The Merciless Travis Wilde. Sandra Marton

got a name, cowboy?”

      Now what? This was not a good situation. Whatever he did, short of taking Bev’s clear invitation to heart, would almost surely lead to trouble.

      She’d be insulted, her pals would think they had to ride to the rescue …

      Maybe honesty, polite and up-front, was the best policy.

      Travis took a paper napkin from its metal holder, blotted his lips and turned toward her.

      “Listen, Bev,” he said, not unkindly, “I’m not interested, okay?” Her face reddened and he thought, hell, I’m not doing this right. “I mean, you’re a—a good-looking woman but I’m—I’m meeting somebody.”

      “Really?” Bev said coldly. “You want me to believe you’re waitin’ for your date?”

      “Exactly. She’ll be here any—”

      “You’re waitin’ for your date, and you’re eatin’ without her?”

      The guy on the other side of Bev was leaning toward them.

      He was the size of a small mountain and from the look in his tiny eyes, he was hot and ready for a Friday night fight.

      Slowly, carefully, Travis put down the burger and the napkin.

      The Mountain outweighed him by fifty pounds, easy, and the hand wrapped around the bottle he was holding was the size of a ham.

      No problem. Travis had taken on bigger men and come through just fine. If anything, it added to the kick.

      Yes, but the Mountain has friends here. Many. And you, dude, are all by your lonesome.

      The Voice of Reason.

      Despite what his brothers sometimes said about him, Travis had been known not just to hear that voice but to listen to it.

      But Bev was going on and on about no-good, scumbag liars and her diatribe had drawn the attention of several of the Mountain’s pals. Every last one of them looked happy to come to her aid by performing an act of chivalry that would surely involve beating the outsider—him—into a bloody mass of barely-breathing flesh.

      Not good, said the Voice of Reason.

      The bloody part was okay. He’d been there before.

      But there was a problem.

      He had a meeting in Frankfurt Monday morning, a huge deal he’d been working on for months, and he had the not-very-surprising feeling that the board of directors at the ultraconservative, three-hundred-year-old firm of Bernhardt, Bernhardt and Stutz would not look kindly on a financial expert who showed up with a couple of black eyes, a dinged jaw and, for all he knew, one or two missing teeth.

      It would not impress them at all if he explained that he’d done his fair share of damage. More than his fair share, because he surely would manage that.

      Dammit, where were a man’s brothers when he needed them?

      “The lady’s talkin’ to you.” The Mountain was leaning past Bev. God, his breath stank. “What’s the matter? You got a hearin’ problem or something, pretty boy?”

      Conversation died out. People smiled.

      Travis felt the first, heady pump of adrenaline.

      “My name,” he said carefully, “is not ‘pretty boy.’”

      “His name is not pretty boy,” The Mountain mimicked.

      Bev, sporting a delighted smile, slid from her stool. Maybe he’d misjudged her purpose. Maybe setting up a fight had been her real job.

      Either way, Travis saw his choices narrowing down, and rapidly.

      Bev’s defender got to his feet.

      “You’re making a mistake,” Travis said quietly.

      The Mountain snorted.

      Travis nodded, took a last swig of beer, said a mental “goodbye” to Monday’s meeting and stood up.

      “Outside,” he said, “in the parking lot? Or right here?”

      “Here,” a voice growled.

      Three men had joined the Mountain. Travis smiled. The next five minutes might be the end of him.

      Yeah, but they’d also be fun, especially considering his weird state of mind tonight.

      “Fine,” he said. “Sounds good to me.”

      Those words, the commitment to the inevitable, finalized things, sent his adrenaline not just pumping but racing. He hadn’t been in a down-and-dirty bar brawl in a very long time. Not since Manila, or maybe Kandahar.

      Yes, Kandahar, his last mission, death all around him …

      Suddenly, pounding the Mountain into pulp seemed a fine idea, never mind that deal in Frankfurt.

      Besides, nothing short of a miracle could save him now …

      The door to the street swung open.

      For some reason Travis would never later be able to explain, the enraptured audience watching him and the Mountain turned toward it.

      A blast of hot Texas air swept in.

      So did a tall, beautiful, sexy-looking, straight-out-of-the-Neiman-Marcus-catalogue blonde.

      Silence. Complete silence.

      Everybody looked at Neiman Marcus.

      Neiman Marcus looked at them.

      And blanched.

      “Well, lookee there,” somebody said.

      Lookee, indeed, Travis thought.

      Sanity returned.

      There she was. His salvation.

      “Finally,” he said, his tone bright and cheerful. “My date.”

      Before anyone could say a word, he started toward the blonde and the door with the confidence of a man holding all four aces in a game of high stakes poker.

      She tilted her head back as he got closer. She was tall, especially in sexy, nosebleed-high stilettos, but she still had to do that to look up at him.

      He liked it.

      It was a nice touch.

      “Your what?” she said, or would have said, but he couldn’t afford to let things go that far.

      “Baby,” he purred, “what took you so long?”

      Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

      Travis grinned.

      “Only if you ask real nice,” he said, and before she could react, he drew her into his arms, brought her tightly against him and covered her mouth with his.

      CHAPTER TWO

      AN HOUR BEFORE she walked into Travis Wilde’s life, Jennie Cooper had been sitting in her ancient Civic, having a stern talk with herself.

      By then, it had been close to nine o’clock, the evening wasn’t getting any younger, and she still hadn’t put her plan into action.

      Ridiculous, of course.

      She was a woman with a mission.

      She was looking for a bar.

      Really, how difficult could it be to find a bar in a city like Dallas?

      Very.

      Well, “very” if you were searching for just the right kind of bar.

      Dallas was a big, sprawling town, and she’d driven through so many parts of it that she’d lost count.

      She’d started with Richardson and though there