Stevie Lee (3 page)

But she’d done a darn poor job of steering clear of Halsey Morgan. She heard him come up behind her, and a jolt of panic stopped her heart cold. For an everlasting moment, she held her breath, her hand tightening on the shot glass. On a night as crazy as this one had been, anything that happened once could easily happen twice.

His heavy boots creaked across the old wooden floor step by step but thankfully kept going to the other side of the bar. Best place for him, she thought with relief, following him out of the corner of her eye, not at all sure what to do about him. Stevie Lee Brown wasn’t used to being rescued, and she sure wasn’t used to being kissed, by anyone, not in a long time—and never the way he’d kissed her.

Barely refortified by the whiskey, she waited for him to sit down. “What’s your pleasure?” she asked, straining to keep her voice steady.

The immediate quirk of his mouth gave the familiar request an entirely new meaning, and much to her dismay, she felt an equally immediate reaction—the faint heat of a blush stealing over her cheeks.

She wanted to run and hide from the teasing glint in his eyes, from her own emotional confusion. Instead she reached way down deep inside herself for the strength to hold his gaze. He’d already breached far, far too many of her invisible barriers, and the few she had left were dangerously close to buckling under. Had she really allowed him to kiss her? To touch his mouth to hers? To hold her?

“Wh-what would you like to drink?” she stammered into the silence, needing desperately to take some kind of control.

He was still smiling, and Stevie wished he’d stop. Then maybe she could get her brain back in working order.

“Whatever you’re having is fine,” he replied, easing down on a bar stool.

His acquiescence, however slight, gave her confidence a boost. “Not quite. The man who punched out Kong Kingman deserves better than well liquor. How about a shot of Chivas?” she asked, but inside she wondered if his voice had always been so gravelly, or if the tropical sun had burned the softness out of it the same way it had burned the color out of his hair. The comparatively bright light in the bar showed a darker color under the white-blond, a sable-brown to match his eyebrows and the hair feathering over his ears.

When he said “Fine,” she picked the bottle off the shelf.

“Kong Kingman?”

She poured his drink and hesitated, smoothing a swath of dishevelled hair behind her ear. “Jerry, actually,” she explained. Then she threw caution to the wind and poured herself another shot—of the good stuff this time. “But he fancies himself a big ape, and no one’s ever disagreed. Least of all me, especially tonight. Thanks . . . I owe you.” The admission came hard and caused her heart to sink a little lower in her chest.

A quick smile tugged at Hal’s mouth; the pretty lady with the deadly curves had given him the perfect opening. “How about a ride home then? My truck conked out in the middle of Main Street. I don’t live too far out of town, only about five—”

“County Road Four,” she interrupted. At his immediate look of confusion, she plowed ahead, deciding that her best defense in this situation was to lay her cards on the table—one at a time, of course. “We’re neighbors. Won’t be out of my way at all. But even if it was, I’d give you a ride home. You saved my—me a pile of trouble. Stevie Lee Brown.” She lifted her shot glass in salute.

“Halsey Morgan,” he replied, his mouth curving into another one of those wonderfully alarming, midnight smiles.

“Salud.” Stevie quickly dowsed the flutter of her pulse with a shot of premium Scotch. False courage, they called it, but Stevie wasn’t in any position to quibble.

Hal followed suit, wincing as the liquor burned a path down his throat. Months of coconut milk and rainwater had hardened him in some ways, but obviously softened him in others.

“I don’t remember having a neighbor,” he said when he found his voice again.

“You didn’t the last time you were here. Your property borders my dad’s ranch.” Her voice didn’t sound the least bit strained by the straight shot of alcohol. It flowed melodically, her western drawl lengthening all of her vowels and slurring the harder edges off of her consonants. Hal liked the sound. “He built the cabin for me two years ago. I’m at the top of the meadow, just above your place.” She paused, taking a deep breath and slanting a wary look up at him from under her lashes. “I’ve been—uh—I’ve been . . . do you want a beer to chase that with?” she asked in a rush.

“Please.” He nodded, wondering what in the world she’d been doing, and why, if it was so nerve-wracking, she wanted to tell him. She reached behind her and scooped a beer mug off the shelf. For a second he thought she wasn’t going to get a grip on it, but she did without even a second glance.

