He checked to make sure Simone and Kate weren’t looking this way and was relieved to see them engrossed in conversation at the bar.
“This is very weird,” Gabe said, but he pulled off his shirt and handed it to Ian, who handed over his in exchange.
Gabe was narrower in the chest and shoulders than Ian was, so the black cotton was stretched a little tight. But he’d accomplished his goal: his tattoos were on full display, from his biceps down to his forearms.
Mick watched the wardrobe exchange with his eyebrows raised. “When did we take the time machine back to the nineties? I haven’t seen those tats since high school. Not outside of the gym, anyway.”
“Long story,” Ian said, looking around for the next item on his list.
He grabbed a kid walking by. “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks for”—he thought for a second—“three of your earrings.”
He’d once sported a lot more piercings than that, but most of them had closed up over the years, leaving two in his left ear and one in his right that he could put a stud through without drawing blood.
The kid blinked. He was probably figuring he’d still have plenty of earrings left after giving up three, and a hundred bucks would buy a lot of beer.
“You got it,” he said. “Which ones?”
Ian chose a black skull, a silver cross, and a fake-diamond stud. The kid took them out while Ian counted out five twenties.
Gabe picked up the jewelry from the table before Ian could.
“I don’t think that guy has showered in a while. Let me sterilize these.” He dropped them into a shot of vodka and pushed it towards Ian. “Okay, that should do it.”
“Good thinking,” Ian said, fishing out the earrings and putting them in.
All the guys at the table were staring at him now.
“What the hell?” asked Stephen.
“Long story,” Ian said again. “By the way, can I borrow your Harley?”
“Hell, no, you can’t borrow my—”
“Oh, let him have it,” Mick interrupted. “You can go home in the limo with us. I don’t know what’s going on, but Ian’s obviously on some kind of mission. Maybe he’s going undercover for the CIA.”
Stephen grumbled but gave in, fishing the keys out of his pocket and tossing them across the table.
“Just make sure you take care of my baby.”
“You bet.” Ian looked at Mick. “It’s okay if I bail?”
“As long as you’re at the church on time tomorrow. Good luck on your mission.”
“Thanks, man.”
On his way back to the bar, he stopped off at the men’s room and took a look in the mirror.
He shook his head slowly. Was he really going out there like this? To help a woman who irritated him like a case of prickly heat and hated his guts into the bargain?
Oh, well, what the hell. Call it his good deed for the year.
Needing one more disreputable touch, he turned on the faucet and stuck his hands under the water for a second. Then he ran them through his hair, messing it up as much as he could.
It wasn’t perfect, but at least he matched the earrings a little better now.
He grinned suddenly at his reflection. This wasn’t the usual armor for a white knight doing his best to rescue a damsel in distress, but it would have to do.
Kate was tossing down her third shot of the night when Simone gave a sudden gasp.
“Sweet Mary and Joseph. If you don’t want him, will you let me have him? Please?”
Kate spun her barstool around to look, and her brain short-circuited.
It was Ian Hart—in the same way that Clark Kent is Superman.
He was leaning against the bar with a half smile on his face. Kate took him in from his toes to the top of his head and gave a silent prayer of thanks that she was sitting down.
Whatever fantasy man she’d been picturing in her head, this one looked better.
The business suits Ian usually wore gave an impression of size and muscle while leaving something to the imagination. Kate realized now that Ian’s secret identity as Corporate Guy had been protecting the women of Manhattan from the full effect of his sheer masculine power.
His chest and shoulders were a wall of muscle barely contained by the thin material of his tee shirt. His arms were covered in tattoos that extended to the middle of his forearms. The gleam of silver and onyx at his ears gave him the air of a pirate or a gangster, depending on your fancy. His black hair was rakishly disheveled and, along with the stubble on his jaw, presented a tactile temptation almost impossible to resist.
She curled her fingers into the palms of her hands so they wouldn’t do anything of their own volition.
“So what’s the verdict? Do I pass muster?”