Hunt Her Down (3 page)

“The only thing I’m planning to lick is salt with my tequila.”

“You sure that’s smart, when you’re on the rebound and all?”

Dan leaned right in his friend’s face. “Let’s get this straight, Roper. I’m not on the rebound

and I don’t need you to judge what’s smart and what’s not.” He pulled back. “But since you’re

so damn nosy, I still have access to some of the FBI sites and I noticed that Ramon Jimenez

got out of prison recently.”

“El Viejo’s son?”

“Yeah.” Everyone who knew the case knew Alonso Jimenez was universally referred to as

“El Viejo”—the old man. “I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

“You think he’ll go after her?”

Dan shrugged. “She was never implicated or arrested, and, per my request, she was left out

of the trial since her testimony was superfluous, considering all the evidence we had. As far as

she or any of them know, Michael Scott—my cover name—was accidentally killed that night

in friendly fire. That’s the way the agency wanted to play it. But Ramon has had a long time

to put together the truth, and he might have figured out the leak was his girlfriend. He’s a rat

bastard, and I don’t trust him.”

“So what’s your plan? Spring your real identity on her?”

“God, no. And she’ll never recognize me, because that cover was thorough and the guy she

knew had brown eyes, dark hair, and a prosthetic nose. I just want to check out where she

lives and works, make sure she’s safe. She goes by Smith now, so she’s probably married with

kids.”

“Could be an alias and she’s living in fear that they’ll find her.”

The same thought had occurred to him. “If that’s the case, then I’ll introduce myself as a

former FBI agent who thinks she should be aware that Ramon Jimenez is out of prison. Then

I’ll leave, and she’ll be safer. This is strictly a standard security check after a prison release.

After I’m done, I’ll be back.” Probably. He gave Max a tight smile.

“Culver is a fact of our life, now,” Max said, a warning in his voice. “Can you live with

that?”

“Look, I know Lucy and I flirted with possibilities. But it would have screwed up a great

friendship, and I’m not interested in …” A
baby
. “Anything that would tie me down. She

knows that, and so do I.”

Finally satisfied, Max moved. “Call me when you get there.”

Dan reached for the car door. “Why would I even need a wife, when I have you?”

“And the invitation stands. Cori has a week of board meetings at Peyton Enterprises, and

I’m going to go apeshit and melt in the heat. Hang out with me in Miami Beach.”

“You’re so full of it. You love all that time with Peyton.”

Max beamed at the mention of his two-year-old. “It doesn’t suck.”

“Who woulda thunk it? Max Roper morphs into Father of the Year.”

“Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.”

Dan circled his throat and mock-choked, then took one more glance at the library window.

He’d never have gone there with Lucy, so she really was better off now. He climbed into the

car and shut the door.

Snapping on the CD player, he cranked up the volume, then took off down the driveway

with the familiar relief that once again he’d successfully dodged a bullet.

“Oh, please, not a
gain
.” Maggie clunked the empty tray on the service bar and put her hands

over her ears but it did nothing to drown out the music echoing through Smitty’s. “I swear,

I’m going to go down to Margaritaville myself and shoot Jimmy Buffett for recording it.”

“That’ll just make ‘em want to hear it more.” From his favorite bar stool, Gumbo Joe threw

her a wide, yellowtoothed smile. “Anyhoo, you’re the one who put a jukebox in this joint,

Lena. Smitty’d roll over in his grave if he saw how you turned his nice little watering hole

into a tourist trap full of northerners who want to get wasted away again.”

“Smitty, God rest his soul,
ought
to roll over in his grave, for the debt he left me in.” She

flipped the service door up and slipped behind the bar, dumping the empties into the recycle

bin. “And I see the transformation from bait bar to tourist trap hasn’t stopped you from

swilling one dollar AmberBocks every Friday night, Gumbo.”

“Well, a man’s gotta drink after a hard day of trawlin’.” He took a swig to underscore the

statement while Maggie headed to the cash register to ring up the pitcher of draft she’d just

served.

