Dangerous Tease (6 page)

Desperate to stay busy, she snagged a stack of napkins along with the bucket of loose silverware and headed toward a table to roll the cheap forks, spoons and knives inside the paper napkins. The mindless work would help bring her heart rate back to normal.

“You better have my money.”

A squeak
escaped and she spun around.

Snips lounged at the table closest to the employee-only door, usually reserved for busboys scarfing down roast beef sandwiches during break. He wore a gray track suit, a black newsboy cap pulled low over his forehead and sunglasses, presumably to hide evidence of what had to be a gnarly bruise. The whole ensemble made him look like a cheap imitation of the type of
people Vegas had in surplus.

Seeing him pissed her off. The little fuck had stirred up all this trouble. It took everything she had not to punch him in the face, but what he lacked in style he made up for with a short-fuse temper and deadly aim.

He smirked at her. “Cy is still avoiding my calls. I can't have that. My rep demands fast action.”

Willing herself not to smack him over the head
again with any of the tools of her trade, she took a deep breath and counted to ten. She couldn't let on that she knew the debt was a ruse. Cy needed time to put some distance between him and this power-hungry little shit.

“Look, Snips —”

“Nobody calls me that anymore. It's Jimmy now.” His cheeks flushed.

People had called him Snips since freshman year when he showed up for yearbook picture
day with a completely jacked-up home haircut. Even back then he'd been a shithead, but he hadn’t had the paid muscle to back up his flapping gums.

Not so today. Linc, the giant sitting across from him, cracked his scraped knuckles.

Josie had to play it just right. Until she skipped town, he had to believe she was getting him the money.

“Fine. Jimmy, let's do this logically. Cy owes you forty
grand. I have ten I can have to you as soon as the bank opens tomorrow. I'll have the rest for you in a month.”

“Oh yeah, how's that gonna happen?”

“I have a line on something.”

Snips looked at his goon and cocked his head toward Josie. “Sounds just like her no-nuts brother, doesn't she?”

Josie dug her fingernails into her palm to keep from snapping back at him. “If you'll just hear me out—”

“Unless you have the full forty K, the only offer I want to hear from you involves you naked and bent over.”

A shadow fell over the table and a hand landed on her shoulder, yanking her back.

“That's no way to talk to a lady unless you're not too fond of your teeth.” Sam angled his body so he stood between her and Snips.

“Who the fuck are you?” The no-neck monster lumbered up from his seat
to his full height, towering over Sam, who, at six feet, wasn't exactly a shrimp.

“I'm the guy who's about to teach you two some manners.” Sam puffed his chest out and took a step forward. “Who wants the first lesson?”

This would not turn out well. As pissed as she was at Sam, she didn't want him to end up with a permanent limp because of his misplaced sense of propriety. She whipped around
her self-appointed knight and found herself nose-to-sternum with Snips' goon.

“Everybody calm down.” She jutted her butt out, pushing Sam back a few paces. “This is not the time or the place for a testosterone smack down. The last thing I need is to lose this job too.”

“Josie—”

“Can it, Sam.” She leveled at glare at Snips and his smarmy grin. “And you aren't going to get
any
money if I don't
have a job. So everybody chill out.”

Frustration vibrated off of Sam, pummeling her with its intensity. Without thinking about the reason why, she twisted her fingers between his and held tight. He returned her squeeze and together they stared down Snips and his enforcer until the loan shark shrugged as if their wall of defiance wasn't worth getting upset over.

“Whatever.” Snips stood up and
adjusted the collar of his track suit, sticking out his pinky finger so the gold ring on it glinted. “I'll be in touch, Josie. You better come up with some cash fast.”

“I'll get it.”

“Good, I'd hate to have to go convince your mom to hock her wheelchair, because that's the only thing of value your parents have.”

“Leave them out of this.”

“Get my money or they'll be my next stop.” He pushed
past her, knocking his shoulder against Sam as he went by. “And if I ever see you again, the scar I'll give you will look like King Kong next to that little scratch on your ugly mug.”

“You're welcome to try.” The promise of violence lay thick in Sam's retort.

