He was right. The bright green lights were on and Irish music was thumping at Crazy Eights, a local tavern. Mr. Graves’ hand coasted to the small of her back when he pushed the door open for her. That was nice and gentlemanly, but nice was as deceiving as was gentlemanly. Neither made a man kind or a gentleman, a noble hero or an intelligent partner. It certainly didn’t make him worth wasting her hard-bought freedom. Tara had learned that lesson well. Small gestures only made men—nice. Barely worth breaking a sweat over.
Mr. Graves waved at the bartender, an older, but pretty, dark-haired woman wearing a green Notre Dame ballcap and matching ND apron.
Her eyes lit up when she saw him. “Hey, boyo of mine! The usual?”
Nodding, he pointed to the back of the place, his hand still on Tara’s lower back as he steered her to a corner booth of Irish proportions. As eating establishments were in Ireland, all the booths in the place were different and unique. None looked alike. A stout wooden bench lined one side of this table, two matching wooden chairs the other. The table itself was a heavy piece of antique oak, its top inlaid with ceramic tiles in shades of emerald green and shamrocks, what else? The wall enclosed two sides of the booth while a high-back divider of the same heavy oak separated this booth from the next.
Tara selected the bench since it faced the door. She needed to see whoever entered the pub. Mr. Graves took the chair farthest from the aisle, his back to the door and a knowing smile on his face. Well, he could have it. She would let him know if the police—or anyone else—showed.
They’d no more than settled down when the bartender came by with a tray of two tall waters, two large frothy mugs of beer, and a gigantic bowl of pub mix.
“What’ll it be, young lady?” she asked Tara, her bright eyes the loveliest shade of sky blue.
“Thanks, but no thanks. Water will be fine. I’m not hungry.”
“But surely you’ll be wanting something more to drink than just water?” The bartender made that a question.
Tara looked at the two sweaty mugs. What would it hut? Maybe drinking a single beer wouldn’t hurt—just this one time.
Mr. Graves snickered as he appropriated both mugs, sliding them to his side of the table. He grinned like a kid with a secret. “Uh uh. These are mine. Get your own.”
How rude. Obviously, Renner was a regular here. Well, okay then.
Facing the bartender once, Tara said, “Since I’ve come with a piggish man, I’ll have a root beer, please.” She didn’t ordinarily drink alcohol anyway, but she needed something after the fiasco the night had become. There was an interesting vibe to this quaint little Irish pub though, one she couldn’t yet put her finger on. It wasn’t coming from the steady Irish music the band played, either.
“Aye, he’s a piggish one, he is. One root beer, coming right up,” the bartender said with a smile as big as could be. “Fish and Chips?” she asked Mr. Graves.
“No, ma’am. Rib-eye tonight. I’m hungry.”
“Another tough day?” she sympathized.
“Nah, not really,” he grunted, his smiling eyes back on Tara. “Just another day in the life of. Right?”
What else could she do but nod in agreement and say, “You might be right.” Something was definitely going on here, but Tara was darned if she could tell what it was.
“How about you?”
Tara looked up into the charming woman’s face. Those same dark blue eyes. The same straight nose. She looked tired but determined. And familiar. “Are you…? Is he…?”
The bartender nodded. They were related. “Yes, my dear, this handsome man is me boyo. Now what’ll you be eating? A rib-eye like him or the cod? I breaded it myself, and it’s fresh caught this morning.” She pronounced morning with a soft ‘a’, like marning.
Tara spiked a brow and shot Mr. Graves her best evil-eye even as she extended her hand politely to make the acquaintance. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Graves. I’m Tara Tumulty. I, umm, work with your son—occasionally—but he never told me how young you were.”
Mrs. Graves took gentle hold of Tara’s hand with both of hers. “Well then, we’re even. He never told me he had such a beautiful girlfriend, either. But from now on you’ll be calling me Brenda, you hear? Now let me get that root beer for you. I’ll be back before you can say Nine Fine Irishmen!”
