“Oh, I…um…” Again flustered, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it with too much enthusiasm. “Joel Pitts. You can call me Joel.”

With a name like Pitts, he’d probably been heckled a lot in school. “Okay, Joel.” With an effort, she freed herself from his hold. “I’m all ears. Let’s hear what you have to say.”

Undecided, Joel adjusted his glasses, shifted, then leaned forward in anticipation. “I don’t have proof, but I’m pretty sure—”

“At it again, Joel?”

Arizona jumped when a man clasped her shoulder. She saw Joel’s eyes go round in terror, his mouth slack with dread. For a moment, it almost looked as if he’d faint.

Senses sharpening, she peered at that hand on her skin, then up the leanly muscled arm to the intricate tribal tattoo.

Finally.

Forcing herself to feign an air of uncertainty, she waited until none other than Terry Janes himself moved to her side.

Poor Joel nearly slid off his seat. Stammering, he said, “Hey, Mr. Janes. I was just… I was only drawing her, that’s all.”

“Is that so?”

Keenly aware of that warm hand pressing down on her bare shoulder, Arizona said, “He’s really talented.” After withdrawing the sketch and rolling it out on the table, she turned her face up to Janes and met his gaze with a sweet smile.

He went still at her expression, looking her over as if enthralled.

That’s it, sucker. Take the bait. She made a point of licking her lips, of lowering her lashes and playing coy.

His fingers tightened on her shoulder in reaction.

“The drawing is so complimentary. Don’t you think so?”

At her prompt, a small frown pinched his brows, and he shifted his attention to the artwork.

It gave her the opportunity to study him up close.

“She said she likes it,” Joel babbled. “That’s why she’s sitting with me.”

Janes gazed from the picture to her and back again. “Not bad, Joel, but you’re missing some of the raw sex appeal.” His thumb caressed Arizona’s shoulder joint.

Smaaarmy. His getup of snug black jeans, a snowy-white wifebeater shirt and pointy-toed boots looked absurd. She supposed the shirt was so he could show off his tat.

Bad decision.

Unlike Spencer, Janes had a scrawny chest, bony shoulders, and his biceps were far from impressive.

Arizona pasted on a smile. “So you’re Mr. Janes?”

“You can call me Terry. Or Cowboy if you like.”

“Cowboy?” Where the hell had that come from?

“It’s what the regulars call me. I saw you in here before, and you plan to become a regular now, right?”

As if she weren’t used to someone of his esteemed ilk sizing her up, she widened her eyes theatrically. “You noticed me?”

“Oh, yeah, honey, I noticed.” Lifting that proprietary hand off her shoulder, he signaled the bartender.

Immediately, two shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey were put on the table between them.

She’d never been much of a drinker, but out of necessity, she’d learned to hold her own. Sometimes it got forced on her, and being drunk weakened her defenses. Right now she’d rather keep her wits, not dull them with liquor, but it didn’t look as if Terry would give her a choice.

He filled both glasses.

Playing dumb, Arizona started to push back her chair. “Well, I’ll just get out of the way so you two can—”

Catching her shoulder again, Janes pressed her back into her seat. “Drink up.” He tossed his back and poured another.

Arizona toyed with the glass. “You don’t look like a cowboy to me.” More like a weasel. Or a worm. “Why do they call you that?”

Gaze dark and heavy, he stared into her eyes, and a smile curled his hard mouth. He said softly but with clear command that cut past the noise, “Drink.”

Wanting to groan, Arizona lifted the shot glass, drew a breath and sipped.

“Ah-ah.” He touched the bottom of the glass, keeping it at her mouth, tipping it up. “All of it.”

“But…” Pushy jerk. “I’m not that much of a drinker.”

“So you’ll learn.”

Damn it. The way he pressed the glass to her mouth, she really had no choice. Knowing there’d be no denying him, she gulped down the whiskey and plopped the glass back onto the table.

The wheeze of her breath was only partially faked.

“Good girl.” He immediately poured her another. “I got my nickname because I break in the wild ones.”

“Wild ones?” Was the dumbass actually admitting to human trafficking? Would he really make it that easy for her?

Or did he somehow consider that a boast of his sexual prowess?

“That’s right.” His grin showed very strong, straight white teeth. “Tell me, brown sugar, you been broke in?”

Umbrage stiffened her spine and drew back her shoulders.

Oh, to slug him. Just once. Maybe in the balls.

No way in hell could she keep from reacting to that jibe. Forgetting her act for the moment, she stared up at him and asked with soft menace, “Was that a racist slur?”

“That was a compliment, honey. You’ve got striking looks—like the perfect mix of features.” He ran the back of a finger up and down her arm. “Where’d you get the suntan? Momma or Daddy?”

Killing him sounded better and better. “My mother was dark.”