Though Shane was an incredibly beautiful woman, she didn’t seem to be wearing much makeup—perhaps a swipe of mascara to darken her pale lashes. No lip gloss adorned her voluptuous, slightly pouty lips. She might glow as if lit by an ethereal light, but she was still just a woman. And a thief. And ballsy. Her eye contact remained direct and unwavering, almost too intense, which made him feel like she was hiding something more than the vintage Patek Philippe strapped face inward on her wrist.
Stolen goods in plain sight.
Challenge accepted.
The thought hit him like a bullet to his skull. The fascinating enigma of Shane Knight and her strength and unearthly beauty was not why he was in Marietta. Shame felt like he’d bathed in an oil slick. He didn’t owe the former major any more than he’d already given him—the sacrifice of the best man Cross had ever known. But still, Brandon Montgomery Huntingdon III had wanted more—the heirloom watch should be passed from father to first son for his October wedding. And if not by then, before the birth of his child in March.
Cross knew he should get off the damn barstool and walk out into the night.
Huntingdon could retrieve his own watch if he wanted. And that stopped Cross cold.
“I want the watch. It means the world to me. To my family. Use any means necessary to retrieve it,” he’d said.
And then he’d dangled enough money that could help Alex Holt raise his child—set aside money for college or music lessons or whatever kids needed.
The former major had not only pointed Cross, once a top military asset, at a thief, but he pointed a honed and dangerous weapon at the woman the major had once professed undying love to.
Why?
Cross watched Shane move gracefully and deftly behind the bar, clearly skilled and at home as she made his drink. The glimpses he caught of the watch added to her mystery and, honestly, her allure. Why had she taken it? She didn’t seem like a woman with any pretense. Why wear a six-figure watch to work but not show it off? None of it—her, the theft, the major’s request—added up.
Cross knew he should walk away. Not his fight. If Shane had stolen a six-figure watch, she could deal with her own consequences. But with a sick feeling in his gut, he knew he couldn’t leave her unwarned. The former major would send someone else.
“Interesting watch.”
She didn’t look at him. “A reminder.”
“Of what?”
Shane ignored him and spooned ice into a copper cocktail mixing glass. She deftly measured bourbon, sweet vermouth and Campari and poured them over ice with flair. She stirred the drink ten times clockwise and then ten times reversed, each movement quick and graceful. She strained the liquid into a squat, old-fashioned cocktail glass.
Cross looked around the room while he pondered her non-answer. Marietta was technically what he could consider his hometown though he hadn’t been back in nearly twenty-five years. Would anyone recognize him? The thought curdled in his gut. He’d practically been invisible as a kid. No one had fought for him or his sister back then. No one would take an interest now. Besides, being invisible was second nature now.
“This is a full-mouth experience.” Shane’s voice was twinged with amusement as if she knew he’d been trying not to obsess about her.
And on cue, his fixated gaze swiveled back to her. She boldly held his regard while she peeled off a thick slice of orange peel, dipped it in something and then, holding the orange slice low over the drink, she stuck two cloves into the orange peel and dropped it into his drink and slid it across toward him.
“A touch of sweet and spicy and smoke, and the bourbon rounds it all out. First one’s on the house, cowboy soldier.”
He stifled his surprise and reached for the beverage, noting the bloodred color. It was beautiful, but one more reminder of his past. So much blood. Death.
“I’d call it fishing,” he said.
He looked rough, dangerous. It was a hard thing to hide, and he didn’t often try.
“No you’ll call it a damn good drink.”
He tilted the drink in her direction. “The drink have a name?”
Challenge and something else sparkled in her eyes, and her sexy mouth tilted in a smile that nearly knocked him off his chair. Whatever she’d made, she was far more potent.
“I’m still thinking on it. This is new, just for you.”
He didn’t often drink. He’d lived a dangerous life and needed control, but tonight he loosed his leash and held the drink to his lips and took a healthy sip.
The explosion of flavors was unexpected and more delicious than he’d anticipated.
“Surprise,” she said and walked off to fill another order.
*
Shane closed out the bar and sent Lachlan home after they’d cleaned and restocked. It had been a good night for tips. The hotel was full—it often was, but when she’d started adding seasonal drink specials; bringing in local wineries, breweries and distilleries for tastings; and teaching cocktail classes and instituting game nights in the alcove near the gift store, the business had picked up.
A sense of pride filtered through her even though she knew her parents and sisters, try as they might, didn’t understand how she could be happy working and now managing a bar, when she had worked so hard in college and grad school to become something else.
Sort of. Not really that different. A smile touched her lips as she looked at the gleaming bar in the soft lighting. Shane enjoyed the creative freedom she had at the Graff, the privacy she had from her lovingly nosy family and the beauty and space of Paradise Valley. The mountains and farmland and so much space and sky allowed her to breathe. Nature felt fierce and dominant, putting people in their place.
As if Mother Nature agreed, it was pouring—sheets of warm rain hurtling out of the sky in an end-of-summer display when Shane opened the door to leave through the hotel’s garden. The rain bounced up from the pavers on the meandering path. She wondered about the soldier who’d left hours earlier after finishing his drink and leaving a crisp fifty-dollar note on the bar. He’d been wearing motorcycle leathers and boots—not conducive to rain or curving mountain roads.
“He doesn’t need me worrying about him.” Shane mocked her concern.
She stood in the doorway of the hotel, took off her watch, and placed it in her waterproof backpack, and after a moment of consideration, she shrugged out of her silky Johnny Was boho style off-the-shoulder blouse that her sister Sutter had sent her for her birthday—all of her nice clothes were from Sutter or her documentary filmmaker and producer sister, Blue. She rolled up the blouse and added it to her backpack, leaving her in her thin, royal-blue tank.
Smiling, Shane stepped out into the night and was immediately soaked. She walked through the garden, taking a moment to savor the trellised area with the climbing roses and party lights. Often the garden would be set up for events in the summer—the hotel had stylish tents to protect against uncooperating weather, but tonight—since the wedding was booked at the Wilders’ ranch—there were just the few tables tucked into various verdant nooks for guests to enjoy morning coffee or tea or afternoon wine or cocktails.
Shane pushed through the gate all but hidden behind a wall of ivy and wisteria and walked out onto Front Avenue. She tilted her head back to look at the midnight sky. The rain looked silver as it danced through the glow of the replica gas lights. She spread out her arms, palms up, and stuck out her tongue to catch the drops. The first chill shivered through her, a reminder that summers in Montana were short and autumn days could be warm, but the night temperatures would start to dip, preparing everyone for the long, bone-chilling winters.