by Wendy Byrne
Somehow, some way, her female radar had a major glitch in it. Enrique Santana was probably ground zero for trouble. The latest fiasco was her boyfriend, Daniel. He’d told her he worked in sales, which should have been her first clue. Any other woman would have run far and fast from a guy who never kept regular office hours, always seemed to be hanging around her bar, and flashed a wad of hundreds like it was singles.
Daniel was in sales, all right. Drugs, guns, any type of illegal contraband on the market, he sold without compunction. This she discovered after being hauled into the police station for questioning.
After a grueling three-hour interrogation, they’d let her go. Maybe it was that “sucker” stamp affixed to her forehead that forced them to release her. Pity, no doubt, occasionally infiltrated the ranks of police as well. With a stern warning to find a better class of men, they’d shooed her out the door.
That was six months ago. She hadn’t had a date since. No sense tempting fate. While a man might appear innocent on the surface, she’d learned there was always something nasty lurking inside.
“Hello, Ms. Murphy.” Enrique’s voice broke through her preoccupation. “Any bruises from our collision?”
“Not that I noticed.” Damn, her voice hitched.
Men are slime. Men are scum. They only lead to disaster. Her new mantra. Repeat ten times a day for maximum results. That, and keep her fingers crossed and her eyes averted.
Then again, this man sure was fun to look at. And looking didn’t hurt a thing.
The worn-in fit of his jeans, the shirt exposing his biceps, and the sultry appeal of the way he walked slammed into her. Although she’d hoped she’d outgrown her fascination with the dark side, clearly that was not the case. Everything about him drew her in like a televangelist to a convert with a fat wallet.
“Can I get you a beer?” Without waiting for a response, she pulled down the lever to draw him a glass. Sliding it across the bar, she did her best to hide her case of sophomoric nerves.
“You expecting a quiet night?”
“Depends on your definition of quiet, I suppose.” Sammie hated the little flutter popping against the sides of her abdomen. She had so many more important things to worry about than the resident bad boy. Having a Cobra tat said it all, as far as she was concerned, regardless of his charming demeanor.
“Murphy’s is never quiet. Didn’t your uncle Jack mention that fact when he asked you to take over?”
“He doesn’t know I’m here.” She sucked in her lip. Confronting Jack in prison wasn’t high on her can’t-wait-to-do-it list, after the lawyer’s comment. Maybe tomorrow she’d suck it up and go there. She more or less had to after visiting the bank today.
Enrique eyed her for a few seconds, then popped a bar straw into his mouth and chewed on the end. “So it’s Sammie to the rescue, kind of like Wonder Woman.”
“Except for the fancy cape.” Why couldn’t she just stop talking to him? Or go away and do something productive? Nope. Instead her Doc Marten–clad feet were rooted to the spot.
“What about your parents, can’t they help you out?” He stared at her as he asked the question.
“They’re dead.” Okay, major fib—at least as far as she knew. But since she hadn’t seen them in a really long time, it didn’t feel like much of a lie.
“Sorry to hear that.” Again, he studied her face as if waiting for some kind of response.
“It is what it is.” She gnawed at the corner of her lip and hoped he didn’t notice.
“So you jumped on the first plane to help out your uncle? Nothing much going on around home? No boyfriend? No attachments?” His smile revealed dimples embedded in his stubble-covered cheeks.
Dimples? Why’d he have to have dimples? They were the bane of her existence. They gave such a contrary message: they made the not very innocent look like angels.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and she drew in a deep breath. A trickle of sweat started at the base of her skull and slithered down her back. Did he have any idea of the very unhealthy thoughts swirling through her brain and urging all her erogenous areas to give in to his appeal?
“No.” She spat out the word because she couldn’t think of anything to stop the weird trajectory of trouble invading her body.
That sexy glint in his eye when it trailed up and down her body said it all. “Good to know.”
She took a swig of water and wished it were something a little stronger. Why couldn’t he take a simple hint and leave her alone? Because bad boys never did. They pestered, they cajoled, they teased until a woman had no choice but to give in. Then, snap! They had a woman where they wanted her: malleable—a slave to their charms. But no sirree. Not her. Not this time.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know when a woman’s interested.”
“Ha.” She spurted out the word as if it were a curse. She really needed to get a life. Sparring with this guy wasn’t getting her anywhere except deeper into trouble. “And you’re basing that on the way I’m”—she held a finger to her lips as if thinking it over—“gee, all over you like white on rice?” She let a smile twitter at her lips.
He grinned and rested his thumb on his chin. “There are other, more subtle signs.”
“Such as…”
“The way your face flushes pink when I get close or touch you. The way that vein at the base of your throat pulses when we talk.” He gazed at her through hooded lids. “Do you need me to go on?”
“Clearly, you’re delusional. I’m blonde and fair skinned, so everything makes my skin turn pink fairly quickly, especially in this deplorable heat.” Sammie glanced at the door when it opened, hoping there might be a sudden crowd of people to distract her. But instead it was Tony, the other bartender.
“Make excuses if you want, but we both know where this is headed.” He pointed to her then to him and then gave her a wicked smile that nearly made her swoon.
