“Not much to look at” couldn’t be further from the truth. Between her lack of makeup and backward ball cap, she’s got an I do what I want and don’t give a shit what anybody else says kind of vibe.
She’s not trying to impress anyone, yet she’s undeniably attractive. Those scars seem to add to her beauty, especially with eyes the lightest possible shade of blue.
She lifts her chin defiantly, as if she’s daring me to not cringe, while I look my fill. Maybe the other asshats might, but not me. If anybody knows what it’s like to have your body be a show-and-tell of the scars of your past, I sure as hell do. Reggie left his mark on me—time and again.
Once my gaze finishes sweeping over her entire face, our eyes collide. “Huh. I didn’t expect that.”
Her tone is flippant. “Let me guess. You didn’t expect a scar-face, huh?” Holding up her hands, she wiggles her spread fingers with a brittle, fake-as-shit smile. “Surprise.” Then she drops her hands and turns to face the bar.
“Nah. Just didn’t expect your eyes to be as beautiful as the rest of you.”
What?
“What?” She snaps her head around and stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Probably because I have. What the fuck am I trying to do, be Casanova? Jesus. I’m here for one reason only. She’s scrambled my damn brain because her scars caught me by surprise. That’s all there is to it.
I scrub a hand down my face and try to regain composure. Clearing my throat, I force myself to meet her probing gaze. “So…you gonna help me find this Mac guy or what?”
She studies me for a long beat. “Yeah, sure.” When she extends a hand to me, I accept her handshake with an inward sigh of relief.
Until she smirks. Because that pushes my fucking nerves to the edge in a hot second.
“Congratulations. You found ‘the Mac guy.’”
17
MAC
His reaction is solid gold.
He stills a second before releasing my hand, and I’m not sure what to make of my strange resignation at the loss of his touch. Weird as fuck.
“You’re Mac?”
“Yep.” I pop the “p” and wiggle my eyebrows, because this is too fun. “Mac Ford, in the flesh.”
Gaze sharpening, he cocks his head to the side. “You’re a woman.”
As soon as he says it, he winces, as if realizing how ridiculous he sounds. Of course, I can’t let that shit go.
No way, no how.
I school my expression into one of faux shock, wide-eyed. “What?” Peering down at my T-shirt-covered breasts, I place my hands over them, my tone reverent. “So that must be why I have these beauties.”
Lifting my fist to the side of my head, I mimic an explosion. “Mind. Absolutely. Blown.” I breathe out with exaggerated gratitude. “Thank you, Danny. Now, I finally know what I am.”
That penetrating green gaze gives nothing away. Man, he has some pretty eyes. Irises such a beautiful color, framed by dark, long lashes. Not fair. Not fair at all.
“It’s Daniel.” A millisecond of a pause. “You done?”
“Nope.” I cup my hand behind my ear and pretend to listen. “Do you hear that?”
“Nobody said Mac was a smartass,” he mutters under his breath.
“It’s angels rejoicing now that I know I’m a woman.”
One of the town’s many functional drunks, Timmy Hanson, strolls past on his way to the bathroom.
“Even people with shit for brains knew you were a woman.” He gives us both a You idiots or somethin’? look before continuing on his way.
I level Daniel with an expectant look. “Now that you’ve enlightened me as to what I am, maybe you can tell me more about why you think I can help you.”
Green eyes sweep over my face, but it’s not in the usual I’m gawking over your ugly-ass scars way. His survey of me feels almost reverent.
Shit. What the hell am I thinking? After meeting a handsome stranger with an undeniably dangerous vibe to him, I suddenly start thinking like a poet.
Gag.
I hold up a finger. “First off, you said your name was Daniel.”
He arches a brow. “There a problem with my name?”
I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “I honestly expected something like Enrique or maybe Tito.” I cock my head to the side as a thought strikes me. “Or maybe that’s just because I haven’t had vodka in a while. Now that I think about it, a little bit of Tito’s sounds good.”
Exasperation lines his tone. “Do you even need me for this conversation?”
I make a tsking sound with my tongue. “Now, Danny. An attitude like that won’t get me to help you.”
A muscle in his stubbled jaw flickers. “It’s Daniel.”
“What’s your last name?”
There’s the briefest pause, as if he’s unsure of whether to offer it up. “Madrano.”
My gaze drifts to his lips when he says that. Madrano. Who knew I had a thing for accents? And for the slightly rolled r?
I give my head a little shake. Shit. Maybe I need to lay off the whiskey and stick to beer.
“Mexican? Puerto Rican?”
“Cuban.” His watchful gaze never leaves mine, as if he’s gauging my reaction.
“Huh.” I match his intent look with my own. “And you said you’re not with a cartel.”
His response is immediate but lined with more than a hint of impatience. “I’m not.”
“And you’re not a Fed.”
“No.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me what you are?” As an afterthought, I squint at how he’s dressed. “And why you decided to dress like a ninja.”
He lets out an irritated grunt. “This is how I usually dress.” His response comes from between gritted teeth. Aside from that, he also routinely surveys the bar, as if continuously assessing it for danger.
“Like a ninja.” I give a curt nod. “Got it. My question is, why?” I lean in a fraction, cupping my hand to the side of my mouth before I lower my voice to a faux whisper. “Because I hate to spoil it for you, but there’s not really a need for ninjas around here.”
His nostrils flare, and he pinches his eyes shut for the briefest moment. Probably to say a prayer to whatever god he worships.
I spy a small, fancy-looking medal lying below the base of his throat, bared by the top two shirt buttons left undone, against skin adorned with inked designs. I wonder who the hell Saint Germaine is.
Oooh, maybe that’s the saint of ninjas.
A snort of laughter escapes me at the ridiculous thought, and those eyes pin me with a scrutinizing look, like I’m some weirdo he doesn’t quite understand. Which is par for the course for me as far as reactions from others go.
With exaggerated patience, he repeats, “So, you’re Mac?”
“Yep.”
“Huh.” Again with the scrutinizing gaze. At least until it’s time to do his routine visual sweep of the place and all its inhabitants.
I raise my eyebrows. “And you’re looking for me because you think I might somehow have information about your sister?” I pause for a beat before lowering my voice dramatically. “Orrrr you’ve been sent back in time to kill me.”