When she was out of earshot, Tara leaned into the table and whispered, “Your mother’s delightful. You should’ve told me she worked here.”
He sipped his draft, his cobalt blue eyes intently fixed on her. “She doesn’t. She owns Crazy Eights. This is her place.”
“Oh, really?” Wow. Tara took a longer, closer look at the fine woodwork in the tavern, all of it polished, every antique-furnished booth clean, the black-and-white checkered floor swept and as lovely a throwback as the rest of the place. The racked liquor bottles on the antique bar gleamed gold and blue, red and white against a sparkling beveled mirror. Green glass lampshades glowed everywhere. Dainty pink roses in Irish crystal vases graced each table.
“Your mother’s an amazing woman.”
“Aye, that she is,” he replied, his half-empty mug raised in a salute. “My dad’s been gone for years, and Mom’s been a force in my life. You’ll like her.”
I already do. Brenda reminded Tara of her own mother. Kind to a fault and willing to work herself to death if it helped her family. “You know,” she drawled as she reached across the table and interlocked his fingers with hers. “This could be the start of something fun. If we’re going to bump into each other like we did tonight, we might as well work together.”
His gaze fell to her hand on his, his eyes bright with—something. At last he looked up. “Why were you there?”
She cocked her head at him. “Are you kidding? You know. For the same reason as you.”
“And that would be?”
Was he playing dumb? “The payoff. The jewels and what all those diamonds can buy,” she answered earnestly.
He pulled his fingers away. “You’re a thief?”
She would’ve scoffed, but the beam in his eyes was now more serious, not so much light as awareness. Until he tugged her hand back across the table and said, “You like ink.”
He had to be a cop who could now identify her by the Grumpy Cat tattoo on the back of her hand. She’d always loved that internet celebrity. Until now. “Goodbye, Mr. Graves,” she said politely even as she pushed to her feet.
If only he’d let go of her hand. “Do you mind?”
He gave her that cocky head nod guys did so well, the one that told her to sit her ass back down and shut up. Tara’s spine stiffened at the temerity of this walking bag of testosterone. He had his nerve. She never should’ve thought he was different. He wasn’t! Okay, so she had thought precisely that for all of ten seconds, but that had more to do with his sweet mother than him. Talk about a night to forget.
“Please,” he whispered, the sincerity in his eyes warm and alive as if he needed this more than she did.
Tara balked, her nerves still on edge for all she’d lived through and all she’d accomplished in spite of it. For that. She’d never make the same mistake twice.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Never again.
His lips pinched, but not with anger. It looked more like regret. Maybe pity. Which she didn’t need, damn him. But it was better than what she’d expected from a… a man.
His grip loosened as if he’d realized he’d been holding on too tight. “I’m sorry, Tara Tumulty,” he said quietly. “For whatever happened to you in the past, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t know me well enough to be sorry,” she declared, her righteous indignation on fire. Damn him for thinking he knew anything about her when he most certainly did not. For assuming an apology from one male could ever make up for the others. Men were jerks. All of them!
Mr. Graves’ fingers let go. He nodded as if he’d lost and she’d won. “You’re right, but
I’m still sorry, especially if I came across as judgmental. I’m not usually quick to jump to conclusions, but you surprised me, and… Hell. Everything about this night surprised me.”
He leaned back in the chair and ran his fingers over his head as if frustrated. The sides of his head were shaved close, the top longer. With each stroke, the darker locks up top lifted like burnt wheat under a stiff wind. As dark as his hair appeared under these dim lights, there were traces of red in there, red she wanted to run her fingers through.
“Listen, we just survived one helluva drop, and I’m thirsty and hungry. Stay. Just to talk. That’s all I’m asking. Then I’ll see you home. My car’s parked not too far from here. After that, you’ll never have to put up with me again.”
“I’ll see myself home, thank you.” How she wanted to run. She’d had enough of men and their wily traps. Their conniving lies.
