Justice Burning (Hellfire #2)(23)

While she ran a brush through her damp, auburn curls, Nash dressed in his jeans and pulled on his boots. By the time he was ready, she was standing at the door, her hand on the doorknob.

“Just so you know, just because we engaged in…” Her cheeks burned a bright red as she glanced around the room, as if searching for the right word.

“Lovemaking?”

Her gaze anchored on his. “Sex.” She pushed back her shoulders. “You’re not in any way under any obligation to me.”

He stiffened. “Is this your way of giving me the brush-off?”

Her eyes widened. “On the contrary. I’m giving you permission to walk away. No strings attached.”

Fighting anger at her dismissal, he closed the distance and pulled her into his arms. “I’d rather have your permission to take you on a date. To get to know you better.”

She snorted softly. “I’d say you know me better already than any of my family.” She rested a hand on his chest. “I just don’t want you to ruin your reputation with a murder suspect. You deserve better than that.”

“And you deserve to live your life as you see fit.”

“If I’m arrested, I might have to get my father to bail me out of this mess. Without him, I don’t have access to the best lawyers money can buy. Heck, I don’t even have the funds for the worst lawyers money can buy.”

“Hopefully, the situation won’t come to that.” He tried to pull her close to kiss her one more time.

Her hand on his chest firmed, and she held him off. “Promise me you won’t let anyone know we had a fling. I couldn’t bear it if you were dragged into this mess.”

“Only if you promise to go out with me when the dust settles.” He brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, loving how soft and silky it felt. He didn’t like that Phoebe was trying to protect him, when he was supposed to be protecting her.

“Deal.” She held out her hand.

He took it in his and shook before lifting it to his lips. “You’re an amazing woman, Phoebe. Don’t disappear on me when I’m just getting to know you.” Nash pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. With a slight tug, he pulled her against him and claimed her mouth in one last, desperate kiss. Something inside him told him it might be just that. The last kiss.

They left the house and climbed into his truck, heading for the county line where the Ugly Stick Saloon sat at the convergence of three counties. The parking lot was filled and overflowing with pickup trucks, SUVs and dusty cowboys.

Nash walked Phoebe past the rowdy bunch of men there to celebrate after a hard, hot day at the rodeo.

They entered through the front door, and Greta Sue, the bouncer built like a freight train, stepped in front of them. “Is that a banana in your pocket, or you just glad to see me?”

Nash leaned close and opened his jacket enough for Greta Sue to see the Glock tucked in a shoulder holster. “On duty, Greta Sue,” he whispered.

Her eyes narrowed. “I heard about the shooting earlier today.” Her gaze shifted to Phoebe. “Glad you’re taking care of our girl.” She stepped aside, allowing them to proceed.

Phoebe’s lips curled into a smile, her eyes filling with tears.

“What’s wrong?” Nash asked.

“Nothing. Everything’s great.” She glanced up at him, letting her smile spread across her face. “For the first time in my life, I just feel like I belong. It’s a good feeling.”

Nash’s heart squeezed in his chest at the look of joy on Phoebe’s face. She must have led a pretty lonely life in the city, despite all the people around her. Well, not anymore. She was one of them now.

Once inside, Phoebe went right to work, carrying trays of drinks to thirsty patrons.

Nash stood against the wall and waited for a seat at the bar to open, his gaze darting between the bar and Phoebe as she wove her way through the tables and cowboy boots, smiling and happy serving others. He could hardly believe she was the daughter of a multi-millionaire. She wasn’t at all concerned about serving others or breaking a nail. She wasn’t above the cowboys in their worn jeans and scuffed boots. She wore second-hand clothes and was damn proud to have them.

“She’s doing great,” a voice said beside him.

He turned to face Audrey, wearing a white blouse, a pair of jeans and her signature red cowboy boots with metal studs. “I thought you would be home with your leg up, babying your stitches.”

“I had to do some fancy talking to get Jackson to bring me. I told him I was uncomfortable lying down and standing was better. I also promised not to stay too long.” She spread her hands wide. “As you can see, they don’t need me anyway.”

