Lana's Lawman (27 page)

“When I'm lucky.” She was as sharp as she was beautiful.

Oh, this woman would be fun to play with. He'd known that after less than twenty-four hours on the
job. He just hadn't expected to find that tantalizing bit of knowledge so difficult to ignore.

But then he hadn't expected he'd have to deal with her personally. Much less work for her.

None of which changed the bottom line. He'd broken more rules than he'd ever followed, but one he kept sacred was the division between work and play. Playing on the job got people dead.

She stood. He sighed inwardly. A damn shame, though. A real damn shame.

“The kitchen is through that door.” She motioned across the hall behind him. “Lunch is in an hour. If you're still here by six and no one has threatened to shoot me.” She paused to run her gaze over him again. It was totally impersonal and all the more erotic for the easy nonchalance. “Or you,” she added, “then you have the job.”

Diego held her gaze for just a split second beyond what was acceptable. At the door he looked back over his shoulder. “No ID or tax information?”

Her attention was already back on the open ledger in front of her. “If you're still here at six, I'll worry about it then.”

“You don't even know my name.”

She glanced up and nailed him with a steady look that made him glad he was on her side.

“You made it past Tejo,” was all she said, then looked down again. She flipped open another accounting book, shutting him out more completely, more effectively than anyone he'd ever encountered.

Except perhaps her father. Diego's boss.

The man she and Tejo thought had died thirteen years ago.

Diego wrapped the apron strings around his waist twice and tied them in front, leaving the fabric a bit loose around his hips. His new uniform made concealing a gun impossible. Which was why Diego had learned long ago to arm himself in other ways. Actually, that instinct was inbred. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he hadn't spent each second fully cognizant of any and all potential threats.

Unfortunately, long sleeves were also out, so he had to find another place to conceal his knife.

He pulled a handful of datil peppers onto the chopping board and picked up the knife lying next to it. He'd been surprised and pleased to find the plump orange peppers in her stock. They weren't all that common. Sweet, hot, and just a shade too spicy for most people.

His thoughts turned to Blue. Yes, a shade too spicy for most people.

And Diego didn't believe in mild anything. Not salsa. And most certainly not women.

But Blue was off-limits. Giving in to a brief but heartfelt expletive, he turned his mind back to his work. Balancing the long kitchen knife on his palm, he tested the weight, then ran the edge of the blade along his arm. Every hair still in place.

He let out a disgusted sigh. “First thing we do is get your knives sharpened, Ms. Delgado.” He quickly
located the steel and set about honing every blade he could find, until each one could shave a man without benefit of warm water or shaving cream. At least the ones worth sharpening, which were too few, but enough to get the job done. The rest he tossed in a tray and shoved on a shelf over the stove within easy reach.

Never know when an extra knife or two might come in handy. And not just for cooking.

He made short work of the peppers, then quickly set about chopping the remaining ingredients to his salsa. His mouth curved slightly as he scraped the jalapeños into the mix. His salsa and plenty of chips would keep Tejo busy serving up
cervesa
while he started the quesadillas.

He had flour tortillas on the griddle and his mind on Blue Delgado's voice when the woman herself pushed through the kitchen door.

“Finding everything okay?”

He didn't look up from his place in front of the old grill. “You need new knives.” He turned to the counter and began swiftly chopping onions. For a moment the only sound in the room was the sizzle of the grill and the rapid tap of his blade on the cutting board. Finished, he balanced the knife in one palm and reached for the chicken thawing on the counter.

“You don't seem to be having a problem with them.”

His fingers tightened instinctively around the base of the knife, feeling the weight, the uneven balance. Not designed for throwing, he thought, automatically
calculating the adjustments he'd have to make. As a means of distracting himself, it was a dismal failure.

“I sharpened the ones I could. You need a new steel too.” He slowly relaxed his grip, but not his control. He was the cook. That was all.

At least that was what she had to believe.

A fact he was rapidly realizing he couldn't forget either.

He felt her move closer, knew she was scanning his work in progress. The muscles across his shoulders tightened. It had nothing to do with worrying about job performance.

He knew he could cook.

Just as he knew he could do the job he was sent here to do.

She stepped closer to him, then plucked a chip from one of the bowls he had lined up, ready to go out. He continued working on the meat, but watched with interest when she scooped up a healthy amount of salsa and slid it between her lips.

He began a mental count, waiting for the peppers to hit.

She merely smiled over at him. “Good salsa. If the rest is as good as this, you're hired.”

She walked over to the industrial-size refrigerator and his chopping stilled as he found himself unwittingly caught up in the easy glide of her body. He welcomed the chill that swept briefly across the room as she pulled out a frosty bottle, taking her time popping the top.

“Bring the forms back with you at six,” was all he said.

She helped herself to a slow pull, then another healthy shot of salsa. Popping the rest of the chip in her mouth, she caught and held his gaze, the beer dangling as if forgotten from her fingers.

“Quiet, confident,” she said, her tone more amused than flattering. “I like your style, Diego Santerra.”

She drew him in far too easily. He wasn't there to make friends. Or anything else, for that matter. He was there to save her life.

“Just respect a woman who knows good salsa when she tastes it.”

“Well, you might try some habañero peppers next time,” she said, naming one of the spiciest peppers grown. “Perk it up a bit.”

“You got'em, I'll use 'em. But I take no responsibility for your customers' stomachs.”

She smiled. “Oh, we like things hot around here.”

Diego looked up at her again, but there wasn't so much as a hint of innuendo in her expression or in her voice. No, that wasn't her style.

“Well, I'll see what I can do about that.”

She paused a moment before answering. “You do that.”

Just then there was a loud commotion followed by the sound of at least two men yelling and glass shattering.

