Nothing and no one would change that outcome.

* * *

SPENCER SEATED HIMSELF at a booth as far from Arizona as he dared to be while still being able to see her.

Laughingly rejecting the proffered drink, she spoke to a waiter. Spencer couldn’t hear what was said, but when the waiter called over a boy with a menu, he assumed she planned to order food.

That would buy her some time—as long as she didn’t actually eat much.

The shot remained on the bar in front of her.

How much whiskey would it take to get her drunk? Probably not much. The way she giggled, she was already buzzed…or pretending to be.

With Arizona, he couldn’t tell.

But he could easily guess how unmanageable she’d be with liquid courage burning through her bloodstream. God help them all, she just might kill someone.

* * *

THE SECOND SPENCER WALKED IN, Arizona knew it. She didn’t need to see him or hear him. He had that kind of appeal, that much presence. With him inside the spacious establishment, the stagnant air seemed to swell and churn.

Every other woman in the joint noticed him, too. Women who danced beneath lights. Women who served drinks and sandwiches. Women with other men.

Yeah, she got that. With his incredible height and those broad shoulders and that unwavering air of control, Spencer was the type of man no woman would ever ignore.

But the men became aware of him, too. Likely they saw him as a possible threat; physically he’d annihilate them, and romantically, well, he hogged the attention of all the ladies.

With just a glance, Arizona saw the big bartender zero in on Spencer with nasty intent. While polishing a glass, he spoke to the dude who’d sent her the drinks, and that idiot nodded. Then the skinny man she now guessed to be her target, Terry Janes, eyed Spencer, as well. When Janes turned to say something to the bartender, he caught Arizona watching him.

She ducked her face but smiled—and peeked at him again.

Of course the knucklehead bought it, hook, line and sinker. Men were soooo damn easy.

Mouth curling and dark eyes warming, Terry Janes eyed her with possessiveness.

Oh, she recognized that look well enough.

Bingo.

Up close, his thinning brown hair was more noticeable, especially with the way he slicked it back. His scruffy goatee with patches of gray gave away his mid-forties age. When he tugged on an earring in one ear, Arizona again saw the colorful tribal tat on his left arm.

Tonight, he looked cruel. He looked like an easy mark.

And Spencer thought this might prove tricky. Ha!

Janes leaned on the bar to talk quietly with the other men, but his intimate attention remained on her.

He was such a repulsive excuse for a human being that acidic disgust burned in her stomach. But she played it coy, letting her smile flicker as she returned his interest.

If it weren’t for the loud music, she maybe could have listened in. But no way would she be able to hear unless she got right on top of them. And that’d be too obvious.

So instead, she watched him.

Not until the same boy she’d seen before approached with a menu did she look away from Terry Janes.

“You came back,” he said, his voice dead, cold.

“I said I would, right?” She smiled at him and slid the whiskey aside with a laugh. “I can’t do any more of that on an empty stomach.”

He rubbed his neck with his uninjured hand. “Something else to drink, then?”

Arizona took in the mop of thick dark hair, the swarthy skin…the cowed shoulders. That the kid wouldn’t look her in the eyes really bothered her. He had to be still in his teens. Too young to be working in a bar, but then, he probably had no one to champion him, no one to care about his mistreatment.

Being on the scrawny side, he was no match for the bullies clustered at the other end of the bar.

On his left hand, two fingers were taped together, but she could see by the swelling and discoloration of the middle finger that it had probably been broken.

When she wrapped this up, she’d repay the bastards in kind—with interest.

“How about sweet tea? Do you have that?” Leaning close to ensure he heard her, she tried to see his face.

He dodged her. “Yes.” He laid a menu on the bar in front of her. For only a second, his white shirtsleeve pulled up…and exposed fresh, purpling bruises above his thin wrist. He quickly retreated. “Do you know what you want to eat or did you need more time?”

The whiskey had burned a path down her throat and into her stomach; seeing the kid’s abuse burned her soul.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll go ahead and order now.” To give the impression of desperation, Arizona rubbed her stomach as if hungry and scrunched up her nose. “What’s the cheapest thing on the menu?”

She knew she had the attention of all three men; so did the poor boy, and it amplified his nervousness.

He licked pale, chapped lips. She recognized signs of malnutrition and dehydration, in his dry, flushed skin, the protrusion of his bones and lack of flesh, his obvious exhaustion. “We have chili and bean soup. House salad.” One skinny shoulder lifted. “Maybe a BLT sandwich.”

“Let’s see…” She pretended to think about food, when really she hoped to reel in the men. She wanted Terry Janes to approach her. She wanted him to make a move. “It all sounds so good.”

Janes sent a lackey instead.

Feeling his approach, Arizona handed back the menu. “I guess I’ll just have the salad.”

The same guy who’d sent her the drinks earlier stepped up behind her, no doubt testing the waters. “Get her whatever she wants, Quin.”