Heart in her throat, Josie watched Snips and his muscle mosey out of the dinner.

“Nice friends.”

She snorted. “Friend is not the word
for Snips Esposito.” Josie looked up at Sam, his face so close to hers. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Help.”

His gaze dropped to her princess tattoo and he brushed a finger across the bright-red dragon tail, a strange, sad smile curving his lips.

Her entire body went on alert, desperate for another touch even as her mind warned her to run away.

He crushed his lips to hers, coaxing
them open with his tongue and claiming her mouth like a conquering hero.

Josie curled her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, as soft and pliant as the rest of him was hard and demanding, and kissed him back. The air crackled around them as fire spread through her body, burning hottest at her core.

Sam broke the kiss. “The better question is why I did
that
.”

Chest heaving, he slid
his thumb across her kiss-swollen bottom lip then turned and strode out of the restaurant.

H
owling gusts molded last night's six-inch snowfall into mini-mountains outside Josie's studio window. She exhaled a deep breath onto the cold glass and drew a quick profile into the resulting fog. A proud, straight nose. A square jar set in a stubborn line. A scar slashed across a high cheekbone. Her subconscious had pushed the same face onto every canvas since she'd arrived in
Dry Creek.

Forty-two days of nothing but painting with minimal stops for sleeping or eating should have been heaven. Instead, the forced solitude felt more like hell. She'd alternated between fits of frantic creativity, attacking the canvas with bright hues of yellow and orange, to days of boiling frustration as the blank square taunted her.

In normal circumstances she would have gone for a
run or escaped into a dark movie theater. Great ideas always seemed to come during such downtime. But her days hadn't been normal since Snips lied about her brother's debt and she had to go into pseudo-seclusion. So she prowled her isolated cabin like a chained dog, discontent choking off her inspiration.

Cy called to check in several times, ending every conversation with a warning to stay to
herself. Like that would be a problem. Winter was the quiet season at the Rose O'Neill Dry Creek Artist Colony. Twenty artists had lived in the individual studio cabins on the south edge of Dry Creek when she'd arrived. Now, only herself and owner Celestine Arthur remained—oh, and her stubborn imagination's version of Sam Layton. His hazel eyes stared at her from the dozens of abandoned canvases
scattered around the room.

“Get out of my head, you bastard.” Josie swiped his profile off the glass with the palm of her hand, the window's cold icing her palm.

“You need to find yourself a boy toy.”

Josie started and spun around.

Celestine slammed the cabin's front door closed behind her. Clumps of snow dropped from her boots as the woman stomped on the rug. “I'd alway meant to tell Bruce
the cabins needed small porches but damn, I'd take one look at him shirtless and sweaty, whacking away with that big ol’ hammer of his, and forget what in the hell I'd meant to tell him. Worst carpenter and best nude model I ever had here.”

The older woman's angular, liver-spotted face softened for a moment. The corners of her chapped lips curled ever so slightly upward. Then she blinked. The
softness melted away into her normal hard look that made you wonder if she ate nails or prunes for breakfast. In a movie, her crusty exterior would have hidden a heart of gold. But after a month and a half of chipping away at Celestine's hard exterior, Josie had only revealed more crust.

“Sure, come on in.” Josie softened the words with a smile, glad for the company. It wasn't as if she'd been
all soft and gushy herself lately. Maybe that's why they got along so well.

“Oh, we've gotten past the knocking stage, didn't you know?” Celestine picked up a half-finished painting from where it leaned against the wall. “I see you've painted Sam Layton again. That mother of his is a real piece of work. I wouldn't go near any of her boys if I was you.”

Mile-deep frown lines creased her forehead
as she gave Josie a long head-to-toe perusal.

“There are plenty of strapping men in Dry Creek. You swing that high butt of yours at them at Robidoux's Roadhouse, they'll come swarming and you'll have your pick of any non-Layton in the county.”

Josie kept her mouth shut. It wasn't the first time they'd had this particular conversation. Odds were it wouldn't be the last because she had no intention
of following the older woman's advice. The last thing in the world she needed was a man between her legs. Just the memory of the disastrous night with Sam in Vegas made her palms clammy and her cheeks flush with embarrassment and regret. The mere idea of repeating the experience held no appeal.

