Blue-Eyed Devil (Travis Family #2)(35)

"When I was little, I could never get enough of these," I said. "I stole jars of maraschinos from the fridge. I ate the fruit like candy and poured the juice into my Coke."

"I bet you were a cute little girl. A tomboy."

"Absolutely a tomboy," I said. "I wanted to be like my brothers. Every Christmas I asked Santa for a tool set."

"Did he ever bring you one?"

I shook my head with a rueful smile. "Lots of dolls. Ballet outfits. An Easy-Bake Oven." I washed down another cherry with a swallow of Dr Pepper. "My aunt finally gave me a junior tool kit, but I had to give it back. My mother said it wasn't appropriate for little girls."

The corner of his mouth quirked. "I never got what I wanted either."

I wondered what that was, but getting into personal subjects with him was out of the question. I tried to think of something mundane. Something about work. "How's your EOR business going?" I asked.

From what I knew, Hardy and a couple of other guys had started a small enhanced oil recovery company that went into mature or spent fields after the big companies were through with them. Using specialized recovery techniques, they could locate leftover reserves, called "bypassed pay." A man could make a lot of money that way.

"We're doing okay," Hardy said easily. "We've bought up leases for some mature fields, and got some good results with CO, flooding. And we bought an interest in a nonoperated property in the Gulf — we're getting some good play out of it." He watched as I drank my Dr Pepper. "You cut your hair," he said softly.

I lifted a hand and scrubbed my fingers through the short layers. "It was in the way."

"It's beautiful."

It had been so long since I'd gotten a compliment of any kind that I was desperately tongue-tied.

Hardy was watching me with an intent stare. "I never thought I'd have a chance to say this to you. But that night — "

"I'd rather not talk about that," I said hastily. "Please."

Hardy fell obligingly silent.

My gaze focused on the hand resting on the countertop. It was long-fingered and capable, a workman's hand. His nails were clipped nearly to the quick. I was struck by the scattering of tiny star-shaped scars across some of his fingers. "What . . . what are those marks from?" I asked.

His hand flexed a little. "I did fencing work after school and during summers while I was growing up. Put up barbed wire for the local ranchers."

I winced at the thought of the wicked barbs digging into his fingers. "You did it with your bare hands?"

"Until I could afford gloves."

His tone was matter-of-fact, but I felt a twinge of shame, aware of how different my privileged upbringing had been. And I wondered about the drive and ambition it must have taken for him to climb from a trailer-park life, the aluminum ghetto, to where he'd gotten in the oil business. Not many men could do that. You had to work hard. And you had to be ruthless. I could believe that about him.

Our gazes caught, held, the shared voltage nearly causing me to fall off the barstool. I flushed all over, heat gathering beneath my clothes, inside my shoes, and at the same time I was overtaken by a nervous chill. I had never wanted to get away from anyone so fast.

"Thanks for the drink." My teeth were chattering. "I have to go, I'm . . . It was nice to see you. Good luck with everything." I got off the chair and saw with relief that the crowd had thinned out, and there was a negotiable path to the door.

"I'll walk you to your car," Hardy said, tossing a bill on the counter. He picked up the jacket of his business suit.

"No, thanks, I'll get a taxi."

But he walked with me anyway.

"You'll lose your place at the bar," I muttered.

"There's always another place at the bar." I felt the casual pressure of his hand at the small of my back, and I recoiled instinctively. The light touch was instantly withdrawn. "Looks like it's still raining," he said. "Do you have a coat?"

"No," I said abruptly. "It's fine. I don't mind getting wet."

"Can I drive you somewhere?" His tone had gentled, as if he recognized my increasing distress even if he didn't understand the reason for it.

I shook my head violently. "A taxi's fine."

Hardy said a few words to one of the doormen, who went out to the curb. "We can wait inside," he said, "until a car pulls up."

But I couldn't wait. I had to escape him. I was so full of anxiety standing beside him, that I was afraid I was going to have a panic attack. The side of my jaw was throbbing for no reason at all, and my ribs ached where Nick had kicked me, oven though I was all healed now. The resonance of old wounds. I'm going to fire my therapist, I thought. I shouldn't be nearly this screwed up after all the time I've spent with her.

"Bad divorce?" Hardy asked, his gaze falling to my hands. I realized I was clutching my purse in a death grip.

"No, the divorce was great," I said. "It was the marriage that sucked." I forced a smile. "Gotta go. Take care."

Unable to stay inside the bar any longer, I dashed outside even though the taxi wasn't there yet. And I stood there in the drizzle like an idiot, breathing too hard, wrapping my arms around myself. My skin felt too tight for my body, like I'd been shrink-wrapped. Someone came up behind me, and from the way the hairs on the back of my neck lifted, I knew Hardy had followed me.