To the Limit (12 page)

Mac shouldered his way inside through the glut of bodies. He was tired, he was thirsty, and despite the fact that everyone he'd quizzed had seen a pretty blue-eyed blonde at some time during the day, he still hadn't spotted Eve. Neither had he seen any sign of Tiff. When he'd fished her picture out of his pocket and flashed it here and there, he'd come up with a lot of, "Man, I'd remember that weird chick if I'd seen her."

Of course, since those same expert witnesses had slopped beer on the snapshot and had to occasionally rely on a wall to keep vertical, he hadn't taken a lot of stock in what they'd said.

Somehow, he managed to squeeze his way up to the bar.

"Beer," he yelled above a noise level that would have tripped the meter at a Bulls game over the top of the scale.

"Thanks." After sliding a five across the bar, he turned and leaned his elbows back against it, watching the crowd with a mixture of envy and fascination. That used to be him, and not more than ten years ago. Now he felt like an old man as he wondered where they came up with the stamina to not only pull it off but also live to tell the tale.

Clyde College at the end of the bar was slamming tequila shooters to the roaring approval of his pals. Coed Cathy was crying in her beer while her girlfriends tried to sober her up. And—
hello
—in the corner, Larry Linebacker was putting the moves on a petite blue-eyed blond in a tiny red tank top and white pants.

Jackpot.

And what a haul it was. It was the first time since he'd looked down the business end of her .38 that Mac had had an actual opportunity to observe pretty Eve without her barking orders or leveling insults. She was completely unaware of his presence. And he was a tad too aware of hers.

She still took his breath away. Didn't look much older than the eighteen-year-old girl he'd talked into going all the way fourteen years ago. A sharp arrow of pure unadulterated lust shot straight to his gut and curled tight at a vivid memory of how she'd looked that night, all pretty and pink and naked.

Not now, numb nuts.
This was not the time for a little X-rated stroll down memory lane. The present was pretty damn pleasant anyway.

He tipped back his beer, never taking his gaze off her. God, she looked good. She wore her hair a little different now than she had back then. Longer. Fuller. A thick, sexy mass, streaked white and gold and subtle colors in between, that hit her bare shoulders and fell midway down her back.

He wasn't usually such a detail man, but this woman's details were just too lush to overlook. Full, pouty lips. Wide summer blue eyes. And that body. Jesus. No wonder Larry Linebacker was primed to light up her life. She was like a banquet of desserts. A small, delectable treat. What man in his right mind wouldn't want to nibble on her good parts before eating her whole?

A man who knew that the sugar-and-frosting-wrapped package was only window dressing, that's who. Eve Garrett was no simple cupcake, even though he took endless delight in calling her one. And she sure as hell wasn't a twinkie. She had a shrewd mind, a rapier tongue, and a degree in criminology. Tiff's flight path wasn't the only thing he'd studied last night. He'd taken a little time to check out E.D.E.N. Securities, Inc., on the Web.

The Garrett boys had been tough in high school— protective as hell and mean as caged tigers where their sister was concerned. Their military background and the credentials listed on the firm's Web site confirmed nothing had changed in that venue. Their little sister was no slouch, either.

No. This was no crumbling cupcake Mac was up against. This was a highly trained, experienced, and, given the fact that she'd beaten him to Key West, excellent investigator.

But right now it appeared she might be in a little trouble. The big bruiser was all over her, and when she finally spotted Mac watching her from the bar, damn if the first thing that registered in those baby blues wasn't relief.

Well, well. Wasn't that interesting?

Tough as nails, my-bad-ass-is-meaner-than-your-bad-ass Eve Garrett actually looked like she might have found herself in a position where she could use some help. Specifically,
his
help.

Hell, he could get into this. Thoroughly enjoying himself, Mac leaned a little farther back into the bar, grinned, and lifted his beer in greeting.

Her eyes glazed over. Anger? Warning? A little of both maybe, as her besotted and very drunken admirer braced a hand on the wall above her head and, leaning in close, slobbered something romantic in her ear.

Mac grinned a little wider, wondering if she'd actually swallow her pride and ask him to help her out. Clearly, she had a very amorous suitor who was emboldened by beer and dedicated to winning her over with his debatable charms.

She shot Mac another look. Hitched her chin. The significance of the gesture was as clear as any shout-out.
Get over here and help me.

Better and better.

Still, he played dumb—not much of a stretch if he read the look on her face right.

Finally, he decided to take a little pity on her. OK, maybe
pity
was the wrong word. He decided to play hero and wind up in her IOU department. He knew exactly what payment he'd take on that debt. Information. Whatever she'd turned up on Tiff Clayborne so far today would do nicely—and if any other talk of reward came up, hey, he was game.

He lifted his beer for a final deep swallow, then pushed away from the bar and sauntered over, magnanimous as hell, to help her out.

"Hey, babe." He edged a shoulder under the musclehead's armpit and hooked his arm around Eve's neck. "Thought I'd lost you."

He dropped his arm around her waist, hugged her hard— partly because she stiffened the minute he touched her and he knew it would piss her off and partly because he'd been itching to get his hands on her since she'd caught him sneaking into Club Asylum.

Her bare shoulders felt warm beneath his arm. She smelled like summer and subtly of sex—or maybe that was him.

"Who the fuck are you?" Larry demanded, beyond drunk and clearly perturbed that someone was cutting in on his action.

"Tyler McClain," Mac said amiably, and extended a hand. "My friends call me Mac. Hey, thanks for taking care of my girl here."

