Mercenary's Honor. Sharron McClellan
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toward him. “Excuse me?”
He didn’t acknowledge her. “Excuse me?” she said again, raising her voice and taking another step in his direction. “Angel?” she whispered, taking the chance he was the mercenary.
He sipped his coffee, showing no sign of recognition of the name. The pit in her stomach deepened.
“We are not open yet, señorita,” the bartender said as he continued to hand-wash the bar glasses.
“Oh.” She turned away from the dark man. “I don’t want a drink.” She went to the bartender. They were supposed to know everything. “I need a man,” she whispered
He grinned. “Who do you want?”
Judging by the goofy expression on his tanned face, he thought she meant sex. Now was not the time for jokes. A vision of Anthony flashed across her eyes.
For what seemed like the millionth time since she ran away, she pushed the bloody image out of her mind and blinked back tears. Later, when the film was safe, she’d mourn. “Not like that. I need a specific man. He’s called Angel. I was told he came here. A lot.”
“Angel? I don’t know him.” The bartender shook his head, and his eyes remained on her, not sliding toward the dark man. Not even for a second.
Fiona’s heart dropped. “I was told he came here,” she insisted. Almost as if she floated outside her body, she heard her voice grow higher, more frightened and shaky. She didn’t care. “I was told.”
“You were told wrong,” the bartender said, disentangling her hands from his shirt. “Let me get you a cup of coffee.”
She hadn’t realized she’d grabbed him. Fiona stuffed her hands into her pockets. Her fingertips touched Tony’s footage, and she yanked that hand back out.
Taking a deep breath, she sat on a barstool and let her head drop to the wooden bar. This was not going well. Not at all.
“Here, you need this more than me,” a deep voice said.
She raised her head in time to see the dark man slide his shot glass toward her. She stopped it before it sailed over the end of the bar. “It’s not even noon.”
“Suit yourself.” He went back to his coffee.
She eyed the liquid. Though it was pale yellow in color, it still looked like something someone had made in their bathtub. And she was not much of a drinker, in any case. Still, she picked it up.
Tony flashed through her thoughts. His quick wit. His laugh. His bloody death. “Screw it,” she whispered. Tipping her head back, she downed the shot.
Mescal, she realized as it burned a path down her throat. She put her hand over her mouth, a coughing fit doubling her over.
“Drink this.” The bartender’s voice cut through the hacking sound of her cough. After she caught her breath, she noticed the cup of coffee, with milk and sugar on the side, on the bar in front of her.
“Thanks,” she said, adding the milk.
He patted her hands. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, her voice strangled as she fought back tears.
His eyes widened. “I insist,” he said, disappearing into a back room.
It was the tears, Fiona thought as the door swung shut. It didn’t matter the nationality, men freaked when a woman cried.
Fiona took a deep breath, shut her eyes, and assessed the situation. She was on the run. It was a matter of hours, at best, before Montoya figured out who she was. She needed Angel. If she couldn’t find him, she’d have to make her own way out of the country. For now, she’d assume the worst.
That she was on her own.
Okay. What do you do? she asked herself.
First, a disguise, she decided. She needed to hide herself. She touched the scarf that covered her head and realized it had slipped. She tried to fix it, but her shaking hands refused to cooperate. Frustrated, she yanked it off, wishing her hair was anything but blond. Dye would help, but there was no way she could conceal her fair skin and blue eyes. Hell, her height alone, just shy of six feet, made her an object of curiosity amongst the people in South America.
“Why do you want Angel?” the dark man asked, interrupting her thoughts.
Startled, Fiona spilled her coffee. The hot liquid spread across the bar and dripped onto her lap, making her hiss in pain. Great. “I was told he could help me,” she said as she grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins to clean the mess.
“Help with what?” He turned to face her.
The dark circles beneath his eyes drew her initial attention, and she wondered if he ever slept. Her eyes slipped upward, past the smudges to his clear hazel eyes. He held her gaze, then his attention slid down her body, taking in everything from her head to her feet, including her bloody jeans. She let the wad of napkins drop to her lap, but no amount of coverage could hide the dark stains that soaked her from thigh to knee. Touching her hair, she brought his attention back to her face and away from her clothes. “I’ll only talk to him,” she replied, her tone aloof. “So unless you can tell me where he is, I can’t say a word.”
The man shrugged. “I might know. He doesn’t like to be bothered. What happened? Domestic problem?” His eyes went to her jeans again.
Domestic problem? Fiona swallowed back a hysterical giggle. “An accident.”
“That’s a lot of blood for an accident,” he said. Rising from the barstool, he walked toward her.
He was tall, just over six feet three inches, and broad. Like a linebacker.
And as intimidating as one of Montoya’s enforcers.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She nodded. “It’s not mine.”
“Don’t cry,” he said.
“I’m not,” she said, then realized she was doing exactly that. Tears slid down her cheeks, dripping onto the napkins covering her lap. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, it’s just—” She stopped herself. What was she going to say?
That she’d watched a man, a friend, die?
Her eyes felt hot. Itchy. She willed the dark man to stop staring at her.
But he refused to turn away. “Tell me why you want Angel, and I’ll see if I can find him.”
She pressed her hand against the dark man’s chest to steady herself. His heart beat strong against her palm. Warm. Alive.
The burden, the pain, was too great to bear any longer. She had to trust someone. Just a little. “I can’t tell you, but if you find Angel, tell him that Anthony Torres sent me.”
“Tony?” Recognition flashed across his eyes.
“You know him?”
The man nodded. For the third time, his eyes slid to her clothes. “Is Tony okay?”
Fiona tried to answer, but all that came out was a stuttered gasp as she tried to breathe.
It seemed to be enough of an explanation for the stranger. His eyes darkened, and she prayed he didn’t direct his anger in her direction. Because if he did, she was dead. “Juan,” he barked, “bring me another shot.”
“No,” came the muffled answer from behind the door.
The dark man leaned over the bar and grabbed the bottle of mescal.
Fiona shook her head. “I have to stay sober. They’re after me.” She clamped her hand over her mouth at the slip.
“Who? The men who killed Tony?”
Her head jerked up,