“Whatever.” She shrugged and walked over to greet Tony. But instead of engaging in conversation like she’d hoped, he nodded and headed toward the kitchen.
Enrique motioned for her attention once again. Like a sucker, she ambled back.
“Out of curiosity, did some guy royally screw you over, because you have all the signs.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “As far as I’m concerned men are disgusting, vile creatures existing only to satisfy their own overblown egos.” Whoa. Obviously she’d been holding back. She drew in a sharp breath, surprised at the vehemence behind her words.
“Hell, why don’t you go ahead and tell me how you really feel there, Sammie.” His eyes crinkled into a kind of smile, followed by his mouth. “And what if I told you I was different?”
“I’d say sure, all right. Then one day, one week, or one month later, I’d catch you doing a line of cocaine, or in bed with another woman, or having a wad of cash despite the fact you have no job. Or even worse, trying to get me to sell your drugs for you.” Oops. She hadn’t intended for all that to come out, but something about Enrique had her spewing whatever came to mind.
“Maybe not all men are like that.” He had a twinkle in his eye along with a half smile when he spoke.
“I’d rather not take the chance.” The crap that kept coming out of her mouth made her want to check herself into the nearest psych unit.
“Hey, I’m a good guy.” He pointed to himself as if she didn’t know where he was headed with his assertion.
She snorted. “All men say they’re different. But before you know it, the other shoe falls—and bam—a dropkick to the gut when I’m not looking.”
“Seems as though you have me tried and convicted without even giving me a chance.” He drummed his fingers along the top of the bar and stared at her.
“Sometimes there’s no need.” She pulled at the small towel in her hand and wiped down the lip of the bar where condensation had congealed. This conversation was going nowhere fast. Why couldn’t a busload of tourists suddenly pop through the
door to save her from continuing on a discussion that would only lead to frustration, or more likely, disaster of ginormous proportions?
“So I’m guessing the book is closed. You won’t go out with me.”
She shook her head, forcing her body to steel her words of conviction. “I wouldn’t even think about it unless I knew you inside and out or had a private detective trail you for a couple of months to make sure you don’t have a wife on the side or a criminal history or are engaged in some less-than-honest pursuits. Which I don’t intend to do, so save your breath.”
“What do you want to know?”
Distracted, she filled a customer’s order, then she returned her attention to Enrique. She did not want to say anything more yet couldn’t stop herself. No doubt about it, she was headed for hell.
“What do you do for a living?”
“A little of this. A little of that. I’m sort of a vagabond. Right now, I’m working on the construction project across the street.”
Just as she’d thought. If she had a checklist to mark off the criteria defining a big old heap of trouble, he’d probably have all the boxes filled in.
He leaned back on the stool as his eyes traveled from the top of her head to as far on her body as the bar would allow him to peruse. “What do you do when you’re not helping your uncle?”
Her face flushed as all sorts of erotic thoughts passed through her mind. This man should be stamped with a big fat label—lethal.
What was that new mantra of hers again? Men are slime. Men are scum. They’ll only lead to disaster. That was it. Somehow her hormones weren’t paying any attention.
“I teach karate and work at a bar in Providence.”
“I figured you’d done this kind of work before.”
Nervous, she took another sip of water. Where were all the customers? Distraction. Distraction. Distraction. That’s what she needed.
“What else do you want to know?” The smile on his face told her he was cocky about his appeal.
Check another box on the trouble score sheet.
“This isn’t a good idea, this getting-to-know-you thing. I won’t be in town long, and I’ll be busy.” She gulped down the urge to take him up on his offer to go out. “Besides, you’re really not my type. You’re a little rough around the edges. The bandanna. The earring. The…” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t dare say the sculpted biceps, the sexy timbre of his voice, those amazing eyes. She’d never be able to pull that lie off.
At her words, he pulled off the bandanna covering his head, and the earring from his ear and a mass of thick, wavy hair tumbled out. How could that be? He was even sexier than she imagined. Why couldn’t he have a big giant bald spot covered up by the bandanna?
“Your hair…um, I see…why you need to wear the bandanna.” Could she get any more lame? She did an internal groan.
“It kind of gets in the way when I’m working or riding on my bike.”
“Bike? You mean as in motorcycle?”
She should have figured he’d have one of those. All bad boys had bikes, didn’t they? That way, not only could they make a quick getaway when they inevitably got caught doing something despicable, they’d look ever so sexy doing it.
He motioned with his thumb in the general direction. “My Harley’s parked across the street at the job site. I like to ride it when the weather’s nice.”
She fanned herself. He called this nice? It was hot as hell and getting hotter by the second.
“Oh.” A flush spread from her neck up.
“I’ll take you for a ride down the coast some time. It doesn’t have to be a date.”
No. No. No. Willpower was never her strong point. Everything within her traitorous body wanted to agree to a ride down the highway to hell.
Her body heated up as the blood in her veins buzzed. It must have been some mutant genetic strain within her family that caused her obsession with disaster.
Because, if nothing else, Enrique Santana was a walking, breathing hunk of pure disaster waiting to happen.
