket. “Not bad for a bachelor.”
“I have a strong domestic streak.”
“You do windows?” she teased, sitting.
“I do indeed, as well you know.” He locked the office door—this date wasn’t what he’d first envisioned, but he’d at least get her to himself, uninterrupted and undistracted, for twenty minutes. Taking a seat across from her, he watched as she took her first bite. Satisfaction moved through him like lust to see the way her lids fluttered.
“Wow,” she said again. “I’m not a terrible cook, but you put my best efforts to shame.”
“Thank you.”
He barely tasted his own dinner, even though he’d not eaten this well since he arrived in Fortuity. Her pleasure felt far more nourishing somehow, particularly in the wake of everything they’d told each other last night.
Duncan had thought before, if he ever found himself in possession of such deeply personal information about Raina, he might wield it as she had done with his OCD—exploit it as a weapon to get himself released from her custody. It had seemed only fair. But he knew now he wouldn’t. She wasn’t his adversary, not anymore.
They spoke little before their plates were clean, and Raina wadded her napkin with a happy sigh, sinking back in her chair.
He smiled. “Oh good.”
“Better than good. I needed that, to get through this crap.” Her eyes took in the heaps of records before moving to Duncan’s chest, then his face.
“Yes?”
“Just admiring you.”
His pulse quickened.
“Your eye looks way better.”
“Tell me, have you been as distracted as I have today, remembering last night?”
She seemed to stifle a smirk. “About getting stood up, you mean?”
“No, that isn’t what I mean. Do you need reminding?”
“I might.”
He stood, rounding the desk. She got to her feet, then sat on its edge, smiling expectantly. Her thighs spread to welcome his hips as he stood before her. She stroked his chest through his dress shirt, fingers toying with his buttons but not undoing them.
“I never would have guessed,” she murmured, “how hot it is to get cooked for.”
He smiled, pressing his forehead to hers, loving how it felt when their noses touched. The subtle, innocent intimacy of that contact roused him as truly as a probing kiss might. “You’re welcome.”
He kissed her—lightly, but that was all it took to get his cock growing heavy and warm, pulse restless. Though now wasn’t the time to take things too far . . .
Her hand curved around his neck as her lips parted, inviting more. Well, perhaps a minute wouldn’t hurt.
There was heat in the kissing—that was inevitable, when the two of them came together—but underneath that, something more. Something unmistakably solid and reassuring and right, just as he’d felt last night, falling asleep beside her. It stood to reason he’d grown this besotted. This affair was the one pleasant aspect of his life at the moment, a port in the storm of the accusations and threats and uncertainty. So he’d been wrong about that first encounter being the last, and wrong to think a second one wouldn’t burn as hot. Deeply, laughably wrong. So, fine, let this unlikely flower bloom for as long as Duncan was trapped here—in this awful town, in this professional nightmare. After all, if he couldn’t work, he might as well get laid.
Between fond, lazy, savoring kisses, Raina asked, “How far is this going?”
“As far as we’ll both take it—but not until we’ve sorted your books out.”
Her fingers toyed with his collar, a wicked smile curving her lips. “You sure?”
“Quite.”
“Can we at least keep kissing for a bit, Herr Taskmaster?”
He took out his phone to mark the time. “Five minutes, starting now.”
And as if on cue, the doorknob rattled. Knocking followed.
After an annoyed sigh, Raina called, “What is it?”
Casey’s muffled voice answered, “Need your help a sec. The register’s jammed and hitting it isn’t helping.”
“Give me five minutes.”
A pause. “Jesus, are you fucking in there?”
She snorted against Duncan’s collar, then called back, “Five m
inutes.”
“More like two,” Duncan shouted, caught up in the ridiculousness of it.
Raina dissolved into silent fits.
“Fucking unbelievable,” Casey said, any following words trailing off with his footsteps.
Duncan stepped out from between Raina’s legs, mustering dignity. “I think that rather dampened the seduction, don’t you?”
She nodded grudgingly. “I think you’re right.”
He gathered the dishes and napkins. “I’ll take these up and make you a coffee, and me a tea. You figure out where on earth we left off.”
“Fine.” She twisted her hair into a bun and surveyed the heaps of papers. “That was delicious, though. And the food wasn’t half-bad, either.”
“I aim to please.”
She gathered a stack of receipts. “Would you swing through the front and make sure Casey’s got the register working?”
“Sure.”
He dropped the dishes in the sink upstairs, then headed back down to the bar. The evening was growing busy, and Duncan wended his way between the boisterous drinkers to approach the counter, catching Casey’s eye. “Is the register fixed?”
“Yeah, no thanks to you two,” Casey said, setting a cocktail before a waiting customer. Duncan had come to appreciate that the man had two settings—gregarious and annoyed. But Casey seemed to relish both equally, and there was no real anger behind the jab.
“Glad to hear it.”
“You need drinks?” Casey asked.
“No, merely checking that—”
“Hey,” came a voice from just behind Duncan, in tandem with a hard poke in the spine. He whipped around, adrenaline electrifying his body, and found his eyes level with the balding pate of a sweaty, thickset man with a laborer’s ruddy tan.
“Yes?”
“You work for the casino, right?” the man demanded, a slur in his voice.
“I did.”
“Yeah, I thought it was you. You’re that shit who took bribes from Levins.”
Duncan frowned. “I’m that shit who was framed by David Levins, yes.”