of a small shop, his eyes trained on the main door of the building. He was holding a paper cup of coffee, which he tossed into a nearby trash can when he spotted her.
Why did she have a thing for dangerous, sensual types? What was wrong with her? Never once in her life had she been attracted to the boy next door, nor to the affable, respectable, dedicated man who worked nine to five, nor the warm, cuddly football-watching couch potato who would love her to the end of time and never once forget an anniversary. The very men she lauded in her column. The men she advised women to give second glances. The salt-of-the-earth, give-you-the-shirt-off-his-back kind of guy who washed his car and the dog on Saturdays, the guy who wore the same flannel shirt that he’d had since college—the regular Joe of the world. One of the good guys.
Maybe, she thought, crossing the street, that was why she could give out advice to the women and men who were forever falling for the wrong kind. Because she was one of them and, she realized, skirting a puddle as she jaywalked to the parking lot where Striker was posed, she knew the pitfalls of hot-wired attraction. She bore the burn marks and scars to prove it.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she said, clicking her Jeep’s keyless remote. “You just don’t seem to get it, do you? I don’t want you here.”
“We’ve been through this.”
“And I have a feeling we’ll go through it a dozen more times before you get the message.” She opened the car door, but he was quick, slamming it shut with the flat of his hand.
“Why don’t you and I start over,” he suggested, forcing a smile, his arm effectively cutting off her ability to climb into the Jeep. “I’ll take you to dinner—there’s a nice little Irish pub around the corner—and you can fill me in on your life before you got to Montana.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Like hell.” His smile slid away. “It’s time you leveled with me. I’m sick to the back teeth of the clamped-lip routine. I need to find out who’s been trying to hurt you and your brothers. If you weren’t so damn arrogant to think this is just about you, that I’m only digging into all this to bother you, then you’d realize that you’re the key to all the trouble that’s been happening at the Flying M. It’s not just your problem, lady. If you remember, Thorne’s plane went down—”
“That was because of bad weather. It was an accident.”
“And he was flying in that storm to get back to Montana because of you and the baby, wasn’t he? And what about the fire in the stable? God, woman, Slade nearly lost his life. The fire was ruled arson and it’s a little too convenient for me to believe that it was coincidence, okay?”
“Drop it, Striker,” she warned, whirling on him.
“No way.”
“Why do you think I left the ranch?” she demanded.
“I think you left because of me.”
That stopped her short. Standing in the dripping rain with his gaze centered directly on hers, she nearly lost it. “Because of you?”
“And last night.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“The timing is right.”
Dear Lord. Her stomach twisted. “Let’s get something straight, shall we? I left Montana so that the ‘accidents’ at the Flying M would stop and my brothers and their families would be safe. Whoever is behind this is after me.”
“So you think you’re what? Drawing the fire away from your family?”
“Yes.”
“What about you? Your kid?”
“I can take care of myself. And my baby.”
“Well, you’ve done a pretty piss-poor job of it so far,” he said, his skin ruddy with the cold, his eyes flashing angrily.
“And you think that confiding in you would help? I don’t even know anything about you other than Slade seems to think you’re okay.”
“You know a helluva lot more than that,” he said, and she swallowed against the urge to slap him.
“If you’re talking about last night…”
“Then what? Go on.”
“I can’t. Not here. And…and besides, that’s not the kind of knowing I was talking about. So don’t try to bait me, okay?”
His jaw slid to one side and his eyes narrowed. “Fair enough and you’re right. You don’t know me, but maybe it’s time. Let’s go. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” His grin was about as warm as the Yukon in winter. “I’ll buy dinner.”
Before she could argue, he grabbed the crook of her arm and propelled her around the corner, down two blocks and toward a staircase that led down a flight to a subterranean bar and restaurant. He helped her to a booth in the back before she finally yanked her arm away. “Where’d you learn your manners? At the Cro-Magnon School of Etiquette?”
“Graduated cum laude.” One eyebrow cocked disarmingly.
She chuckled and bit back another hot retort. Goading him was getting her nowhere fast. But at least he had a sense of humor and could laugh at himself. Besides which, she was starved. Her stomach started making all sorts of vile noises at the smells emanating from the kitchen.
Kurt ordered an ale, and she, deciding a drink wouldn’t hurt, did the same. “Okay, okay, so you’ve made your point,” she said when he leaned back in the booth and stared at her. “You take your job seriously. You’re not going away. Whatever my brothers are paying you is worth putting up with me and my bad attitude, right?”
He let it slide as the waitress, a reed-thin woman with curly red hair tied into a single plait, reappeared with two frosty glasses, twin dinner menus and a bowl of peanuts. She slid all onto the table, then ambled toward a table where a patron was wagging his finger frantically to get her attention.
The place was dim and decorated with leatherlike cushions, mahogany wood aged to near black, a scarred wooden floor and a ceiling of tooled-metal tiles. It smelled of beer and ale, with the hint of cigar smoke barely noticeable over the tang of food grilling behind the counter. Two men were playing darts in a corner and the click of billiard balls emanated from an archway leading to other rooms. Conversation was light, patrons at the long, battered bar tuned in to a muted Sonics basketball game.
“I’m going to check on the baby.” She reached into her bag, retrieved her cell phone and punched out Sharon Okano’s number.
Sharon picked up on the second ring and was quick to reassure her that Joshua was fine. He’d already eaten, been bathed and was in his footed jammies, currently fas cinated by a mobile Sharon had erected over his playpen.
“I’ll be by to see him as soon as I can,” Randi said.
“He’ll be fine.”
“I know. I just can’t wait to hold him a minute.” Randi clicked off and tried to quell the dull ache that seemed forever with her when she was apart from her child. It was weird,