She hip-nudged Brandy out of the way, but not hard enough to make the superskilled

bartender splash a drop of the tequila she was pouring. “Don’t forget the lost shaker of salt.”

Brandy gave her a wry smile and lifted the tequila bottle. “Every time that tune comes on

we sell more of this shit, and the markup is pure profit, partner. That song is what you would

call a good sign.”

“Ka-ching !”
Maggie exclaimed as the drawer popped open.

Brandy turned, expertly threading her fingers around six shot glasses. “Oh, and speaking of

good signs. Look who just came in. Your boyfriend’s back.”

Maggie froze, a little thrill tickling her tummy. “Don’t care.”

“You lie, Lena Smith.”

“I never lie, Brandy Istre, and you know that. But I’m not looking, because I don’t care.”

“You should look, because, whoa, he is even hotter than the last two nights he’s been in

here, checking you out like you were his favorite library book.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, closing the cash register with a quiet click. “Whatev, as Quinn

would say.”

“In case you change your mind, he’s sitting down at the two-top by the window,” Brandy

continued. “He’s looking at the table tent as if he’s actually considering a dollar beer, but we

know he’s an import kind of guy. Look at those clothes, all Ralph Lauren expensive. I bet he

came down in his yacht. Yep, he’s looking out at the marina, running his hand through that

dirty-blond hair, and over his jaw.” Brandy dipped a little closer to whisper the rest of her

play-by-play. “I don’t think he shaved today. He wants your poor li’l thighs to get all rosy

with a rash.”

Maggie laughed, hiding her weak knees and high hopes.

The last two nights he’d been there, he’d just ordered a Heineken, nursed it, and then left.

But the entire time, he’d watched her. No, he
pinned
her with eyes the same green as the

bottle she served him, making her tense and prickly and . . . aware.

She turned from the cash register, and looked right at him. Another lightning bolt rocked

her, this time right between those poor li’l thighs.

Holy mother of all that mattered, the man was
edible
.

Neither one looked away, and Maggie could have sworn those perfect lips tipped in a smile.

She managed to breathe—no mean feat.

“Shots are up, Mrs. Smith!”

His eyes flickered when Brandy called out the order.

Maggie instantly transferred her attention to the service bar, where Brandy stood with a

hand on her narrow hip and a smug smile on her elfin features.

“Why’d you have to call me that?” Maggie scowled as she ducked under the bar to get to

the other side.

“Thought you didn’t care.”

“Well, there’s no reason to make him think I’m still married.”

“Sure there is—now you have to talk to him. Get your butt over there and tell him you’re a

widow.”

Maggie shot her a vile look and scooped the tray full of shots in one hand. “Look, if I want

to get a good look at his ass as he runs screaming out the door, I don’t need to mention my

dearly departed husband. The teenager at home usually does the trick.”

“The teenager is at his uncle’s fishing for two days . . . and two
nights.
” Brandy leaned her

whole body over the service bar to make her point. “And the merry widow hasn’t had sex in

four years.”

“Four years?” Gumbo Jim slammed down his bottle and let his jaw drop. “Lena, that’s a

damn sin. Smitty would’ve wanted you to get laid once in a while. You’re a beautiful woman,

for God’s sake.”

Next to Jim, Tommy Sloane inched over and pointed at her. “You know, a hymen can grow

back. I read that in
Penthouse
.”

“A brain can grow back, too, Tommy, so there’s hope for you yet.” She nodded to a tall,

dark-haired man who walked up to the bar and took the stool at the opposite end. “Brandy,

you have a new customer. You’re going to want this one.”

Brandy glanced over her shoulder, then let out a low whistle. “Holy hell, the place is

swimming in high-quality testosterone tonight.”

Maggie balanced the tray. “Go get ‘em, tiger. Our song’s still playing.” She headed toward

the group from Philadelphia, who were already a little loud and loose. As she leaned to set

down the drinks, she couldn’t resist lifting her gaze to the two-top at the window.

He was staring. Hard. Right down the scoop neck of her top.

