Ben halted her words with a kiss, then wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “I was quite calm during Lena’s birth.”
Jamie grinned and Lena giggled. “If you say so, honey.”
True affection passed between father, mother and child, evidenced by shared smiles, Lena’s head resting against Ben’s chest, Jamie’s arm around Ben’s waist.
Needing to escape, Darin walked onto the porch, thankful to discover the sedan had arrived to take him to the airstrip. Seeing this closely bound family was almost too much for him to bear, although he would never reveal that to anyone.
Before entering the car, he turned to wave goodbye, and little Lena with her father’s eyes and her mother’s smile, blew him a kiss.
Memories of what might have been crowded Darin’s mind, save for one cruel bastard who had taken three lives—Ben’s father, Darin’s fiancée and their unborn child. A man much like Dr. Roman Birkenfeld. Both had no regard for the sanctity of life and the rare gift of love.
Darin vowed to hunt down Birkenfeld even if it proved to be his last act on earth. But in the process, Sheikh Darin ibn Shakir would not allow himself to feel his own pain. Not if he wanted to succeed.
Not much went on in the off-the-strip Silver Ace Lounge on Mondays. The absolute height of boredom, a familiar concept for Fiona Powers. Hotel management student by day, bartender by night, the same-old, same-old since she’d moved to Vegas from Idaho five years before. But no one had said life would be easy for a struggling small-town gal with big-time dreams.
Fiona slapped a rag over the counter where some drunk had missed his big mouth, pouring his boilermaker all over himself and the bar. Fiona had tried to cut him off after two rounds, but scrawny, balding Benny Jack, the other barkeep, had kept on serving the guy as if he’d been doling out fruit juice. Thankfully, the inebriate had left an hour ago after Fiona had called him a cab, as well as some unflattering names under her breath.
“Slow night, huh, Fee-Fee?”
Fiona turned and leaned back against the bar, elbows braced on the counter, preparing to repeat the same admonishments to Benny Jack. “For the thousandth time, Fee-Fee is the name someone would give a poodle, and I assure you I am not a poodle even if my hair is curly. I do not sit up on my hind legs and beg, nor do I leave puddles on the sidewalk. But if I were a canine, I would take great pleasure in planting my pointy little teeth in the middle of your butt. Better still, I would probably go directly for the nethers and give them a good shake.”
Benny grinned, displaying his lack of teeth. “Didn’t know you were into that kinky stuff, Red.”
Red. The second-worst nickname Fiona had encountered. Obviously Benny was determined to cut his life short tonight. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Maybe some cave on the other side of the continent?”
Benny hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. “Yep. I got a date.”
Great. Benny, the toothless, thin man had a date and Fiona was stuck tending regulars in a dive. “Just some advice, Benny. When you pick her up, don’t drag her by the hair to your car.”
Benny grinned again before turning toward the exit. “By the way, a new guy’s coming in to relieve you in a while.”
“What new guy?” Fiona said but received no response since Benny had already left out the back door to commence with his courting ritual that probably involved a back-seat roll with some big-haired broad.
And here she was, faced with a new guy no one had bothered to tell her about, not even Jimmy, the bar’s owner. Oh well, at least she might get home early to do some studying. If the latest employee knew how to tend bar. Otherwise, she’d have to train him, and hopefully that didn’t require newspaper on the floor. Jimmy had a tendency to hire knuckle-scraping morons—case in point, Benny Jack.
Fiona turned back to survey the limited occupants—two middle-aged guys in polyester pants shooting pool and bull, and one elderly man reading the paper and smoking a fat cigar that smelled about as delightful as stagnant sewage.
She leaned over the bar, propped her cheek on her palm and sighed. Yeah, just another night in nonparadise. But what could she expect when she chose to work in a place that served as stomping grounds for locals with the mean age of sixty? At least the tips were good, but for once she wished someone more interesting would come in.
The front door opened, and she expected another of life’s little disappointments to enter in the form of an octogenarian. What she got was the surprise of her life.
He seemed to emerge from the smoky haze like some otherworldly presence who had recently landed from Planet Machismo where the all-male aliens survived on testosterone alone. He wore black, from his baseball cap to his combat boots. Black cargo pants, black T-shirt, black jacket— Jacket? No one wore a jacket in Vegas in April, unless they were hiding something or hiding from someone. He stalked toward the bar with confidence as if challenging someone to stop his progress, his dark gaze scanning the room.
Fiona’s hopes soared when she considered he might be the new bartender. They dropped when he slid onto the stool with the prowess of a panther, directly in front of Fiona like any other customer. He studied her as if he expected her to swoon. She wasn’t going to do that, although her knees did feel a little flimsy.
She sent him a smile. “What can I get for you?” Coffee? Tea? Me?
“Coffee.”
Darn. “Black?”
“Yes.”
This did not surprise Fiona, nor did the fact that his voice was deep as a water well. She had never seen such a perfectly chiseled face covered by skin the color and texture of melted milk chocolate. Obviously black was his signature color, right down to the shadow of whiskers framing his full lips and the long dark lashes outlining his eyes, which Fiona considered totally unfair. Her lashes showed up after applying two coats of mascara. A slight indentation to the right of the bridge of his straight nose, as if it had been broken at one time, was the only true flaw in his face. But it sure as heck didn’t detract from his incredible looks.
Forcing her gaze away, Fiona turned from the counter to the back shelf housing the coffeepot and realized the temperature had just risen about a hundred degrees. She poured some of the muddy brew into the mug, glanced in the mirrored wall, then tightened the band securing her hair high on her head as if that would improve her appearance. Her ponytail looked like a spastic bird’s nest, random tendrils falling around her face like loose springs. Her sleeveless blue blouse revealed the results of happy hour and displayed all the freckles on her pale arms. Just her luck. Hank the Hunk had walked into her life and she looked like warmed-over deer dung.
Fiona gripped the cup in both hands, hoping it didn’t slide across the damp surface and land in his lap when she set it down. Of course, then she would be forced to hop over the bar and clean it up, not an altogether unpleasant thought. But hot coffee on his crotch did not a good impression make, not to mention it might be painful if it seeped through his pants. Then he would have to take his pants off—
Earth to Fiona.
She turned back to the bar and set the cup before him, fortunately without incident. “It’s kind of strong.”
He kept his intense eyes fixed on hers. “I prefer it that way.”
He might as well have said he preferred randy sex, considering the way Fiona’s body reacted with a series of hot flashes and a fluttering heartbeat.
Fiona realized she should probably stop staring at him as if he’d grown a third eye. Moving a few feet down the bar, she pretended to straighten glasses that didn’t need straightening, sending subtle glances in his direction now and again. He swiveled around on the stool, one arm resting on the bar, his large hand wrapped around the mug as he focused on the television suspended in the corner above the pool table.
How silly that she should be having