“Yeah, Clyde. Thanks.” She palmed the bartender a five. He slid her Corona across the bar.
The music was so loud she couldn’t hear herself think. That was a good thing. She didn’t have to think about the secrets she’d revealed to Cameron or the insults she’d thrown at Witt.
Men were an alien breed. They just didn’t get it when you tried to protect them. Hell, she’d never made a very good wife. She was the first to admit that. And she wouldn’t make a good whatever it was Witt thought he wanted. She just wasn’t any good at relationships. She punctuated the thought with a slug from her Corona, as if the end justified the means, as if slamming Witt was okay because she wanted to protect him from getting hurt down the road.
Damn it, thinking about the guy had thrown her off her stride, too. In fact, her eyes roaming around the Round Up, Max realized she’d lost her appetite for the one-night stand she’d thought she’d wanted so badly. She’d have gathered up her change and driven off into the sunset if ...
If she hadn’t just made eye contact with Jake Lloyd across the dance floor.
Two things hit her simultaneously. First, she stood in the exact spot Tiffany had been that night as she’d met Jake’s eyes across the same crowded dance floor. And second, she was more than willing to sleep with the man in order to find the answer to even one of her questions.
Like where the hell Nadine Johnson was.
She was willing to do anything if it would help find Jules’s killer.
“How noble of you,” she murmured, then saluted herself with a bottle of beer. The nice thing about speaking for Cameron was that she could be decidedly less harsh on herself than he would have been.
But would you really sleep with him, Max? Yeah, Cameron would have asked that. The truth was, Max didn’t know for sure. Not until she actually did it.
Jake took his time winding through the throng, stopping here to let his eyes glide over a busty, tight-jeaned girl, stopping there to smile as a woman sidled by him, her ass brushing the front of his jeans.
Watching him, Tiffany panted inside Max. Her temperature rose. Her pulse rate doubled. Her skin flushed. But she didn’t move, didn’t bat an eyelash, didn’t allow Tiffany one iota of acknowledgment beyond those purely physical reactions.
He didn’t chat with anyone and always his gaze returned to Max. He disappeared from view as the music changed and a new set of dancers moved onto the floor for a slow one. Slow dancing was serious. Slow dancing didn’t require technical skill. Slow dancing was for the one you had your eye on. Max knew that better than anyone.
Jake leaned on the bar next to her. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for Tiffany’s killer to walk up and ask me to dance.”
He was prepared for whatever she threw his way. He didn’t fumble, didn’t let a nuance of fear stain his gaze. “Why don’t you take me instead?”
“Smooth answer.” He wasn’t a regular at the Round Up. She would have remembered him if he was. There was only one conclusion; he was there to look for her. Maybe to find out what else she knew. Maybe to screw her. Maybe to silence her. She took up the challenge. “I’ve almost finished my beer. Buy me another.”
The corner of his mouth rose. The half-grin was nowhere near as sexy as Witt’s. “And what are you going to give me for that beer?”
“A dance.” Max lowered her lashes, smiled, then raised her eyes once more to his. “Is there anything else you wanted?”
Fire leaped in his brown eyes. Tiffany shuddered as his gaze clung to the outline of Max’s breasts. Oh yeah, the guy wanted more. He wanted to get laid, in addition to pumping her for information. His ex-wife’s body had been dumped right next to this very place exactly one week ago, and the guy was more than willing to take Max to bed.
He could have no idea he’d be taking Tiffany to bed, too.
If she let him. She wasn’t sure he’d win the toss.
Would you, Max? Would you really?
God, even when he wasn’t around, she felt Cameron hammering inside her head.
Jake reached out to touch Max’s red necktie. “Your tie’s a little too tight, don’t you think?” He loosened it, then undid the top three buttons of her white shirt. She let him. It was part of the game. Her nipples were hard against the stiff material. There was no doubt she hadn’t worn a bra.
How did he feel standing in the same place he’d stood with his wife the night she was murdered? She wanted to ask, but didn’t. She wanted to push him enough to get answers, not enough to make him run.
“Why the change of attitude, Jake? A couple of days ago, you told me to stay the hell away from you. What’s your game?” She knew damn well sex was only part of it. Sex was only part of what anyone at the Round Up was looking for.
He leaned close to catch her words. He smelled of aftershave, one reminiscent of Witt’s, and his voice, when he answered, was honey in her veins. If she closed her eyes, she could almost make believe he was Witt.