Mercy of These Bones

Chapter 1

Chapter 1Las Vegas, Nevada

March 2008

The columns on the computer screen blurred into number soup that made Darby Bell drop her head to her desk with a distinct thunk. Her eyes burned from staring at the figures for the past two hours, and as far as she could see, she wasn’t that much closer to having the damn forms done. Maybe she should have caved and hired a tax specialist to file for her. It wasn’t as if she didn’t recognize math was not her strong suit.

But specialists cost money. Specialists did the work and didn’t tell you what they’d done until it was too late. And having somebody else’s fingers in her pie meant there was a part of her life that Darby didn’t completely control. These were all very good reasons to invest in a recommended tax program and do it herself, in spite of never making it past first year algebra in high school. She simply had to live with the impulse to spork her eyes out every time she booted the computer these days.

The electronic click of her screensaver activating prompted Darby to sigh and lift her head, reaching for the mouse to give it another go. If Edmund showed up tonight, she was going to ream him out for suggesting the accounting software to her. User-friendly, my ass. Then she was going to make him take her out for pancakes and hot chocolate. It would revive her for a fresh attack on the spreadsheets before dawn and give her a couple hours of needed distraction. Even when they both had the worst days ever, Edmund never failed to make her smile.

When the knock came at her closed door, Darby sighed in relief, calling out permission to enter as she hit save on her file. She swiveled in her chair in time to see her new waitress hovering on the threshold.

“You wanted the heads up when Owen was getting ready to go on?” Though they were the same age, Sheryl always acted like a teenage girl getting caught out by her mom, phrasing nearly everything as a question whenever she addressed Darby. Darby knew it was because the other woman was terrified of losing a job she desperately needed, but that didn’t make it easier to stomach the diffident attitude.

“Thanks,” she said with a warm smile. “How’s the house?”

“A few people down in front. A couple at the bar. But everybody’s drinking. That’s good, right?”

It was better than nothing. Owen deserved packed tables, but her club was too new and too far off the Strip to have that kind of recognition yet. Edmund kept assuring her it would come with time, and Darby knew he was right, but sometimes waiting for that to happen was a b***h. She’d danced and scrimped for ten years to save for her dream, and now that she owned Birdsong, she wanted it to soar.

For now, she would have to settle for limping.

Sheryl scurried off to return to her tables, leaving Darby to stand and stretch to work out the kinks in her back. There were days she wondered if she’d ever get used to not dancing six days a week; even after a year, her body wasn’t used to being still for long periods of time. It didn’t show. She was meticulous about working out regularly, and if maybe her muscles were a little bit softer, her breasts a little bit fuller, nobody was the wiser. That required somebody other than herself seeing her naked, or getting close enough physically to be able to assess her curves, and except for Edmund, Darby didn’t have time for those of the male persuasion anymore. She had a club to get off the ground. Men could come later.

The sounds of glasses clinking and idle chatter that melted into white noise relaxed her as soon as she stepped out of her office. Her mood lifted as she hurried out to the main room, excitement curling in her gut at the prospect of seeing her latest find up on stage. She’d seen Owen Vasquez busking out on the Strip one morning, his fingers flying over the frets on his aged guitar as he crooned oldies she hadn’t heard since visiting her grandfather as a small girl. When she’d offered him the chance to perform at Birdsong, he hadn’t even stopped playing. He’d simply nodded and watched her drop her business card in his case. Owen didn’t talk much, she learned. He was too busy listening to the music inside his head.

Sheryl had been generous in describing the crowd, but Darby didn’t let it get her down as she steered toward the bar. Lyle had her bottled water waiting for her, and she smiled at her old friend before hopping up onto the stool that would give her the best vantage of the small stage.

Her pulse accelerated. The canned music playing over the speakers faded, and the lights over the main floor dimmed, and then there was Owen sitting on the single chair he’d requested, his guitar hung loosely around his rotund frame. He didn’t even introduce himself. He just started playing. Within seconds, the chattering at the front tables ceased, and the strains of “I’m Just a Lucky So and So” filled the club.

Leaning back against the bar, she closed her eyes as the music soaked through her skin. This was the single best part of owning Birdsong. Her voice had never been good enough to make the leap from chorus line to headliner, so rooting out people who had the talent she lacked and then giving them the chance to attain what she had only dreamed about was the next best thing. She got to drown in husky voices, searing sopranos, soulful guitars, and she got to watch people come to life at an audience’s applause. She wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“He’s good.”

It wasn’t the English accent that made Darby snap to attention or the silken baritone of the man’s voice. It was its proximity, how she felt the faint rush of air from the words along her neck where her thick red hair hung loose around her shoulders. She opened her eyes and turned to see who was addressing her, and her heart promptly went into double time.

He wasn’t good-looking by her usual standards. His brown hair was cut severely short, highlighting the angular structure of his face, and his mouth was oddly proportioned, the top lip too thin, the bottom sensually full. A scar peppered his high cheekbone, like a burn splatter that didn’t heal correctly, and there was the hint of another disappearing down the side of his neck into his open shirt collar.

