Dempsey’s eyebrows went up in an exaggerated version of surprise. “It’s not for rent?”
“Already rented. The place is being renovated.”
“So you’ve got a contract and all?”
Something about his tone rankled, as if he already knew the answers to his own questions and was much too pleased about it. Tom unloaded some glasses from the rack Leon had just placed behind him. “We’ve reached an agreement, yeah.”
“Well, Mr. Ames, I can guarantee you I’d be willing to pay a lot more than whatever rent you’ve agreed on with the current occupant. You’d definitely come out ahead on this deal, believe me.”
Dempsey leaned an elbow on the bar. His expression was so elaborately casual that Tom immediately assumed he was lying about something even if he was telling the truth about the money.
“Sorry. Like I said, I’ve already rented the place.” He stacked a few more glasses, deliberately not looking at Dempsey.
“You ever heard of Big John Brandenburg, Ames? Brandenburg, Inc.?”
A drip of ice coursed down Tom’s spine. At least they were finally getting to the point, even though that point seemed a lot more dangerous to Deirdre than he’d figured before. “No. Can’t say that I have.” He gave Dempsey a tight smile. “He from around here?”
“No.” He narrowed his eyes again. “Houston.”
“That could explain it, then. Why I haven’t heard of him.” He went back to stacking glasses. He couldn’t see any reason to make Dempsey’s job easier.
“Look, Ames, let’s quit screwing around here. Dee-Dee Brandenburg is renting your shop. Her father is Big John Brandenburg. More money than god and a couple of his angels. He wants her out of here and back in Houston where she belongs. He’ll rent the shop from you for whatever price you want.”
Tom turned to stare at him.
Deirdre? More money than god?
Fortunately, his years as a gambler had taught him how to keep a straight face no matter what he was thinking. “Okay, first of all, I don’t know anybody named Dee-Dee. I’m renting the shop to Deirdre Brandenburg. She’s been working her ass off getting it into shape. Why the hell should I screw her over because her father wants her to go back to Houston? Doesn’t look like she’s interested in going right now herself.”
Dempsey’s jaw tightened. There was no suggestion of a smile anymore. “If you do it my way, everybody wins. You cancel her lease, she goes home, her father’s satisfied, you get a lot of money. Everybody’s happy.”
“Except Deirdre.”
Dempsey shrugged, glancing at his watch. “She’ll get over it. In fact, her father would also appreciate it if you found yourself a new barmaid. Believe me, Big John Brandenburg can be a very generous friend. And you don’t need the kind of trouble here that Dee-Dee Brandenburg could cause you.”
For a long moment, Tom considered how satisfying it would be to plant his fist in the middle of Dempsey’s doughy face. A broken nose might give him a little character. On the other hand, given Dempsey’s personal sliminess, Tom doubted even a complete body cast could do that. “Let me get this straight, Dempsey. I’m supposed to fire Deirdre. Then I’m supposed to cancel her lease on the shop. All because, according to you, her rich daddy wants her to go back home and you’ll make it worth my while.”
Dempsey shrugged again. “That’s it. Straightforward enough, I’d say. Big John Brandenburg’s a good man to have on your side. And he’ll definitely be on your side after you do this. You won’t be sorry, believe me.”
Tom closed his fist around his bar rag, largely to keep from closing it around Dempsey’s throat. “No. I promised the shop to Deirdre, and she’s doing a good job waiting tables here. I keep my promises. Plus I don’t fire people just because somebody else wants me to.”
Dempsey stared at him, his expression blank. Then he sighed. “Suit yourself. If you change your mind within the next forty-eight hours, I’m staying at the Woodrose Inn.”
“After forty-eight hours, you leave?” Tom tried to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice.
Dempsey gave him a wintry smile. “After forty-eight hours, the offer expires. And believe me, when it does, you’ll wish you’d taken it.”
He turned and stalked out the door. Tom watched him go, wishing once again that he’d simply decked the bastard when he had the chance.
Deirdre stood in the doorway, studying her shop.
Her shop.