Oh, had she forgotten to wear a bra? They were small but mighty, as someone had once told

her, and every once in a while the girls went free. She smiled at the customers she served, but

the twinkle in her eye was for
his
benefit.

She’d also purposely worn the tight hip-hugging jeans and a little extra makeup. It was

true; she didn’t
care
if he came back for a third night—but she hoped like hell he would.

Especially tonight . . . the one time she didn’t have a thirteen-year-old and his dog waiting at

home.

Tonight, Magdalena Varcek Smith was going to have some fun.

Straightening, she nodded to him. “I’ll be right there,” she mouthed, taking the empty

glasses from the table and wending around some chairs to make her way over.

He made no effort to hide his long, slow appraisal of her, the hungry gaze leaving a trail of

heat and a thousand chills over every well-admired inch of her. By the time he got back up to

her face, she’d reached the table and slid into the chair across from him.

“You want a Heineken?”

“Among other things.” He added an imperfect, slanted, utterly decadent smile that took him

from jaw-dropper to heart-wrecker in a pulse beat.

“Name ‘em,” she shot back.

He dropped his elbows on the table and folded his arms, a move that emphasized the power

and size of his shoulders, and leaned closer. She got a whiff of peppermint and spice, a dose

of raw sex appeal, and a chance to see that no, he hadn’t shaved.

“Mrs. Smith. Are you married?”

His question was direct, simple, and delivered with a baritone that made her wonder if his

chest rumbled when he spoke.

“Not anymore.” She met him halfway across the table. “Are you?”

“Not even close.”

“Well, now that we got that little detail out of the way, how about we finally introduce

ourselves?” She held out her hand, bracing for the electricity she just knew was going to zing

up her arm. “I’m—”

“I know who you are.” He didn’t shake her hand. Instead, his long, strong fingers plucked

at one of the silver bangles on her wrist. “You make noise when you walk, you know that?”

She just stared at him, unable to look away.

“I’ve been hearing you jingle in my sleep.”

Oh boy. He was good. “What’s it sound like?”

“Trouble.”

She laughed. “I’m no trouble at all. Everyone calls me Lena, and I’m the owner of this fine

establishment and jingler of your dreams. What’s your name?”

“Dan.”

“Just Dan?”

“For now, just Dan.”

“How about for later?”

“That assumes there is a later.I don’t want to be presumptuous.”

She crossed her arms and matched his position, as into the game as he was. “Go ahead and

presume. We’ve been dancing around each other for three nights. How long are you in town?”

“How do you know I don’t live here?”

“Because I know everybody who lives in Marathon, which means you’re a tourist.”

“Are you going to close up again tonight?”

Another zing went through her, this time more of a mental alarm than a sexual buzz.

“Maybe.”

Since she’d just said she was the owner, it made sense she’d close the bar. But these days,

she couldn’t be too careful. Not after she’d read the prison release list on that website. Ever

since, she’d carried Smitty’s pistol in her handbag, made a habit of looking over her shoulder,

and had one of the regulars walk her to her car.

And sent Quinn for long weekends at his Uncle Eddie’s, so he wasn’t home alone when she

worked late nights.

“Can I meet you tonight?” he asked. “So we could talk when you’re not working.”

Talk
. Right. “It could be late.”

“I don’t mind.”

“We make last call around one.”

He nodded and stood, looming over her, easily surpassing six feet. “I’ll be back at twelve

thirty.”

She pushed herself up, pulled by that gaze and something else. A sensation that numbed her

fingertips and toes.

Familiarity. That was it. There was something weirdly
familiar
about him.

“Have you been in here before?” she asked. “I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve met.”

He just gave her that wicked half smile again, revealing the slightest overlap of his front

teeth, the imperfection wildly attractive on an otherwise perfect face. “Maybe in another life.”

He reached out and slipped his fingers right under her hair, flicking the three silver hoops so

they clinked against each other. “See you later . . . Lena.”

She didn’t move a muscle as he walked away, didn’t take a breath or blink an eye.