fact, she was loud enough to attract the few customers who hadn’t already noticed her when she walked in. Of course, with her sex-against-the-bathroom-wall body, Russ figured she’d likely caught the attention of every one of the male patrons.
He eased his beer down onto the bar and turned slightly, so he could look her in the eyes. “Back off,” he warned, under his breath.
“I can’t.”
Okay. He hadn’t expected her to say that or ignore his warning.
Her clothes, the sleek sable-colored hair that tumbled onto her shoulders and even her tone might have screamed that she was confident about what she was doing, or about to do, but just beneath those ice-blue eyes was deeply rooted concern. And fear.
That put Russ on full alert.
“Look,” he whispered. “This is no place for you. Leave.”
She huffed and took the purse from beneath her arm. When she reached inside, Russ caught onto her hand. And got an uneasy thought.
“You can’t be Milo,” he mumbled. Because from what he’d been told about the would-be contact, Milo was a forty-something-year-old male. Of course, his source could have been wrong.
She stiffened slightly, looked more than a little confused, but it lasted just seconds, before she pushed off his grip. “I’m Julia Howell.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t press her for more information. If she was Milo, or Milo’s replacement, Russ would find out soon enough. And then he could get this show started. But he didn’t like the bad feeling that was settling in his gut.
She placed her purse next to his beer, but held on to the pepper-spray keychain. “You didn’t introduce yourself, but I know you’re Russell James Gentry.”
Hell.
Russ looked around to make sure no one had heard her use his real name. It was possible. The body-builder bartender seemed to be trying a little too hard not to look their way. Ditto for the middle-aged guy near the door. And the dark haired man in the corner. Unlike the bartender and the one by the door, Russ was positive this dark haired guy had been following him for days, and Russ had let him keep on following him because he had wanted to send Milo a message—that he had nothing to hide.
Which was a lie, of course.
Russ had plenty to hide.
“You’re mistaken,” Russ insisted. “I’m Jimmy Marquez.”
“I’m not mistaken.” She obviously wasn’t picking up on any of his nonverbal cues to stay quiet. “I have proof you’re Russell James Gentry,” she said, and reached for her purse again.
He didn’t have any idea what she had in that gold bag to prove his identity, and he didn’t really care. He had to do something to get her to turn tail and run.
Russ swiveled his bar stool toward her, and in the same motion he slapped his left palm on her thigh. This would get her out of there in record time. He snared her gaze and tried to give her one hell of a nonverbal warning before he ran his hand straight up to her silk panties.
No, make that lace.
But she still didn’t run. She gasped, her eyes narrowed and she drew back her perfectly manicured hand, no doubt ready to slap him into the middle of next week. And she would have, too, if Russ hadn’t snagged her wrist.
When she tried to use her other hand to slug him, he had to give up the panty ploy so he could restrain her.
Russ put his mouth right against her ear. “We’re leaving now. Get up.”
Because her mouth was on his cheek, he felt the word “no” start to form on her peach-tinged lips. Judging from the way the muscles tightened in her arms and legs, she was gearing up for an all-out fight with him.
Gutsy.
But stupid.
He was a good six inches taller than she was, and he had her by at least seventy pounds. Still, he preferred not to have to wrestle her out of there, but he would if it meant saving her lace-pantied butt.
“If you know what’s good for you,” Russ whispered to her, “you’ll do as I say. Or else you can die right here. Your choice, lady.”
But he didn’t give her a choice. He couldn’t. Russ shoved the purse back under her arm, grabbed the pepper-spray keychain and used brute force to wrench her off the barstool. He started in the direction of the door.
Their sudden exit drew some attention, especially from the bartender and the bald guy, but no one made a move to interfere. Thankfully, the bar wasn’t the kind of place where people thought about doing their civic duty and assisting a possible damsel in distress.
Julia Howell squirmed and struggled all the way to the door. “I won’t let you hurt me,” she spat out. “I won’t ever let anyone hurt me again.”
That sounded like the voice of old baggage, but Russ wasn’t interested.
He got her outside, finally. It was dusk, still way too hot for early September, and the sidewalks weren’t exactly empty. No cops, but there were two “working girls” making their way past the bar. They stopped and stared, but Russ shot them a back-off glare. He was good at glares, too, and he wasn’t surprised when the women scurried away, their stilettos tapping against the concrete.
“How did you know my name?” Russ asked. “What so-called proof do you have?”
He didn’t look directly at Julia Howell. Too risky. He kept watch all around them. And he shoved her into the narrow, dark alley that separated the bar from a transmission repair shop that had already closed for the day. He moved away from the sidewalk, about twenty feet, until he was in the dark of the alley.
“I won’t let you hurt me,” she repeated, and tried to knee him in the groin. She missed. Her rock-hard kneecap slammed into his thigh instead, and had him seeing stars and cursing a blue streak.
Tired of the fight and the lack of answers to his simple questions, Russ put her against the brick wall. He wasn’t gentle, either, and he used his body to hold her in place. “Tell me how you know my name.”
Julia didn’t stop struggling, and she continued to ram herself into him. It only took her a few moments to realize that that wasn’t a good idea—her breasts thrusting against his chest. Her sex pounding in the general vicinity of his.
She groaned in frustration and dropped the back of her head against the wall. Her breathing also revved up. And now that the fight had apparently gone out of her, the panic was starting to set in. Her chest began to pump as if starved for air, and he could see the pulse hammer in her throat. Sweat popped out above her upper lip.
“Calm down,” he warned. “You can’t answer my questions if you’re hyperventilating.”
That earned him a glare, and like him, she was good at them, too. It took her a moment to get her breathing under control so she could speak. “I used facial-recognition software to learn who you are.”
“Excuse