College boy scowled, weaved on his feet, and batted Mac's hand away. "
Your
girl? What the fuck you talkin' about?"

Beside him, Eve forced a smile. "I've been trying to tell you I was waiting for someone."

"Fuck that," Larry slurred, cutting a bleary glance Mac's way. "Me and the blonde here, we got a fuckin' thing goin'. So get fuckin' lost, ole man."

Clearly, they were not dealing with a language arts major.

"Happy to oblige," Mac said. "Come on, sweetie. Time for us old codgers to hit the hay."

"Not her, you fuckhead," Larry growled through a belch, and wrapped his beefy fingers around Eve's arm. "She fuckin' stays with me."

Mac saw her wince when the drunken Lothario grabbed her arm. Something he rarely let loose unraveled inside him. Rage. He'd taken the "ole man" crack in stride. But he wouldn't see her hurt.

"You've got about a nanosecond to get your hands off her, pal."

The kid, who was ten or twelve years younger and outweighed Mac by a hundred pounds, laughed. "Or what? You gonna fuckin' talk me to death?"

"Actually, I was thinking something more along this line."

The kid was on his knees, doubled over and moaning in pain, before he knew what hit him.

"How'd
that fuckin'
feel?" Mac asked cheerily as a shout of, "Fight!" rose like a battle cry through the bar.

"Great," Eve sputtered. "Just what I was trying to avoid. A scene."

Mac couldn't believe it. "You're welcome as hell," he ground out. "You want to avoid a scene, cupcake, you might try covering up some of the goods."

"You fuckin' sumbitch!" Larry roared, and, apparently numbed by alcohol and back in
fuckin'
business, grabbed Mac around the knees.

Only pride and clenched teeth kept him from screaming like a girl when his bad knee buckled. Pain shot through his leg like a bullet. He hit the floor face-first, tasted blood and excruciating pain as Larry fell on top of him.

Eve left McClain on a park bench in Mallory Square and went in search of ice and chocolate. By the time she returned, a crowd had started to gather in the warm tropical dusk in anticipation of the nightly occurrence of a spectacular Key West sunset.

He didn't see her return. His eyes were closed, his arms stretched out on either side of him on the back of the bench. His head hung back.

And he didn't look one damn bit appealing, she told herself grumpily as she cataloged the clean, sharp lines of his profile, the presence he made filling up that bench. What he looked was pathetic. Exhausted. And in pain.

Despite the fact that she was royally torqued at him, Eve couldn't help but feel a kernel of sympathy. OK, maybe more than a kernel, and that made her angrier still. He didn't deserve her sympathy, and she was a sap if she let down her guard around him.

She walked up to the bench and sat down. He stirred, winced, and slowly sat up a little straighter. When he looked up at her through his swollen eye, she shook her head and handed him the plastic cup full of ice she'd bought from a street vendor.

"For your eye."

He pressed it against his left knee and said exactly nothing.

She scooped her hair up off her neck and let a hint of a breeze, scented of sea and the dozens of food stands, dry the perspiration at her nape. It had been almost an hour since they'd managed to crawl out from under a full-blown riot of a bar fight, hail a pedicab, and ride away toward the sunset, the whine of police sirens rending the air behind them.

She was hot. She was tired—not to mention hungry— and she wasn't particularly pleased to find herself playing nursemaid to a man she didn't even like, let alone want to feel responsible for.

She ripped open the bag of M&M's, popped a couple, and offered the bag to McClain. When he shook his head, she thought,
Fine, more for me.

"You need to have a doctor look at that leg."

"While your concern is touching, don't worry about it. I'm fine."

"Yeah. I can see that. You're just like my brothers. Tough guys one and all. God forbid you knuckle under to a show of human
frailty,
like emotion, or pain."

Disgusted, she looked away. Munched on chocolate and watched the unorganized circus of events that began to unfold every afternoon in anticipation of sunset, when the tourists started to find their way to the square. A fire-eating unicyclist had drawn quite the crowd. A comic was happily insulting hapless bystanders to the amusement of those fortunate enough not to be singled out as targets. Little dogs that looked like pound rejects jumped through hoops and rode big dogs' backs near the seawall. A one-man band—the guy looked amazingly like Jimmy Buffett—played and posed for photographs for dollar bills. And a good time was had by all.

Well, maybe not all.

She glanced back to the man sitting stoically by her side. God, he was a mess. His lip was bleeding. He was probably going to end up with a heck of a shiner around his left eye. He'd also done a darn fine imitation of a man with a really bad leg when she'd dragged him out of the bar. But he was tough. He hadn't uttered one word of complaint. He was hurting, and hurting bad, but he wasn't about to admit it.

It was his own fault,
she thought in disgust. Then, because she felt herself softening toward him again, she did what she did best whenever she was around him. She bitched.

"You followed me, didn't you? Can't say that I appreciate it."

He lifted his head, gave her a bland look. "Imagine your surprise, then, when I tell you that I could give a damn about what you appreciate. And I didn't follow you. I followed a lead. And you're welcome, by the way."

"Just what am I supposed to thank you for? Drawing everyone's attention to us?" She snorted. "Yeah, that'll help me find Tiff."

"You could start with thanking me for saving your ass from that beer-swilling Romeo. And don't say you didn't ask for my help—or that you didn't look
appreciative
when you saw me."

"What I was hoping for was a little professional courtesy, a low-key extraction, not a street brawl."

"Which is exactly what I was trying to accomplish until the sonofabitch hurt you."