“He didn’t strike me as a nice sort. He’s more of a scary I-won’t-take-no sort.”
Logan hummed, understanding imbued in the noise. “He’s not manipulating Ada. I’ve trusted him with my life and would again.”
So, they’d served together. She wasn’t surprised. The man had a definite military bearing—stoic and intimidating and maybe a little wounded. Had Dalt seen the same horrors as Logan? She propped her hip against the counter, but Logan’s eyes stayed fixed on the wallpaper. He never talked about his tours, and she’d learned to let it go.
“How long is Ms. Evelyn going to stay?” She cocked her head toward the den.
“All night.”
Her dread transmitted, and humor sparked on Logan’s face. He said, “Be grateful. It’s the last night we have coverage. After that, you’ll be the night nurse.”
She slumped against the counter. Anxiety pounded her heart and made her break into a sweat in spite of the air-conditioning. He circled her shoulders with an arm and gave her a quick squeeze.
“Why don’t you come out to The Tavern tonight to celebrate your last night of relative freedom? Wear something . . . I don’t know”—his finger zigzagged over her T-shirt and cutoffs—“not that. More girly.” He winked. “If you can manage it.”
The screen door rattled his good-bye before she could fling an answering insult.
3
Sitting in her car in The Tavern’s parking lot, Darcy gripped the wheel so hard her fingers turned white and debated her move. People around Falcon knew too much about everything. She’d done her best not to live up to her name—Wilde. “Keep it between the lines” was her mantra.
Her mother, on the other hand, lived up to the name and more. Drinking. Drugs. Pregnant with Darcy in high school. Darcy’s father could have been one of any number of boys, and Darcy lived with the aftermath. In Falcon, stories persisted long after the guilty had escaped.
But there were instances her inner wild child flared. Skinny-dipping satisfied some primal urge probably inherited from her mama. She’d gloried in the feel of the water and wind on her bare skin, out in the open. Impractical, gorgeous underwear no one ever saw was her other indulgence.
Figuratively pulling up her big-girl panties—in reality, a ridiculously tiny scrap of black lace—she hauled herself out of the car. Only the thought of Logan waiting inside got her moving toward The Tavern’s wooden double doors. If she tucked tail and ran, his teasing would be unbearable.
She’d wrestled her hair into submission with a flatiron and wore a blue tank dress that hit a couple of inches above her knees. Nothing overtly sexy or attention-seeking, but tailored and classic. Her black heels, on the other hand, were a complicated puzzle of crisscrossing straps ending above her ankle. They were sexy. Or at least, they made her feel sexy and confident which was a welcome change upon stepping foot in her old stomping grounds.
The Tavern’s dark paneling and permanent haze attested to its decades as the local watering hole and social mecca. A bar ran along one wall opposite a dance floor. The middle was awash in rickety wooden tables and chairs with a few men and women scattered like flotsam.
People glanced her way, and her face heated in spite of the years gone by. Avoiding eye contact, she sidled to the bar where Logan stacked glasses and rearranged bottles. “I thought it’d be more crowded.”
Logan glanced at his watch. “It’s early yet. Can I make you something?”
“Tea sounds good.”
“Coming right up.” He winked, one corner of his mouth drawing up. “You cleaned up nice. Wasn’t sure you owned anything but T-shirts and sweater sets.”
She ignored his teasing dig and examined the room while he poured her drink. “Do you like working here?”
“It pays the bills for now.” He slid the glass down the smooth oak like an expert and propped his arms on the bar, leaning closer. “Milt’s ready to retire. I’m going to buy the place, fix it up, turn it into something upscale. Better food, better music, better everything. The loan is pending.”
She regarded him like an unknown bug specimen. Logan? An upstanding business owner? She gulped her iced tea to mask her surprise. Coughing spasms wracked her body, and she slapped the bar.
“That . . . that was not tea,” she said in a creaky voice, pointing at the glass.
“Sure it was. The Long Island variety. You walked in looking like a deer on the first day of hunting season. Katherine coming?”
