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Forbidden Temptation
Harlequin Intrigue - June
2007
Text Copyright © 2007 by
Paula Graves. Cover Art Copyright © 2007 by Harlequin Enterprises
Limited. Permission to reproduce text granted by Harlequin Books S.A.
Cover art used by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises Limited. All
rights reserved. © and ™ are trademarks of Harlequin Enterprises
Limited or its affiliated companies, used under license.
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The
woman sat alone at a table near the narrow stage at the front of the
bar, nursing a strawberry daiquiri and feigning interest in the
alt-rock cover band currently grinding its way through an old Pearl
Jam classic. Now and then she took a sip of her drink but mainly
watched the crowd, her eyes alert.
Daniel studied her from his seat at the bar, curiosity distracting
him from his own agenda. There was an odd stillness about her, a
composure that set her apart from the rest of the restless,
liquor-soaked crowd in the small club in the heart of Birmingham's
Five Points South.
Who was she? What was she looking for?
The door opened and a man in a striped shirt and leather jacket
entered, pausing in the doorway. Daniel dragged his attention away
from the woman to give the newcomer a quick once-over. He was
pushing forty, a little paunchy though his clothes hid it well. The
wedding ring on his left hand quickly went into his pocket.
Classy.
Daniel looked away, losing interest. This place was turning out to
be a bust. He took another sip of Coke and considered moving on to
another club a few doors down. But his gaze drifted back to the
woman with the daiquiri, and he stayed put, watching her through
narrowed eyes as she took another dainty sip of the drink and
clapped politely as the cover band crashed their way to the end of
the song.
The paunchy man in the leather jacket approached her table, on the
prowl. Of course he'd choose her--a pretty woman all alone in the
middle of a bar was too much temptation to resist. Daniel sat
forward, curious to see how she'd handle being hit on. Would she
notice the imprint on his left ring finger where the wedding band
had been? Would it matter?
She looked up at the man, her brow furrowing as he spoke to her. Her
gaze drifted to the hand resting on the back of her chair, and the
furrowed brow smoothed out, replaced by a cool, neutral mask. She
murmured back to the man, who stepped away with a frown. Muttering
something that made the woman's lips tighten, he moved on to the bar
and ordered a Bourbon neat.
Daniel looked back at the woman and found her watching him. When she
didn't immediately look away, he lifted his glass of Coke and
nodded.
Her frown returning, she looked down at her glass, stirring the red
slush with slow, deliberate strokes. Her chin lifted, followed by
her eyes. She locked gazes with him, her expression impossible to
read. An electric shock zigzagged through him as he took the full
brunt of her attention.
Was it an invitation? A rebuff? He didn't know, and he'd always
prided himself on being an accomplished reader of women. Of people
in general, given his chosen profession.
He could look around this bar and guess, with accuracy, the stories
behind the faces surrounding him--the balding salesman with the
desperate come-on sitting with the aging beauty queen who'd accepted
his offer of a drink because she was desperate for the attention she
used to command without effort. The raw-nerved co-ed drinking to
forget her cheating boyfriend and her unfinished term paper. The tax
accountant sipping a trendy dark ale and trying to look like he was
just one of the guys. Daniel could read them all.
But not her.
She looked across the room and caught the eye of a waitress, who
came at once. They murmured an exchange and the waitress went toward
the back, soon returning with the check.
She paid her bill and rose from the table, darting a glance in his
direction. He followed her with his gaze, memorizing the curve of
her hips and the dip of her narrow waist, the way her calf-muscles
flexed as she navigated the crowded club and pushed her way through
the exit door into the cool October night. His skin felt hot and
tight.
Part of him wanted desperately to follow her, to see where she went
next. What was she looking for? Would she find it?
But he had a job to do here, a job that didn't include tailing
pretty brunettes with great legs. He stayed where he was, waving at
the bartender to pour him another Coke. The bartender complied,
giving him a black look because he wasn't buying pricey liquor to go
with the soda. Daniel couldn't blame him--the bar didn't make money
off designated drivers.
But he needed his wits about him tonight.
Rose
locked the car door behind her and closed her eyes, giving in
to the tremor in her legs.
Was he the one?
She thought she'd know it immediately, that the rage and violence
roiling inside him would surely show on his face, but the man at the
bar had looked so normal. Attractive, even, with masculine features,
eyes the gray of a winter sky and a lean swimmer's build. The kind
of man she might have smiled at a year ago, encouraged to join her
in a drink and some friendly conversation.
But she wasn't that woman any more.
She put the key in the ignition and turned. The engine purred to
life, the heater vents blowing cool air in a blast that amplified
her shivers.
She tightened her sweater around her and turned on the CD player.
Allison Krauss's clarion voice flowed from the speakers, a plaintive
plea to a potential lover to let her touch him for a while. She
punched the power button off with a growl, glancing at her rearview
mirror, where the front entrance of the Southside Pub reflected back
at her in garish neon. Part of her expected the door to open and the
man from the bar to emerge, seeking her out.
Stalking her.
Another part of her was disappointed when he didn't.
She glanced at the dashboard clock. Only nine-fifteen on a Friday.
The night was young. There were at least a half-dozen more bars just
in the Five Points South area she could visit before closing time.
Her chest tightened at the thought, but she tamped down her
reluctance and pulled her Chevy into the moderate traffic on
Twentieth Street, heading for the next bar on her list.
She found one of the last parking places on a side street where two
bars sat side by side, as different from each other as day and
night. Hannity's, an old fashioned Irish pub complete with green
neon shamrocks in the window, occupied the corner. Next door was
Sizzle, unmistakably a dance bar with flashing lights and a driving
bass beat she could hear from her car.
She headed for the dance bar, steeling herself for the noise and
light. Southside Pub had been sedate in comparison.
Sizzle's clientele was a good decade younger and twice as loud. At
twenty-seven, she was one of the oldest women in the place. Her
skirt was at least five inches too long, her silk blouse not nearly
tight enough, and her upswept hair prim compared to the flying
tresses of the women gyrating on the dance floor.
She quelled the urge to head right back out the door, reminding
herself that Elisa Biondi had last been seen at this very bar the
night she died.
He came to places like this. He looked for women on their own. Easy
targets.
She felt an invisible bull's-eye sitting between her shoulder blades
as she weaved through the restless crowd and found a seat at the
bar.
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