7

Jim sat at the bar, his reflection directly below a buffalo butt the size of his first car. The rust-colored, stuffed rear-end was once part of a whole bison merrily roaming the range. Where the hell ever a range might still be these days. Now half a dead bison hung from a bar-back mirror in tribute to the house labeled beer, Buffalo Butt. Jim opted for scotch to accompany the rare piece of meat in front of him. No butt beer.

He pressed his shoulders back and cranked his neck to the side for a crack and stretch before cutting into what might be the end of his almost-decent cholesterol score.

Twelve ounces of marbled perfection. It sliced like butter. Tasted like heaven. The texture of the aged beef was flawless. The seasoning minimal. Perfect. Jim was dog-tired from the late flight last night. A beautiful meal and the scotch was exactly what he needed before an early night and a dawn flight tomorrow. It’d been a good trip. Fast and efficient. Just the way he liked it. One interview and he had a good lead.

Jim stopped chewing when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His dark hair was too long, spilling over his ears, his gray eyes looked gaunt above dark circles. The haggard appearance in the reflection made him wonder what had made Dan go so far off course. The kid was in college, then quit and joined the rodeo, and then turned junkie.

Jim’s own life had been buffalo kicked too. His derailment was caused by a co-ed and a false accusation of assault and rape. He’d lost his scholarship, his spot in the FBI training academy, and a good deal of his mother’s retirement to make bail. The following scrutiny and mistrust had sent him to Vegas. He’d changed his name and put out his plank declaring himself a PI. Started all over.

In the beginning he’d drunk enough to kill that buffalo hanging above his reflection. He counted himself lucky no one had offered him heavy drugs. He closed his eyes to the darkness that lingered from the self-loathing and anger of his past. Yeah. He’d have been happy for that kind of chemical-induced escape from reality. Maybe Dan had come across a need to indulge, to bury pain, life.

Someone maneuvered into the stool next to him even though there’d been plenty others open along the bar. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked down at the steak. He was in no mood to chat with a local.

“Well, Mr. Bean.” His gaze snapped back to the mirror. The voice was smooth. The face familiar. “Did we find anything today?”

He blinked a couple of times, letting the confusion of seeing someone completely out of context ease out of his brain. He slowly took another sip of scotch. Catching his tongue. He didn’t like being surprised … or followed. He needed to edit his thoughts before he vomited out words he’d wish not spoken to a client. He silently counted to ten to hold his tongue. So the court-mandated anger-
management class had paid off. This time.

“There was no need to come all the way to Texas, Ms. Hodge. That’s what you paid me for.”

“Call me Cynthia.” She’d crossed her legs and angled herself to face him. Her elbow was casually draped over the dark-stained wood of the bar. She tilted her head and loose red locks tumbled over her shoulder. It was longer than he had imagined when he met her. That grin was mischievous at best. But damn, she was hot.

“I told you I wanted to see him as soon as you found him. So I figured if you were coming to Forth Worth, why not?”

“Shouldn’t have.” It came out more of a growl than he would have liked.

Cynthia’s spine straightened, her face hardened, and she glanced around as if to make sure no one heard his harsh tone. “Please don’t think I’m questioning your prowess as a PI. I’m just anxious.”

That didn’t help. “You wasted a trip.”

Relaxing back onto the bar, her body language changed, softened. Jim got the feeling this woman rarely lost her poise for long. “He’s not here?” She eased over even closer. He could smell her perfume. Something exotic. Not fruity or sweet.

“I really didn’t expect him to be. But I do have a lead.” He decided to hold off telling her his thoughts on Dan having cash at this point. He had no idea how long his techie guy would take to find the money trail. If there was one left to follow.

“Oh?”

“Old friend says he talked about Montana a lot.”

“Montana. That sounds about right for Dan. Always loved the thought of the West. He thought Texas was too … not green.”

“His rodeo buddies find it hard to believe Dan got into drugs.”

She blinked hard. Swallowed. “So did we. It happened so fast. Seems like he was visiting one day and he was fine and then he missed his next planned visit. After that, he was always flighty and we got calls from a hospital once. He’d almost OD’d.”

“I didn’t find any arrest records.”

With that she sat up and recrossed her legs. Jim tried not to notice that they were long and lean. He took another sip.

“I don’t find that surprising. I did a criminal background thing online as well.” She twisted and glanced around then nodded to the back of the restaurant. “I have the corner booth” She picked up his plate and handed it to him. “Join me. You can buy me dinner with my retainer money.” Before he could answer she grabbed his drink. “Sir.” The bartender looked up from his phone as Cynthia continued. “I’m moving Mr. Bean to my table. Is that okay?” She urged him out of the stool with a flick of her wrist.

Dammit. He really wanted a quiet evening alone. Sinking into bed in a scotch haze. Like most of his evenings.

