Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (13 page)

Bren smiled back and concentrated on her words and a Southern, genteel accent. "Honey, my name's Belinda Harrington. From Greensboro, originally. Went to one of those New York fashion schools. Hoping to settle in Clear Spring and open up my very own boutique right on Route 40."

Jo shook her head and answered her back with a drawl of her own. "Belinda, sweetie, you just make sure your pretty little ass doesn't get caught. You hear? 'Cause if you don't call me by one"—she glanced at her watch—"I'm calling the sheriff."

Bear Claw wasn't like the typical bars in Clear Spring. he cars, a mix of Audi, BMW, and Lexus, and, of course, Lyle's black Cadillac Escalade parked in the far corner, spoke of businessmen, not farmers. Wes and Lyle worked hard to create that distinction. They were elitists, and flights, not steps, above those who worked for them.

Bren took one more inventory of cars in the parking lot. Robert's black Mercedes was not among those parked. Running into Robert could throw her off target. Lying to Robert, who'd done his best to protect her from his father, would make her feel guilty. But not seeing Wes with his gleaming new, black four-door pickup with the Sweet Creek Stables decal on the door made her send up a silent prayer it would stay that way.

Bren grabbed hold of the brass bear-claw handle and entered. She checked her phone once more to verify the time—nine fifty-two. It was still early for Saturday night. hat gave her almost three hours before Jo's curfew took effect.

Bren's eyes took a second to adjust. Then her insides rolled. Over at the end of the bar, Lyle Jameson sat conversing with several well-dressed businessmen. She didn't know the others. Jo assured her she was unrecognizable. She swallowed hard. Still, she'd stay clear of Lyle and concentrate on the others she didn't know.

From the lively chatter, it appeared they were well on their way to intoxication. And that was good. he questions she needed to ask could send up a warning if the men she talked to were sober. The questions were the problem; more, how to pose them without igniting suspicion. She cleared her head and began to think like the tall blonde she'd become.

Belinda Harrington, sexy... She winced at that.
Come on, Bren. Focus.
Belinda Harrington, sexy, new in town, looking for prime office space, preferably a vacant shop window on Route 40—Clear Spring's main street.

That would get her started. She stepped farther into the Bear Claw, thankful for the muted lighting and dark-paneled walls. Several booths were occupied with both men and women. It wasn't like this place only catered to men. Of course, none of these women resembled her in the least. That was the point, wasn't it? Her outfit was meant to entice. She had gone to great pains to be alluring without being trashy. Confident shed achieved her goal, she headed toward the bar. No ginger ale for her. She needed whisky straight, but she'd settle for a seven and seven—a lady's drink.

Bren ignored the glances from the booths and made a path to the bar, her focus the mounted black bear head above the kaleidoscope of glass shelves and liquor. If she made it that far, she'd grab hold of the bar stool and sink down, relieved she hadn't stumbled in her ridiculous heels.

Several steps from her intended target, a swoosh of strength and muscle rushed by her, bumping her hard to the right. She stumbled and reached for the oak post support against the last row of booths and missed as the dimly lit floor loomed. But strong arms held her fast.

"Excuse me, miss. I didn't mean to knock you over." His hand rested on her hip, the other on her shoulder. He studied her. "You from around here?" He was average height and brawny under his gray suit. With her heels, her face was dead even with his. His thick blond eyebrows matched his unruly curls, and he smiled at her. "You're a knockout."

And he was blunt.

Bren remembered her accent. "From down South."

"Whereabouts? Georgia? South Carolina?"

"North."

"A real Southern belle." He stood back and cocked his head. "You by yourself?"

"For now."

"Well, then, how about some company? I need to take care of some business with that gentleman at the end of the bar." He pointed at Lyle. "And then I'll buy you a drink." His eyes lowered toward her breasts, and Bren wanted to shrink from view.

Pig.

She ignored the urge to slap him and smiled real nice. He knew Lyle, who knew Wes. She didn't know what business he had, but she'd find out. "Sure, honey. I'll just take a seat down at this end of the bar."

He squeezed her arm, his large hand encircling her bicep, and she didn't miss the strength behind it. "Order me Belvedere neat and whatever you're having." He winked at her. "Better yet, start a tab. My treat."

