"Hey, careful there, little lady," he said, his hands firm on her arms as he caught and righted her.
"Sorry," she said, forcing contriteness into her voice. "I slid on the wet floor."
Keeping one hand on her arm, he frowned down at the floorboards. "Some idiot must have spilt their drink. We'd better get someone to clean that before somebody gets hurt."
His voice was rich, and held a twang that reminded her of the Old West. In his faded denims, blue checked shirt and brown boots, he certainly fit the image of a cowboy. Only she had a suspicion the brown mop of hair had never been restrained by a hat, and that the shiny boots hadn't even tread across a well kept lawn, let alone the wilds of a cattle ranch.
He snapped his fingers, calling over a waitress, then his blue gaze settled on her. As handsome as his rugged features were, there was damn little in the way of response from her hormones. Maybe they were still too busy languishing in the afterglow of her brief time with Grey.
She raised a hand and brushed the droplets of wine from his shirt. His body was taut under the cotton fabric, his muscles well defined. "Lucky it's not red."
His grin was decidedly roughish. "It's only an old shirt anyways." He stuck out a huge hand. "Tate Harrison, at your service."
"Eryn James." She shook his hand, feeling the calluses across his palm. He might not be a cowboy, but he definitely wasn't a paper pusher, either. She lowered her shields a little, trying to catch his scent without getting too close. The air was a riot of aromas. They were too close to the blonde and her entourage for her to pinpoint his scent from everyone else's.
"Listen, why don't we go over to the bar, and I'll buy you a drink to apologize for spilling mine all over you."
"Apologies aren't necessary, but I'm more than happy to accompany you to the bar."
He touched a hand to her back and guided her forward. His fingers were pleasantly warm through the gauzy material of her dress, but didn't brand her the way Grey's had.
Damn it, why was her mind so fixated on the man?
They found an untaken space down near the end of the bar, and she ordered herself a wine and him a beer.
He hunkered down a little, his shoulders brushing hers as he leaned muscular forearms on the mahogany surface and wrapped a paw around his drink. "You been coming here long?"
She met his gaze, seeing the blatant interest there and half wishing she could respond more than mildly. The man was first rate in the rugged looks department, and she very much suspected that if she hadn't met Grey first, her hormones might have latched onto a man like this.
But then, given the long drought they'd been suffering, they might have latched onto any man she found even remotely attractive. "First night."
"Ah. So you're merely testing the waters."
She nodded. "And I have no intention of settling on one overture until I test all those on offer."
"That goes without saying." He took a drink of beer, then added, "You looking for anything in particular?"
She couldn't help smiling. "Won't know that until I find it."
"Good. You'd be amazed at how many women come in here with preconceived ideas about what—who—would make a suitable mate."
She raised an eyebrow at the edge in his voice. "You sound more than a little peeved by that."
"Hell, yeah. Preconceived notions cut down the options—
for all of us."
"So you haven't had much luck here yourself?"
He shook his head. "Of course, I'm not here all that regular. I've spent time with eight or nine ladies, but nothing has ever eventuated."
"Beyond the realms of the bar, you mean?"
He nodded and raised a large hand. "Seems the hands of a plumber aren't what ladies want these days."
She raised a hand, placing her palm against his. His fingers dwarfed hers. "Then those ladies are idiots. I can't imagine the plumbing trade becoming obsolete any time soon, and you guys are certainly raking it in when it comes to the money side of things."
He grinned. "Most women don't realize that."
"Maybe you'd better start mentioning it."
"I just might." His fingers enclosed around hers. "Is my current company at all interested in plumbers?"
"She would be, if she didn't already have an offer on the table tonight."
"And he let you walk away from him? The man is a fool."
"Well, he did have to arrange a room."
"Little lady, if you'd agreed to be mine for the night, there'd be no way in hell I'd let you leave my side until I got you into a room and had my wicked way with you."
She had a vision of his rough hands skimming across her naked, burning skin, and her pulse leapt. Maybe she wasn't as immune to this man as she'd thought.
She raised an eyebrow, a grin teasing her lips. "And would it be wicked?"
His blue gaze practically smoldered. "Wicked and wild.
That's a promise."
She drew his hand close, kissing his fingers, drawing in his scent as she did so. Beneath the rich aroma of man was the delicious hint of musk and earthiness. And no hint of the cloying smell of death.
Not the murderer, then. Which made him safe to play with, if she chose to do so.
"I might just hold you to that promise."
"Please do."
She untwined her fingers from his and picked up her drink.
"Will you be here tomorrow night?"
"Probably not. But I might be able to make it Monday."
"Then maybe I'll see you then."
He nodded. "If I'm here, and you're here, you can bet your boots I'll be seeing you."
She grinned and raised her glass. "To the possibility of Monday night, then."
He clinked his glass against hers. "And to the prospect of wild and wicked sex."
Oh, yes, please. But the image that darted through her mind was not that of the man who stood in front of her. She rose on her toes and kissed his suntanned cheek, drawing in his scent again just to be sure. Definitely no springtime, definitely no hint of death, and definitely safe to play with.
But safe wasn't what her hormones wanted, apparently.
Drink in hand, she made her way back to the restroom.
This time it was occupied, so she had to wait several minutes before it was secure enough to get in contact with Jack.
"It's not Harrison," she said, when she could.
"You sure?"
"Yes. Death is not a smell you can easily hide, and our murderer was entrenched in it." So entrenched, she suspected it was the evil in his soul she was sensing more than his actual scent.
"Which leaves us with Stockard and Gantry. If either of them aren't the killer, we're in the shit."
"Was this the only bar all five women attended?"
"Afraid so. And the only men all five saw are our three current suspects."
"Grey said he's only been here for a week."
"Grey lied."
"But why lie over something as simple as that?"
"Darlin, if I knew that, I could probably tell you whether he was our murderer or not."
She frowned. Somehow, she suspected the reasons for Grey's lies were a whole lot more complicated than either Jack or she suspected. "Have you been able to confirm whether they saw any of these men outside the bar's limits?"
"Afraid not. He's picking loners, and even though three of the five lived in apartment complexes, none of the neighbors heard or saw anything."
Nothing unusual in that. The head-down-see-nothing attitude seemed to have pervaded society ages ago. "And security cameras?"
"You've read the reports. Most of the complexes were old and didn't have cameras installed in the foyers."
Which was a required feature in all new apartment buildings. Even some of the older buildings were installing them for security purposes—hers had, and she knew many of her neighbors felt safer for it.
"Has Gantry come into the pub yet?"