His wounded sigh lashed at her conscience “All right, Kellie. Against my better judgment, I’ll go, but that explanation better be good.” His disapproval stung. Anger would have been easier to take. “Kellie?”
“Yeah, Pop?”
“Be careful.” And then he was gone…and she’d missed what might be her last opportunity to tell him how much she loved him. What if neither of them made it to Coeur d’Alene?
Kellie stumbled onto the sidewalk and continued aimlessly, blinded by the rain and the tears that refused to be ordered away this time. The street was much less crowded. In fact, she hadn’t seen another pedestrian in a while. The drenching rain muffled the sounds of traffic—or maybe she was too far from the Strip to hear.
How long had she been walking? She’d left the posh and glamour behind, trading it for the seedy section of downtown Vegas. Not the best neighborhood to be traveling alone. Several businesses along the street were boarded up. Others were open, but dark and quiet, hidden behind tinted glass with bars over the windows. She hurried by a tattoo parlor with a half dozen motorcycles parked out front.
Wrapping her arms around her waist, she tried to combat the chill that had settled in her bones. October was still considered the rainy season, and with the sun hidden by a thick veil of clouds, the day was surprisingly cool. But the cold that was making her whole body tremble wasn’t from the rain.
Suddenly, the note Jerry had shoved in her hand slipped from beneath the cell phone she still clutched and dropped to the broken and decaying sidewalk. Stopping, she eyed the folded paper already beginning to soak through. She should leave it there—keep walking. It wasn’t like she could take a chance on Jerry being a friend as he’d claimed, but she was curious.
Cautiously, as though the paper was a rattlesnake, coiled to strike, she picked it off the ground. Smoothing the creases, she pulled it closer and concentrated on the handwritten message.
Go to Wally’s Tavern, 14th and Fremont. Someone will meet you. Anna says hi.
Kellie smoothed her fingers across Anna’s name on the paper, and her vision blurred once again. Anna? Jerry knows where she is? Her head jerked up as she searched for a street sign—something to tell her where she was. She laughed in relief as she spotted the cross street ahead. Thirteenth—and she was on Bridger. Fremont was only a few blocks north.
Was it a trap? If Jerry’s intent was to catch her and turn her over to Tony, why did he let her go? Why the ruse? No…he knew something about her sister, and the only way Kellie would find out was to go to Wally’s Tavern. She’d come too far to quit now.
Trying hard to keep her pace to a walk, she hurried along the street. Her wet gown wound around her legs and made her work for each step. Kellie clamped her mouth shut to stop her chattering teeth as she turned north on Fourteenth. After two of the longest blocks she’d ever walked, she halted in front of a grungy building with a flickering neon sign proclaiming Wally’s Tavern.
The building was old and shabby. Repairs had evidently been neglected for some time. She didn’t really expect her sister to be inside, did she? Or someone who magically knew where Anna was? On the other hand, she couldn’t walk away without knowing for sure. She had to go inside and prove to herself Jerry’s note was only a cruel hoax.
Facing Wally’s Tavern, Kellie straightened her shoulders. Head held high, she stepped toward the door, using both hands to push the heavy wooden panel inward. She shuffled just far enough over the threshold for the door to close behind her. A few seconds later, her eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
A man stood two feet away on her right, so close and so tall she had to look up to see his face. An impression of piercing blue eyes and bulging muscles made her do a double-take and woke the butterflies in her stomach. His perusal didn’t waver, and she finally stopped gaping long enough to focus on the only occupied table…
Oh shit.
Chapter Two
MacGyver threw back the last half of his drink and grimaced as the foul liquid went down. He’d just about had all the watching and waiting he could stand. Not only could the rotgut that masqueraded as house bourbon at Wally’s Tavern double as paint remover, but if he heard one more a-man-walked-into-a-bar joke, he was likely to go postal on someone’s ass.
He turned his tumbler over on the pock-marked table and pushed his chair back. Somehow, they’d gotten bad information. If his partner, Travis, was set on continuing this dead-end stakeout, he could damn well do it himself. MacGyver was calling it—time of death…by boredom…five fourteen p.m.