He retreated to the end of the bar, and this time Bren grabbed for the post.
Oh God. Shit. Shit. This is too real.
She willed her frayed nerves to recede.
I can do this.

She sat down and laid her purse on the slick bar top. She placed her hand inside and grabbed for the mini-recorder. It was too soon to activate it. Her fingers trembled, and she pulled her hands down into her lap.

"What will the lady have?"

Bren smiled up at the bartender. His long brown hair, pulled back neatly in a leather cord, shimmered under the recessed lights. "Seven and Seven and a Belvedere neat for the gentleman at the end of the bar."

Placing a clean glass on the bar, the bartender glanced down, his grip tightened. "Miss, do yourself a favor. Finish your drink, and tell him to go to hell."

Bren's eyes widened. "Is there a problem—"

The bartender stiffened and forced a smile "Hey, Donovan. How's it going?" he said to the creep wanting the Belvedere, who slid onto the stool beside Bren.

"Blake," he said to the bartender. "You meet this beauty... ?" He slapped his knee. "Hell, beautiful, we never did get properly introduced." He stuck out his hand. "Donovan Skidmore."

Bren shook his moist hand and gritted her teeth. "Belinda Harrington. Nice to make your acquaintance."

Blake stirred her drink and set it down. He raised a questioning brow toward Donovan. "Your usual?"

He nodded. "Better yet, make it a double." He glanced at Bren and squeezed her bare knee.

Bren took a swig of her drink, the whisky a sedative waiting to take hold.

"So, pretty lady, what brings you to Williamsport?"

"I design women's clothes. Looking for a quaint town to open a boutique."

"Well, honey, Williamsport isn't the place."

Bren took another sip, the warmth of the whisky coursing down her throat. "Actually, I found a vacant storefront in Clear Spring between the barber shop and Mercantile Bank."

He nodded. "Better." He shot a look toward the faux fur she was wearing. "Aren't you hot?"

Sweat ran down her neck, and her clothes clung to her. Hot didn't even come close.

He pushed his stool back and stood. His arms went around her shoulders, and she flinched. The fur moved down her skin, and he tugged until it came free. Draping it over her stool, he sat and pulled his stool closer. "Better?"

Not.

His eyes darkened, and he licked his lips. "You design that lacy red thing?" The bartender slid his drink over to him, the glass disappearing inside Donovan's thick hand.

"Victoria's Secret," she whispered, smiled devilishly, and leaned over conspiratorially. "But don't tell anyone."

He sputtered in his drink with laughter. "You're funny and gorgeous. That's one lethal combination."

Bren smiled wide. As long as he minded his manners, she was relatively safe with him. Blake's obvious distrust of the man, a pinprick of warning, remained sharp.

Donovan nodded to her empty glass. He waved Blake over. "The lady needs a refill."

She didn't refuse. Two drinks would make her less edgy. She took a sip. "Tell me, Donovan, what's your business?"

He laughed and put his arm around her shoulders. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

Bren went cold, and her neck tingled. "I see you have a sense of humor, too."

His hand moved down her shoulder and squeezed her hand. "We're a match."

His clammy hand, pressing down on hers, made her bite her lip. "Two peas in a pod, we are, darlin'."

Bren continued to banter back and forth. The third drink Donovan ordered for her, she nursed. She kept a vigilant eye on Lyle and watched the door, hoping Wes wouldn't make an entrance. Donovan knocked back at least six vodkas, his speech beginning to slur. He stood and then swayed. "Belinda, sweetheart, I need to hit the men's room. Don't go nowhere, beautiful."

Bren lifted her glass. "Wouldn't dream of it."

He disappeared around the corner, and Bren sagged against the back of the stool.

"I've seen enough folks to know when they're scamming."

Pushing back in her stool, she gave Blake a questioning look.

"Come on, red. Tell me what's going on."

Bren's face warmed. Red? Her hand flew to the wig. Then it dawned on her, her lacy red barely-there top. She relaxed and smiled easily. "Blake, sweetheart. What'd you mean about Skidmore?"

Blake stepped closer. "He's looking to score, Belinda. Unless you plan on rolling in the sheets with Donovan, I suggest you slip out."

Perish the thought.

