Sandals in hand, she turned for the bar.
The biker had turned, too. He sat facing her, watching her through those black, black eyes.
Phoebe let a naughty little thrill shimmer through her—and then shrugged and swung the sandals over her shoulder to dangle by a finger. “Don’t tell me. You’re the new health inspector.” It was a bad joke and it fell flat.
He shrugged. “Not me.”
“Ready for another shot?”
“Two’s my limit.”
“Smart man.”
They shared a look. It lasted a second or two longer than it should have. Then he tipped his dark head at the empty stool beside him.
Better not, she thought. But what do you know? Her bare feet ambled on over there anyway, carrying her with them. She hopped up on the stool, facing out as he was, tugging lightly on her skirt so it didn’t slide too far up her thighs.
Dropping the sandals to the floor, she eased around his way and stuck out her hand. “I’m Phoebe Jacks.”
After a slight hesitation, he took it. His big, warm, rough hand swallowed hers and she felt that thrill again, that heated excitement searing upward along her arm, spreading all through her.
Lust at first sight, she thought, trying to be philosophical, reminding herself, again, that it was just a bad day for her and she would not follow through on her urge to rip off her sundress and jump into his lap. Maybe once upon a time she would have. But not anymore. She was older and wiser now. She’d lived through a marriage to Ralphie and after that, through a definite weakness for bad boys in black leather. She was done with all that now.
They shook.
She prompted, “And you are?”
“Rio,” he said. “Rio Navarro.”
Phoebe’s heart stopped dead, and then started racing. Carefully, she pulled her hand away. “My new partner.” Her tone was level. Absolutely calm. Just as if she were polishing the glassware.
“That’s right.”
“Ralphie’s dead,” she said, as if he didn’t already know.
“So I heard.”
She looked at Rio Navarro and she wondered how this—how any of it—could possibly have happened. Ralphie gone forever. Darla crying all the time. This black-eyed, sexy stranger showing up out of nowhere on her birthday and turning out to be the man who owned half of her livelihood.
It was too much, all of it, just too damn much.
“Excuse me,” she said, and had to pause to gulp hard. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Phoebe jumped from the stool, scooped up her sandals and raced around the end of bar, headed for the swinging door that led to the prep and storage areas in back.
Though it took every ounce of pride and self-respect she possessed, she didn’t burst into tears until after the door swung shut behind her.
CHAPTER TWO
A Prairie Queen has a sparkling comeback for every bad pick-up line.
Example: Man: Haven’t I seen you someplace before?
Prairie Queen: Yes, that’s why I don’t go there anymore.”
—from The Prairie Queen’s Guide to Life, by Goddess Jacks
RIO WAITED FOUR AND A half minutes for Ralphie’s former wife to reappear through the swinging door with the round window in the top of it.
When she did, her eyes and nose were red. She’d also put on some flat-heeled black shoes. She pushed through that door with her dark head high and marched right over to him—keeping to her side of the bar so that the long oak surface stood between them.
She met Rio’s eyes dead on, no sniffling, and he thought of what Ralphie had always said of her: Phoebe’s a stand-up gal. A rock. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem.” He knew she wouldn’t want his concern, but he found himself leaning closer and asking anyway, “You okay?”
“I am just fine.” Each word was strong and final, even with the Oklahoma lilt adding a twang to the vowels. Her gaze shifted away, and then back. “So. You come all the way from California on that big bike out there?”
“That’s right.”
“You travel light.”
“I’ve got a pack and a helmet. I left them at the motel.”
She kind of squinted at him, leaning in. He got a whiff of her perfume. Tempting. Like the rest of her. Then she backed off again and braced a hand on the bar. “Not meanin’ to insult you or anything, but I wonder if you wouldn’t mind showing me some ID.”
Her request didn’t surprise him. When you met someone through Ralphie Styles, it was always a good idea to ask for ID. “Right here.” He eased his wallet from an inside pocket of his leather vest and flipped it open, holding it across the bar to her so she could get a look at his driver’s license.
She craned her dark head close to examine it. He stared at the vulnerable crown of her head and breathed in more of the seductive smell of her. When she straightened, he still saw doubt in those red-rimmed green eyes. “I’ll bet a good forger could make one of those look just like the real thing.”
Rio turned it around so his private investigator’s ID in the opposite window was right-side up. She peered at that one for even longer than she had his driver’s license. Finally, with a weary little sigh, she waved it away. He tucked the wallet back inside his vest.
“So. You’re a private detective?”
He nodded. “I also work for a bail bondsman now and then, bringing home the bad guys.”
She looked at him sideways. “Like a bounty hunter?”
“You got it.”
“Well,” she said, “and now you’re half owner of my bar.” She put a slight extra emphasis on the word my. Her mouth had a pursed look. “We missed you at the funeral.” A definite dig.
“When was it?”
She blinked and her mouth loosened, even trembled a little. “You didn’t know.”
“Not till last week, when I got the will and the letter telling me that Ralphie was dead.”
“I’m sorry.” He saw real regret in her eyes then. “Ralphie didn’t talk a lot about his friends from out of town. But he did mention you, now and then. I guess I should have thought to try and get a hold of you.”
Rio had never cared much for funerals anyway. “Not a big deal.”
“Well, the times he talked about you, he said good things.”
Okay, he was