“Light or dark?”

“Dark.” Like the lashes shadowing your soft gray eyes, he thought, then instantly wondered where the fanciful thought had come from. Shifting uneasily on the stool, he attempted to steer his mind in another direction. “Have you had a lot of trouble around here with guys like Kong?”

“Only once,” she replied, seemingly absorbed in filling the stein. With a practiced move, she floated a cocktail napkin precisely in front of him and landed the beer without spilling a drop.

Despite the slender curves, the long tumble of gold-streaked hair, and the intense memory of the softness of her kiss, Hal believed her. When she spoke, the firm set of her mouth had no-nonsense stamped all over it. He wished he could say the same for his imagination. It was going hog-wild behind the calm exterior of his face, fantasizing about her breasts and legs, and her hair spread out and falling through his fingers.

Say something, Hal,
he told himself.
Say something before you do something stupid—like lean over and kiss her again, and this time get yourself coldcocked by a Chivas bottle.

“So we’re neighbors, but we’ve never met.” The slight lift in his voice turned the statement into a question.

“I know you by reputation and exploits, but no, we’ve never met.”

Hal knew there were a few women here and there around the world who latched onto mountain climbers and river runners, looking for vicarious and not so vicarious thrills, but this lady didn’t seem the type—which left him still mildly confused.

“And yet you were worried when you thought I was dead?” he asked, lifting the stein to his mouth.

Guileless gray eyes met his squarely, and her sweet, no-nonsense mouth delivered a shocking blow. “Hoping is more like it.”

Hal choked on his beer. It sputtered out of his mouth, ran down his chin, and soaked the last dry spot on his body—the front of his shirt.

“Sorry about that.” Stevie handed him a bar towel and gave herself a mental kick. Sure, she wanted to be the one to tell him, but even on her worst days she usually showed more tact.

What in the hell had he gotten himself into? Hal wondered, mopping away and feeling like a fool. He’d only been in town one day and already he’d been looked at strangely, lost his only transportation, ended up in a bar fight, and gotten turned on by a woman who wished he was dead. Civilization certainly had taken a turn for the worse since he’d left.

He wiped up the beer pooling in the creases of his jeans, and felt a cold trickle run down his thigh through the ripped cloth. Dammit, he thought, he was half-frozen already. Maybe it was time to call in his debts. Big John still owed him a few plane tickets for the endorsement Hal had given his ski area. He’d ask for one to the other side of the earth. Maybe things would look better down under, where Chauncey Keats would be good for a month of room and board in the outback, considering that Hal had damn near died testing his newfangled tent in Alaska. He’d learned one thing from that venture—never trust an alpine tent built by someone who lived in a desert.

“It’s nothing personal.” Her soft reassurance broke into his thoughts.

“Nothing personal?” He jerked his head up, his voice rising to an incredulous pitch. “A woman I don’t even know wants me dead, and it’s nothing personal?”

“I didn’t
want
you dead. Lost worked out just as well.”

He was lost all right. “What in the hell did I ever do to you?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“Nothing, but lost . . . or dead . . . you’re worth about seventy grand to me. On the hoof you’re worthless.”

Hal slumped back on his bar stool. Worthless? Well that was a fine how-do-you-do from a woman he’d saved from the clutches of a big hairy ape. “You beat all, lady. You really beat all.”

“You asked.” She shrugged and set another beer in front of him, but Hal wasn’t at all sure he wanted it. “Go ahead. It’s safe. I wouldn’t do you or anybody else in for money. Not even seventy thousand dollars.”

Seventy thousand dollars?
The thought wrinkled his brow. How could he possibly be worth that kind of money to anyone—dead or alive? Hell, he’d probably have to pay somebody to take the damn truck off his hands, and the only other thing he owned in the whole wide world was . . .

“My cabin,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes and pinning her with an accusing glare. “You’re after my cabin.”

“Not only after it, but almost got it. You haven’t paid your taxes in two years.” There, she’d done her good deed for the night. It felt awful.

“Taxes?” He looked at her as if she were crazy. “Sorry to disappoint you, lady, but I haven’t had any income in two years. Maybe longer. Besides, what do my taxes have to do with you?”

