The Trouble With Temptation (Second Service Book 3)(7)

It was a damned good thing he wasn’t lying about his experience. He’d spent more time than he wanted to remember behind a bar years ago. Before the Navy. Before his life had turned around. Back then he’d done anything he could to pull in money. Tending bar when he was only seventeen was the least of his sins.

That was a lifetime ago, but mixing drinks was a skill that he’d never forgotten. And it was paying off now.

After three hours, his pockets were stuffed with tips—not to mention half a dozen unsolicited phone numbers—but, more importantly, he had one hell of a view of the back booth.

Johnny hadn’t lied. The place was a veritable line up of San Francisco’s Bratva elite with Evgeni Barinov seated squarely in the middle.

And Ty had a front row seat.

He’d been back there for hours, holding court as everyone around him drank and talked. Occasionally, one of his men would disappear into the crowded dance floor only to reappear minutes later with a beautiful woman on his arm.

So far, the table had only one visitor who came and went—Gregg Kincaid.

Ty glanced at his watch. The guy had been sitting directly across from Barinov for the last half hour, talking about something. Whatever it was, it looked intense.

Eventually, he was going to have to find a way to bug that table. At least, now he had the access.

Thanks to Morgan Kincaid.

Ty took a second from the gin and tonic he was pouring and looked around for her.

He hadn’t seen her since the doors had opened. It shouldn’t have surprised him. Johnny had said that Gregg took care of the front of the house and Morgan ran the back. It appeared that division of labor was set in stone.

The waitress that had been working the back of the club put her tray down on the bar. “I need another Stoli on the rocks,” she shouted over the booming music.

You got it…Lecia, right?” Ty asked.

The pretty blonde smiled and batted her eyes. “You’ve got a good memory.”

“I should just give you the bottle for how often you’ve been up here,” Ty said, scooping ice into the glass.

“Oh, no,” the waitress said with a shake of her head. “Those guys would never lower themselves to pouring their own drinks.”

“Who the hell do you have back there?”

Lecia rolled her eyes. “You don’t want to know. Trust me.”

“Are they giving you trouble?” Ty asked, pouring the vodka.

“Aren’t you sweet,” she said with a wink. “But thankfully, the Russians haven’t gotten out of line tonight.”

“Are they here a lot?”

She nodded. “Just about every weekend these days. It wouldn’t be so bad, but they’re lousy tippers, and Mr. Kincaid doesn’t let me pick up any other tables when they’re here.”

“Too bad,” Ty said, putting the glasses down on the tray. “But let me know if they give you any trouble, okay?”

“You are sweet. My very own white knight,” she said before turning away.

Ty watched as Lecia delivered the drinks to the back table. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that he wasn’t the only one.

The swinging door that separated the bar from the back of the house was cracked open. Ty could just make out Morgan’s face through the small rectangular window cut into the top. Her eyes were fixed on her brother.

And she didn’t look very happy.

Ty turned back to the bar and made a few more orders. When he looked again, Morgan was still there, staring daggers across the room. It was a good thing the woman wasn’t a gambler. She had to be the easiest read Ty had ever seen.

Too bad he didn’t like what he saw there. Her mouth was a tight line. Little U-shaped crinkles showed between her eyes. She was a woman building up the courage for a confrontation.

That would be a bad idea.

Ty knew just how ruthless the men sitting at that table could be. At his desk, he had stacks of photos of their handiwork—tongues cut out, necks slashed, heads with the backs blown out. For a moment, the vivid image of Morgan’s pretty face in one of those pictures flashed in his mind.

Ty blinked the horrible image away.

He might not know the extent of Morgan Kincaid’s involvement with the Bratva, but he knew he wouldn’t stand by and let them touch her. He was here to get evidence, sure, but there was no way he could in good conscience let anyone get hurt—or worse—on his watch.

“Hey bartender,” a voice shouted from the end of the bar.

Ty swiveled around toward the guy half draped over the bar, holding up his hand, desperately trying to get a drink. After Ty finished, the door at his side was swinging, and Morgan was already halfway across the dance floor.

***

Morgan walked as fast as her dignity allowed. She needed to outpace her cowardice. She could feel it, right there behind her, telling her to turn the hell around and get back to her office. This was a conversation she could have with her brother later. When the club was closed.

But she’d tried that. And it hadn’t worked. He would just tell her more lies. More assurances that nothing was going on, and everything was fine. That she should mind her own damn business or else.

Well, it was time to find out what exactly or else was.

This was her club too, after all. It might not be the place she’d always dreamed of, but it was still hers…well, half of it at any rate. She deserved answers.