as if their friendship hadn’t taken this baffling turn several months ago when, in the middle of a catch-up phone call, Gina had blurted out, “Did you know there is no statute of limitations on murder?”
Wouldn’t the press be interested to find out that a few years back Gina Nelson had seen Lindsay Beckham, the hot new owner of Boston’s hot new bar, Chassy, kill her boyfriend? Forget the press, wouldn’t the police be interested?
And Gina had gone on to point out, wouldn’t potential investors in Chassy’s planned expansion be interested to learn the woman angling for their money had run away from her adoptive family at seventeen and lived a large part of her adult life high on whatever she could find, going from man to man, searching for love and her own identity the least likely way she could find either?
Needless to say, after that the call had hurtled downhill faster than an Olympic skier.
The betrayal had hurt her not just personally but professionally. Gina seemed to know precisely how much Lindsay could part with and stay afloat. Lindsay wanted to do more than stay afloat. She wanted to take Chassy from the quiet neighborhood stop it had been when her wonderful employers and mentors, Laura and Scott Downing, had sold it to her for a song, to the trendy powerhouse she was sure the bar could be as their South Boston neighborhood grew and began to thrive. In the last year she’d made a lot of the right moves, including starting a local chapter of the Martinis and Bikinis women’s social club. That guaranteed her loyal customers for its monthly meetings where lucky members were selected to complete wild and empowering dares.
With Gina back in the picture, clinging to her, her past couldn’t be put to rest no matter how far Lindsay thought she’d moved beyond it. She’d finally wrestled away most of her guilt over causing her ex-boyfriend Ty’s death, but she wasn’t sure the courts would take the same view.
Unfortunately, Gina’s timing was typical of Lindsay’s life. For a precious few weeks in early fall Lindsay had started to feel she was finally digging herself out of the bad times and bad luck that had been her lifelong companions. A new vow of clean living, success in business, then the biggest surprise—information about her birth family—had been dropped into her lap the previous summer in the form of a letter from her deceased birth mother introducing her three half sisters, Brooke, Joey and Katie. Lindsay had invited them to join Martinis and Bikinis and was gradually getting to know the trio.
And then, kaboom, Gina.
There was always something. Granted, she’d made bad choices, but while a lot of people believed in the idea of happily ever after, and some people like her blue blood Winfield half sisters even got a shot at living it, for Lindsay there had only been struggling-ever-after.
“Hey there.”
Her assistant manager’s voice made Lindsay jam on a smile. Another case in point. Born into a wealthy family, Denver Langston had attended an Ivy League college and medical school, and had the luxury of ditching his lucrative career as a plastic surgeon in L.A. because the work hadn’t been what he expected.
Now he had the further luxury of slumming in her bar while he figured out what he wanted to do next and where.
If she didn’t respect him so much, she…well, she might not.
“Hi, Denver.”
He moved toward her, early as always for his shift, slipping off the royal blue jacket that didn’t look thick enough to ward off the dismal damp cold of winter in Massachusetts, but doubtless was several-hundred-dollar state-of-the-art Alpine gear. “How goes it?”
Lindsay shrugged and turned toward her desk, looking for something to straighten. As usual there was nothing. Though she’d always been teased for her compulsive neatness, first by her sloppy adoptive parents and her equally sloppy boyfriends, now by her staff, order kept her from feeling panicked and overwhelmed. And something about Denver made her feel both.
“The usual.” And how screwed up was her life that being blackmailed counted as the usual?
He watched her with that dark gaze that lately was making her want things she couldn’t have with him. Sex, intimacy, sex, fun times, sex…did she mention sex? Too risky. She was his boss for one, and not anxious for a sexual harassment lawsuit on top of blackmail, thanks very much. Second, she liked him, and whatever they started would sputter all too soon and ruin their working relationship. One thing she’d learned the hard way, men didn’t stick around after the initial orgasmic thrill wore off.
“Everything okay?”
She nodded, sure she wasn’t fooling him. Denver wasn’t much of a talker, but he had this unsettling way of tuning into her moods that made her…
Well, she wasn’t quite sure what it made her, but she knew it wasn’t any healthier for her peace of mind than the calls from Gina.
“You’re sure?”
“Sure.” She nodded, aware her tone was too bright and he’d notice. “Fine.”
“Uh-huh.” Sarcasm became him. Everything became him. “And I’m Paris Hilton.”
“Post-op?” If she looked at him any longer, her insides would twist up and she’d start with the blush-and-stutter crap.
Tall and imposing, handsome to a point, nose too proud to be perfect, Denver wasn’t the kind of guy that turned female heads the first time he walked into a room, but probably the second or third, and definitely once he’d smiled and shown his easy charm. He was also the kind of guy that could intimidate most people simply by setting his jaw a certain way and scowling. She’d seen him in action when the occasional patron got rowdy.
Luckily it took more than hard jaws and scowls to get her to crack.
“So you’re not going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Do I ever?” She glanced over to see him shake his head, amusement turning up the corners of his mouth.
“Nah. But I keep trying.”
“Yeah, you do.” She opened a cabinet drawer to look busy, wondering why he bothered, and riffled through the hanging folders searching for the file on the next evening’s Martinis and Bikinis Love or Lust? pre-Valentine’s Day party, probably passing it three times.
“This what you want?” He found the file and handed it to her.
“How did you know?”
“Same file you always pull when I come in here to talk to you.”
Busted. She turned her head to hide the blush that was her fair skin’s nemesis, which she could control around ninety-nine percent of the population. Guess who belonged to the one percent? “Thank you.”
“Lindsay.” His voice was too intimate; he moved closer and she tensed, ready to tell him to back off. “Would you—”
“Hey, guys, what’s up?”
Saved by the bell. Justin Bell, their hot young bartender, hired at the end of the summer and raking in devoted female customers. He swaggered into her office, dressed in butt-hugging black pants and a black T-shirt, dirty blond hair mussed in a look that probably took him hours.
“Hi, Justin.” Lindsay moved past Denver. “Remember, we’re running a special on mango mojitos and passion fruit martinis for our Tropics in Winter night tonight, so be ready.”
“Sweetheart, for you, I am always ready.” Justin gyrated his pelvis and Lindsay laughed in spite of her crappy mood.
“Just keep the customers happy, Justin. I’ll worry about keeping me happy.”
He shook his head. “Lindsay, babe, you have got to get yourself somewhere warm. Miami or the Sahara…or even better into some hot guy’s arms.”
Lindsay raised her brows. “And why is that?”
“To melt that layer of ice you’re stuck in.”
Behind her Denver snorted.