“Thanks. I’ll keep Jackson here.”

Dare smiled. “Yeah, do that.” He disconnected the call.

In no time, he was in front of the bar, and through the big front window he saw the crowd but couldn’t pick out Spencer or Arizona. He parked nearby, and then, moving like a wraith from the shadows, he made his way to the back lot until he could see the van.

On silent feet he edged closer, unseen but near enough to hear the quiet exchange between two men, one a driver, the other riding shotgun.

There could have been more men in the back of the van, but Dare didn’t think so. Their conversation didn’t include anyone else.

Near his feet, a rat scurried past. Overhead, a damp breeze cut through an old sycamore tree, stirring leaves and setting branches to swaying. Through a glass pane in the back door of the bar, light spilled through, sending shadows around overflowing refuse containers and broken brick siding.

“I heard this bitch was different. Younger.” The driver laughed. “Fresh.”

“Carl told me she’s a real prime piece.”

After a swig of beer, the driver tossed the empty toward a garbage can. He missed, and the can bounced off the bricks with a clatter. “You think we’ll get a turn at her first?”

“Don’t see why not. Once we get her under wraps, don’t know why it’d matter who gets the first taste.”

“I get dibs before you.” And then, as a complaint, the driver added, “You’re so f**king rough, you always leave them half unconscious.”

“I make them swoon.”

They shared a cackling laugh.

And though they didn’t know, they sealed their fates.

Dare had no doubt it was Arizona they spoke of, but they wouldn’t get a chance to hurt her.

They’d never hurt anyone ever again.

* * *

IT WASN’T EASY for Arizona to keep her attention off Spencer. Damn him, did he have to enjoy his cover so much? Several times now, even over the blaring music, she’d heard him laugh. Though she tried not to, she kept stealing discreet peeks at him. Over the top of the booth, he leaned close to the woman, close enough to kiss. Hands entwined, feet together under the table, gazes intimate…

“Did you want coffee to drink with the pie?”

Arizona let her gaze skim the rest of the room as if the bar in general interested her, not Spencer in particular.

She turned back to the young waiter. “No, thanks.”

He began gathering her other dishes.

To keep him close and hopefully engage him, she asked, “Is your name really Quin?”

He faltered. “It… Yes.”

She tipped her head. “Doesn’t sound Hispanic.”

“It’s short for Quinto.”

Ah, so it was his real name. “Is it always this busy, Quinto?”

He shrugged warily. “This time of night, yes. Weekends are busier.”

That he’d strung so many words together surprised and encouraged her. So far, he’d been hustling from one customer to the next without a break and without much conversation. “You work the weekends?”

“Yes.”

“What nights are you off?”

He seemed to miss a beat, his gaze skittish, his mood more so. “It changes.”

Sitting forward, Arizona folded her forearms over the bar. “You like working here?”

His attention skipped toward Carl. Both he and Terry Janes had moved around the bar, talking quietly with patrons, watching their workers from different angles, occasionally going into the back toward the offices. All in all, they’d made it tough for Arizona to keep track of them.

But Quin knew right where to find the most immediate threat, and that was Carl. He licked his lips. “I need to get back to the kitchen.”

Thirsty customers kept the bartender busy filling glasses, and a discreet exchange of funds for drugs occupied Carl’s attention. Arizona didn’t see Terry Janes, but she did only a cursory scan of the area.

She didn’t want to chance losing this opportunity. “So, Quin.”

He gave her a cautious look of inquiry. “Yes?”

Leaning toward him, her voice low, Arizona asked, “How’d you break your finger?”

Uneasy, Quin opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Pretending to smooth the front of his shirt, she slipped the note into his breast pocket.

The alarm in his gaze said he knew what she’d done—but had no idea why.

“If you ever want to talk, call me. I can help.”

Trembling, he licked his lips again, afraid, maybe hopeful. “What are you talking about?”

She tried a sympathetic smile. “Your finger?”

He held his breath but finally said, “That was…an accident.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I have to go.” He tried to gather up the rest of her dishes in a rush and nearly knocked over the remaining shot of whiskey. “You must drink that.”

Poor guy. Pity welled up; she could see his fear, even smell it, and it made her livid, made her want to raze the place.

It also nearly crippled her with the need to help.

“You live around here?” Though already his reactions were telling enough, she pressed him. “Or do you live…here?”

After darting his fearful gaze around, he pushed the whiskey toward her. “Drink it. Please.”

To appease him, she tipped up the glass and swallowed it back, then handed him the empty. “Okay?”