Deadly Lies (Deadly #3)(15)

Sam took a breath. “I’m looking for a man.” The profile pointed to a man as the leader of the kidnapping ring.

“Sweetheart…” He motioned to the crowd, “take your pick.” The guy looked to be around thirty with a gleaming bald head and tattoos on his hands.

Her back teeth ground together and her spine snapped up. “No, a young guy, probably in his twenties, attractive, smart—”

“Yeah, look, your to-do list is f*ckin’ fascinating, but—”

“He would have been alone,” she continued doggedly, aware that her cheeks were heating and her words coming too fast. “And he would have spent his time staring at the other customers. Maybe focusing on the ones who liked to spend too much money…”

“Samantha?” The gravel-rough voice came from behind her. Sam spun around—

And came face-to-face with Max. What?

He shook his head. “What are you doing here?”

Oh, crap. She wet her lips. “I—”

“She’s looking for a man, bud, same thing as all the others.” The bartender’s bored drawl rose behind her.

Max’s eyes slit. “The hell you are.”

Oh, damn. This was not good. “Um, no, I was—” Working a case.

He leaned in close. “Looking for more no-strings sex?” Anger glinted in his gaze.

Maybe it was time for an explanation. Hi, I’m Sam, an FBI agent. I picked you up in a bar, and I don’t even know why I did that. I may be having a breakdown but don’t tell my boss because he’ll fire my ass.

Sam licked her lips. Not the right time, not the right place, and no way could she get all that information out right then. “It’s not what you think,” she managed instead.

The steel in his eyes told her that he wasn’t buying that one. “Look, I was—”

“Max!” Another man shouldered through the crowd. Younger, familiar. “Max, I didn’t think you’d ever get here!”

Dark gray eyes. Pretty-boy face. Ruddy cheeks already flushed from too much beer.

The image clicked instantly. He’d been at the party last night. And that voice—he was the guy who came out on the balcony.

Her gaze flew back to Max. A muscle flexed along his jaw. “Samantha, I want you to meet my brother, Quinlan Malone.”

She didn’t offer her hand. It would be a little hard to do because Max had both of them in a steely grip.

Quinlan flashed her a smile but seemed to weave on his feet. “Nice to meet you, pretty lady.”

Uh, right.

“Did you talk to him?” he asked Max. “What did he say, man, am I—?”

“No money, Quinlan,” Max gritted, turning his head a fraction to meet his brother’s stare. “No deal.”

“Fuck.”

Sam glanced between them. “Max…” Okay, this was just awkward. She didn’t have experience with the whole family situation. An only child, she’d never dealt with sibling drama.

“Frank says you have enough for now.” Max’s lips were tight. “No more.”

Quinlan spun away and stormed through the crowd.

“Hell. Give me a minute, okay?” Max released her and took off after his brother.

But Quinlan slammed into what looked like a football player, a big, thick guy, and chaos erupted.

Fury. Fists. Screams. A ball of men tumbled onto the floor.

Fear pumped through her blood but she raced forward. “S-stop!” She screamed.

Quinlan got slammed into the floor. Hard.

Her fingers moved to her bag and to the gun that was hidden inside it. She pushed forward. “Let him go! That’s an or—”

“Jesus,” Max growled, shoving other bodies back, “give it a damn rest!” His roar seemed to quiet the crowd. He snatched his brother free of the violence.

Sam took a breath.

Quinlan shoved away from Max and took off through the gawking group.

Sam realized that she had her fingers curled around her gun. Carefully, she eased her hold and let the weapon sink back into her purse.

Then Max stalked back toward her. He held out his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

He never hits the same bar twice.

Sam put her fingers in his.


Quinlan watched them leave. Sonofabitch. He’d known, deep down, that the old man wouldn’t give him the money.

“That jerk shouldn’t have hit you.” A woman’s soft, sexy voice murmured. She sidled up to him, tall and slim, dressed in a slip of a black dress that barely skimmed her thighs.

He took another long pull from his beer. “A sore jaw’s the least of my damn worries.” His horseshoe ring gleamed, mocking him.

She sat next to him. Didn’t wait for an invitation. Just sat and that skirt hiked up a little more.

No panties.

“I’m a good listener,” she murmured, and her fingers skimmed down his arm. “I bet talking will make you feel better.”

“No, the only thing that would make me feel better is if my tight-ass father gives me my money.” But his father wasn’t going to give him anything. How many times had he asked only to get f*cking shot down?

He’d hoped his father might change his mind, so he’d gone to Max to run interference. One last chance.