He was one stride from a much needed breath of fresh air when the door burst open and in walked what was sure to be trouble…in a wedding dress.
Soaking wet from head to toe, the dress caressed her curvy figure, giving every able-bodied man in the place a damn good idea what she looked like naked. MacGyver forced his scrutiny from her generous breasts as the blonde stopped abruptly just inside the door. For the count of five, she checked him out while emotions he couldn’t quite read flitted over her features.
She froze, then slowly turned her head to inspect the gray interior of what was arguably the shoddiest drinking establishment in downtown Las Vegas. The most amazing green eyes he’d ever seen skittered away from his and came to rest on the three unshaven, hard-ass, leather-clad bikers who’d been drinking steadily at the only other occupied table. Her expressive eyes widened with a definite oh-shit expression. Immediately, she backpedaled, clearly trying to take her leave before any of Wally’s riffraff noticed her.
It was already too late.
The biker boys, apparently as surprised as MacGyver at the lady’s sudden appearance, stared for all of three seconds before two of them jumped to their feet.
“Whoa, where ya goin’, honey?” The dark-haired man, whom MacGyver had pegged as the self-imposed leader of the group, strode across the wooden floor and caught her arm, raking her with his lascivious gaze as he dragged her toward their table. “You just got here.”
The woman drew her free arm back, her fist clenched, and damned if it didn’t look like she was about to coldcock him. MacGyver tensed. He’d seen their type before. Guys who wouldn’t hesitate to hit a woman if provoked. Though she probably didn’t want his help, MacGyver would be on the right side of that fight in a heartbeat.
“Hey, barkeep. Got a dry towel back there?” The youngest of the three caught the cloth the bartender tossed from behind the bar and shoved it toward the woman’s chest so she was forced to grab it, disrupting any plans of resistance she might have had.
The boss man pushed her into a chair on the far side of their table.
And just like that, she was in deep shit.
What the hell was she doing in Wally’s? One look told MacGyver she was so far from the kind of woman who normally frequented this bar she might as well be from another planet. She was a lady—or at least the closest thing to one he’d seen come through that door. The flash of anger in her eyes and the way she carried herself—arms close to her body, paying attention to every move the bikers made, poised and ready, for what he didn’t know—told him, though uncomfortable in the situation, she wasn’t a pushover.
He’d bet her wedding gown, while wet and muddy, hadn’t been cheap. Nor the diamond earrings that matched the string of gems that hung around her neck. The shoes she wore were utilitarian and didn’t match the rest of the outfit, but her sexy ankles, peeking from beneath her hem as she eased onto the chair, would easily hold the biker dudes’ attentions and probably amp up their covetous natures. She might as well be wearing a sign identifying her as rich and completely out of her element.
Women like her usually stayed as far away from this part of Vegas as they could. She was lucky it was still light out. People were generally safe if they minded their own business when they passed through during the day. After dark, it was a whole different story.
Still, MacGyver had to give her cr
edit. Though she’d hung back at first and at least thought about punching the guy, she hadn’t lost her cool, finally settling into the chair somewhat gracefully. A forced smile didn’t quite hide her inner turmoil as she dried her face and arms. Fighting or insulting bottom-dwellers like those three, especially when they’d been drinking the whole damn day, would only hasten the trouble that would no doubt arrive eventually.
“Give us a round of tequila shots, bartender, and bring some salt and lime.” The boss man sat on her left, and the kid took his seat across from her and to the right of the third member of the group, who hadn’t yet moved from his spot.
Obviously, the biker boys knew a good thing when they saw it, and they weren’t about to let this one get away. That she was clearly out of their league and only putting up with their bad manners because, at the moment, she had no choice, did nothing to deter them. By the time she’d towel dried her hair, there were three shots lined up in front of her, and her would-be rescuers were practically salivating like a pack of hungry wolves. The fact she was a blonde-haired babe with mesmerizing green eyes and a killer bod wasn’t helping her…whether she knew it yet or not.
