Steve could read her tension from all the way across the bar, but the guys talking to her obviously couldn’t.
He should leave now. He knew he should just walk away. The boys weren’t going to get too out of hand. As soon as the woman put them down hard, they would leave her alone.
She was trouble. He knew it. He should go.
He sighed as he put money on the bar for his meal and began to walk toward the woman and the two men who were now both trying to get her to dance. He hadn’t become the director of one of the most elite law enforcement groups in the country by walking away from trouble.
He stepped close to the first local guy, deliberately invading his space. The way the guy was invading the woman’s.
“Excuse me, fellas. The lady doesn’t want to dance.”
“How do you know?” The other guy snickered. “Are you her dad?”
The woman’s eyes—a beautiful shade of blue that stood out in sharp juxtaposition against her dark hair—flew to Steve’s. She winced in apology at the crack about his age.
Steve was probably fifteen years older than the woman. Not quite old enough to be her father, but probably too old to be anything else to her.
“No, not her father. Just someone old enough and sober enough to realize when a woman is uncomfortable.”
“She’s not—” The guy stopped and really looked at the woman then—the way she was clutching her bag, discomfiture clear on her face.
“The lady doesn’t want to dance,” Steve said again.
The local guy and his buddy released the woman, murmuring apologies. Steve stepped back relieved he wasn’t going to have to make some show of strength. He could’ve. Could’ve had both men unconscious on the ground before they were even aware what sort of trouble they were facing. But the guys hadn’t meant any harm.
Steve nodded at the woman as the locals walked away. He didn’t step any closer or try to talk to her. His flirting skills were rusty at best and this lady obviously wasn’t here to scope out men. Steve turned to make his way back to his seat only to find someone had already taken his place.
Looked like it was time to go.
That was fine. It wasn’t like Steve had any grand plans for his evening here in the tiki bar. He began walking toward the door.
“Thank you.”
He heard her soft voice as the black-haired beauty’s hand touched his arm. Steve stopped and turned toward her.
He smiled. It felt a little unpracticed. “I don’t think they meant any harm, but it was no problem.”
“There was a time I would’ve let them both have it, but I just don’t seem to have it in me lately.” She looked a little surprised that she was even talking to him.
She was skittish, scared. She’d been that way since the moment she’d walked in. It made him want to wrap an arm around her, pull her close and tell her to take a breath. He’d protect her from whatever demons she was trying to fight.
It surprised him a little that he felt that way. His entire life had been spent helping people, first as an FBI agent, then as he was recruited into Omega Sector. But usually he was more at a distance, less personal.
He already felt personal with this woman and he didn’t even know her name.
“I’m sure you could’ve handled them. I just was doing my fatherly duty.”
She snorted and humor lit her blue eyes. “Father, my ass. You’re what? Thirty-nine? Forty?”
“Forty-one.”
“Oh. Well, he should’ve said grandfather, then.”
Her smile was breathtaking. Steve couldn’t stop himself from taking a step toward her. “I’m Steve Drackett.”
She shook his outstretched hand. He knew the thought that a flash of heat hit them both as their skin touched was both melodramatic and sentimental. Steve was neither of those things.
But he still felt the heat.
“I’m Rosalyn.”
No last name. He didn’t press. It was just another sign she was trouble, but Steve somehow couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Can an old man buy you a drink or something?”
She studied him hard as they finally released hands. They were halfway between the bar and the door. He honestly wasn’t sure which way she’d choose. To stay with him or to leave.
She ended up choosing both.
“May I ask you something?” She slid her tote more fully onto her shoulder. She had to step a little closer so they could hear each other over the noise in the bar. He found himself thankful for the chaos around them.
“Sure.”
“Are you some sort of psycho? A killer or deranged stalker or both?”
She asked the question so seriously Steve couldn’t help but laugh. “Nope. Scout’s honor.” He held up his hand in what he was sure was an incorrect Scout salute. “I’m an upstanding member of society. Although you know if I was a crazy killer, I probably wouldn’t answer that question honestly.”
She shrugged, her eyes back to being haunted. “I know. I guess I just wanted you to tell me so I could see if I would believe you.”
“Do you?”
She smiled so sadly it damn near broke his heart. “I think so. Or maybe I just don’t care anymore. And to answer your question, yes, you can buy me a drink. But let’s get out of here.”
Rosalyn knew her actions bordered on reckless. Even if she hadn’t known she had a deranged stalker following her every move, leaving a bar with a man she’d just met would still have been pretty stupid.
He’d laughed—in a kind way, but still obviously thinking she was joking—when she’d asked if he was a killer or crazy. But like he’d said, no true villain would give her an honest answer about that.
Actually, she believed the Watcher would. If she ever met him face-to-face and asked him outright if he was her stalker, she believed he might actually tell her.
Steve Drackett wasn’t the Watcher. He might be an ordinary garden-variety psycho, but he wasn’t the psycho she was desperately attempting to escape right now.
And in that case, she was willing to take her chances with him.
She looked up at him as he led her to the door. He had joked about being a grandpa but that couldn’t have been further from the truth. His brown hair might be graying just the slightest bit at the temples, but that was the only sign whatsoever that he wasn’t a man fifteen years younger. His green eyes seemed kind, at least to her, but the rest of his face was hard and unforgiving. Stark cheekbones, strong chin. Definitely not a pretty face but very much a handsome one.
His body was well honed—the black T-shirt Steve wore left no doubt he was in excellent physical shape. His khaki shorts were quite appropriate for a bar in Florida on a May evening, but she doubted it was what he normally wore. She was positive the flip-flops weren’t.
“If you’re not a psychopath, what do you do, Steve?” she asked as they walked out the door. Humid air from the coast blasted them. The storm had moved out to sea, but dampness still hovered everywhere, a sure sign another storm would be coming.
“Present