The Angel And The Outlaw. Ingrid Weaver
he’d spoken bluntly yet his actions had been tinged with…chivalry.
She shook her head. He was an ex-con who was a bartender at a place she had never worked up the nerve to enter. Who knew what else he did to earn his income? Although her gut feeling told her he wasn’t as bad as he seemed, she had to be realistic. There was a possibility he might still be involved in crime to some extent.
A knight in shining armor he wasn’t. More like a lone wolf in a Metallica T-shirt.
And she wasn’t exactly fair-damsel material.
Hayley wiped the fog from the mirror over the sink with her forearm and stared at her reflection. The mud was gone, but she was still a mess. Not sleeping or eating regularly tended to do that. Over the past seven months she had thrown all her energy into proving Oliver guilty and praying her father lived long enough to see it. Her life had become a blur of vigils at the courthouse and visits to the nursing home. It was no mystery why the verdict had made her go off the deep end.
Cooper had seemed to understand. He hadn’t condemned her. He had regarded her attempt on Oliver’s life as an inconvenience rather than a sin.
She didn’t know how she felt about that. Sure, it was nice not to be judged—Lord knew, she’d been judged all her life and found wanting—but what kind of person could be so casual about something so wrong?
Then again, what did she know about ex-cons? Even less than she knew about the boys who hung around under the bleachers and smoked.
It had still been dark when Cooper had brought her home. The two-story Victorian where she had grown up was at the opposite end of town from his bar, on a street of large houses canopied by hundred-year-old maple trees. It was a safe, well-established neighborhood, yet Cooper had waited at the curb until she’d retrieved her spare key from the planter on the veranda and unlocked the front door. Even after she’d closed it behind her, she had heard the sound of his pickup idling in front of the house. It wasn’t until she had turned on the foyer light that she’d heard him drive away.
Considering the tense way their conversation had ended, she had planned to call a taxi, but he’d driven her home anyway. It was the same kind of concern he’d shown earlier, only he had denied it was concern.
He’d called her brother a son of a bitch and yet he claimed he wanted to bring Adam’s murderer to justice.
Why?
She tossed aside the towel, picked up a comb and started on her hair.
He’d said he had no choice. It didn’t make sense. He’d implied he was being forced to take her side even as he’d insisted that could never happen. He’d told her to back off and trust him to get Oliver.
She had been too shaken to argue last night. He must have taken her silence for agreement.
She was going to have to set the record straight.
“Sorry, ma’am. We don’t open until noon. It’s only eleven.”
“Yes, I know. I’m looking for someone. He said he works here.”
At the sound of the woman’s voice, Cooper snapped up his head to look across the room. Through the forest of upended chair legs he saw Pete Wyzowski, the Long Shot’s manager/bouncer, standing at the front entrance. Whoever he was talking to was hidden behind his bulk and the half-open door. He had one foot wedged firmly behind it. Since the door was constructed of oak planks over steel and Pete had a build like a bulldozer, no one smaller than a line-backer could hope to force their way inside.
“Come back in an hour,” Pete said.
“Please, it’s extremely important. He’s a bartender here.”
“A bartender?”
“His name is Cooper Webb.”
Pete placed one hand on the door frame to bar the narrow gap he’d allowed and twisted to look at Cooper. “A bartender?” he repeated. He lifted his eyebrows.
Cooper tossed his pen on the stack of credit-card receipts he’d been going through and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had hoped to have this paperwork done an hour ago. He hated paperwork. He stunk at math. If his schedule hadn’t been so tight, he might have welcomed the interruption.
“If he isn’t here yet, just tell me when you expect him.”
Pete returned his attention to the woman outside. “That’s hard to say, ma’am. Cooper’s got a killer commute.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“Let me give him your phone number and—”
“It’s all right, Pete,” Cooper said. He might as well get this over with, he thought, as he moved from behind the bar. “I’ll take it from here.”
Pete stayed where he was until Cooper reached him. “Sure, boss.” He let go of the door and gave Cooper a friendly punch in the arm. “But if you don’t want her phone number, give it to me.”
Cooper had seen the punch coming so he managed not to get knocked sideways. He waited until Pete moved off to begin righting the chairs and setting them on the floor before he looked outside.
He had an instant of confusion. He’d been expecting Hayley to return since he’d driven her home. He’d been certain he’d recognized her voice—Hayley Tavistock had a throaty way of talking that any man would remember—but the woman who stood in front of him didn’t look anything like the one he’d left six hours ago.
She was still as blond as she’d been in high school. With all the mud, he hadn’t been able to tell before. Rich curls like the kind he’d expect to see on pictures of angels framed her face and tumbled over her shoulders. She was wearing a tailored jacket the color of cream. The matching skirt ended well above her knees, treating him to a good view of her long legs. She looked classy and sexy at the same time.
“Hello, Mr. Webb.” She shifted the purse she carried to her left hand and extended her right. “If you’re not too busy, I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes.”
He glanced at her hand. The mud was gone from that, too. Her skin was pale, her nails clean and buffed to a shine. He remembered how good it had felt when she’d gripped his leg. He wondered how much better it would have felt without the barrier of denim. He enclosed her hand in his.
As soon as he touched her, his confusion dissolved. She might have cleaned up, but she hadn’t been able to scrub away the tremor in her fingers.
He moved his gaze to her face. Back in high school she’d been cheerleader-cute. Not his type, yet he couldn’t deny he’d noticed. Problem was, she’d been an underage girl from a family of cops so he’d steered clear. Now she was all woman. She had the kind of bone-deep beauty that even mud and matted hair hadn’t disguised. Her lips were full and shaped in a feminine bow. Her eyes were hazel and tipped up at the corners, as if she should be on the verge of a smile.
She didn’t appear to be a woman who had smiled much lately. The hollows in her cheeks weren’t from a trick of makeup. And no amount of makeup could hide the weariness that pinched the edges of her lips or the despair that shadowed her gaze.
Cooper studied her more closely. Her skirt was too loose on her. He realized she didn’t quite fill out the jacket, either. Along with the hollows in her cheeks it all pointed to a recent weight loss. He felt a sudden rush of sympathy. And he had a crazy urge to yank her closer and do what he hadn’t done last night. He wanted to kiss her until her lips lost their tension and her eyes filled with desire instead of despair.
And he had an even crazier urge to wrap her in a blanket again and carry her someplace safe.
He dropped her hand and hung on to the door. Since when was he anyone’s protector? She might stir his hormones, but she was an inconvenience, a distraction he couldn’t afford. “There’s not much point talking, Hayley. I already said everything I wanted to say.”
“All