Hell on Wheels (Black Knights Inc. #1)(28)
Which was saying something given the clientele inside Red Delilah’s.
And for some reason she absolutely refused to think about, it…well…it rankled. She’d known the man for twelve years, and she’d never seen him laugh like that, which just proved she didn’t really know him at all. Case in point: she’d always considered him to be a little limited in the vocabulary department and then he goes and whips out a word like autoschediastic. What in the h-e-double-hockey-sticks did autoschediastic mean?
It was disconcerting to think she could’ve been so wrong about—
“Got room for one more?” a deep, scratchy voice ripped her attention away from the couple by the jukebox.
Oh, good heavens.
She wasn’t sure if the guy who slid into the booth across from her and Becky was a welcome distraction or not. He had more hair than a mountain man and a belly that looked entirely capable of holding a whole keg of beer.
He winked at her and flashed his gold-toothed smile.
Really, no joke.
Like, all his front teeth were sparkly, solid gold.
Cripes. At least his shirt had no slogan. She supposed that was a saving grace…and would you look at how her standards had dropped since entering Red Delilah’s? The guy had chewing tobacco stains in his beard, and she was ready to give him intelligence points simply because he’d chosen to leave the personal advertisements at home.
Wow, the day had truly reached a new low.
“Buzz off, Buzzard,” Becky made a shooing motion with her hands. “No one’s interested.”
“Now Rebel, darlin’. Let the lady speak for herself.” Again the man…Buzzard? Really? fixed his troublingly licentious gaze on Ali. “Come home with me tonight, darlin’. I’ll give you a ride so good you’ll never hanker for the seat of a Harley again.”
Jesus, Mary, and Jos—
“Whatever!” Becky rolled her eyes. “Shirley told me your thing’s as crooked as those insurance scams you tried to get us all to invest in.”
“But crooked in the right direction.” Buzzard winked again, not in the least bit concerned to discover there were women sharing his bedroom secrets, nor was he denying the fact that he was involved in criminal activity. He leaned forward and his breath smelled like cheep beer and strong cigars. “Gotta a little upward tilt to it that hits just the right spot.”
Oh God.
What was she doing here?
***
Scotch.
That’s what he needed. A nice single-malt. Lagavulin if he had his choice. And while he was taking his little trip through fantasyland, he might as well throw in a quick slap and tickle with that brunette in the corner. The one who’d tossed him a couple of shy smiles. The one whose leather skirt and V-neck Motley Crüe T-shirt were doing a fairly fantastic job of enhancing what were already quite a few blessings from God.
Right. Like either of those were even a slight possibility.
Not that ex-CIA agent Dagan Zoelner didn’t think he had the sexual chops to seduce the brunette. He figured he could have her naked and sweaty in no time at all. A few compliments, some sensual music, a nice glass of wine…
Which just served to remind him of the scotch that was also so not gonna happen. Two things he didn’t mix on a job: booze and women. And wasn’t that just a crying shame?
Damn! The day had gone from bad to worse.
Because he was no longer sure he was working for the “good guys.”
Well…to be completely truthful, he’d been having doubts for weeks, ever since Aldus instructed him to snatch Alisa Morgan and bring her in.
Dagan was confident that there wasn’t cause for such drastic measures.
After following the woman around for nearly three months, after monitoring her every move and all her correspondence, he’d come to the conclusion she was just what she appeared to be—a kindergarten teacher who led a normal, if somewhat dull, life. She was less likely to be involved in a scheme to sell government secrets to the highest bidder than he was likely to be involved in an abstinence lecture.
“Can I getcha something else?” the middle-aged cocktail waitress asked as she sidled up to his table, her stick-thin legs protruding from the top of a pair of loose, calf-high boots until it looked like she was standing in buckets. From the weary lines around her eyes and lips and the way she unconsciously wielded a tray full of drinks, Dagan could tell the woman had been slinging beer for a couple of decades.
He glanced down at his tonic water before smiling up at her. That had its usual effect. The woman’s eyes widened and the wrinkles around her mouth softened as she grinned in response. “Thanks,” he told her, “but I’m fine for now.”
“Okay, sugar,” she purred, laying a thin hand, tipped with long, pink, fiberglass nails, on his shoulder. “But when you change your mind, my name’s Shirley. Just holler.”
“I sure will.” Dagan winked at her, and she giggled like a woman half her age before turning to deliver the contents of her tray to a group of rambunctious college kids at the back of the bar.
Dagan took a sip of tonic and glanced at the booth where Alisa Morgan was sitting.
He’d convinced Aldus to let him handle the situation. As opposed to the senator’s plan to kidnap her, he’d contemplated seducing the woman. He’d figured he could oh-so-innocently inquire about the missing files while she was hot and heavy. In his experience, a little pillow talk went a long way. But she was just so damned…sweet, and in the last three months she hadn’t had any men in her life, which proved she wasn’t the type to casually hop into bed with a handsome stranger. So even if he could somehow seduce her—okay, he knew he could—the question quickly became: did he want to? Did he want that on his conscience?