It was Stevie’s turn to choke. “Not income taxes. Property taxes.” Good Lord, she thought, where had this guy been all his life? Dumb question. All she had to do was pick up any outdoor magazine from the last ten years, and she’d be able to pinpoint his whereabouts at any given time. Unfortunately the only picture she’d seen of him hadn’t shown her anything of the man. Typical mountaineering gear included dark glasses, heavy coats, snug hat, and the inevitable ice-encrusted face. Nothing had prepared her for the Nordic god gracing her bar stool.

“Property taxes,” he repeated slowly, and she could almost see the lightbulb turn on over his head. “Damn. And you bought them.”

“It was all legal, cut-and-dried business. Anybody could have paid them.” She shrugged again, her slender shoulders lifting and falling with nonchalance.

The gesture was the final blow to his ego. His last piece of solid financial ground was dust in the wind, and a woman who by all rights should be gazing at him with stars in her eyes was cool as a cucumber.

Hal started thinking fast, a trait he’d relied on more than once when his back was against the wall, or when his life was on the line. This was a definite back-against-the-wall situation, which required only two main ingredients for a foolproof plan—a debt he could call in, and a debtor who had something he wanted. By her own admission, she owed him—and he could think of a hundred things she had that he wanted, but he’d start with a job. From what he’d seen of the town, she was his best bet, and he’d certainly succeeded taking longer shots.

“You know, I almost broke my hand decking that jerk.”

Stevie’s warning instincts lit up like a dance hall on Saturday night. She didn’t know where he was coming from, but she knew the conversation had just taken a sharp turn for the worse. Eyeing him warily, she said, “Thanks again.”

“Could have gotten real ugly, real fast, if I hadn’t shown up,” He tossed the remark off as if it were barely worth mentioning.

“I doubt it,” she said “He’s big, but he’s dumb. I was just getting ready to hit him myself.” It was true, but she doubted if it would have done her much good. She watched him drain his glass.

Hal grinned and almost missed the bar when he lowered his glass. The lady had more
cojones
than most of his past climbing partners. But she was wrong, and it was his duty to tell her.

“Not the way I see it. In this case, I think brawn had it all over brains. Besides, what do you need my seventy thousand dollars for? You’ve already got your little piece of paradise.” His arm swung out to encompass the whole bar, and his body came darn close to following. Only his well-honed sense of balance kept him on the stool. He’d had something else to say; he was sure of it, but it momentarily had slipped his mind.

Stevie hadn’t missed a single slip. He’d made three: Two motor, one verbal. A slow, easy smile lifted a corner of her mouth. She’d seen it happen before—people coming up from sea level getting drunk on half their normal intake of alcohol in the rarified altitude of the Rockies. Halsey Morgan had definitely come up from sea level—and he was definitely going down fast. Nola had been wrong; her little sister Stevie was going to handle this guy just fine . . . as long as he didn’t kiss her.

Stevie unconsciously dismissed the wayward thought with a flick of her wrist. The kiss had been . . . well, it had been an aberration, that’s all. Just an aberration.

“What does anybody need money for?” she asked, getting back to the business at hand.

Considering her question very carefully, he reached up and absently ran a hand through his hair, pushing the shaggy mane into a golden arc. “I don’t know. I get along fine without it . . . or I used to.”

Stevie watched the beginnings of confusion settle over his face, furrowing his brow and turning his smile into a half-cocked grin.

She screwed the lid on the bottle for the last time, and put it on the shelf. He’d had only one shot and two glasses of beer, but if he drank any more she’d be carrying him out.

“You must have had at least sixty grand when you bought your cabin and acreage,” she said, leaning back against the beer cooler and watching him with an amused gaze, a potentially mesmerizing endeavor but one she now felt she could control—until she saw the dreamy softening of his eyes and heard his low, sexy chuckle.

“Well that was a helluva piece of luck in Vegas, at the outdoor trade show back in . . . well, a few years back. I didn’t find a sponsor, but I ended up with plenty of money anyway. Do you play poker?” His eyes refocused for a moment. At the negative shake of her head, he let out a heavy sigh and drifted back toward oblivion. “Too bad, ’cause I don’t have the money now. It’s gone, alluvit.” Damn, he was tired, he realized.