Sorry, darlin’. But you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.
“No, thanks,” he told Zoelner, sitting back and lifting his glass of scotch to his lips. “She’s not my type.”
Zoelner hooted with laughter, slamming down his empty tumbler. “Type? Dear God, it’s not like you’re looking for a blood donor or anything. Type hasn’t got a damned thing to do with it. She’s hot. She’s obviously horny. And one of us should do something about that.”
“Be my guest.”
Zoelner cocked his head. “You remind me of a giant black hole, sucking all the light and fun out of the evening.”
“Me?” Mac turned on the man incredulously. “I’m not the one who decided to spend the night sitting at this…this sausage-factory of a bar, quietly getting stone-cold shit-faced.”
“Hmm.” Zoelner narrowed his eyes. “Sausage-factory of a bar, eh? Meaning there are too many swinging dicks and not enough soft and sexies around tonight? Do I detect a hint of melancholy?”
“That’s a big word for a drunk man.” Mac chuckled.
“I’m not that drunk,” Zoelner insisted, and Mac grabbed his stomach, laughing out loud. “Okay, so maybe I am that drunk,” Zoelner admitted, “but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. My point is, I think you’re not interested in the brown-haired Betty over there because you’re pining away… Is that how you Texans would put it? Pining? For a certain redhead who’s suspiciously absent from the bar tonight.”
And that strangled Mac’s laughter into a cough. He lifted his glass to suck down a drop of scotch. Carefully placing the tumbler back on the bar, he ran his tongue over his teeth and said, “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“The hell you don’t.” Zoelner snorted. “Anyone with eyes in their head knows you’re hot-to-trot for our usual bartendress. And if all her come-ons are anything to go by, she’s hot-to-trot for you, too. Which begs the question…what are you waiting on? Why haven’t you hit that, like, a thousand times by now?”
“Hit that?” Mac pulled a face. “What are we? Fifteen?”
“Dodging the question?” Zoelner countered, and Mac didn’t know whether to applaud the man’s astuteness or strangle him right where he sat.
Deciding neither scenario would be all that satisfying, he shrugged his shoulders in what he hoped was a gesture of supreme unconcern. “That Woman,”—Mac always thought of Delilah Fairchild, proprietress and namesake of the bar they were currently sitting in, that way, in capital letters—“isn’t my type either. And you know why.”
“Bullshit.”
Just the one word. Spoken with complete conviction.
Mac gifted Zoelner with a dirty look and reached for the bottle of Lagavulin. Upending it, he poured the last few drops into his glass, then slowly lifted the tumbler, taking a leisurely sip.
“You know what I think of that whole thing, right?” Zoelner asked. Mac ignored him, wishing like hell he’d never opened his big mouth after that goddamned mission in Somalia. But sitting in a bar in South Africa, basking in the glow of a successful operation—and after having downed a half dozen beers—the whole sorry story had come tumbling out. “Oh, and what? Now you’re a mute?” Zoelner inquired after it became apparent Mac wasn’t going to rise to his bait.
But what could Mac say? The truth was, he did know what Zoelner thought. The guy had flat-out told him he was an idiot to compare one woman to another. Horseshit was the word Zoelner used if Mac remembered right. But the guy just didn’t understand. He didn’t know what—
“Fine,” Zoelner spat, shaking his head. “So, we’ll pretend Delilah Fairchild isn’t your type either.”
And, yeah. It would be pretending. Because, in all honesty, they both knew That Woman was every man’s type. Not only was she a perfect ten on the curve-o-meter, but her heart-shaped face, with her clear green eyes and pouty Kewpie-bow lips, belonged on primetime television. And, as if all that wasn’t enough, her pale, creamy skin had to go and be all flawless and shit. Seriously, no matter how closely Mac looked, he couldn’t find a single pore to mar her porcelain complexion. To put it quite simply, from the top of her head to the ends of her red-tipped toes, Delilah Fairchild was one hundred percent pure woman. And one hundred percent, no-holds-barred beautiful. Beautiful and vivacious and used to commanding the attention of every man in the room. And that last bit made her all too familiar.
Too familiar and too…dangerous. And honestly? His life—the one where he masqueraded as a motorcycle mechanic when in fact he was part of a clandestine government defense group that operated as the very tip of Uncle Sam’s sword—was dangerous enough already, thank you very much.
And speaking of familiar…
Without warning, the unwelcome image of Jolene flashed behind his gritty eyes. Hair as black as a raven’s wing. Eyes the color of Texas bluebonnets. Skin like buttermilk. And a heart as fickle and capricious as a Texas spring…
He shook his head and blinked away the disturbing vision in time to see Zoelner raise a hand and call out to the bald, goateed man behind the bar. “Hey, Brendan! Where’s the lovely lady of the house this evening? Not that my rather large, rather slow-talking friend here,” Zoelner hooked a thumb in Mac’s direction, “is wearing the sulky look of a eunuch in a whorehouse because he’s missing her gorgeous face or anything. Because she’s absolutely not his type.”
Right then, Mac made the supremely wise and incredibly mature decision to kick the former CIA agent’s booted ankle. Zoelner turned to lift a dubious brow before he hauled off and kicked Mac right back. Which, of course, left Mac with no recourse but to respond with an even harder kick and soon they were scuffling like a couple of rowdy college frat boys instead of two highly trained operators. Then again, they were highly tipsy as well. So maybe that explained it.
“Delilah’s down south,” Brendan said, coming to stand in front of them while continuing to wipe wet pint glasses with a dish towel. Short and squatty, Brendan had the physique of a wrestler and the face of a boxer—the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones looked like they’d been flattened more than a time or two by heavy fists. What he lacked in height, he obviously made up for in sheer scrappiness.
“Where?” Zoelner asked, adjusting his leather jacket and shooting Mac a narrowed-eyed glare before turning his attention back to Brendan.
“Southern Illinois,” the bartender said, and Mac thought, Southern Illinois? What the hell is she doin’ down there?
“What the hell is she doing down there?”
He blinked, startled. Had he asked the question aloud? Just how much scotch had he had?
But no. It was Zoelner Brendan turned to to answer. Of course, Mac was forced to wonder again just how much scotch he’d had when, before any words had a chance to form on Brendan’s tongue, the thought don’t let her be down there visiting a lover whispered through the back of his brain.
Whoa. What? Where the hell had that come from? He didn’t give two shits what or…or…who she was doing down in southern Illinois.
Did he?
He couldn’t help but notice his question was answered with resounding, cricket-chirping silence.
Well, hell. That’s just the booze talkin’. Because anything else was too disconcerting to contemplate.