Celestine poked through Josie's work, something she did every day, mumbling under her breath and leaving
small puddles of melted snow on the floor as she walked. She stood silent for several minutes with her head cocked to the left in front of Josie's latest attempt. Vivid reds and yellows swirled together, blending into thick orange flames as a man, who looked suspiciously like the world's hottest history professor, gazed out at the horizon.

“You've got talent,” Celestine grumbled as she turned
to face Josie. “Just need to get that man out of your head. Best way to do that is to get a new one in your bed.”

The woman was like a dog with a pork chop with this particular topic. “I have enough going on in my life without any new complications.”

“It's only complicated if you make it. You need to unscrew the pressure valve if you want to actually finish one of these. I'm old and pissed off
most of the time, but even I like to get out and have some fun once in a while. You should try it.”

Josie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but your version of fun is putting people on edge wondering what's going to come out of your mouth next.”

This time Celestine's smile deepened to show a dimple in her left cheek. “True, but before the arthritis made my knees ache, I loved to dance. You ever two-stepped?”

“I don't even know what that is.”

“Well, then I suggest you get yourself down to Robidoux’s Roadhouse and find out.” Celestine clomped over to the front door, shoved a hand deep inside a pocket and pulled out a set of keys that she deposited on the window ledge. “Take my truck. The tires on your bucket of bolts are for crap and I don't want to have to come tow you out of the ditch at three in
the morning.”

With that, she disappeared out the door.

Josie eyeballed the set of keys and shook her head ruefully. Maybe Celestine had a heart after all.

She stepped toward the window, but her body protested with bone-deep aches and a twitching shoulder muscle. She surrendered to the inevitable, pivoted and made her way down the short hall to her bedroom, fully planning to pass out without
changing. Her eyes were narrow slits when she flopped down on the bed, landing on top of a hard lump. Josie slid her hand beneath her body, grasped the offending object, then yanked out Rebecca's diary.

Rebecca had become her three o'clock in the morning companion, distracting her from thoughts about her one night with Sam. At first she'd cracked open the leather binding expecting to be bored
into slumber. Instead, the diary sucked Josie in. That poor woman. Josie thought
she'd
had it bad, but at least she wasn't stuck crossing the country in a covered wagon.

Rebecca had started her journey full of hope and excitement. She and her twenty-year-old spinster aunt had snuck out of her parents’ home on a moonless night, determined to travel to Oregon where her true love waited for her.
She'd made it as far as Dry Creek when she'd learned her John had died. That had been a three-tissue entry for sure.

Eyeing the leather-bound book through cracked eyelids, Josie rolled onto her back. She'd read most of it during the past week. Only a few pages remained. Curiosity propped her weary eyes open. She'd read the last few passages then go to sleep.

August 30, 1865

I have decided
not to carry on with this journey. There is a town nearby and the land here welcomes me. It is a vast open space, but there is a stark beauty that speaks to my loneliness. Aunt Abigail tells me I am too deep in my own grief for such a decision, but I know it is the correct one. I have more than enough gold pieces to buy a small plot of land, the hired man, Mr. Harrison, has agreed to stay on. I do
believe he did so only to remain near Abigail, but I dare not ask either of them outright. The emerald earbobs and other jewelry I sewed into my clothes have limited value here, as this is not a place where jewels are seen or celebrated. After the decadent displays of my parents' home, that is a relief. In jest, I told Abigail I would bury them. This scandalized her, of course.

September 29,
1865

We have purchased a plot near a tower of rock they call McPherson's Bluff. Our acreage lies in its shadow. The days are filled with far too much work to play, but I find myself sketching the bluff by the light of the evening fire. Abigail and I are determined to make a go of our little farm. My mother would look askance at the blisters on my hands. She had such hopes that I would follow
in her footsteps and marry a man of a certain standing. My dearly departed John did not meet her requirement. Even though all has not happened as I planned when Abigail and I departed from St. Louis, I do not regret my choices. My mother had despaired of ever making a lady of me. I had despaired of what would happen if she succeeded.