Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,24

ear, a star and a moon and a lightning bolt at the bottom, and another lightning bolt on the other side, plus a thick silver cuff encircling the outer area of her ear. She had that double ring in her eyebrow, too. All the hardware made the rest of her look even cuter, somehow, like she was playing dress-up.

“Want that hot buttered rum?” Harlan asked the redhead. Her eyes looked more amber than gold now, in the lower light. He’d never seen eyes like that. He wanted to keep staring at them. And at her mouth. It had so many curves in it, you wanted to stay there all night.

Well, maybe with a few detours south of her smile.

“You know what I really want?” she said. “Bourbon. My thighs ache, I know they’re going to ache more tomorrow, my day’s been way too exciting, and I have a bruise on my butt that’s three inches across. I’ve earned bourbon. Does your kindness extend to Jack Daniels?”

Harlan just about fell out of his chair.

Yep. Tennessee whiskey.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “My kindness extends all the way up to that bottle they keep on the top shelf. How do you like it?”

“Oh,” she said, “I like it strong.”

Well, hell.

The other girl, the blonde, looked like she wanted to say something, but she wasn’t sure what. Also, Harlan could’ve sworn she’d kicked the redhead under the table, because she jumped.

“So that’s one Jack, neat,” Harlan said, once he had his breathing regulated again. “And what else?”

“I’ll have a hot cider,” the blonde said. “I’m Dyma, by the way, and this is Jennifer.”

“Owen,” Owen said, “and the ugly guy’s Kris. I’m going to start out with hot cider myself. Sounds good.”

Harlan opened his mouth, and Owen shot him a look like, Dude. Do you really want to be Harlan Kristiansen tonight? You sure?

Well, no. Probably not. At least, he didn’t correct Owen. And when he went up to the bar to place the order, nobody recognized him, which was a strange feeling, like being in a foreign country, or maybe a dream. It really had all been about the hair. Now, he was just another guy. It felt weird, but maybe it felt good. Free. That fizzing thing again.

When he headed back over to the table, though, Jennifer wasn’t sitting down anymore. She was standing up, and standing straight, like she had some big announcement to make. Or like she’d been way too out there, and now she wanted to run. She said, “Actually, I needed—”

Owen said, “Hang on. I think this just got interesting.”

A group was coming out of the restaurant, passing through the bar area. A couple kids, and four guys. So?

Owen said, “The snowmobiles.”

Now Harlan saw it, too. One of the guys, the one who’d had his helmet off out there. Tall, a little beefy, and with a wide stance. The body language of a man who wanted to proclaim his status to the world, or who’d just done something incredibly stupid and was spinning his brain hard, trying to reset things to where he came out on top again. Or, possibly, trying to think up the way he’d explain this to his wife.

Because, yeah, there were no women in the party. Maybe that was why the beefy guy was checking out Harlan’s redhead, his eyes going up and down her body in her oh-hell-yeah ribbed sweater and tight jeans like he was measuring her for fit. He’d left the wife at home, so he thought he could look all he wanted.

Harlan saw that, and he saw something else, too. He saw the way she noticed how the guy was looking at her, and the way she tensed. Like she was just waiting for him to say something, and she knew it was going to be bad.

He didn’t spend time asking himself if he wanted to get into this. He went ahead and got into it.

8

Thing Three

Jennifer had three things that she needed to take care of. Right now.

Thing One. She needed to explain about Dyma. That was sweet of the other guy—Owen—to have hot cider with her, but Dyma was looking at him with way too much of her cute-and-fun, the Miss Adorable animation she couldn’t seem to help. And what if it wasn’t sweet at all? What if it was just manipulation? It didn’t take much talent for a guy to think, “I’ll have the same drink as her! Bonding!”

Which brought her to Thing Two. She needed to get control