“She had to work. Too many cases on the docket for morning court.” Darcy completely understood but missed being able to borrow a portion of her best friend’s unrivaled confidence.
Logan wandered to the opposite end of the bar to give the servers their instructions, and she tentatively took another swig. This one went down smooth, and before she knew it, bare ice tinkled in the bottom.
Someone fired up the jukebox, and a pulsing beat underlay the increased buzz of conversation. A different bartender checked on her. “What’s your poison, sweetheart? Logan told me to take care of you. Anything you want.” Insinuation flavored the words, but his eyes were guileless.
“Long Island tea, please.” She pushed the glass toward him.
With a boyish grin that had probably gotten him into many a patron’s panties, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”
She drained the fresh drink, and the man replaced it without comment. The door opened every few seconds, belching groups of two or three. As she sipped, she observed the easy camaraderie and recognized several people. A group of popular women, who had been popular teenagers in high school, bunched around two tables close to the dance floor and attracted a fair amount of male attention. But no one approached her, and she felt invisible—in a good way.
Then he walked in. Dear God in heaven, she hadn’t exaggerated his blatant masculinity. Thick blondish hair settled in wavy clumps as if his routine involved fingers and not a comb. A red T-shirt this time. Nothing special except in the way the cotton spread over broad shoulders and tucked messily into a pair of broken-in jeans as if the shirt begged for some woman to pull it out . . . and maybe even off.
Da-yum, he was hot. Tongue-lolling, fantasy-inducing, panty-dropping hot.
He scanned the room. Choosing his conquest for the evening? She was surprised none of the women raised their hands and yelled “Pick me, pick me!”
She took another sip and snorted. Although there was no way he could have heard above the din, he stripped away her cloak of invisibility with his gaze. In a loose-limbed amble, he approached. Several men stopped him to chat, but there was no question as to his ultimate destination. His gaze flicked to her even as he replied to them.
Alcohol buzzed through her. While she wasn’t drunk by any stretch, she was tipsy. Her sex-starved imagination was romping hither and yon with Dalt as inspiration. She didn’t even like him, for goodness sake, and he’d made clear what he’d thought of her. It didn’t seem to matter.
Heat prickled her scalp, burned down her face, through her body, and finally banked in her lower belly. Anticipation built and then, he was there, standing a few feet in front of her. Close enough to bask in his maleness and become high on the tang of his cologne. Her knees parted a few inches.
Keep it between the damn lines. She clamped her legs together and swiveled back to the bar. He took the stool at her side. Well-worn denim brushed the skin above her knee sending a small shiver down her leg. A beer landed in front of him without a word to the bartender.
She tapped her fingers on the bar and waited for him to say something, anything. He had stalked her from across the room and had taken the seat next to her. Nothing. What kind of game was he playing?
She opened with an eloquent, “Hi,” and immediately felt like an idiot.
His cutting gaze, expressionless face, and lack of response dampened her uncomfortably potent lust. The man could at least be freaking polite. They were in Alabama not New York, no matter what she was drinking.
She poked him in the arm. “I said Hi.
By the way, I was going to make you a blackberry pie. Maybe even pick the berries myself, but not now. No sir-ree.”
He turned and braced his legs wide, nearly encasing her. His finger hooked around the neck of the sweating beer, and he took a long drag. The muscles of his throat worked, and she swallowed in response. The beer bottle landed back on the bar with a thump.
“Why would you make me anything?” he asked in a tight, suspicious voice.
“That’s what a good neighbor does. It was for taking care of Ada, maybe for the snake thing, but you can forget it. You’re not even getting dry, store-bought cookies from that stupid elf. In fact, you deserve a kick in the butt for being rude.” She poked him in the chest this time.
He rubbed his nape and shifted on the stool. “I know what you think, but I swear I’m not taking advantage of your grandmother. I worry about her being alone.”
The sincerity shading his eyes threw the door open on the fears that had kept her up at night. “I’m worried too, you know. I’m not a nurse. I don’t know how to take care of anyone. What if something bad happens?”