But his eyes made her blind to any of the imperfections. They were deep-set and intense, so warm with humor and intelligence that, even without smiling, he made Darby want to smile back at him. A dark hazel, she decided, though the dim lighting made it impossible to be certain. The notion that she could drag him back to her office and check, up close and personal, sent a sharp shock straight to her thighs.

“You like him?” she asked. When the man nodded, she indulged her urge and beamed in delight. “I found him.”

A single brow crooked upward. “I guess it pays to be lost sometimes.”

He had yet to look away from her, and though their bodies weren’t nearly as close as she had first thought, Darby felt the rush of appreciation leap between them. “So what brought you into the club tonight?” she said, striving to keep her voice level.

The man shrugged before shifting to mirror her position, his elbows resting against the bar as he regarded the stage. “I could say I fancied some good music, but that would be a lie. Turns out, that’s just an unexpected benefit.”

Her stomach pitched in disappointment, but she dismissed it as pointless. What else could she expect from an obvious out-of-towner? She hadn’t been around long enough to garner a reputation that would attract strangers looking to satisfy their curiosity.

“You got lost then, huh?” she joked instead. “I could say I’m sorry, but—” she shot him a broad smile “—that would be a lie.”

He chuckled. Neither spoke as they watched Owen sing, but Darby was all too aware of the hard line of his arm paralleling hers and, more than once, stole a glance sideways to drink in more of the details. He was taller than her, probably around six feet, and his casual clothing did little to hide his lean muscles. Faded jeans made his legs look miles long, and the untucked hem of his shirt only heightened the contrast between his slim hips and broader shoulders. The thought of what it would feel like to cling to that tight frame as he pounded into her sent a surge of heat to her cheeks, and she fixed her gaze on the stage, trying to suppress the unanticipated desire.

So much for thinking she was through with men for a while. She hadn’t been this attracted to a guy in a very long time.

The song ended, and the audience applauded, Darby’s clapping the loudest of the bunch. The man’s mouth canted as he regarded her enthusiasm, but he waited until Owen had begun his next number before addressing her again.

“So, are you his agent?”

She shook her head. “I’m the owner. And part-time bartender, fill-in waitress, booking agent, and janitor when the need arises.” On impulse, she stuck out her hand. “Darby Bell.”

It took a moment for him to respond, and then his long fingers were against hers, his touch firm but light. “Larsen. Mat Larsen.”

Getting more comfortable in her stool, Darby sipped her bottled water. “You sound like you’re a long way from home, Mr. Larsen.”

“And what makes you think I don’t live here in Vegas?”

“Do you?”

“No.” He tipped a finger toward Lyle, summoning him from the opposite end of the bar. “I’m in town looking for old mates.”

Darby waited as he ordered a shot of her most expensive Scotch, watching him swallow it in a single gulp that would have burned the gullet of any other man she knew. “Did you think you’d find them here?” she asked when he’d set his glass back down.

He smiled. “You can never tell. People turn up in all sorts of interesting places.” He swept his gaze over the crowd. “Though your little nightclub here is too tasteful for at least one of them.”

“I think I’ll take that as a compliment,” she laughed.

“I hope so. I certainly meant it as such.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his wallet and extracted a couple of bills, tossing them onto the counter. Lyle took them away, but when he opened the register to make change, Mat waved him off. “You don’t want her sort around here anyway,” he continued. “She’s got a way of attracting trouble.”

She. Though she tried not to let it get to her, Darby was mildly annoyed that one of the people he was looking for was female. The thought that maybe she could use him as a one-night distraction instead of Edmund and pancakes had flitted more than once already through her mind.

“Well, what does your girlfriend look like? Maybe I’ve seen her around.”

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Did I say she was my girlfriend?”

For a split second, power crackled beneath his skin, and Darby’s breath caught in her throat. She had a feeling she was supposed to be scared, and maybe, under other circumstances, she might have been. Vegas had a way of attracting some dangerous men, after all. But this was different—he was different—and all she could do was exhale slowly.

“Guys who look like you always have a girlfriend stashed away somewhere.”

Their eyes locked. Darby didn’t have a single doubt that her interest blazed brightly for him to see, but it took long moments where all she heard was Owen’s soft tenor before Mat relaxed and leaned closer.

“Perhaps once upon a time,” he murmured. “But not now. And definitely not her.”

Unbidden, she glanced at his mouth. “Too much trouble?”

“No such thing.” As if in slow motion, he reached a hand to brush her hair back over her shoulder. With anybody else, it could have been construed as a completely innocent gesture. She doubted there was anything innocent at all about Mat Larsen. “She was just the wrong kind.”

A shiver rippled down her spine, and the craving to steal a few hours with this man swelled anew. He was willing; that much was obvious. And he was interested. It probably wouldn’t be hard at all to talk him into going out for drinks someplace else. It probably would be even easier to talk him into more.

But the Darby who would have done that no longer existed. When she’d been dancing, she wouldn’t have hesitated getting this guy into bed. She would have taken her fun and moved on.