“They will always need you, sweetheart.” Jackson joined them. “You’re what makes this place so great.”

“Damn right she is,” Nash agreed.

Audrey’s face reddened. “Thanks.”

For another minute, the three of them stood in silence. Nash couldn’t take his gaze from Phoebe. Something about the way she moved mesmerized him and made him count the minutes until he could get her back to the ranch house and in his bed. He hadn’t been looking for a woman to share his life, and he never thought the runaway bride he’d found on the road into Hellfire would be the one for him, but now…

“She’s a beautiful woman, our Phoebe,” Audrey said. “And she fits right in at the Ugly Stick. She’s smart, quick on her feet and has such a welcoming smile.” The owner of the saloon bumped shoulders with Nash. “You like her, don’t you?”

Nash stiffened. Were his feelings for Phoebe that obvious? “She’s okay.”

“You wouldn’t be hanging around so much, if you didn’t.” Audrey persisted.

He didn’t tell her what he knew about Phoebe and that Sheriff Olson had assigned him to protect the socialite.

“You don’t have to tell me anything about Phoebe, I have my sources.” Audrey crossed both arms over her chest. “You’d never guess she was the daughter of the Dallas billionaire Jonathon Sinclair.” Her smile faded, and she laid a hand on Nash’s arm. “I also know someone is after her, and that someone fired on you two earlier today. I’m glad neither of you were hurt.”

Nash shot a glance down at Audrey. “She almost didn’t come to work tonight, because she was afraid she’d bring trouble to the saloon.”

“I’m glad she came. I can’t get around easily to help out. Enough people are in the place that I doubt the shooter would try to get to her here.”

“Come on, darlin’,” Jackson said. “Let’s get you off your feet. The doctor won’t be happy if he finds out you came to work.”

Audrey frowned and rubbed the sides of her jeans. “I guess you’re right. My stitches are rubbing against the denim.”

Jackson winked. “Let’s get you home and naked where you can heal properly.”

Her eyes lit, and she turned into her husband’s arms. “Or we could get naked in the storeroom and count whiskey bottles or whatever else you had in mind.”

The pair was notorious for getting it on in the storeroom. After being together for a couple years and having a baby, they still acted like newlyweds who couldn’t get enough of each other.

Nash fought the grin threatening to spread across his face as Audrey led Jackson to the storeroom.

Shaking his head, Jackson protested, “We need to take this home where you don’t have to get dressed afterward.”

“Come on, big guy. I can’t wait that long.” Audrey didn’t look back, tugging him by the hand to the back of the building.

Nash’s attention returned to Phoebe who was waving from the bar. A stool had opened, and she sat in it to keep someone else from taking over. Hurrying across the floor, he arrived in time to kiss her soundly for saving him a spot.

Then she was back on the floor with a tray full of mugs and whiskey shooters.

“Hey.”

A commotion at the entrance made Nash rise from his seat, his hand on the gun tucked beneath his jacket. Two men in dark suits lifted Greta Sue by her arms and physically moved her out of the way.

Then a loud, booming voice called out over the music and laughter, “Phoebe Sinclair!”

The band stopped playing, and every gaze turned toward the man bellowing like a bull in a field full of heifers.

“Phoebe Sinclair, I will have words with you, young lady.”

Nash shot a glance toward Phoebe as the tray she’d been carrying tilted sideways and the empty mugs and bottles slipped off, landing with a crash on the floor.

She stood still, her face losing all its color, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip. “Daddy?”





12





Phoebe heard her father’s voice, and her knees wobbled and the tray she’d been carrying tilted. Before she could do anything to stop gravity from taking its due, everything she’d been carrying crashed to the floor. She spun to face the angry face of her father, the well-known entrepreneur and multi-millionaire, Jonathon Sinclair. “Daddy?”

“Phoebe Rochelle Sinclair, what the hell do you mean by running out on your wedding with a church packed full of people?”

Every face turned from her father toward her.

If she could have, she would have sunk through the floor. But she couldn’t, and she’d never have her independence if she didn’t stand up to her father and make her own wishes known. Stiffening her spine, she tilted her chin high. “I can’t marry Ryan.”