“Then you call for help. I’m right down the road.” His soft voice offered comfort.
“You don’t have a twin brother, do you?”
“No. Why?” His brows drew in, and his forehead wrinkled.
“You’re being nice. You were scary this afternoon.”
His head jerked backward. “I wasn’t scary.”
“Right.” She shot the word with sarcasm. “Man holding a gun looms over woman innocently swimming in river. Said man annihilates snake not ten feet away. You’re obviously a fuzzy, soft Care Bear. The one with the rainbows.”
“What are you drinking?” Although he didn’t actually smile, something in his face lightened, and his body relaxed against the bar.
“I wanted sweet tea, but Logan gave me this.” Playing her best Vanna White, she presented the glass with flourishing hands but ruined the effect by bobbling it into his arm. The glass left a damp spot on his shirt, which she felt an uncontrollable need to wipe. A multitude of thin puckered scars peeked from under his shirtsleeve.
She slipped her fingers under his sleeve to trace more scars. “What happened?”
He ignored the question, took her glass between two fingers, and sniffed the contents. His bicep rippled under her hand. “How many have you had?”
“That must have hurt terribly. I’m so sorry.”
His shoulder rolled to shake her hand off. His jaw clenched, furrows framed his thinned lips, and his body stiffened again. In fact, he looked pained. She took her hand away long enough to kiss her fingers and lay them back over his scars.
They stared at each other. His lips parted, and the frost in his eyes melted. Had she actually . . . yes, she had kissed his boo-boo. She snatched her hand away and tucked it under a leg. Obviously, her appendages couldn’t be trusted.
The bartender slid another full glass between them. Dalt’s gaze stayed fixed on her. “Take it away, Brian. She’s had enough.”
The bartender dumped the contents of the glass behind the counter.
“But . . . but, they settled my nerves.” She reached for the now empty glass and fake pouted.
“You want to wake up hung over in some asshole’s bed?” He chucked his chin toward the end of the bar.
She looked over her shoulder and caught a couple of guys staring at her. One she recognized from high school, and she waggled her fingers. He waved back with nothing more than a friendly smile and turned away. “You seriously think someone would take advantage of me?”
His gaze flickered down her body. “Someone that looks like you? Hell yeah.”
“How do I look?” She wiggled to pull her hemline down as far as the stool would allow. Oh my God, did she look slutty?
“I don’t take bait.”
“I didn’t even know you liked to fish.” Only in Alabama could a conversation about drinking and one-night stands get tangled up with fishing.
He blinked a few times. “I wasn’t fishing. You were. For compliments. You know you look real pretty.”
Had someone turned the AC off? Her breaths came faster, and her gaze dropped to his chest, and she tucked hair behind her ear. This man had seen her naked mere hours ago.
“You spied on me in the river.” Her accusation came out breathy, not blameful.
“Thought you were a pig.”
Outrage shot her head up. “That’s . . . that’s a terrible thing to say.”
Was that red flush coursing up his neck a blush? He grunted in what she could only assume was his approximation of a laugh. “Jesus, not you . . . you were—” He shook his head. “Feral pigs have been rooting the bottoms, causing flooding, overtaking natural species. I fully intended to respect your privacy until I saw the snake.”
Propping his elbow on the bar, he rested his jaw on his fist. Fine blond hair dotted the back, thickening to cover his forearm. How much hair covered his chest? Her stomach tumbled, a different kind of nerves this time.
“Why are you so nervous?” he asked.
“What?” She shifted on the stool. Was it that obvious she found him as hot as sin?
“You said the drinks settled your nerves.”
“Oh, that.” She huffed a sigh and cast a quick glance over a shoulder. It seemed like an inordinate number of eyes were on her or him or maybe them. She leaned closer and whispered as if delivering a dire secret, “People around here remember me.”
“I thought Logan was the resident wild man growing up. You’re a librarian.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Librarians know how to party. Anyway, it’s not me they remember.”