There was something in Blake's warm, amber eyes that told Bren he could be trusted. He was a bartender. Bartenders always knew what crept below the surface. "How does he know that man down there?" She pointed toward Lyle Jameson.

"Skidmore works for the Maryland horse racing industry. He has a lucrative side job with Lyle Jameson and Wes Connelly."

Bren tried to remain unaffected by their names. "What kind of business?"

"He's known as the 'meat man.' He sells old race horses for slaughter."

Bren grabbed her throat and took a breath. "I had no idea those beautiful horses were slaughtered."

Blake nodded. "Not many do, unless you know your way around horses." He finished drying a glass, leaned against the back bar, and folded his arms. "You don't want any part of Donovan Skidmore. He's a piece of—"

"Belinda, baby doll." Donovan gave Blake a scowl. "I hope you're not spreading rumors."

Blake lifted his hands, palms out. "And tarnish your reputation? You know me better than that, Donovan."

Donovan grabbed the fur jacket on the back of Bren's chair and clamped onto her arm. "I found an empty booth across the way. It's nice and cozy."

Bren hopped off the stool and smiled. "Thanks, Blake, for everything."

"Take care."

Donovan directed her toward the booth and pushed her legs against the bench none too gently. Bren's senses alerted. He was drunk, a little less mindful of his manners, and the grip digging into her arm was more an order than a suggestion.

Bren tamped down the warning. She was in a public place. No harm could come to her as long as she remained in the bar. It had to be close to eleven. She didn't dare check the clock on her phone. Drawing attention to her purse would only draw attention to its contents.

The horses now took precedence, and Bren focused on her new mission. She took a seat in the booth, squeezing his shoulder. "Sweat Pea, how about another drink for Belinda?"

He frowned. "Don't listen to Blake's nonsense."

"I do my own judging when it comes to the men in my life."

He smiled at that and turned to signal the waitress.

Bren pressed back against the wall. The waitress took the order, and Donovan gave her his full attention. "You're driving me crazy with that lacy top." He growled under his breath.

She needed to change the subject. "Blake told me your secret. You live dangerously... Never seen a horse up close. Tell you the truth, they scare me. I had no idea people ate them."

He moved closer and stroked her hair.

Bren stiffened.

"The Japanese and French can't get enough of American horse meat."

Bren reached over and stroked his arm. "So tell me, Secret Agent Man, how does it work?"

Donovan looked around. "Promise not to tell?" He stroked the side of her breast.

Bren held her breath and then willed herself to exhale. "Promise." She batted her fake eyelashes and reached down into her purse resting on Jo's fur, pressed the Record button, and nonchalantly placed her hand in her lap.

"How about a kiss first?" The plump, glistening lips of Donovan puckered.

No way in hell, asshole.

"And then you'll tell?"

"Cross my heart." He made a lazy X across his chest.

And I hope you die because I surely will if I kiss that nasty puss of yours.

She gave him what she hoped was an award-winning smile. "Isn't the fun in the chase? How about we start slow?" She leaned forward and kissed his cheek and cringed at the smell of vodka and cheap aftershave.

His hand tightened around her waist and held her in place. He whispered in her ear. "You like to tease."

Bren rolled her lips in. "Mmm-hmm."

His grip loosened, and she settled back down in the seat. "Your turn."

"Seems Charles Town has several noncontenders they need moved, and I got a buyer."

"How many?"

He tapped his ear. "Lick my ear, doll baby."

Euwh!

The horses with their big frightened eyes invaded her mind.

Do it, Bren.

She leaned over and tentatively touched her tongue to his earlobe. Snapping her mouth shut, she pulled away just as quickly.

"Whoa, not so fast." His hand cupped the back of her neck, and he brought her forward.

Bren smiled sweetly. "One lick, one number."

"Fifteen."

"Why so many?"

He tapped his ear.

Damn her curiosity. Leaning in, she took another sample of his ear and pulled back.

"There are other racetracks."

Right. Pimlico... Laurel.

He moved closer and nuzzled her neck. "You're a tease, Belinda." He grabbed her hand and held it against his erection, and she stiffened. "How about we cut to the chase?" He moved her hand back and forth against him, and Bren tried to pull away.

"Shy?"

"I like privacy," Bren demurred.