He met her gaze for a mere second, then his eyes slid away. “I’m sure Saint will be happy to feed you.”
“You bet,” Jamie said.
Maria watched, fascinated, as Jake glared at Jamie, some kind of male stare down going on between the two of them. “What was that all about?” she asked after Jake strode away.
“He won’t admit it even to himself, but he’s not liking me anywhere near you.”
That was a positive sign, wasn’t it? “Come on. Let’s go see the most beautiful baby in the world.” She’d think about Jake and the next step in her campaign to wear him down later.
Jake pushed the papers aside and pressed his fingers over the bridge of his nose. This was what happened when you let a woman get under your skin. You couldn’t concentrate, and in this business that was deadly.
His stomach growled, and he glanced at his watch. It was only nine, and he’d intended to spend several more hours mapping out a plan to rescue the spoiled, rich kid/terrorist-in-the-making. He could head over to Buck’s on the Beach and find Rosie, or Connie, maybe Karen—didn’t really matter which one—and try his best to get Maria out of his mind. Yeah, that’s what he’d do.
After flipping off the lights and setting the alarm, he stood outside the K2 building and looked up at the sky. Nothing but stars, a perfect night for drinking on the beach. He got behind the wheel and pointed his car toward his favorite pickup bar.
As always on a Friday night, Buck’s was packed. Jake made his way out onto the back deck and claimed the one empty seat at the bar.
“Jake, my man,” Buck greeted, sliding a bottle of Dos Equis toward him.
“You got uglier since the last time I saw you,” Jake said, catching the beer before it slid past.
The old man gave a hearty laugh. “Good thing the girls don’t think so.”
He estimated Buck to be around seventy, and his beach bar had been a hot spot for as far back as Jake could remember. The story was that thirty or forty years ago, Buck had sat on a chair in the sand, and without any building plans, had told the construction workers to put a wall here, one there, a bar to the left, a stage to the right, and so on.
Jake believed it. The place looked like the Mad Hatter had built it with mismatched pieces of wood that had washed up on the beach. The only reason city officials hadn’t closed it down for not meeting code was because the locals would run them all out of office if they tried to mess with Buck’s place.
Buck glanced over Jake’s shoulder and grinned. “Looks like Carly’s headed your way.”
Hell. “Her boyfriend around tonight?”
“Should be getting off duty in about an hour. Why don’t you just give in and fight the man? I’ll set up a ring out on the sand and you two can go at it. Unless you’re ah-skeered of him.” Buck cackled and moved down the bar.
Jake grunted and took a sip of the ice-cold brew. He could take the dude on, but just didn’t see the sense in tangling with a cop. No good could come of it.
“Hi, Jake.” Carly squeezed in next to him.
“Hey, Trouble.”
“Aw, you say the sweetest things. That’s why I like you. Come dance with me.”
“I get anywhere near you, beautiful, and Mr. Big Bad Policeman’s gonna trump up a reason to throw me in jail. Go find someone else to play with.”
Full, red lips formed a pout. “I want to play with you. Pleeease.”
Not happening. He’d danced with her before he knew she had a jealous cop for a boyfriend. The man had gunned for him ever since. No woman was worth fighting over. Maria is, said a voice in his head. Dammit. He was here to get her out of his mind.
“Buck,” he called and held up his empty bottle. Carly’s hand found its way to his thigh, and he sighed. There must be a hundred plus men here tonight. Why him? His beer came sliding down the length of the bar. Jake picked it up and stood.
“Here, have a seat.”
When she was settled, he noted that her miniskirt barely covered her crotch. She was trouble, all right. “Later,” he said and walked away.
Was this to be his existence? Hanging out in bars, looking for the next pickup, and fighting off women who were trouble. He hadn’t thought much about it before—had rather liked his life, the danger of his job, the fun of deciding who he’d take home. He still loved what he did for a living, but the glitter of his nightlife was quickly fading.
An image of him at fifty or sixty—the hair from one side of his head swept over to the other in a futile attempt to hide his bald spots—and hanging out at Buck’s hoping to score played through his mind like a bad movie.