Page 493 of Summer Heat
Tamara couldn’t stand it. “Don’t you dare have a fight in my bar,” she said. “Not if you ever want to drink here again.”
Gus looked at her. “Nothing personal, Tamara,” he said regretfully. Fast as lightning, he turned and threw a punch. Lance ducked, but not quite fast enough. A fist caught him across the eye.
“Stop it!” Tamara shouted.
Lance came up swinging, barreling into Gus with a grunt, and driving him backward into the wall. Two framed pictures of trout crashed to the floor. From the back room came the sound of the jukebox, kicking into a rowdy, loud country-western song.
It covered the noise of the fight. It was only Gus and Lance, roaring and tumbling over the space of the dance floor, knocking chairs and tables askew. The rest of the construction workers simply stood sentry at various doors and made sure no one else jumped in.
It happened so fast there was no time to react in the first few seconds, but as the two men spun around the room like a couple of brawlers in an old-time saloon, knocking things down, crushing furniture, Tamara lost her temper.
“Stop it!” she yelled again, and tried to round the bar, shoving at the man who blocked her way with a furious hand. “They’re trashing the place!” she cried. “Break it up.”
He didn’t move. Tamara backed away, and heard another crash. She whirled and saw a table go over, spilling salt and pepper. A tall jar of sugar crashed to the floor. She stared at the mess blankly for a second, thinking of how much work she’d have to do when these idiots quit their wrestling. Dinner would be late again, and she had an accounting test in the morning to study for.
Without a second thought, she jumped on to the bar, and then to the floor, vaguely planning to head for the door—or at least the pay phone near the rest rooms.
She dodged the guy closest by her, ducking down low to avoid him, and slipped out of his reach. Feeling victorious, she straightened to run for the door—
—and a fist came from nowhere and slammed into her face. The force of the punch landed right below her eye. Stunned, Tamara tumbled backward, feeling hands catch her as she fell.
Chapter Two
“Damn it, Gus,” Lance said, eyeing the pretty bartender, who now was sprawled on the floor, her hand cradled to her face. “Now look what you’ve done!”
Lance was trying to get out of this without hurting the big dumb dog, but the bartender was the last straw. Lance turned, doubled back and landed an elbow to Gus’s midsection. The air whooshed from him. Lance called up his famous left to the face—you didn’t brawl with an older brother for a decade without learning a few tricks—and a right to the gut. Gus went down.
His friends moved forward. “Don’t,” Lance said, wiping his mouth. A little blood, but not bad. He licked it experimentally, breathing hard from exertion. “One of y’all needs to go get the manager right now, or clear your butts outta here before the cops come. No point in all of us going to jail tonight.”
They weren’t as dumb as Gus, and most of them were likely in deep trouble with their wives for drinking up their paychecks as it was. They disappeared, leaving Gus grunting in the middle of the floor.
The woman sat on the floor by the barstool, blinking, her hand covering the place on her face where Gus had punched her. Lance knelt. “You all right?”
The bewilderment hadn’t worn off yet. She blinked those great big cat-green eyes at him as if she didn’t speak his language.
He reached out, and she drew back, wincing, as if she would be hit again. He paused. “I just want to see if you’re hurt, okay?”
Still she stared at him without comprehension. He moved slowly, reaching for her hand, which she held protectively over her cheek. It was a long-fingered, slim hand. Elegant in shape, but work worn. He carefully lifted her fingers from her face. “I’m just going to look at it, honey.”
She lowered her eyes, turning her face away. Lance caught her chin and lifted it toward the light. A blazing red mark showed across the cheekbone. By morning, it would be a big, ugly bruise, and she’d have a shiner like a brawler.
He grimaced. “I know that hurt.” A taste of blood struck his tongue, and he wiped his cut lip quickly. He took her hand and pulled her up. “Let’s get some ice on it right now.”
She let herself be led to the end of the bar. “You’re bleeding,” she said as he grabbed a bar towel.
“It won’t kill me.” He filled the bar towel full of ice and twisted the ends, then lifted it to her face.
“That really hurt,” she said.
It still hadn’t sunk in. Lance wanted to get out of there before it did—she struck him as a woman who might be dangerous if her temper were engaged.
But a part of him was reluctant to leave just yet. Up close she smelled faintly of margaritas and the clean sweat of a woman’s hard work, but there were lingering notes of some kind of light, flowery perfume. Not too sweet—maybe lavender. His mother grew banks of it along the back porch and he’d always liked the scent of it on an evening wind.
“You want to sit down?” he asked.
“For a minute.”
He pushed her onto the stool behind the bar, and quickly poured a glass of water that he put beside her. “I’m gonna have to get out of here before the sheriff comes to haul me to jail. My mother’s gonna kill me as it is.”