Despite the noise, Diego heard Blue mutter a rather earthy expletive. He turned back to his chopping,
hiding the sudden urge to smile. “Sounds like you're needed up front.”

Another round of shattering glass erupted, followed by a solid thud and the splintering sound of furniture breaking.

“Please, keep working. I can handle it,” Blue said.

“Hey, I'm just the cook.” Diego snagged her gaze as she turned to go. “Of course if it's the salsa they're fighting over, you just give a yell and I'll see what I can do.”

She studied him for a moment, as if unsure what to make of her new almost employee. Diego let her look her fill, but inwardly cursed his newly fast tongue.

Stay quiet, stay in the background, observe, learn, protect. That was his function. He didn't like having to be reminded of that. Especially when he was the one having to do the reminding.

The bar fight didn't overly concern him. The only person he needed to worry about was standing in front of him. And from the sounds penetrating the thin walls, Diego doubted the altercation was anything other than a typical barroom brawl.

Finally she shrugged and let a hint of a smile curve her lips. On a soft sigh that got all tangled up somewhere inside him, she said, “A woman's work is never done.”

Turning back to his chicken, he chopped a bit faster.

The uproar blasted louder for a second as the door swung open then muted slightly as it shut. Diego
waited ten seconds, scraped the sliced chicken onto the cold half of the griddle, covered it, then moved easily and quietly to the door.

Not that anyone would have noticed if he'd knocked down half the pots and pans in the place. He eased the door open just in time to hear the cocking of a shotgun.

Blue's smoky voice somehow managed to rise above the din. “Flaco, take your hands off Jimmy and put the glass down before I blow away the only thing keeping your wife from leaving you. Tigger, I see you sneaking out the door. Since you suddenly seem in an all-fired hurry to leave after busting up half my place, why don't you do me a favor and send Sheriff Gerraro?”

“Blue, no, it's okay. No sheriff,
por favor.
”

The pleading voice belonged to Flaco. Apparently he was more afraid of the law than of disappointing his wife. Not a very smart man.

Diego shifted a bit so he could watch Blue. She nodded to the man at the door. “Okay, no sheriff. Tigger, you stay and help clean up this mess. You boys owe me a couple of new stools and a tray of mugs.”

When Jimmy and Tigger opened their mouths to protest, she leveled a steely-eyed glare at them. “I'll forget the beer you wasted on my floor and the green felt I have to repair on the pool table.”

To give them some credit, they held up under her intimidating stare far longer than Diego would have guessed. At least ten seconds elapsed before they finally
nodded and silently went about picking up the remains of their fight.

Once he was certain everything was back to normal, he headed to the kitchen.

He was halfway to the griddle when he paused. Something wasn't right. He stilled completely and replayed the scene he'd just observed, focusing on the background noises.

When he hit on what had stopped him, he moved swiftly back to the hall. The door to Blue's office was closed. It had been open several inches when he'd stepped out minutes before.

Diego flattened his back to the wall and slid his hand to the black titanium knife handle that rode above the waistband of his jeans, just behind the edge of his apron. The knife slide free without a whisper. At five inches it was more than lethal. He balanced it in his fingers with practiced ease.

No light in the office. No noise.

Slowly, silently, he let the door drift on its uneven hinges, his back once again flat to the wall.

No reaction.

Diego crouched and moved closer behind the door. Just as he edged in enough to see inside there was a soft whoosh. Papers, a whole stack of them, cascaded to the floor.

He'd already memorized the layout of her office. His diving tuck and roll put him squarely behind the short end of her desk. More papers and folders went careening across the floor as Diego came up just over
the edge of the desk, knife arm poised for immediate action.

Nothing.

The thud of a book snapped his attention to the window behind her desk. The darting shadow had barely registered when the knife was already winging in deadly pursuit.

It impaled the object in the upper left shoulder. Enough to slow and allow capture without causing unconsciousness. Perfect hit.

Unfortunately, he'd just nailed a poncho on a coat tree. He'd known it before the knife hit.

“Damn.” He didn't usually make such an obvious mistake. That nine out of ten men would have not only fired, but “killed” this particular target did little to ease his frustration. He was better than that. He didn't make mistakes.

The falling book had simply tilted over the coat-rack. No one else was in the cramped room. But someone had been. Someone who had upset the precarious balance of chaos. Who? And had they been taking something … or leaving something?

Diego knew the caliber of men he was up against. Trained killers. He understood the mentality intimately. The only difference between him and them was motivation for the job they performed.

They wanted Blue Delgado as a bargaining chip to use against her father. And they would go about securing that chip by any means available. And when they were done, the chip would be expendable.

Diego's job was to see that they never had the chip
at all. He would also use any means available to him. His only edge was that he knew they were coming. They didn't know he was there. And if everything went down as planned, Blue would never know there had been a threat in the first place.

After all, it would be a little difficult explaining to her that she was being used as a pawn against a dead man.

A shout echoed down the hall from the bar, preventing further investigation.

“Oh, hold on to your backside, Gordo. Or better yet hold on to Joe's, he might enjoy that.”

Blue's good-natured chuckle was drowned out by the raucous complaints of her customers.

“Yes, the food is coming,” she continued. “Get the rest of that glass off the pool table,
por favor.
”

Her father had been right about one thing. The lady could handle herself. She was bold, confident, and as self-contained as any man he'd ever met. In a word, she was deadly.

To his instincts. And therefore to herself.

No time to deal with that now. It was enough that he'd learned his lesson early and with no real consequences. It wouldn't happen again.

He gauged the distance to his knife, still buried in the poncho. Too far.

Damn. And it was one of his favorites, though it served him right for being so damn trigger-happy all of a sudden.

He slipped across the hall and back into the
kitchen, taking his place at the griddle just as Blue came into the room.