Kiss the Bride (50 page)

The past was a tombstone weighing on her chest, to the point where she could scarcely breathe. She had to find some release. Picking up her purse, she hurried out to the car Delaney had loaned her. Not even knowing where she was going or why, Tish began to drive.

Meanwhile, on the President’s ranch in Katy, Texas, Shane couldn’t sleep either. Dinner had been as surreal as a Fellini film. He’d sat sandwiched between his bride-to-be and his ex-wife, saying as little as possible while they made small talk about the wedding.

Tish looked so damned good. Every time his gaze landed on her, he felt a familiar tightness in his chest. It had taken everything he had in him not to ask Tish to leave. If she was courageous enough to stick it out, then he had to be courageous enough to let her stay. She needed this assignment.

As painful as it was going to be to have her around, he owed her this much. He also owed it to Elysee to uphold the promise he’d made to her. They were engaged. He had no business having feelings for his ex.

Not long after midnight, edgy, restless, and conflicted, he left his bed, got dressed and drove into Houston. He cruised past the house he and Tish used to own. A family lived there now. He hoped they were as happy in the place as he and Tish had been before the worst had happened.

A trip down memory lane; this was what he needed. A good review of what had gone right and what had gone wrong with his first marriage before he embarked upon the second. He didn’t know where Tish lived now. That was good. The last thing he needed was to end up on her doorstep.

Instead, he found himself at Louie’s Blues Bar on
Second Street near the edge of downtown Houston, just before the neighborhood turned seedy. Yuppies loved this place, with its mysterious atmosphere and top-notch musical fare. A flight of gray stone stairs descended into the belly of the club. Wailing notes from a woeful saxophone lured him down.

He’d been here before with Cal, when they were on assignment. With one long deep breath, Shane stepped over the threshold and was transported back three years.

He and Cal had been undercover in polo shirts and jeans, but Shane had felt strangely naked without his black suit and tie. At the time, they had been junior field agents bucking for the same promotion.

They’d had a serious competition going and Shane was determined to win. More than anything in the world, he wanted in on protective detail at the White House and the new promotion was another step toward that goal. He’d dreamed of it since he’d been an Eagle Scout.

To avoid getting clipped by a low-hanging entryway, they were forced to duck their heads as they entered a room lit only by blue neon lights. Both of them were big men, Cal just a shade taller at six-three to Shane’s six-two. Although, at two hundred and three pounds, they weighed the same. Shane was twenty-six, Cal twenty-seven.

They’d traced a credit card identity theft ring to Louie’s weekend bartender, a slender, rat-faced man known as Cool Chill. Cool Chill liked to pretend he was a young, urban gangsta. In reality he was thirty-three-year-old Euell Hotchkiss, who perpetually smelled of high-grade marijuana and still lived in his parents’ converted garage.

But they didn’t find Cool Chill behind the bar. Cool Chill, one of the waitresses had told them, was on supper
break. They took a corner table and sat with their backs against the wall, assessing the situation and waiting it out until Cool Chill returned.

Cal ordered gin and tonic. Shane got a seltzer. He didn’t drink on the job, didn’t drink alcohol much at all. He leaned back in his chair, getting the lay of the land.

Shane knew the curvy redhead was trouble the second he spotted her.

She was everything he shouldn’t want. But as he watched her undulate alone on the dance floor, swaying to a sultry rendition of an old Muddy Waters tune, his body ached for her.

This was bad.

“Check out the redhead,” Cal said.

“Where?” Shane said, pretending he hadn’t noticed.

“On the dance floor. By herself. God, she’s a stunner.”

He was obligated to take another look. After all, Cal had pointed her out.

What was her story? Who was she? Where was she from? Why was a gorgeous chick like her alone in a blues club on a Saturday night?

Shane was intrigued. Here was a woman who packed a sexual punch and every man in the vicinity knew it.

Cal nudged him in the ribs. “Is she a hottie or what?”

Or what. Hottie didn’t begin to cover it.

“She’s attractive,” he said and took a sip of his seltzer.

Cal snorted. “You dead from the neck down, Tremont?”

Not hardly.

The guys in the band were watching her with the same horny expression in their eyes, particularly the longhaired trumpet player striving for the Chuck Mangione look with his cool cat hat and hip daddy beard. The
musicians’ lust for the redhead reflected exactly what Shane was experiencing. But then he felt a new emotion.

Jealousy.

It fisted inside him, hard and petulant.

How the hell could he be jealous over a woman he didn’t even know? This wasn’t like him. He wasn’t usually easily distracted from his goal. In fact, he had received commendations for his ability to focus and get the job done under pressure.

Purposefully, he forced his eyes off the dance floor and scanned the rest of the smoky bar. It was still early in the evening and the place was fairly empty. He speculated that most of Louie’s regular patrons were still out to dinner, and they wouldn’t be wandering over to the nightclub for another hour or two.

That suited Shane just fine. The smaller the crowd, the easier they would be to handle if something went wonky. And with Cal for backup there shouldn’t be any problems. The only fly in the ointment was Cool Chill’s MIA status.

The band left Muddy Waters behind and slid into Beyoncé’s “Crazy in Love.” The tune drew a few more couples onto the dance floor. The redhead never stopped dancing, just changed tempo in time to the rhythm.

Shane’s peripheral gaze locked on Red, even though he was fighting not to notice. Something about her ease with her own body, the way she danced all alone and didn’t care that everyone was watching, stirred his admiration along with his spirit. He would never have been able to let go like that, shed his inhibitions. He was envious and lustful and jealous and deferential. He didn’t like this mix of feelings one damned bit.