His mother arrived with another dripping wet mug and a raft of napkins. “Here you go, my darlings,” she said cheerily as she wiped her hands on the bar towel at her waist, then ran her hand over and through that same dark hair. Mr. Graves sat there taking it in like a little boy who adored his mom. Obviously, she adored him, too. She ended the caress with a thump on the top of his head, which he smiled through.
Then she said, “Steaks will be up in a minute, children. Holler if you need anything.”
Yet he hadn’t taken his eyes off Tara. Not once. “Thanks, Mom,” he said quietly, “but I don’t think Tara will be joining—”
“I just realized,” Tara interrupted as she patted her pocket like she was searching for something. “I forgot my wallet. I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid—”
“Oh, come now, din’t my boy tell you?” Mrs. Graves asked, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Renner…” She drew that word out as if it carried an implied threat.
“Umm, tell me what?”
“That there’s never no charge for family or friends, that’s what. And if my boyo brought you here, then that’s what you be. Now sit your pretty caboose down and enjoy that root beer before it goes stale, young lady. I’ll have another round brought over soon as you’re done with this one. Drink up.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Mr. Graves said as his mother turned back to her barkeeping.
Swallowing hard, Tara sat, her spine rigid, her palms sweating. If this was a trap, it was a really good one. Almost—almost—made her want to stay. But she couldn’t, could she? Better question, should she? What if someone had seen her jogging away from the scene of the crime. What if Renner was in on it. What if he were somehow trailing her… watching her…
“I didn’t ask for steak, Mr. Graves,” was all she could think to say, her voice no more than a whisper.
“For God’s sake, woman, we just fell to our deaths and lived to talk about it,” he whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the bar where his mother had just welcomed another couple to ‘come, have a few’. “Would it hurt you to call me Renner? Maybe pretend you at least know me? That you might like me, just a little?”
“Hmmpf.” That would be the day. She’d just met this guy. What was there to like?
His arm stretched across the table again, but this time he merely rested his hand palm up where she could see it. Open. Trusting.
Tara bowed her head to hide the fear rising in the back of her throat, as well as what he might be able to read in her eyes. Man, he was good. Maybe too good.
He did have a nice manly hand, though. Short, clipped nails, but not manicured. Calluses marked each finger and thumb. His knuckles were chapped. Obviously not a mechanic’s hand, it was too clean. Which only proved he wasn’t afraid to work hard. But Tara had been down this road before, and it was a long one to come back from. Smarter now, she clasped her hands beneath the table, not willing to give herself away. She’d done easy once before. Never again.
“Mom likes you,” he said, pulling his arm back, the tender glint still in his eyes.
Tara made the mistake of looking at him then. “Who are you?”
He cocked his head, perhaps realizing there would be no tit-for-tat conversation. He didn’t deserve her trust. Not yet. Maybe never. And he seemed to understand that. “I’m no cop if that’s what you’re thinking. I do work security, though.”
“For Mr. McCormack?” she asked, her nose in the air.
He nodded. “He’s on my list at the moment, yeah. My boss asked me to make sure he was okay after the way his wife died. That’s why I was there.”
Tara wasn’t buying that. “In his bedroom?”
A half-smile flittered over Mr. Graves, ahem, okay then, over Renner’s face. He was good-looking in a boyishly handsome way. Maybe six-foot tall, maybe just under that guesstimate. But strong. Lean and wiry. Definitely a guy who worked out. She’d felt those tight abs, his muscled thighs and shoulders when she’d landed on him. He’d honestly tried to wrap his arms and legs around her when they’d rolled together onto the parking terrace, as if he’d meant to cushion her fall. But when they’d landed and he’d been breathing hard... When she’d found herself lying on his back, her face between his shoulder blades, feeling his heart throbbing through his entire body…
Yeah. The mysterious Mr. Graves was good-looking, and he was also carrying. That pistol he’d threatened her up top with might’ve disappeared from public view, but she knew it rested under his left arm beneath his leather jacket, another under his right arm. She’d felt another piece of hardware when they’d tumbled together, too, and for that single moment, she’d found a strange kind of peace breathing in the musky, sweaty maleness of him, knowing he was all man.
