He waved to the bartender and pointed to Naiya’s glass, gesturing for a refill. “You have lots of time then. The next bus doesn’t leave for an hour. I’ll buy you another drink.”
Damn. She faked a smile and glanced over her shoulder. The bar had quieted down since Michael walked in the door, no doubt because most of the customers were the kind of people who could smell a cop a mile away. So what had happened to her well-honed senses? Probably the same thing that happened the night Viper had lured her to his office at the back of the Black Jack clubhouse. She’d let her guard down. Time to get the walls back up and go on the offensive or the next thing she knew, he’d be carting her off to jail.
“So are you on duty twenty-four seven, or do they give you time off for good behavior?” She tapped her foot to Bon Jovi’s, “Livin’ on a Prayer” and tilted her head to the side in her best imitation of Ally when she was at a bar trawling for fun. A woman with something to hide wasn’t going to hit on the man who could cuff her for real. Or so she hoped.
Michael startled at her sudden change in demeanor, and his brow creased in a frown. “Well I’m pretty much on duty all the time.” He lifted his glass. “Hence the water.”
Hence. Who talked like that? She couldn’t imagine Holt ever saying hence. She couldn’t imagine him in a suit. Although he’d looked damn sexy in that Black Jack cut. And even more sexy without it.
She gave herself a mental shake. Holt was gone and he wouldn’t be coming back. She’d burned that bridge twice over.
“Are you going to buy yourself an Idaho Springs shirt when you get there?” He gestured to her shirt again. “Seems tourist shirts are gaining in popularity. The owner of the gas station near the crime scene saw a man and a woman wearing Bolton Beaver shirts and riding a motorcycle not long after what we estimate to be the time of death.”
Run. Run. Run.
“Popular place, I guess.” Sweat trickled down her back, but she knew better than to give into her instincts. There was nothing that excited a predator more than fleeing prey. Not that she’d done anything wrong. Well, maybe she had. She’d been an accomplice to murder, an accessory after the fact, and she’d stolen a motorcycle, money, and weapons. This entire situation had thrown her carefully ordered life into chaos, and she couldn’t see a way out. “I’m sure there are lots of people riding motorcycles around here. I can imagine bikers would like the windy roads.”
Michael sighed and rimmed his water glass with his finger. “We’ll never know. Another biker showed up after they left, held a gun to the owner’s head, and took the video surveillance tapes.”
This time her surprise was genuine. “Why would he do that?”
“I thought at first they were working together, but the couple weren’t wearing biker cuts, and I don’t know any outlaw biker who would be seen dead without his cut.” He hesitated, his smile fading. “The owner of the gas station had a good memory for details, though. I have to say, you match his description right down to the shirt.”
Naiya’s heart pounded so hard she thought she would break a rib, and not just from fear. He was toying with her. Like a cat with a mouse. Or a Viper with a fifteen-year-old girl who was flattered by his attention. Well she wasn’t fifteen any more, and she was damn tired of his game. During her internship, she’d hung around with plenty of police and detectives. She’d partied with them, listened to them talk. If he had any evidence other than the vague recollection of a gas station owner, she would be cuffed and in his car already. But since he was clearly fishing, maybe she could turn the situation to her advantage.
“You still owe me a drink.” She patted his knee. “How about you order it while I freshen up?”
He covered her hand with his, trapping it against his leg. “How about you tell me what you were doing at that gas station and where your friend with the motorcycle has gone?”
Game over.
TWELVE
TANK
“Hey, biker. I remember you.”
Tank’s head jerked up and he tried to focus his bleary eyes on the woman standing at the bar beside him. But after eight beers and too many hours drinking at Rider’s Bar alone, it took him a full minute to place the fucking hotalicious babe, her curves spilling out all over the place. In her tight suit, her blonde hair in a sleek bob, a briefcase on the floor beside her, she stood out in the rough, dimly-lit biker bar, with its worn, stained tables, polished wood bar, and bike memorabilia scattered about. If she hadn’t been on the Conundrum news every night at six p.m., and if her face hadn’t been plastered on buses and billboards all over town, he might not have recognized her at all.
“Ella Masters. I’ve seen you on TV.” He held out a hand, hoped it was steady. What the hell was Conundrum’s top news reporter doing in the Sinners-owned Rider’s Bar? And what the hell did she want with him?