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Daddy Devastating
Delores Fossen
Table of Contents
San Saba, Texas
Russ Gentry cursed under his breath when the brunette stepped through the doors of the Silver Dollar bar.
Hell.
She’d followed him.
He had spotted her about fifteen minutes earlier on the walk from his hotel to the bar. She had trailed along behind him in her car, inching up the street, as if he were too stupid or blind to notice her or her sleek silver Jaguar. He had decided to ignore her for the time being anyway, because he’d hoped she was lost.
Obviously not.
Now, he had two questions—who was she? And was this about to turn even more dangerous than it already was?
He watched her from over the top of the bottle of Lone Star beer that the bartender had just served him. She was tall—five-nine, or better—and she was clutching a key ring that had a small can of pepper spray hooked onto it. There was a thin, gold-colored purse tucked beneath her arm, but it didn’t have any telltale bulges of a weapon, and her snug blue dress skimmed over her curvy body, so that carrying concealed would have been next to impossible.
Heck, in that dress concealing a paper-thin nicotine patch would have been a challenge. It was a garment obviously meant to keep her cool on a scalding-hot Texas day.
It did the opposite of making him cool.
Under different circumstances, Russ might have taken the time to savor the view, and he might have even made an attempt to hit on her.
But this wasn’t different circumstances.
He’d learned the hard way that even a momentary lapse of concentration could have deadly results. As a reminder of that, he rubbed his fingers over the scar just to the left of his heart. The reminder, however, didn’t help when the woman made eye contact.
With Willie Nelson blaring from the jukebox, she wended her way through the customers seated at the mismatched tables scattered around the room. The neon sign on the wall that advertised tequila flashed an assortment of tawdry colors over her.
Without taking her gaze from him, she stopped only a few inches away. Close enough for Russ to catch her scent. She smelled high priced and looked high maintenance.
“We need to talk,” she said, and slid onto the barstool next to him, her silky dress whispering against the leather seat.
Oh, man. Keeping her here would hardly encourage his informant to make contact. Hell, the only thing her presence would do was create problems for him.
“I’m not interested, darlin’,” Russ grumbled, hoping that his surly attitude would cause her to leave.
It didn’t.
“Well, I’m interested in you,” she said, her voice much louder than Willie’s.
In fact, she was loud enough to attract the few customers who hadn’t already noticed her when she walked in. Of course, with her sex-against-the-bathroom-wall body, Russ figured she’d likely caught the attention of every one of the male patrons.
He eased his beer down onto the bar and turned slightly, so he could look her in the eyes. “Back off,” he warned, under his breath.
“I can’t.”
Okay. He hadn’t expected her to say that or ignore his warning.
Her clothes, the sleek sable-colored hair that tumbled onto her shoulders and even her tone might have screamed that she was confident about what she was doing, or about to do, but just beneath those ice-blue eyes was deeply rooted concern. And fear.
That put Russ on full alert.
“Look,” he whispered. “This is no place for you. Leave.”
She huffed and took the purse from beneath her arm. When she reached inside, Russ caught onto her hand. And got an uneasy thought.
“You can’t be Milo,” he mumbled. Because from what he’d been told about the would-be contact, Milo was a forty-something-year-old male. Of course, his source could have been wrong.
She stiffened slightly, looked more than a little confused, but it lasted just seconds, before she pushed off his grip. “I’m Julia Howell.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t press her for more information. If she was Milo, or Milo’s replacement, Russ would find out soon enough. And then he could get this show started. But he didn’t like the bad feeling that was settling in his gut.
She placed her purse next to his beer, but held on to the pepper-spray keychain. “You didn’t introduce yourself, but I know you’re Russell James Gentry.”
Hell.
Russ