Now would probably be a good time for him to stop staring and get the hell out of here. One last look at the woman, and a smidgeon of apprehension nudged his gut. Shit. It’s a lousy idea to get involved.
He jammed a hand into his pants pocket and brought out a fistful of change. The barely audible sound of a cricket alerted him to an incoming text, and he fumbled for his phone as he continued to the vintage jukebox on the far side of the door. Dropping the coins in, he punched a random set of buttons. The lonesome strains of George Strait’s “Baby’s Gotten Good at Goodbye” drowned out the instructions the reluctant bride was getting from her tablemates—the fine art of tequila shooting.
What the hell? The text was from the congressman who’d hired MacGyver’s private security company to locate a missing person. The case was the reason he was currently in this dive, waiting for a local PI their client had also hired. The text—well…it changed everything.
MEET GIRL IN WEDDING DRESS IMMEDIATELY. WALLY’S. CRITICAL YOU KEEP HER UNDER WRAPS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
MacGyver turned to watch the woman, using the pretense of talking on his phone. How was she involved with the congressman? Did she also know their missing person? Now that she’d patted the rain water from her face, MacGyver could tell her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy-looking. What? Not her dream wedding day? Was she married and sorry already? Or did she run before the deed was done? No rock sparkled on her ring finger, so he’d bet it was the latter.
Her head turned toward him, and she caught him staring. He didn’t look away and, for a heartbeat, neither did she. In that fraction of a second, she appraised him with definite mistrust, clearly not seeing any difference between him and the three dirtbags she was sitting with. The same flare of anger she’d pinned them with was now directed at him. Her expression hardened, and she lifted her chin ever so slightly, looking away. His smidgeon of apprehension rolled into a shitload of foreboding.
That right there—that spark of rebellion—is going to get her in trouble.
With a muttered curse, MacGyver returned to his table and signaled the bartender with his empty glass.
She’d have been better off going through with the wedding. A tropical honeymoon, even with a loser, had to be better than the clusterfuck she was inviting here. This wasn’t a damn sanctuary for lost and confused females. The woman belonged on the Strip. Even dressed the way she was, she’d have blended in there, and no one would have bothered her. But she had to show up at Wally’s.
Plenty of women had come and gone in the hours since MacGyver had arrived. Street-wise, savvy women looking for someone to buy their drinks, fully prepared—eager even—to pay the price expected.
Unless he was a terrible judge of character, this woman was none of those things.
MacGyver glanced toward the exit, half expecting whomever she’d come in here to avoid to be standing at the door. The small, dirty window framed only a dismal sky and the rain that continued to fall. Las Vegas normally received about four inches of rain annually, according to Google. Apparently they were going to get it all today.
PTS Security, owned by MacGyver and three of his friends, all former SEALs, had been hired to find the boyfriend of a California state congressman’s daughter. The missing person, Jeremy Dahl, had reportedly come to Vegas a few days ago and hadn’t been heard from since.
Maybe he was only blowing off steam—having one last fling before he said good-bye to his bachelorhood. MacGyver had wanted to suggest their client give the guy a little breathing room and call back if he was still missing in a week or so. Unfortunately, Luke Harding, another of MacGyver’s partners, was the son of a senator, who owed the congressman a favor, resulting in MacGyver and Travis not being able to refuse the job.
The private investigator had arranged to meet at Wally’s Tavern and pass on the information he’d gathered, then hadn’t bothered to show. MacGyver’s four-hour wait had been tedious, boring and frustrating. Things had picked up significantly in the last few minutes, however. It wasn’t every day he got a front row seat to watch a half-drowned runaway bride get sloshed. He had a feeling the boring and tedious was about to change.
The bride was getting into tequila shooting almost as if it wasn’t her first time. She licked a patch of salt from her hand, downed the shot in one gulp and chomped the lime wedge as though it was the only thing keeping the cheap tequila from coming right back up. Her success was rewarded by shrill whistles, pounding on the table and a slurred chorus of “Fuck, yeah!” from the boss man and the kid.