His nose scrunched. “That made zero sense.”
“Sense and Sensibility.” She snapped her fingers and pointed a finger between his eyes.
“What?” This time his laugh was unmistakable. He wrapped his hand around her finger and pulled it away. His fingers skittered over her wrist before retreating to the neck of his beer. The heat of his touch made her feel like looking for a brand.
“The last party I went to in Atlanta. Everyone came as a famous author. I dressed up like Jane Austen. A corset and everything.”
“Wow. You librarians are animals.” His smile was wide and sexy and teasing. The somber cast of his face transformed into a thing of beauty. Warm, tingly ribbons trailed over and inside her body.
“Dalt is an unusual name. What’s your last name?” she asked.
“Dalton.”
“Your name’s Dalt Dalton?”
His smile crinkled his eyes. “Robert Dalton. Most people called me Robbie before I joined up. Dalt since then.”
“Robbie.” It was a good name. A name that felt natural on her lips. “You have a nice smile, Robbie.”
“So do you,” he said with a rasp.
She touched her lips to find them curled up, mirroring his. Was he flirting? Was she? Why couldn’t he stay an asshole instead of smiling and being all handsome and adorable?
Even so, his dominant physicality filled her with disquiet, maybe even something akin to fear. Not of him, but of how tenuous her control was around him. Damn Logan and his delicious drinks.
“Please excuse me,” she said in an overly formal voice and hopped off the stool. She needed a few minutes alone in a restroom stall, away from his pulsating energy.
When she tried to walk a straight line, her level of inebriation registered like a tornado siren. The drinks had been more potent than she realized. She had blown through tipsy into outright drunk. Logan. She needed Logan. Turning around in a circle in the middle of the maze of tables, she was jolted to a stop by a too-tight grip on her wrist.
“You decided to join me after all, pretty girl. How ’bout a dance in thanks for letting you skate this afternoon?”
The man’s face came into focus. Rick the cop. He gestured toward the sparsely occupied dance floor. A slow song from her distant past played.
“Isn’t that extortion?” she asked.
“Come on.” He ignored her oppositely tugging body and herded her toward the floor.
It was just a dance, but Rick’s manhandling made her dig in her heels and grab at a table, which she pulled along for a few inches.
Another hand on her forearm halted their awkward progress. A big body crowded behind her. Robert Dalton. She swayed backward into his heat, grateful for his intervention.
“You taking to forcing women these days, Rick?”
“The lady owes me.”
“I owe you nothing,” she replied hotly.
Robbie’s chest rumbled with his words. “You heard her.”
Rick’s posturing seemed an act. His focus wasn’t on the threat in Robbie’s voice or her, but on the group of women gathered on the edge of the dance floor. He tossed her hand away.
Darcy was an independent woman who had no problem taking care of herself. She opened her own doors, paid her own way, and could change her oil and a flat tire. Excess liquor was the only way to explain the arousing primal thrill of Robbie acting like such a . . . man.
“Come with me,” he said. Fingers on her lower back guided her to the dance floor.
He circled her waist lightly, letting her dictate how close to bring their bodies. She rested her hands on his shoulders, hard and warm through his shirt. Her gaze stayed on his neck and the corded muscles as he swallowed. Swaying closer, her eyes drifted shut, and she inhaled the fresh scent of clean laundry mixed with the intoxicating tang of man.
“I have to get out of here. Avery’s waiting for me at home. You’re in no shape to drive. I’ll drop you at Miss Ada’s.” His breath stirred at her temple. Only a few words registered. She straightened and tilted her face up. Hadn’t Logan said he wasn’t dating any of the women in town?
“Is Avery your girlfriend?”
A brief tick of his lips seemed the start of a smirk, and his eyes took on a puckish quality. “No.”
“No?” Her head shook.
“No.” He mimicked her. “Avery wouldn’t appreciate you thinking he was a girl.”
Slow and Steady Rush: Sweet Home Alabama Page 3