style="font-size:15px;"> Her lips finally quirked. “All right. I…I…guess you’re forgiven.”
She glanced back at the jail cell standing like a monument in the center of town across the street, and he realized she might have just come from that media circus. She didn’t look happy about it, either.
He’d sped past it, irritated at the thought of facing the mangy reporters. He imagined the headlines with a snarl.
Poor little illegitimate son shows up in town to help exonerate his father.
So what was her problem with them?
Not that he cared, but looking at her was a nice diversion. “Let me buy you a cold one. You look like you need it as much as I do.”
“You can’t imagine.” She rolled her shoulders, and a whispery sigh escaped her that made his chest tighten.
Man, he did like women. All their softness. The way they smelled. The feel of their skin against his.
And hers looked soft and creamy. And her voice, now she’d stopped screaming at him, sounded low and throaty.
Sultry.
Oblivious to the train of his lustful thoughts, she sashayed ahead of him and reached for the door. His gaze latched on to the rounded curve of her hips in that short, tight skirt, and his hands itched to reach out and wrap themselves around her tush.
He shoved them into his pockets instead. Women were trouble, and he was here on business, not to get laid or involved with a local.
A sea of smoke and noise engulfed him as they entered the bar. Willie Nelson’s voice droned out from the jukebox, peanut shells littered the scarred wooden floor, and the scent of beer and cigarette smoke clouded the room.
Ahh, pure heaven to a man’s senses.
She hesitated slightly, though, and he noticed the men in the back stop their pool game to gape at her. At the same time, two old-timers sharing a pitcher turned to ogle her, and the bartender, a forty-something bald man with a thick neck, raised an appreciative brow. This girl would not be paying for her own drinks. No sirree.
But what would the jerks expect in return?
Cole’s protective instincts surged to life. “How about a booth?”
She plunked into a corner one, and he claimed the seat across from her, then shot the other men a warning look as if to say she was off-limits. Outside the shadows of night and the awning had shielded her face, but although the lights were dim now, he saw her face clearly. He’d thought he’d sweated outside in his leathers with the summer heat beating down on him on the ride into Justice, but his temperature skyrocketed toward the hundreds as he realized who this sexy bombshell was.
Joey Hendricks—he’d seen her several times on television beside the governor. Holy hell. She was a hotshot special investigator with the state.
And she was also the daughter of the oil baron Leland Hendricks, who’d been accused of the kidnapping and murder of his own child. Hendricks and his ex-wife, Donna, had been major suspects in the murder of Lou Anne Wallace.
The reason she was here hit him like a fist in his gut. She had come for the same reason he had.
Because of the Wallace homicide investigation.
And if he guessed right, her parents were probably suspects in this new murder as well as the first one.
JOEY STRUGGLED TO STEADY her breathing. Her adrenaline was still racing from the confrontation with Dennison and then nearly getting mowed down in the street. And the sight of this biker dude…wow.
All that black leather, dark black scraggly hair down to his shoulders, scruffy bearded face, sweat beading on his forehead gave him a threatening look.
But not in a way that said he might physically hurt her. In a way that screamed raw, primal sexuality. Like a man who’d just returned from a long, heated battle against a beast in the wilderness, a battle he’d no doubt won.
As he would win over any woman he met. All it took was one look into those enigmatic, brooding eyes and the sound of that husky deep voice, and she’d forgotten the fact that he’d nearly killed her.
The moron.
Then again, on closer inspection, his eyes did hold a level of intelligence. Street-smart, not all book-bred. This guy had been around and knew the ropes.
And heaven help her, that incredibly fit body conjured wicked fantasies. He had wide broad shoulders. Pecs to die for. Muscular thighs that could pin a woman beneath him while he tortured her with his tongue.
He gestured toward the bartender, and she took advantage of the moment to assess him in more detail. Even his hands were large, broad. His blunt, strong fingers were sprinkled with dark hair that made her wonder what they would feel like on her. Touching her. Stroking her sensitive skin.
A jagged scar jutted out from the neckline of his black T-shirt, and she imagined the rest of his body beneath. A chest sprinkled with the same dark hair, another scar maybe. And a tattoo or two hidden somewhere on his bronzed skin.
What was she doing? He wasn’t her type. She liked sophisticated, educated men. Men with jobs. Men who shaved and bathed regularly.
“What’ll you have, sugar?” he drawled.
You. She gaped at his mouth, then realized that she was acting like a fool. And Joey Hendricks, professional investigator for the governor, was not a fool. Never had been. Not over a man.
She’d taken notes from her parents’ disastrous divorce and her father’s infidelities, and decided relationships just weren’t worth the trouble. Although a one-nighter, especially with a hunk like this guy, might be fun. A stress release. Maybe even mind-altering. Certainly hotter than any night she’d experienced in years.
Then she remembered her reason for coming to Justice and vetoed the idea.
The drink would have to suffice. “A shot of tequila.”
He arched a thick brow, and she raised her own in challenge. “What? You don’t think I can handle it?”
“Honey, I think you can handle anything that comes your way.”
With one flick of his hand, he waved the waitress over—a twentysomething girl who turned eyes of adoration toward him—then ordered Joey a shot and a Stella for himself.
He would order a beer with a woman’s name. “You don’t like tequila?” she asked.
He leaned back against the booth edge, stretched his long legs out so one of them brushed hers beneath the table. “On the contrary. José and I have been best friends for years.”
She couldn’t help herself. She grinned at his statement. He looked like a tequila-drinking hellion straight from a biker’s fest. She imagined him stuffing dollars into the bras of women as they bared their chests for him, and her senses hummed with awareness.
What was wrong with her?
For