He cocked his head as if debating what to say next. “To be honest, I’m after the woman McCormack’s seeing. I just didn’t expect to run into her tonight like I did. Sure as hell wasn’t expecting you.”
“Why do you want her?”
He snapped his mouth closed, his eyes gone hard.
Tara shook her head. “Not that you want her, want her, but is she a threat? Doesn’t McCormack have other bodyguards?”
“Why were you there?” he asked instead of answering.
She shrugged. He might as well know. “You’re right. I am a thief, but it’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?”
“You could say I’m a modern-day Robin Hood. I work for a local charity in the District. They’re always short-funded. Too many kids, not enough money to go around. You know how it goes.”
He smirked. “You expect me to believe you steal from the rich and give to the poor, is that it?”
She gulped at what she was doing. Telling him a little but not enough. Just enough to sound credible but never everything. “Actually, yes. That’s what I do. I pick pockets and I prowl cars. Occasionally, like tonight, I drop in unexpectedly on wealthy people who have everything everybody else wants or needs. While the cats are away, you know. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never hurt anyone. But that woman...” Tara shivered thinking about the woman Mr. McCormack deigned to associate with. Yes, deigned. He was too good for her. There was something fundamentally wrong with her, something evil.
“She’s always dressed to the nines, slathered in diamond rings and necklaces, and McCormack’s just another dumb, rich, older guy with a young woman hanging on his arm. That Cuban chick who’s got her hooks in him now? She’s a gold digger; I can tell. All she wants is his billions, his wife’s diamonds, and for him to drop dead. But my kids…”
Tara pinched her lips tight before she revealed too much. She swallowed hard. Lying didn’t usually bother her like it did now. She’d gotten good at it back in her former life on the streets. Yes, she’d told her friend Kelsey she’d tell the truth and nothing but the truth from now on. But this felt like one of those times when a white lie might be the wiser choice.
Mr. Graves was still studying her like a bug under a magnifying glass.
And that was enough. She looked away, dismissing and ignoring him. The steaks were here. Maybe s
he was hungry after all.
Chapter Four
Man, this woman was tense. Renner finished his first beer, then pulled the second handle within reach. After a long swallow, he swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, refreshed and finally feeling the crash of too much adrenaline.
Tara started out picking at her steak, moving asparagus spears from fore to aft on her plate. But after the first sizzling, succulent mouthful of grade A prime, she dug into that rib-eye like a concentration camp survivor. The buttered asparagus went next, and now, courtesy of Renner’s mom, a double helping of Irish bread pudding, complete with a dose of Jamison now burning off and creating a crispy, sugary crust, sat between them. Two spoons. The incorrigible matchmaker that she was, Mom had only brought one dessert but two spoons. If she only knew that this was no date, that Renner was fairly sure he’d never see the mystery woman across the table again.
Daintily, Tara sampled the pudding. A tiny bit of caramel glaze dripped to her chin. He planned to lick it off later, so he said nothing. Just smiled when she closed her eyes and moaned at the first mouthful. Low and throaty. Earthy. Enough to drive a thinking man out of his mind.
He controlled his impulse to slide in next to her, gather her sexy body against him, and kiss that mouth. She was a mystery, but he knew body language. It came with the territory. Snipers employed all skillsets when tasked with a kill order. They alone had to live with what they did, and it was clear that Tara knew pain and betrayal. It showed in the way she flinched every time someone came through the door, and in the many times she’d stiffened her body as if waiting for something to go wrong. He was pretty sure she’d suffered at someone else’s hand. That was why she hadn’t encouraged his touch.
She might never allow him to get any closer, and that was okay. Not all battles were won in a day or a night. Some took years. Some took forever. And some friendships never evolved into anything more. He’d worked with women in the Corps and on The TEAM. He understood the dynamics between men and women. So, Renner kept his place and enjoyed what was left of the night with her. It might be all there was.
Renner (In the Company of Snipers Book 19) Page 4