Run the Risk. Lori Foster

he missing something?

      No, he didn’t miss anything, especially when it came to women, and most definitely not when it concerned his troublesome sister.

      Maybe Logan was after something other than the usual.

      He brought his gaze back to the neighbor. Sitting there in his truck, Logan Stark peered around as if he felt Rowdy’s attention. Huh. Perceptive bastard.

      Finally the neighbor put his truck in gear and drove away.

      Stowing the binoculars in the glove box, Rowdy got out of his car, locked it up and pocketed the keys. The bar he’d chosen to use for surveillance had an ideal location. With his binoculars he could see all the way up the road to the apartment building, as well as the grocery and small strip mall—basically any place his sister was likely to go.

      While debating his next move, he strode toward the bar. He noticed a “For Sale” sign crudely attached to the brick wall above a collapsing cardboard box of trash. Old papers, a few cans and a broken bottle had already spilled out. Hazardous.

      He thought of Checkers, the upscale club Morton owned. Pricey liquor, chic decor, classy-looking women and high-stakes activities. Checkers had been kept visually pristine, but he’d bet his life that more filth had happened inside its walls than could ever occur in the back alleys of the town where he now kept his sister under wraps.

      Checkers boasted three floors. It was the main floor where Rowdy had usually worked, overseeing lap dances, ensuring none of the ordinary men got too grabby or overstepped the services they’d paid for. More adventurous activity was reserved for the second floor and for men with deeper pockets. On the second floor, patrons could buy hand jobs, blow jobs and a variety of sex ranging from one partner to three.

      Morton’s sprawling office was on the third floor, along with a private boardroom and other, smaller offices.

      Rowdy had been paid well to know the difference in the clientele, to keep his mouth shut about illegal sex acts, and to alert the guards stationed at the upper levels whenever the law came calling.

      It all ran smoothly, even in moments of chaos. And when it didn’t… Rowdy closed his eyes, not wanting to think about the city commissioner who’d been murdered. Jack Carmin had died at a young thirty-two—and Rowdy hadn’t done a damn thing about it.

      Acid burned in his gut. Rumor had it that Morton would be expanding his enterprise into human trafficking. Rowdy knew he’d have to do something about that, and soon. But now, with Pepper’s admirer putting him on edge, he couldn’t act. He had to guarantee her safety first.

      His sister would always be his top priority.

      If it turned out Logan Stark was on the up-and-up, well then, maybe she’d be safe without Rowdy keeping tabs on her. At least for a short time.

      Long enough for him to take care of Morton as he should have two long years ago.

      A drunk loitered outside the bar entrance. Off to the side, two youths smoked and talked too loud.

      Distractions like that would never have happened at Checkers, but for here and now, an uninterested owner worked to Rowdy’s advantage; the less accountability at the bar, the safer it was for him.

      While wondering if the bar would end up abandoned, he almost missed the woman smiling at him. She stepped out of the shadows, tall, slender, sexy—and probably for sale. Too bad he avoided hookers. Not because of moral scruples, but because he never spent money so unwisely.

      “What do you say, sugar?” She traced a finger up and down her exposed cleavage. “Got some free time?”

      Nothing but. “Sorry, but you look out of my price range.”

      “For you, I’d offer a…special.”

      Yeah, he could just imagine. “Appreciate it, but not this time.” After a farewell nod, he entered the dim establishment. Sluggish music played. Regulars filled the booths and the bar. Up on a ramshackle stage, exposed bodies gyrated.

      More women looked his way, so he tried not to make prolonged eye contact. In his current mood, he didn’t want to encourage anyone. He had a few things to work out before he sought company for the night.

      A nod here, a halfhearted smile there. He always appreciated the female attention. But he didn’t always take advantage of it. Sometimes, though, when the dark past intruded and his turbulent thoughts made sleep impossible, he needed a woman’s softness to get him through the night.

      And at those times, he always despised his own weakness.

      Grabbing a seat at a small table, slouching back comfortably, Rowdy glanced toward one attentive woman who looked too young, another who looked too mature. He settled on watching a pole dancer who had a great ass.

      Other women worked the floor in skimpy dresses, some nearly topless, all in mile-high heels. Matching small aprons distinguished them as employees of the bar.

      He rubbed his mouth, wondering if a fast tumble would help clear his thoughts. Not that anyone had really grabbed his interest yet. Hell, he felt no spark, not even for the mostly naked blonde; he definitely didn’t appreciate her substantial curves as he should have.

      “What can I get for you?”

      At the intrusion of that brisk female voice, Rowdy glanced up—and got lost in pale blue eyes.

      But not for long.

      While the gyrating blonde left him cold, this woman set off a spark. He trailed his gaze over her, from thick, dark red hair held back by a headband, to a narrow nose and wide mouth, to her petite little bod.

      No sexy uniform for her.

      She wore straight jeans with slip-on shoes and a regular crew-necked T-shirt. That same apron, a little messier than the others, loosely circled her waist.

      Rowdy looked back at her face. “You’re a trim little package, aren’t you?”

      Her chin tucked in. “You have two options, okay? You can give me your drink order, or you can get a different table.”

      Well, well, well. A challenge? A chase?

      The spark caught flame.

      Rowdy smiled at her—and saw her blink. A little predatory, a lot cynical, he kept quiet and watched her.

      “Okay,” she said. “I have to admit, that look is effective. Dangerously so. But as it is, I live on tips, so if you don’t want anything—”

      “I want.”

      She filled her lungs on a deep breath. Shifted her stance. Looked up at the ceiling, then off to her right. “The thing is, honestly, I need to take a drink order. But that’s it. That’s my job, nothing more.”

      “No pole dancing, huh?” He relaxed a little more, sliding back in his chair, one hand on the table, one resting on his thigh. “Well, damn.”

      Her brows pinched over his mild show of disappointment. “The place would go broke, believe me.”

      “I assume it’s already going broke.” When that confused her, he said, “The ‘for sale’ sign?”

      “Oh, yeah.” She scrunched up her nose. “Are you thinking of buying?”

      “Could I reassign you to the pole if I do?”

      “Not if you wanted to continue employing me.”

      Had the current owner already tried that? Interesting. “Got other prospects, huh?”

      She gave a hesitant pause, then without invitation, she pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. Prim and proper. Spine straight, shoulders back. “So what’s your name?”

      “You can call me anything you like.” As long as it wasn’t his actual name. For those who might care, Rowdy Yates had fallen off the face of the earth, and he planned to keep it that way.