The woman with the chestnut hair and the veiled eyes was the last to leave. Maybe she got stood up, or maybe she’d come trawling for someone to warm her bed. Andy didn’t care. The only thing she was interested in was for everyone to leave so she could cash out for the night.
The woman lingered at the bar, watching as the last cheering Manchester United fans left. Their team staged a last-minute comeback to win 2–1.
“You’re handy with a bat,” she said as the door closed. She stared at Andy’s chest, her hips. Lower.
Andy continued wiping down the dark wood counter, the white towel whipping from edge to edge. “Look, I’m not interested. You’re beautiful, and you seem nice, but I’m too old and tired for you.”
“My name’s Claire. And you’re twenty-seven.”
The woman stood up from her barstool. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Andy froze, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. She looked down at the woman’s black slacks, her black heels. She could take her. She wasn’t super fit anymore, but she was still strong. Could still run a mile in four-forty.
“Do you really keep a gun under the counter?” Claire pointed to where Andy had stowed the bat earlier.
Andy kept a straight face, mirroring Claire, and continued to wipe down the bar surface. “It’s closing time. You better leave.”
“I thought knives were more your thing. From what I’ve heard you could have thrown the knife out of that guy’s hand with your own blade.”
Andy stood back, clenching the dish rag in her fists. “Where is she?”
Twitchy Guy hadn’t been the trouble she’d felt stalking her earlier tonight. It was far, far worse.
Claire stared at her with surprised eyes that grew colder by the second. Andy counted ten seconds on the wall clock before Claire answered.
“She’s close.” Claire walked to the Black Sheep’s front door and unlocked it.
Andy hadn’t seen Kate in a long time, but the sight of the woman not quite as tall as her, with the same wavy black hair as hers, longer, but graying, still startled her. She had the same strong chin, high forehead, olive complexion, and simmering dark eyes that turned black when provoked.
Her high heels sounded like muffled gunshots as she strode to the bar.
Always had to make an entrance.
Kate handed her red coat and black scarf to Claire and sat on the barstool she’d vacated. Claire moved to the entrance, as if standing guard.
“Hello, Kate.” Andy sighed.
Kate smiled slightly as she peeled off her black leather gloves. “Whatever happened to calling me Mother?”
* * *
“Whatever it is, whatever crisis you’ve invented, I’m not interested. Don’t even waste your breath explaining.” Andy stood back, resting her butt against the fridge. She waved to the door. “You can leave. Right now.”
Claire remained standing at the entrance, Kate’s coat and scarf in her hands. She looked at the now mute television where a panel of experts were dissecting the earlier football game.
Kate ignored her with equal success. She pointed at the sound system behind the counter. “Sticking with jazz, I hear,” she said, flashing Andy a quick, slick smile. “Who’s this? Miles Davis? Still sounds messy to me. It lacks the structure of a Debussy or Beethoven. I can never quite figure out where it’s going.”
Andy didn’t answer. Talking would just prolong the agony of getting her mother to leave.
“Ah, and there’s the Duke.” Kate nodded as the music changed. “Duke Ellington. You love women, but you prefer men when it comes to music. Why is that?”
She was wrong, but Andy didn’t want to tell her that, so she turned and poured herself a Scotch from the expensive bottle she kept behind the counter. She gulped it down in an effort to calm the rising unease in her stomach, then wiped the sweat from her hands on the front of her jeans.
“I’ll have one too, darling. Don’t be inhospitable. I raised you better than that.”
“You raised me to kill people.” The words slipped past Andy’s tongue before she could stop them.
“I raised you to protect innocent people.”
Here we go again.
Angry at herself for being baited, Andy emptied her glass and poured another Scotch. She felt blindly for a second crystal tumbler under the bar counter, filled it and slipped in one small block of ice—only one, otherwise it bruised the whiskey. Heaven forbid.
She turned and handed it to her. “Does your little errand girl also want one, or has she drunk enough for one night?”
“Claire is fine, thanks.” Kate sipped from her glass. “Lovely, thanks.” She put the whiskey down, tapping the rim of the tumbler with a long red fingernail.
Andy could almost hear the words strain at Kate’s throat. The mental ordering, reordering to make sure she didn’t sound like she was pleading.
Andy waited. Listened to the clock.
Kate dipped her head and stared at the amber liquid in her glass. When she looked up her eyes were soft, hopeful.
Damn it. What the hell was going on?
“She’s twenty,” Kate finally said. “She’s the first dreamer we’ve found in four years. And I need you to come and take care of her.”