He fell into the booth. She said something to the waitress before leaning back to the bartender. With her back turned and the angle she was leaning over the bar, he could see the shape of her ass in that tight denim skirt. He let his head fall back and hit the booth. It was not soft, as the upholstery made it appear. Dammit. A clock to the head would do him good right now.

She turned back to him holding two glasses—his close to empty one and a full one. She showed a good bit of cleavage as she set them in front of his plate and eased into her place behind her plate, which looked remarkably like his. Rare beef and vegetables.

With a wink she raised her wineglass and offered a toast. He groaned internally as he raised his glass. The evening reminded him of a very bad prom date. Wrong place. Wrong girl. Again.

She chatted about Texas and accounting through the meal. She smiled a lot. Even touched his arm a couple of times.

Cynthia was a knockout, but he would never get involved with an active client. She blasted him with that amazing smile again, this time with the head tilt thrown in for a murderous effect. The last gulp of the scotch did seem to help. He felt it. Woozy. Must be the traveling, because two drinks would never make him this relaxed. Damn shame too. Would have saved him a stack of cash during the years he was drowning the reality of his trashed life and bad choice in women.

The waitress stopped by and filled the water glass in front of Cynthia. “You two okay?” The waitress cleared the plates.

“One more?” Cynthia asked.

Jim felt the back of his teeth. His litmus test for years had been to stop when his top front teeth felt a little numb. They were still there and still hard. That little exercise was pretty danged effective. No need to worry. No driving tonight, as the saloon was attached to his hotel. All he needed was to stumble up the stairs to his room. She was buying and he was beginning to enjoy the company. “I think so.”

“Good.” She turned to the young girl. “I think I’ll have a different glass of wine.” She picked one off the small list she was handed. “Well, Mr. Bean. What’s your story?” she asked when the waitress was out of earshot.

He let out a laugh that sounded a little too feminine in his head. “It’s long and sad and I’m in no mood to go down that road right now.” And he wasn’t. He was feeling light. Happy. Strange.

“Okay. Life history is off limits. How about music? I’m guessing this country music is not your favorite.”

She hadn’t pushed. He liked that. “I’m a classic rock guy. Grew up with it in the house.”

“I would have guessed that.” She tossed her hair off one shoulder and scooted around to his side of the booth so she was sitting next to him. She pulled out her phone and tapped into the music section. “Love the classics.” The play list was rather fuzzy but he made out ZZ Top and CCR.

With a little twinkle in her eye, the waitress set down their new drinks. The night was looking more and more like a first date. He took another drink. A big one. He needed to back away from his client. Cynthia got her lipstick out of her bag and touched up her lips.

No need to waste the good stuff. He would finish the drink and be on his way.

“Not so fast, big guy.” She grabbed the glass and pushed it away from him. “We should have a toast before you slam that down.”

Jim looked from the glass to her face. His head felt like it took too long to make that short distance. He blinked. Also sluggish. Travel must be kicking his ass this trip. Not usual, but the bed in this joint felt like sleeping on a fresh doughnut. Soft and unsupportive. He’d tossed all night. “What toast?”

“Here’s to you bringing Dan home to me?” She pushed his glass back to him. Then she let her pretty nails trail up over his fingers oh so slowly. The delicate movement mesmerized him.

His gaze took the path up her arm, across that sexy spot just where her neck curved into her shoulder, and then found her recently re-
reddened lips.

“You are amazingly pretty in this light.” The words were out and he hadn’t even thought them. He chuckled to himself. It should be embarrassing. Inappropriate. Client. Bad juju.

Her hand slid over this thigh.

But …

“You’re very handsome yourself.”

Client. Stop. His thoughts spun to the toast. Dan. “I may not, you know?”

“You may not what, Jim?”

“Find … find him.” His lips felt dry. Licking them only seemed to spread the condition to his tongue.

She inched her fingers up the seam inside his jeans along his thigh. It tingled, burned. Nails grazed over his zipper. “You will.”

For a moment the sexy smooth lines of her face hardened. She gripped his package. He sucked in a larger than normal breath of scotch-flavored air. Her touch seemed hot. His body jumped to react. “Yeah.”

The waitress slipped the bill down. Cynthia opened the vinyl folder and signed it, all with her right hand. Her left was working him through his jeans. He was melting to her touch. His bones had deserted his being. The music in the room picked up in tempo. He felt the melody twisting and turning around his head like he could visualize dancing notes. Humming. He felt like that when he’d had a contact high at his tech guy’s house once. Ely was a Viet Nam vet and prone to smoke without thought or care of who was around. He felt that way now. Like he’d been too long in front of Ely’s computers while the man puffed away. Floaty. Comfy.

Her hand changed pace. He liked the rhythm.

“What’s your room number?”