As he approached the Jag in its usual spot, a trio of shadows separated from the nearby wall. Talking about lost causes…
“Hey there, Mr. Falcon. Great wheels.” The Texas drawl identified Harlow.
“Thanks.” Jimmy leaned back against the front fender. “After that mix-up the other night, I didn’t expect to see you guys around here so soon. Doesn’t look like the neighborhood’s too safe, where you’re concerned.”
“We go anywhere we want to.” Tomas, part Mexican, part Indian, and all mouth, ran a hand over the roof of the Jag. “Nobody’s telling us where we can and can’t hang out.”
“If you say so.”
“Business doin’ good, Mr. Falcon?” The smoke from Harlow’s cigarette drifted on the late-night breeze.
“Same as usual.”
“Been catching some great smells coming out that back door this week. You got a new cook?”
Every hair on his body stood on end. Jimmy forced himself not to move. “That’s right.” These three weren’t the violent threat some folks pictured when they thought about heroin addicts—only boys who had nowhere else to go and nobody who cared. That was why he’d once thought he had a chance to get them off the streets, out of this lousy life.
But the drug had defeated him in the battle for their souls. He wasn’t afraid of them, but he didn’t want them hassling Emma. Just one more reason he never should have hired her.
Harlow wasn’t going to let the subject drop. “You’re gettin’ real uptown for a dirty little hole in the wall. Next thing we know, you’ll be paintin’ the place.”
“Don’t worry—I don’t expect to get an award from the Denver beautification committee anytime soon.”
“Glad to hear it. Those types like to think our types live somewhere else, you know?” Harlow straightened away from the lamppost. He sounded almost…regretful.
But Jimmy had let that easy regret fake him out before. Harlow was a master con artist. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, it’s been a long day.” He wouldn’t open the car door until they left. And all of them knew it.
“That it has.” Ryan, the smallest of the bunch, was thin to the point of disappearing. The hunger in his eyes was not for food. “Man with a car like this must carry some extra change. Whaddaya say, Mr. F.? How about a loan?”
“I could manage fifty cents for some gum.”
Tomas barked a laugh. “Piss on that. As if gum wasn’t eighty freakin’ cents these days. Gimme a break, man.”
Despite his size, he moved fast. Jimmy looked up into the swarthy, sweating face just inches from his own. If Harlow was the brains of the group, Tomas was the muscle. And he had a bad temper. “Get out of my way.”
“I’m tellin’ you, man—”
Harlow put a hand on Tomas’s shoulder and jerked him backward, away from Jimmy. “Chill, Tommy. We’re not gonna shake down Mr. Falcon. He’s one of the good guys.”
“Like hell he is.”
“Harlow…” Ryan’s voice had started to shake. In the few minutes of the conversation, his skin had paled and his eyes had clouded.
“Yeah, Ry. I’m coming.” Harlow shrugged and gave Jimmy a conciliatory grin. “Sorry for the trouble, Mr. Falcon. We’ll let you get home and get some sleep.”
“Thanks.” Jimmy didn’t move until Harlow and friends started down the sidewalk toward the part of town where drugs were easier to score than ice-cream cones. Then, through the windshield, he watched until the three boys blended into the night. He reminded himself once again that he had tried with them. And failed.
Headed across town to his apartment, he turned on the seat warmer to ease the ache in his hip. He hadn’t been keeping up with therapy the past few months, so a ten-minute dance had set up cramps in his shredded muscles. Small price to pay, though, for a chance to hold Emma in his arms.
But he shouldn’t have kissed her. He’d known it ahead of time and ignored the knowledge. The very first time he’d ever dared, she’d just eaten a strawberry, brought back from Denver to the rez by her impractical, nearsighted, absentminded father. Jimmy had never tasted strawberries—they didn’t thrive in the arid canyonlands he’d grown up in. But that summer with Emma, he’d learned to crave the sweet, seedy fruit. Anytime since, when he’d allowed himself the indulgence of that special berry, he had thought of one special woman-child. And smiled.
He wasn’t smiling now. He was trying to figure out how to keep control so that tonight’s mistake didn’t happen again. The easiest option was to fire Emma. Get her out of the club, out of his life.
Yeah, right. Kick her when she was already down. He couldn’t do that to any woman.
Especially not to Emma.
He’d have to make himself scarce. Tiffany had worked for him long enough to know the liquor reps, the standing orders, the combination to the safe and where he kept the spare keys. She would handle the daily management duties as well as he could. Especially if he raised her pay.
That left only the nights—when the club was packed and Emma worked her magic in the kitchen. He’d stay out of her way, but he’d be sure to hang around. Harlow and his gang could not be allowed to hustle Emma. Unless something deep inside her had changed—and he could tell from her eyes that it hadn’t—she’d have no problem throwing money into the bottomless well where these boys lived with their habit.
She would try to help them and, most likely, fail. Jimmy didn’t want her hurt that way, didn’t want to see the disillusionment in her eyes when she realized she’d only been a mark. Emma put her whole heart into everything she did. She’d done it the summer they spent together, and she was doing it now, just cooking up sandwiches in his club.
Somehow he was going to have to keep Emma from getting burned. By these boys…
And by his own fierce, out-of-line desire.
“JIMMY HASN’T BEEN HERE very often during this last week.” Late Thursday morning, Emma sat down on a wobbly bar stool to watch Tiffany stack glassware.
“Nope. He said he was taking some days off.”
“Did he say why?” Emma didn’t really need to ask. Jimmy was avoiding her, embarrassed at being pressured into that kiss.
Tiffany shook her head. “He’s done it before. I think he goes for weeks without sleeping more than a couple of hours a night, and then crashes and sleeps for about a month.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a life.” Why would an accomplished and charming man live such a sterile existence?”
“I guess that’s the way he wants it.”
Emma surrendered to her curiosity. “Has he always lived alone?”
“As long as I’ve known him.”
Something loosened inside Emma’s chest that she tried very hard to ignore.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s a monk.” Tiffany’s smile was wicked. “There have been quite a few women in his life over the years.”
“I’m sure.” Her chest had tightened up again. She decided to change the subject. “How long have you known Jimmy?”
The bartender pondered. “I worked here for a couple of years before I got married. After the divorce I came back. So I guess that’s maybe five or six years.”
“Has Jimmy met your current…er…boyfriend?”
“Nope.