Head in the job, man, head in the job.

Great advice, but then he spied a thick-shouldered,
shaved-bald man treading across the dance floor toward Red. He was bigger than the bouncer lounging against the wall by the front door. Bigger even than he and Cal.

Shane forgot why he was in the bar. He rotated in his seat, eyes narrowing, alert for trouble.

Baldo said something to Red.

Asking her to dance?

She shook her head, stepped away from the bald man and kept boogying all by herself.

It’s her prerogative to reject you, Baldo. Take the hint and keep moving.

But apparently Baldo wasn’t going to take no for an answer. The massive man grabbed hold of Red’s arm and spun her around.

There was no fear on Red’s face, only spitfire anger. She snapped at Baldo, warning him off.

He didn’t budge. Instead, he started arguing with her. She tried to jerk her arm away from him, but he held on tight. She was not a small woman, but next to Baldo she looked delicate as a porcelain doll.

That was all the provocation Shane needed to get involved, which wasn’t like him. Not at all. He was the rational partner, the one slow to anger. The good cop to Cal’s bad cop. He jumped up from his chair, pushing aside tables, knocking over beer bottles in his rush to the dance floor.

“Tremont,” Cal called out sharply, but he didn’t listen.

Shane knew better. He shouldn’t be getting into a bar fight. Cool Chill could walk in any minute. He could blow his cover. And for all he knew Baldo could be Red’s old man come to drag her home.

But he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He slapped a hand on Baldo’s shoulder. Up close the guy was the size of a tugboat. “Let go of the lady.”

Baldo pivoted, snarling, “Fuck off.”

Big the guy might be, but he was slow. Shane saw the punch coming long before the larger man finished making a fist.

Baldo took a swing.

Shane ducked just in time to hear air whoosh above his head. The swing would have knocked him out cold if it had made contact.

“Fight!” someone yelled.

Couples scattered from the dance floor like chickens fleeing a coyote. The trumpet player blew a sour note. A woman screamed, but he didn’t think it was Red. She didn’t seem like a screamer. At least not in a bar fight.

Fist cocked, Shane popped up and smacked Baldo dead on his jaw.

Turned out the dude had a glass chin.

Baldo’s eyes glazed. His knees wobbled. He made a noise like a strangled bull and toppled face-first onto the concrete floor.

Shane figured he just might get away scot-free.

But he didn’t count on Baldo being a pal of the band. Next thing he knew horns were flying and the microphone was screeching tortured feedback as it got knocked off the stage onto an amp. The lead singer came out of nowhere and punched Shane squarely in the eye.

He wasn’t thinking of himself. He’d been in worse fights than this. Red was on his mind.

Where was she? He had to make sure she was safe.

He swiveled his head, but didn’t see her. Good, maybe she got out of the building unscathed.

Someone grabbed him around the neck, locked him in a choke hold. Someone with deeply muscled arms. Someone very strong.

The bouncer?

The grip around his neck tightened. Where the hell was Cal? Some partner he’d turned out to be.

Shane couldn’t catch his breath and his head throbbed. In his worry over the redhead he’d made a classic mistake. He’d forgotten to protect his flank.

“Let him go, you jackass!” Shane heard a woman holler.

Was it her? Was it Red?

He tried to turn his head to look for her, but between the pressure on his carotid and the smoke in the air, it was pretty nigh impossible to see anything more than the guy in the Chuck Mangione hat coming at him.

The trumpet player punched him in the breadbasket while the bouncer squeezed his neck so hard Shane feared his head was coming off. He gasped. Soon he was going to pass out.

Shit, where was Red?

That was the last thing he remembered until he came to a few minutes later. He was propped up beside the Dumpster in the back alley behind the nightclub. His lungs burned and his brain felt as if he’d had nails hammered through it.

Way to go, Tremont. No more undercover at Louie’s for you.

His boss was going to be steamed and Cal was going to get his promotion. All over a woman he’d never even met. He drew in an aching breath trying to rouse the energy to get to his feet. Then he heard the crisp
snap-snap
of stiletto heels clicking on asphalt. Gingerly, he raised his head and looked around.

There was Red.

Standing in front of him, her gorgeous legs positioned
shoulder-width apart. The skirt she wore was extremely short, revealing a mile of coltish legs and creamy thighs. The stretchy material molded tight against her generous hips.

He was overwhelmed by the sight.

She met his stare openly, took his measure even as he took hers. No shrinking violet, this one.

Looking at her, he felt a sappy sloppy feeling light up his heart for no fathomable reason at all.

“Hey, there,” she said and squatted beside him in the alley. She smelled like a spice shop, hot and zesty. She made him think of a brownie he’d once had that was made with smoked jalapeño peppers. Tasty, but fiery.

“Hey there yourself,” he surprised himself by answering. By nature, he was not a flirtatious man, but something about her spurred changes in him. He was getting his first real eyeful of her up close and personal and definitely enjoying the experience.

“You make a habit out of this Sir Galahad thing?” That voice, vivacious and sultry as a tropical night, was as flat-out erotic as the rest of her.

Shane tried to shrug and ended up just wincing. So much for macho cool. “I hate to see women get pushed around by drunken jerk offs.”

“I could have handled the situation, but thank you anyway. It was sweet.”

Sweet. Hmph. He didn’t want her to think of him as sweet. He wanted her to see him as her own personal Hercules.