though she’d sometimes sat on his lap, kissed his neck or ear—even felt him up—other women had come on to him. She didn’t like to think he’d done without during their ruse.
But she hated even more to think of him hooking up.
When she’d started to feel jealous, she knew she had to cut him free.
At first he’d objected, but then the holidays had come and the department had given up on finding the sick fucks responsible....
“What are you doing here, Margo?”
After a glance around, she tucked the Glock .40 back into the specially designed inside pocket of her coat, where she also kept another fully loaded magazine. “What are you doing here?”
“I vote we sit in your car out of this ice storm and then I’ll tell you.”
It beat freezing to death, so Margo turned and, with a touch of her hand to the driver’s-side handle, released the autolock. Sliding into the leather seat, she pushed the keyless ignition button. Dash walked around the hood and folded his big body into the passenger seat. The small, sleek car fit her perfectly. But Dash’s muscular frame looked a little squashed, making her almost smile.
“You can move the seat back,” she told him.
“Thanks.” He adjusted it, which allowed him to stretch out his jean-covered legs a few inches.
The interior felt like a meat locker from having been in the dark, bitter cold. She turned up the heater, set the climate control for both heated seats and relocked the doors.
“New ride?”
“A gift to myself.” But she didn’t want to talk to Dash about that. She’d spent too many months blocking him from all personal thoughts.
He studied her in silence. “How long were you at the bar?”
Far too long considering it had turned out to be a waste of time. “Why?”
“Just wondering if you might have had a little too much to drink.”
“Of course I didn’t.” He’d done this routine with her enough times to know she never let herself get tipsy. She had the slightest buzz—but was as rock-steady as ever. “A few beers, that’s all.”
“Beer, huh? Longnecks?”
“Of course.” She varied her routine from one bar to the other, just in case her drinking habits factored in to the minds of the psychopaths preying on their victims. She showed up at each bar pretending to be already drunk and then added to that perception by her loose behavior.
“I suppose you’re as good at holding your liquor as you are at everything else?”
Was that a condescending tone she heard? “I know my limit.” Anything she did, she did well. It was sort of family law—if you weren’t going to excel, don’t bother.
Tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, she said, “Well? Let’s hear it. Were you following me or will you claim this is happenstance?”
“I didn’t follow you, but I was looking for you.”
“Scouring bars?” And why now? Months had passed without him seeking her out, when she’d been almost positive that he would.
Not that she was bitter about it or anything. She’d ended things for a reason—a reason that still existed.
Dash gave an infuriating shrug. “Before you gave up, this is the night we would have met at Rowdy’s.”
“So?”
“Call me sentimental, but I miss it.” After the slightest pause, he added, “I miss you.”
“Really?” She refused to be sucked back in by his charm. The holidays had been almost intolerable—in part because she’d spent too much time thinking about him. Spring was upon them, and with it came a renewed sense of purpose, a purpose that didn’t include Dashiel Riske.
“Don’t you?”
“What?”
In that warm, teasing voice of his, he said, “Miss me.” He shifted, sending electrical awareness into the air. “Just a little maybe?”
Fond memories made her fight a smile. “We did have some fun.” Rowdy’s bar had quickly become her favorite hangout. Getting Rowdy was a clean but comfortable place that served simple meals, good drinks and fun entertainment, like pool and darts, and a dance floor.
Best of all, badass Rowdy Yates stayed around to run the place himself. That was incentive enough to turn the staunchest teetotaler into a booze hound.
Though Rowdy and his bartender, Avery, had married over Christmas, he was still a sinfully gorgeous hunk surrounded by an aura of danger and sensual menace, more than worth a fantasy or two.
“Admit it,” Dash murmured, watching her with probing intent. “Admit that you missed me.”
She reluctantly gave her attention back to Dash—and wanted to groan. A lonely streetlamp gave faint illumination to his features, but she knew every nuance of his gorgeous face. No, he didn’t have Rowdy’s bad-boy rep, but his razor-sharp sensuality and construction-worker physique churned up a different type of fantasy.
Too bad she knew they’d never suit.
“Maybe,” she agreed. “Just a little.”
“I’m wounded—especially considering I wasn’t your first pick.”
No, he wasn’t. She’d initially wanted Rowdy to play her counterpart in the role of bar trollop, but Avery Mullins, now Yates, had already staked a rock-solid claim. Not a big deal because she knew she never would have gotten involved with Rowdy anyway, not beyond a one-night stand.
“As I recall, you offered.”
“More like insisted.”
She inclined her head in agreement. As second choice, she’d accepted Dash’s help with her cover, help she needed to give her a reason to hang around the bar without getting hit on by every lonely sap alive. She wanted to look the part of helpless, vulnerable, female boozer, but she didn’t want to appear too pathetic.
The first woman who’d escaped had initially been at the bar with a boyfriend. They’d parted ways at the door, and she’d gotten snatched right off the street.
So Margo set herself up as easy prey by following the same scenario—with Dash.
“I’d love to know what you’re thinking.” Dash looked her over in a way that felt far too physical.
That I missed you so much, too. Blocking that response, she asked, “What are we doing here, Dash? It’s getting late and I’ve had a full day.”
His gaze narrowed, proving she’d hit a nerve. “If you wanted to start back at the bar scene, you should have given me a call.”
“I’m