The third man sat quietly next to the blonde. MacGyver tapped his foot to the music and pretended not to notice him from a couple tables away. He only had a side view of the man’s face, but he could sense his tension. He wore leather chaps, a black bandana around his forehead and, most concerning, a Devil’s Doom rocker on the back of his vest. The outlaw motorcycle gang was hard core. Six feet four, give or take an inch, and at least two hundred twenty pounds of solid muscle, the man had clearly learned to pay attention to his surroundings. He also held his liquor a hell of a lot better than the other two.
MacGyver had known a lot of men with those attributes. Navy SEALs—teammates who’d watched his back through a shit-ton of missions to the Middle East. This guy was different…angry…on edge. Dangerous in a crazy sort of way. MacGyver had kept a wary eye on him since entering the joint, easily picking him out as the one to watch if there was trouble.
And damned if trouble didn’t walk right in off the street.
The kid pushed another shooter in front of the woman. She carefully moved the full shot glass away from her toward the center of the table and smiled. “I really need to go. Thank you, gentlemen, for your kindness and the drink. As you can tell by the way I’m dressed, I have someplace I need to be.” Her voice started strong but trailed off as she pushed her chair back.
What the hell was it in a woman’s upbringing that made her think she could politely talk her way out of a mess like this? No rational man would try to reason with a horny, drunk biker dude. And certainly not three of them.
The bartender brought MacGyver’s fresh drink, mumbling something unintelligible. He snatched up the used glass, along with the bills MacGyver had placed in the center of the table, and hustled back behind the bar.
The woman was halfway to her feet when the third man’s hand snaked out, catching her wrist and jerking her toward him. She braced her other hand on the edge of the table and tried to wrest her arm from his grasp. Whether brave or foolhardy for making the attempt, MacGyver couldn’t decide, but the outcome was already a foregone conclusion.
MacGyver set his glass down and flattened his hands on the tabletop, ready to push himself to his feet. It was likely he was going to get his ass kicked, but what the hell. The nee
d to protect had been ingrained in him by Uncle Sam and his mother before that. No way would he allow this scum to abuse and possibly rape the woman—not if he could prevent it.
The biker stood fluidly and pulled her toward him, bending her arm behind her back until she was pressed chest to chest against him.
“You’re hurting me.” Her total disdain for the man dripped from her words.
A growl came from MacGyver’s throat. A bully had always been one thing he couldn’t abide. His temper flared in an instant, and he started to rise.
In one swift motion, the man unfolded the woman’s arm from behind her and lifted her hand to his lips. His cocksure attitude fixed on her, openly daring her to object, he tongued the back of her hand, from knuckles to wrist. With a sneer barely hitching one corner of his mouth, he reached into the bowl beside the plate of lime wedges and sprinkled salt over his saliva. “My friends bought you some drinks. It’d be rude not to drink ’em.” His gravelly voice conveyed the silent threat of consequences for any further perceived slights.
Did not see that coming. Damned if MacGyver’s stomach didn’t roll over as though it was his hand that’d been licked.
Green eyes angry, the woman sat as soon as the biker released her.
He shoved the shot glass toward her again. “Go ahead. See that you take all of the salt into that pretty mouth of yours.” He adjusted the obvious bulge through the front of his jeans and threw a wink at the kid. As he dropped into his chair, he signaled the bartender. “Bring three more…and another round for my friends.”
MacGyver relaxed into his chair again, settling his ball cap more firmly on his head. The woman wasn’t in any immediate danger, unless she was allergic to the alcohol being forced upon her. The congressman’s text had said immediately and critical. MacGyver’s gut told him to get her out of there now, but caution dictated he give them a little more time. At least two of them were well on their way to drinking themselves into a stupor, which would even the odds and make it less likely the woman would be hurt in the confrontation.
Honor Among SEALs Page 3