Chapter Eleven

  

Before she moved to Atlanta, Darcy had been Brack’s date to some of Charleston society’s fundraising events. Now that her socializing time belonged to her peckerwood fiancé, he needed a stand-in. Tara agreed to join him—with two conditions. First: she continue as his personal trainer during his stay in the city, which worked out great for him—he couldn’t afford to let his conditioning slip. Her second condition wasn’t so easy: no cigars tonight.

Brack’s only other choices for a companion were Cassie or Mutt, so he acquiesced. Besides, since their training session he hadn’t wanted a smoke anyway. Did the training alone achieve that, or his humiliating failure to keep his breakfast down?

Tara greeted him at the door of her apartment wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around her taut, muscular body. Before he could close his gaping mouth, she said, “I’m running late. Mr. Grumpy was ornery and wouldn’t take his meds until we bribed him with watermelon. Make yourself at home while I finish dressing.”

Brack stepped in. She closed the door behind him and ran off down the hall. The apartment smelled refreshingly of coconut oil. Polished hardwood floors creaked under his feet. The framed photos on her white walls of people and of animals mixed in tasteful groupings. A beige couch and loveseat along with a mahogany coffee table comprised most of the living room. Everything looked as if it came from Pottery Barn or Pier One. The only thing missing was a television. Or not—if she didn’t watch it.

From down the hall, she called, “Help yourself to a drink in the kitchen if you want.”

Brack turned away from the living room and spotted the kitchen area behind a large opening in the wall between the two rooms, making the space seem a lot bigger than it was. In the fridge he found bottles of beer, cans of soda, and one of those pitchers that filtered water. He selected a glass and poured himself some cold water.

A few moments later, Tara appeared. He had wondered whether she owned attire suitable for a black tie event, but she did not disappoint. The spaghetti-strapped number she had on accentuated her figure and her brown skin. Even with her inked-up arms, the first word that came to his mind was elegant.

“Do I look okay?”

Brack nodded. “That is a very nice dress.”

She gave him a big smile and brushed a piece of lint off his jacket. “Thanks. And you look very handsome.”

His tuxedo was a real Armani, and only a few years old. He’d learned to never travel without it, or risk having to buy another or rent one.

He finished his water and they left the apartment. Walking to the car, Brack saw the sun beginning to set, but the air was still hot.

As he opened the passenger door for her, he asked, “Do you want me to put the top up?”

“Are you kidding?” She slid onto the hot leather seat. “I’d kill for a convertible.”

His kind of woman.

They drove to a large mansion located in a part of Atlanta he hadn’t seen before. The valet handed him a ticket and drove his cherished car away. Brack was relieved to see how skillfully he backed the Porsche into a spot out front between a Ferrari and a Range Rover.

Tara took Brack’s arm. He escorted her inside and couldn’t help but notice all the men stealing glances at her.

The ballroom floor had black tile alternating with squares of white. A very high ceiling with globe lighting made the women’s jewelry sparkle. Tara chose a flute of champagne from a tray presented by a uniformed server. Brack scanned the room and found Atlanta’s elite to be a little younger and a little more ethnic than Charleston’s. The vibe he got added at least one zero to the net worth of the average donor here compared with his home base. Though Uncle Reggie’s will had made him extremely comfortable, in this sea of money here he was but a small fish.

The orchestra played a slow waltz and several couples moved gracefully across the tiled dance floor.

Brack asked, “So how did you end up working at Mutt’s Bar?”

His date grinned. “How do you think?”

A thought came to mind. “Cassie.”

“We’re friends.”

Of course they were. That confirmed Cassie hadn’t quite told him the whole truth. If Cassie knew Tara, then she definitely knew about the bar, and everything else Mutt had been hiding. Brack didn’t hold it against her. She was only trying to protect Mutt and get her sister back.

Tara finished her champagne and gave the glass to a passing server. Then she asked, “Would you like to dance?”

“That was supposed to be my line,” he said.

“Convention was never my strong suit.”

He wasn’t about to comment on that. Instead, he took her hand and led her to the dance floor. Thanks to lessons he had taken a decade ago with Jo, his deceased wife, he knew what to do, and slid his free hand behind her back. Tara rested hers on his shoulder. They moved around well together, Brack thought. She smiled, showing off her very nice teeth. He forgot for a moment why they were here and simply enjoyed her company.

The music changed to a mild salsa number. He led Tara through a few spins. She backed into him, their arms crossed in front of her and they swayed to the beat.

And then as the song ended, Brack caught sight of Darcy in the arms of another man and his stomach tightened.

  

He and Tara exited the dance floor and she excused herself to head for the restroom. Brack watched Darcy dance with her fiancé to another song. When they turned and her date’s back was toward Brack, she spotted him and lifted her hand in a slight wave.

Brack nodded.

Then her eyes grew wide as she looked past his shoulder.

Brack heard from behind him Kelvin Vito’s voice. “I could have you thrown out.”

“You’d have to,” he said, turning to face Vito. “You certainly couldn’t do it by yourself.”

Vito smirked. “You know, it’s a shame they let anyone in here.”

“Present company included,” Brack said.