This Darby was a little bit wiser and a lot more wary. One-night stands were no longer her style. Especially when she was in danger of getting twisted into knots over a guy who made her blood sizzle just by looking at her.

“Make you a deal,” she said. Leaning over the bar, she reached beneath and grabbed the spare notepad by the register. She took off the pen that was clipped to its rings and slid both of them in front of Mat. “You give me a description of your friends, and if they decide to show up, I’ll make sure to let you know.”

His mouth twitched before blooming into a grin, and he shook his head as he picked up the pen. “I suppose leaving it in your expert hands guarantees interesting results.” He took a moment to scribble something down, then pushed both pen and pad toward her. “I look forward to seeing what you find for me, Darby Bell.”

She was left staring at him as he walked out, his strides long and sinuous as he melted into the darkness. It took until the end of Owen’s current number for her to shake herself out of the spell and pick up the notes Mat had left for her.

Darby’s grin was swift. It wasn’t a physical description. It was a phone number.

She was still toying with the edge of the paper when a shadow appeared in the corner of her eye, and a large figure slid onto the stool next to her. “Have I missed much? I got held up.” Edmund’s warming rumble lifted Darby’s mood even further, but she lingered in her reverie regarding the number and its owner as Lyle brought Edmund his usual beer. “Are you even listening to him?” Edmund teased. “Don’t tell me the magic’s fading already.”

Shaking herself out of her mild fugue, Darby shifted to better speak with her best friend. “Do you really think I’m that shallow?” she shot back.

His amber-colored eyes danced in amusement. “I think you’ve got a lot on your mind. Finish those tax forms yet?”

Darby grimaced. “No. And thank you so much for spoiling what was turning out to be a nice night of forgetting I’m an i***t when it comes to numbers.”

“You’re not an i***t. You’re a control freak.”

“Fat lot you know. A few minutes ago, I almost talked myself into hooking up with a complete stranger.”

His thick brows shot up, and for a moment, she thought she caught a flicker of hurt surprise in his handsome face. It was likely just her horny mood tonight, but Edmund looked even better than usual. She’d noticed how good-looking he was in the beginning, of course; it was hard to ignore a six-four wall of muscle and shoulder-length dreadlocks that should have looked ridiculous on a white boy but, on Edmund, only added an edge of danger. Add to that the long, lean face, the full mouth, and the voice made for whispers in the bedroom, and it was quite the attractive package. Even the moustache and goatee he’d grown over the past year didn’t detract from his looks. She had simply grown accustomed to it as their friendship deepened.

“I didn’t go through with it,” she hastened to add. “As tempting as he was, I’m not stupid.”

His features smoothed. “There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to someone. You just have to be smart in this town. And what happened to not wanting the strings of a relationship until you got Birdsong off the ground?”

“Did I say I was going to call him?”

“You got his phone number?”

“More like he gave it to me when I wasn’t looking.” Darby nudged the notepad in Edmund’s direction, but he barely shot it a glance. “You would’ve liked him. He’s English.”

She laughed at his quick scowl. She had learned early on in their friendship how not an Anglophile Edmund really was; he even complained when they watched movies with Americans playing Brits. It was the easiest and best way to get under his skin.

“You’re better off getting buried in tax receipts,” he grumbled. “And speaking of…”

“No, no speaking of. I’ve officially given myself the rest of the night off, and if I don’t get to be distracted by the delicious Mat Larsen—”

His hand shot out to stop her from tossing the notepad back behind the counter, wrapping around her wrist in an unyielding grip. It didn’t hurt, but the speed and strength of it made Darby gasp, and she turned in bewilderment toward Edmund.

His mouth had gone hard, and his eyes glinted with an imperceptible light. “What did he look like?” he demanded. “Wait. Let me guess. About six feet, brown hair…” His gaze flickered to the bottles behind the bar. “Probably ordered a whiskey. Expensive. And then over-tipped.”

Darby was too shaken by his accuracy to say anything more than, “You know him?”

“I know you need to stay away from him. Was he alone?”

She squirmed in his relentless grasp. “Yeah, he came in here looking for some friends. How do you know him?”

Releasing her, Edmund picked up the pad and tore off the sheet of paper with Mat’s number on it. He pocketed it as his gaze searched the other patrons. “If he comes back, I want you to call my cell as soon as you see him,” he said, ignoring her repeated question.

When he turned on his heel to head for the exit, Darby jumped off her stool and chased after him. Unwilling to make a scene and disturb Owen’s set, she followed him into the parking lot toward his parked car. “What is this all about? Is this guy dangerous? And if he’s so bad, why the hell does it look like you’re about to hunt him down?”

“You said he was looking for his friends?” He stopped at his car door, holding his keys so tightly in his hand that his knuckles looked bone-white in the moonlight. “He lied to you. Mathias doesn’t have friends. He’s looking for me.”

She had to jump out of the way when the door swung open and Edmund slid behind the wheel of his black Mustang. With a squeal of his tires, he roared out of the lot.

All Darby could do was stare after him.

And wonder what in the hell had just happened there.