…
Sammie’s hasty exit made Enrique believe she was somehow scared of him, which confused him. There could be only two possible reasons for her fear: she’d somehow figured out his real identity, which was unlikely but plausible, or she really was an innocent victim, which seemed to be an even more remote possibility.
But as he watched her converse with the customers, he couldn’t help but entertain the idea. Her proclamation about men seemed genuine. Of course, that only meant she’d been screwed over by some guy. It didn’t necessarily mean she was innocent of any wrongdoing.
Hell, she’d lied about her parents being dead. The woman couldn’t lie worth shit, which was a really bad thing for somebody in her profession.
Being in and around people who bought, sold, and did drugs, Enrique was good at sniffing out a lie. He had to be. His life depended on his instincts being right on. He had to know when a healthy bout of skepticism had crossed over the line into trouble.
Addicts’ lives were lies. From the minute they woke up in the morning to the last second before they passed out from their drug of choice, they went about their day perfecting their art. They had to lie in order to survive and maintain their habit.
They lied to their family and friends about their whereabouts. If they could manage some kind of a job, they lied to employers about illnesses and anything else that got in the way of them being able to carry on doing their drugs.
Enrique knew the lies firsthand. His ex-wife had been an addict. But when the signals hit close to home, he’d dismissed them. He’d made excuses for her continual tiredness, inability to hold down a job, and screwing up their finances.
But one day, reality had slapped him in the face. In order to score, she’d turned over information on him to the drug dealers. After that, Enrique handed out his trust by the teaspoon. And as far as he could tell, Sammie Murphy was nowhere near garnering even a meager amount.
He nursed his beer, watching the stream of patrons shift about the room. Since it was still early in terms of nightlife, the crowd was relatively small.
A couple sat together in the corner. If he had to guess, they might be on their honeymoon. A few guys from the construction crew he worked with played pool in the back. A guy he didn’t recognize sat at a table, reading one of those tourist books about the area. Which in itself wasn’t strange, except for the fact the guy didn’t look much like a tourist.
The front door opened, letting in the heat. In walked a guy he hadn’t seen before. There were local bars and then there were touristy bars. Murphy’s fit into the latter category. He couldn’t help but be curious.
…
“Ms. Murphy?”
“If I can call you Jonathan, surely you can call me Sammie.” Sammie smiled while wiping her hands against her shorts. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Do you have news?” As hard as she tried, she couldn’t keep her pulse rate from skyrocketing.
He shook his head and grasped her hand. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to get your hopes up. I talked to Jack a little bit ago, and he’s adamant about you going back to Providence. I told him you were here to stay, but he insisted I let you know.”
Tears welled in her eyes. It wasn’t like her uncle to act that way toward her. “He didn’t tell you why?”
“He just said he’d made the mess, and he had to take care of this himself. And he didn’t want you involved in his troubles.”
“But…” A tear slipped down her cheek. Jonathan smiled and squeezed her hand.
“Jack’s a good guy. And I’ll do everything in my power to help him through this.”
“I appreciate that, but I can’t leave.” She hiccuped in a sob as the frustrations for the last couple of days seemed to converge inside her. “I went to the bank today, and it seems like Jack’s already used any leverage he has in this building, so he won’t be able to make bail.” For a second or two she wondered about sharing the possibility that Jack owed peop
le money for gambling debts. But in the end, she didn’t want to sully her uncle’s reputation unnecessarily.
“Maybe I can get the judge to consider lowering the amount. It’s a long shot, but I’m not opposed to trying.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” She steadied her hand against the bar top as frustration unlike she’d ever known settled inside her. Powerlessness didn’t sit well with her. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”
“You’re here to support him, and that’s what counts. I don’t know why, but Jack’s worried about your safety. I’m not sure what that’s all about, but…”
“Jack’s always been a tad overprotective. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
Jonathan laughed as he grasped her hand. “I’ve heard some tales from Jack. But I did find out some interesting information about the cop who busted your uncle.”
“Was he undercover? How did it happen?”
“I haven’t talked to him yet, but I’ve heard stories.”
“Like?” Her fingers twitched at her side.
“He doesn’t have a great reputation. In fact, I heard he fell off the rails a while back and screwed up a couple of cases, but they gave him a second chance. Rumor has it that it had something to do with drugs. Not sure what, exactly, but it was big, if the rumor about him is true.”
“Do you think he could be involved in what happened to Jack?” Her pulse sped up. This might be the key to freeing her uncle, and she was going to pursue it to the max.
“He wouldn’t be the first crooked cop, that’s for damn sure. Don’t have a name. Most times they’re identified by a badge number. But from what I read, the evidence he presented is quite damning. Jack was monitored for a while before they finally made the arrest. Maybe a little too pat, if you know what I mean.”
Like maybe Jack was set up. Sammie leaned against the bar for support. Her legs felt rubbery and weak. The remainder of her body, a total and complete train wreck.
A crooked cop would stack the deck against Jack, and no one would be the wiser. This was much worse than she could have possibly envisioned. It would explain why Jack didn’t want her around. She needed to figure out who the cop was and take care of this once and for all.