Vito turned to watch the couples dancing and his slicked-back hair reflected the overhead lights. “Mr. Pelton, if I were you I’d watch my step while I was in town. Accidents happen all the time here.” He walked off.

Tara returned and they started toward an empty table in a corner. It would give him a good vantage point, since he’d been advised to watch his step.

En route to their destination, Darcy stepped into their path.

With her came the man Brack assumed was her fiancé. She turned to Tara and said, “It’s good to see you again. That’s a lovely dress.”

Tara smiled. “Thanks. Yours is gorgeous. Versace?”

Nodding, Darcy said, “Good guess.”

Brack held out his hand to the peckerwood, whose name he’d learned through some internet sleuthing: Justin Welcott the third. “I’m Brack Pelton.”

First impression: a few inches shorter, brown hair going thin at the temples, thick-framed stylish glasses hiding brown eyes, small mouth, weak smile. A real peckerwood.

Welcott took the outstretched hand. “So you’re the one who got my fiancée shot.”

His hand felt soft. No calluses, unlike Brack’s own. Before he let go, Justin turned to Darcy. “We really must be going, dear.”

She gave her fiancé a quick smile, then turned to Tara. “It was a pleasure seeing you again.”

Brack watched the soon-to-be newlyweds retreat and thought that the peckerwood really needed something bad to happen to him.

Tara interrupted his thoughts. “I wouldn’t mind another drink.”

His focus returned to her. “I’m sorry. A lot of water under the bridge there.”

“I could tell.” She gave him a friendly smile. “We all carry things with us. They make us who we are.”

Looking toward the floor-to-ceiling window, he said, “And sometimes who we turn into isn’t all that pleasant.”

Touching his cheek, she said, “You helped me and my brother. As far as I’m concerned, you’re Sir Galahad.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said.

A male voice behind them said, “Excuse me.”

Brack’s gut told him trouble, but he’d already known there would be at some point. Precisely why Detective Nichols gave him the tickets—and why he’d shown up.

Tara and Brack turned to face a very tall and very stout Aryan. Even before Brack took in his blond flat-topped hair, he noticed the man’s height—a few inches taller than himself. He filled out a tuxedo jacket that obviously had been custom-tailored to show off his large shoulders and biceps and rather trim waist. Brack ordinarily didn’t cower from anyone, but his instincts told him not to mess with this guy. Professional was practically stamped across his forehead. Green Beret or Ranger or, worse, SEAL. Probably a high-paid mercenary now. Very lethal.

Brack decided all this in a split second.

“Yes?” he responded.

The giant’s blue crystalline eyes bore into Brack, and from his thin lips he heard, “Mr. Vito would like you to leave.”

Tara seemed to size up the situation pretty quickly. She squeezed Brack’s hand.

His better judgment slipped away from him. “Yeah, well, we’re busy right now.”

“Ignoring his request would be a mistake.”

“For whom?”

“It doesn’t have to go down this way,” he said. “You won’t get the drop on me.”

“I figured as much,” Brack said. “But you won’t do anything in front of all these witnesses.”

“There’s always another time.”

“While you’re basking in your apperception, I should probably tell you there won’t be any rules.”

The giant nodded. “Understood.”

“And one of us will not walk away.”

The giant’s mouth formed a slight grin, and his upper lip showed a minute tremor, which Brack took to mean the hulk couldn’t wait to throw down right here and now.

Brack put his arm around Tara’s waist and eased them both back a few steps. The giant did not take his eyes off Brack’s. A safe distance away, he and Tara turned and walked onto the dance floor, where they danced until midnight.

  

The valet retrieved the Porsche in mint condition and Brack drove Tara back to her apartment, U2’s “The Unforgettable Fire” streaming through the sound system. The low-key tunes and Tara’s seemingly peaceful visage helped him keep his speed in check, although the muted growl of the boxer engine taunted his right foot for anything but restraint.

He managed to make it all the way back to her apartment complex without so much as one moving violation.

Brack walked his date up the stairs to her place, his thoughts focused more on the angles of getting at Vito than on the curves revealed by Tara’s dress.

At her door, she turned to him. “Thank you so much for a wonderful evening.”

He said, “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. I did too.”

Closing the distance between them, she gently placed her hands on his chest and kissed him. “That’s for saving me and my brother.”

Startled, he put his arms around her.

She kissed him again. “And that’s for treating me so nice.”

“What do you mean?”

Resting her head on his shoulder, she said, “No one has ever invited me to a ball before. I felt like Cinderella.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Too bad the clock struck midnight.”

Giggling, she pulled away and looked at him. “You’re not going to turn into a pumpkin, are you?”

“I think I already did.”

She said, “I like you, Brack.”

He had nothing to say to that.

“But,” she said, “your heart belongs to someone else.”

  

As Brack returned to his car in the parking lot of Tara’s apartment complex, he thought about what she’d said. She was right. His heart did belong to someone else, and he couldn’t shake that, even if the object of his love was about to marry someone else.

Still five hundred feet from his car, his cell vibrated in his tuxedo pants pocket. He answered.

A disguised voice said, “Get out of town or the next time you won’t only be a witness.”

Brack stopped walking. “What?”

His Porsche exploded in front of his eyes.