Which hadn’t taken a detective to figure out. Up until six months ago, she’d borne a visible mark of past violence, a scar on her cheek. Rumor had it that a surgeon had worked magic with his knife, because now it was barely visible. Rumor also had it that the black leather choker she wore around her neck covered another scar, much worse.
Noah had lost count of the number of times he’d been a mouse click away from finding out what had put that wary guard behind the façade of calm. But he hadn’t. He wanted to believe he respected her privacy, but knew he didn’t want to know. Because once he knew, it would change… everything. The knowledge rattled him.
Conversely, very little seemed to rattle Eve, even the clumsy advances of drunken customers. More than once in the last year Noah had been tempted to come to her aid, but she always managed-either on her own or with the help of one of the other cops.
The men took care of her. They liked her. They lusted after Callie, but liked Eve, which left Noah grimly reassured. He would’ve had a much harder time sitting with his damned tonic water week after week had it been the other way around, because long before he walked in every week and long after he left, he wanted her. But he had only to look at the mugs of beer and glasses of liquor surrounding him to know he couldn’t have everything that he wanted. Some things, like Eve, were best left untouched.
However difficult she was to rattle, Eve had been startled tonight. Her dark doe eyes had widened. Flared to life. And for that undefended split second, his heart stumbled, the hunger in her eyes stroking the ego he’d tried so hard to ignore. But he’d come to get Jack. And it didn’t matter anyway. That Eve was interested didn’t negate any of the reasons he’d vowed to keep his distance. If anything, it underscored them.
He pulled his eyes back to Callie, who still stood in front of him, studying him. “Eve thought you might want something to keep you warm when you went back out,” she said, shivering in a skimpy black dress that left little to the imagination.
“Tell her I appreciate it. You should get away from the door. You’ll catch cold.”
Callie’s smile was self-deprecating. “The things we women do for fashion.”
Looking over his shoulder, Noah watched Callie take the other cup she held to Jack. She spared his partner no conversation, simply leaving the cup on the table. Jack wouldn’t have heard her anyway. He was soothing Katie, who was pouting because he had to leave. Noah bit back what he really wanted to say, about both Katie’s pout and Jack’s idiotic song and dance about no cell phone reception in the bar.
Noah pulled out his own phone. Just as he’d thought, strong reception. He wasn’t sure if Jack believed his own excuses, thought Noah was stupid enough to believe them, or just didn’t care if anyone believed him or not. Regardless, Noah was going to have to report him soon. Jack had missed too much work.
The thought of turning in his own partner made him sick. When Jack focused, he was a damn good cop. If he could just keep his fly zipped, there would be no issue.
“Noah. Over here.” His cousin Brock was waving from his table along the far wall. “You found him, I see,” Brock said quietly when Noah approached.
Noah nodded. “I need his eyes on the scene.” He thought about Martha Brisbane, still hanging from her ceiling, eyes wide open. “This is going to be a bad one.”
“Call if you need me.” Brock glanced to the bar where Eve was shaking a martini, her gaze constantly roving the bar. “On any subject,” he added, accusingly.
“I will,” Noah said and Brock shook his head in disgust.
“That’s what you always say. You gotta fish or cut bait, man. This has gone on long enough. You’re playing with fire, every damn time you walk into this bar.”
It was true. “I know.” Still he shrugged. “When I close this case.”
Brock’s jaw hardened. “That’s what you always say.”
That was true, too. Noah always promised that this time would be the last he’d walk into Sal’s, but he always came back. He’d spent ten years battling one addiction, only to find another. Eve Wilson was his weakness, dangerous in more ways than one.
“I know,” Noah repeated, reaching for the four packets of sugar he took in his coffee.
Brock pushed the sugar container away. “I’d taste it first if I were you.”
Noah did and drew a quiet breath. Eve had added it already. He’d ordered coffee maybe twice in the last year, and had added his own sugar each time. She’d not only watched, she’d remembered. The look on Brock’s face said he knew it, too.
“She’s a good bartender,” Noah said. “I bet she remembers what you always order.”
Brock rolled his eyes. “You’re a goddamn fool, Noah.”
Noah sighed. “Yeah, I know that, too. Tell Trina thanks for dinner. I have to go.”
Jack had just left, Katie clinging to his arm. He’d said he’d go home and change, then join Noah at the scene where they’d focus their full attention on finding out who’d killed Martha Brisbane. They’d do their jobs. For Noah, the job was all. When he’d hit rock bottom, the job was what led him out. He’d do well to remember that.
But Noah felt Eve’s steady gaze as he made his way toward the door and he stopped. He wouldn’t be coming back. Wouldn’t see her again. He hadn’t come within fifteen feet of the bar in six months, Jack eager to get their orders once Eve’s scar disappeared, shallow jerk that he was. And you? What are you? He’d sat there, and watched.
I’m a fool. Deliberately, he turned to the bar. Her eyes were quiet as he approached, but he could see the pulse hammering in the hollow of her throat beneath the choker she wore, and knew he hadn’t been wrong about that flash of hunger he’d seen before. He lifted the cup, a million things he wanted to say stampeding through his mind. In the end, he said the only thing that he could say. The only thing that made any sense.
“Thank you.”
She nodded once, swallowed hard. “It’s just a cup of coffee, Detective.”
But it was more. It was kindness, one more in a string of many he’d witnessed over the months, most when she thought no one was watching. But he’d seen.
Turn around and go. But he didn’t say anything, nor did he go, his eyes dropping to her hands. Her left cradled the right. A jagged scar wrapped around her thumb and disappeared up the sleeve of a black sweater that matched her short hair and dipped just low enough to be considered modest, yet still make a man look twice. And wish.
Calmly she splayed her hands flat on the bar as if to say, “Nothing to see here, please move along.” But for a brief moment her eyes flickered, and he glimpsed a yearning so profound it stole his breath. As quickly as it had come, it was controlled, gone, and she was back to guardedly serene. “Stay safe, Detective,” she said quietly.
He touched the brim of his hat. “Take care.” And good-bye.
Noah gulped a mouthful of the scalding coffee as he walked to his car, the sweet liquid sour on his tongue. Fish or cut bait. It would be the second one. As long as he’d clung to the belief that he was only hurting himself, he could go to the bar, just to see her. But tonight she’d nibbled, just a light tug on the line, but a tug nonetheless.
He’d reel in his line before he hooked her. And hurt her. Whatever she’d been through, it had been bad. I won’t make it worse by dragging her down with me.
Sunday, February 21, 7:15 p.m.
Lindsay Barkley woke screaming. Dogs. Snarling, baring their teeth, chasing. Run. But she couldn’t run. She was tied and couldn’t run. They were on her, teeth ripping…
She screamed and the jagged teeth disappeared, the snarling abruptly silenced.