| Just shoot me now.
Lizbeth Cauldwell watched Isaac Breena swaggering to the bar for the sixth
time that evening. She was too damn tired to tolerate him any more. She served
tequila to a toothy redhead man barely legal enough to drink, then returned her
attention to Isaac’s arrogant walk as he strode her way.
The bragging pig wanted to fuck any woman under sixty-five. He believed if
he charmed her long enough, she’d succumb to his sticky charm. He’d
come on to her a time or two until she’d accidentally on purpose dumped
dark ale over his head one night.
Tonight his belly jiggled like gelatin and his presumptuous, odious smile made
her nauseous. The wait help staff called him Jabba The Hut and now Lizbeth couldn’t
think of him as Isaac Breena anymore.
The scent of burned onions accompanied him, and she wrinkled her nose. He’d
stuffed two orders of onion rings down his gullet already this evening.
God, what a pig.
Under the thump of rock music coming from the speakers and the steady hum of
conversation buzzing through the building, weariness worked its way into her system.
She needed a break, but quitting time hadn’t arrived. In Foxfire Bar and
Grill, she felt relatively safe. The operative word being relative. After the
attack in Phoenix two months ago, she wondered if she’d ever feel secure
again.
Still, she wouldn’t abandon the noisy, rambunctious establishment for
all the world. Busy and successful, the placed rocked every night with an eager
hoard ready to party after long days at work.
But nights like these…yeah…they made a woman wonder why she’d
relinquished the craziness of a corporate boardroom for the insanity of running
this small Arizona mountain town business.
“Hey baby. Give me another drink.” Jabba’s piggy green eyes
seemed swallowed up in the mush of his rounded face and twisted smile. “You
know you want to.”
This had been a crappy day, and all she needed was a man who didn’t take
no for an answer, no matter how politely or impolitely she framed the refusal.
“No, sorry. I can’t. We’ve cut you off. Besides, the bar
closes in fifteen minutes.” She glanced pointedly at the clock on the wall
behind the bar that read ten minutes to midnight.
“I saw ya pouring drinks for old Giancomo over there a minute ago.”
The inebriated asshole’s voice slurred as he jerked his thumb back in the
direction from which he’d come.
She cracked a smile. “He’s drinking iced tea.”
Jabba grunted and placed his thick hands on his stout waistline. Tonight he
wore what a friend of hers called a wife beater shirt. A t-shirt with the sleeves
torn out and a red neck saying that proclaimed ‘Keep Honking, I’m
Reloading.’
“That prick can’t handle a drink like a real man.” Jabba
added a smile to his statement. He cupped his crotch. “I’ve got the
man right here for you.”
Her stomach rolled. Crissakes, but Jabba was odious.
Her gaze darted to Thomas Giancomo in the far corner of the room. She allowed
her attention to linger too long on Thomas, her fascination snagged by the way
he slouched in his chair. She almost snorted a laugh. Um…yeah. Saying the
hunky ex-soldier wasn’t all man was like stating that there was no centerfold
this month for Playboy magazine.
Face it. It isn’t the way he’s slouching. It’s him. His
body. His out of this world magnetism. Every line in his physique screamed
competence, masculine grace and authority. Relaxation didn’t take the edge
away from him. Despite his boneless repose, she detected underlying watchfulness
within him, as if he could kick ass without breaking a sweat. Something extraordinary
seemed to govern him, bringing a light to his brown eyes and forcefulness to his
presence that could easily overwhelm a weak mind like Jabba’s.
Yes. And that’s why I need to stop daydreaming about Thomas and what
it would be like to fuck him blind. He’s too distracting.
No, distracting didn’t capture his essence one little bit. Maybe too
good to be true would describe him better. Either way, he took her mind away from
her problems when she should pay attention to the hairy situation that might any
day enter Allbright, Arizona and shatter her world. In the back of her mind, she
feared attachment or feeling anything but sexual interest in Tom. Feared it and
refused it. After all, men left her and her heart had split wide open too many
times. She couldn’t indulge in mindless sex with Tom or any other man. In
the end, she’d just get hurt.
Her gaze slid over him again. God, he’s gorgeous.
The underweight, short Tom Giancomoo she’d known since they were five
had shot up to around six foot three and filled out so magnificently with sculpted
muscles, that when she’d seen him after fifteen years she didn’t recognize
him. Tom at thirty-three could put any movie star on screen to shame. Tom as a
teen had barely made a blip on her radar.
Okay, that wasn’t fair. She’d always liked him and considered
him a wonderful friend. Quiet. Comfortable. Sometimes shy as hell.
Comfortable couldn’t encompass him now, and her mind flashed back to
when she’d seen him two month’s ago after years of not seeing him
at all. Another friend had reintroduced them at a party. Lizbeth’s mouth
had fallen open and she’d gawked. Stared in dumbfounded, tingling, delicious
female appreciation until a shy smile had broken over his face, and he’d
accepted her handshake. He’d transformed into a sinewy, sexy man. Walking,
talking sin with a cherry and whipped cream on top. More than once lately she’d
daydreamed about licking ice cream off of him.
Hell licking him everywhere, ice cream or not.
Every time he strolled in the door these days, which seemed often, she sucked
in a deep breath to calm her racing heart. Even now, sprawled in a chair and talking
to a lithe, pretty blonde, he extruded a staggering presence. She knew where that
presence came from. He had ex-military written all over him.
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