Their color was made even more startling by the dark lashes surrounding them. His was a rugged face, lined from at least thirty-five years, all of them hard. Most people would believe the scar responsible for the air of danger he carried, but Ria knew better. The danger went deeper. This was a man who had handled trouble and delivered more than his share of it.
“You’re not from around here.” He swirled the liquor in his glass and aimed a smile at her. His mouth was his best feature, its full, sensuous bottom lip providing an intriguing contrast to the chiseled lines of his face.
Her pulse stuttered, shocking her. It had been a long time since she’d responded to a man this strongly. It had been since…well, never. At least not that she could remember.
“You’ve got no accent, even though folks ’round here like to claim that it’s everyone else who talks differently.”
Dodging the question couched in his statement, she brought her glass up, sipped. “You don’t have an accent.”
One side of that well-formed mouth kicked up. “That’s because I’m from New York originally. But I’ve been in Georgia for about eleven years. Another fifty and they might consider me a native Southerner.”
Ria smiled. She’d already encountered that distant civility that clearly stated she was considered an outsider, and probably always would be. That was fine with her. She didn’t intend to stay in Alabama forever. Just long enough to finish the quest that had driven her for six long years. “You don’t look like a restaurateur.”
“No?” He leaned back in his chair, took a drink, pausing as if to enjoy the flavor of the aged Scotch. “Well, maybe that’s because I have multiple holdings. This place is just one of my businesses. And as of about ten minutes ago, it’s my favorite.”
The words might have sounded flirtatious coming from another man. But there was nothing lighthearted about him, or about the heat in his eyes. He was taking no pains to hide the fact that his interest in her was immediate, and frankly sexual. More heady than the Scotch, recognition of that fact fired her blood. One of the things she’d come to know about herself was that she wasn’t a woman who appreciated games.
She toyed with the idea of taking him up on the carnal invitation in his gaze. Sexual confidence shimmered off him like heat waves from a scorching tarmac. A quick bout of mind-shattering sex would be far more effective than Scotch and a steak to relieve a little of the stress from the last few days.
But in the next moment she rejected the thought, with no little regret. Although he didn’t look like the type to be averse to a no-strings, one-night stand, something about him kept her wary. The man had complication written all over him. And her life was already fraught with far too many complications.
There was a slight sound, and he withdrew a small beeper from his trouser pocket, looked at it and frowned. Glancing at her as he slipped it away again, he said, “I have business to attend to. Are you planning on staying long?”
She was already shaking her head. “Just long enough to devour that steak I ordered.”
“Maybe you’ll change your mind.” He made no attempt to disguise the dual meaning in his words. This wouldn’t be a man used to having women turn away from his interest in them. But neither would he be one to brood overmuch when one did. He wouldn’t lack female companionship—either from those women too dim to be cautious about the slight menace he emanated, or those, like her, who were attracted despite it.
“I don’t think so.”
He rose. “Your meal will be on the house tonight.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“No. But maybe it will convince you to come back sometime, give us another try.”
“Maybe.” The word slipped out before she could prevent it, and a look of satisfaction flickered across his face.
He nodded once more. “Until then.”
She didn’t turn to watch him leave, although a part of her wanted to. Though she doubted their paths would cross again, fantasizing about a possible next time was harmless enough. There was very little room in her life for foolish wistfulness.
Most of her fantasies involved deadly daydreams of revenge.
Although the owner—they’d never gotten around to exchanging names—had left the bottle on her table, she wouldn’t be drinking any more once her glass was empty. She knew her limits, all of them, and stayed scrupulously within them. It had been a reeducation of sorts, every bit of knowledge that she’d learned about herself a prize that could be pieced together with others to get a sense of the whole.
Some had appeared at odd times, disconcerting bits that had formed an undeniably disturbing picture of whom she’d been. She’d had very little trouble devising a plan for getting out of Santa Cristo. She thought it might prove more difficult post 9/11, with all the heightened security. But at the time, she’d never missed a beat, whether it was fighting a masked assailant to the death, breaking into a safe in a resort room or assuming a new identity.
Though her personal recollections had never reappeared, there were plenty of things that she did remember, and those memories were troublesome. How many amnesia victims could claim to recall exactly how to beat a polygraph? She’d been confident in her ability to do so, and had succeeded in the course of her recruitment to the police academy.
It was second nature for her to enter a new place and make immediate note of the exits, while sizing up the occupants with a speed that spoke of training or practice. From just a few glances she knew the bartender here would be as adept with a weapon as he was at mixing drinks; that the couple in the far corner were probably engaged in an extramarital affair; the guy to her right would fold in the face of trouble, but the one sitting at the bar could handle himself in a fight; and that the man on her left was screwing up the courage to approach her.
She no longer questioned where these skills stemmed from. They were merely tools, to be used in her search for answers of a far more serious nature. Although there was very little she could be positive of, she was fairly sure that whatever her identity before that fateful night in Santa Cristo, she’d almost certainly been operating outside the law.
It had been a hard realization to swallow, and she’d done her share of dodging the truth. It would have been easier, far easier, had she been able to manufacture another explanation. There was any number of possible scenarios for her ending up shot and left for dead off the shore of the island. But coupled with her familiarity with weapons, Dim-Mak combat and assassination techniques, there were only a few explanations that made sense.
She’d either been a criminal, a mercenary or some sort of operative, military or government sanctioned. While she’d hoped for the latter, she’d long ago resigned herself to discovering the worst.
Because the pang that accompanied that thought was unwelcome, she pushed it aside. Happy, happy birthday to her. Her lips twisted into an expression that should have dissuaded the interest of the man at the next table, before she swallowed some more Scotch, welcoming the fiery path it traced down to her stomach.
Her steak arrived at approximately the same time as the guy beside her, and was much more welcome.
“Looks like you’re dining alone.” His smile was toothpaste ad bright as he rested his folded arms on top of the chair next to her. “Me, too. Not much fun, is it?”
“Can