She fought down the little bubble of elation that formed in her chest. She was still a long way from being ready to open. But she’d come a long way already.
The paper overalls she’d worn to paint had made her sweat. Her hair, stuffed into an oversized painter’s cap that kept sliding down her forehead, itched. She was dirty, paint-smudged, and she probably smelled, but she didn’t give a damn. The shop—
her
shop—was shaping up nicely.
Chico pushed the roller across the ceiling one more time, covering the final strip of dingy gray with white primer. Deirdre figured she’d let it dry for the rest of the afternoon before she pulled the tarps off the floor. She’d paint the shelves and floor next week.
She squinted up at the shadowed ceiling. Maybe when she got a little money ahead, she’d install pressed tin. It would fit with the architecture and the room had probably had a tin ceiling once upon a time. For now, the primer would have to be enough. It was so far up nobody could see it clearly anyway.
She heard a step behind her and turned to see Tom walking up the sidewalk from the Faro. He paused in the doorway beside her, whistling. “Wow. Hard to believe a coat of paint could make that much difference.”
Deirdre licked her lips. It was the first time she’d seen him since last night. Thanks to Craig’s visit this morning, she hadn’t really thought about that kiss for the past couple of hours. Until now. Suddenly she felt as if she’d swallowed a flock of luna moths.
“It’s just primer. I’ve got a nice creamy brown picked out for the walls, sort of mocha. And then the floor and the shelves will be chocolate. Kind of a theme. You know, chocolate and coffee.” She was babbling, but it was better than standing there tongue-tied, which seemed to be her other option.
Tom reached down and pushed her cap off her forehead, freeing a lock of hair as he did. “Looks great so far.”
Deirdre wasn’t sure how he could tell, given that he was looking at her instead of the room.
“Hey man,” Chico called from the stepladder in the corner. “Put on some overalls and grab a roller. We still got half a wall to do.”
Tom grabbed a set of overalls from the back room, pulling them over his jeans and T-shirt. “Glad to oblige.”
Deirdre took another breath and told her hammering heart to calm down. She had to work with the man, and that meant trying to get back on something approaching a normal footing. She grabbed her own brush and went back to painting the strip of wall that ran along the top of the baseboards.
A couple of hours later they were more or less done. The paint smell was so strong that Deirdre retreated to the back room. She thought about opening some windows, but then decided against it. Open windows would be an invitation for someone to try a little breaking and entering. Potential burglars couldn’t get into the Faro from the shop, but they might not know that.
Chico pulled off the coveralls he was using. They didn’t snap across his chest, and they left significant parts of his arms and legs uncovered, but he didn’t seem worried about it. He tossed them in the corner. “When you want to put the paint over the primer?”
“This week sometime—after the primer dries. I might be able to get part of a wall done between the lunch and dinner shifts, or before lunch if I get up early enough.”
Chico snorted. “I’ll help you out in the afternoon. No getting up early, though.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
But he was already gone, striding out the back door toward the door to the kitchen.
Leaving her alone in the shop with Tom.
“Come on,” he said. “Let me buy you dinner. Someplace better than here.”
“Dinner?” Deirdre blinked at him. “Don’t you have to tend bar?”
“Not on Sunday. No customers to speak of. Harry covers it. He’s got Mondays off.” He tossed the coverall next to Chico’s. “Where did you get these? Did they come with the paint?”
“Sort of. Mrs. Grandview over at the hardware store let me have them for a couple of bucks. She said nobody wanted them because they tore too easily.”
Tom’s eyes drifted toward Chico’s overall which was already splitting at every visible seam. “I can see her point. Dinner?”
Deirdre glanced down at her hands. “I’m really filthy.”
Tom gave her a long, assessing look, long enough to make her toes curl. “So come next door and wash up. We can go over to the Coffee Corral. Believe me, Al Brosius won’t care how you look.”
Washing up in the kitchen of the Faro wasn’t the easiest thing she’d ever done, particularly since she had a feeling Leon was checking her for wet T-shirt cling. Fortunately for her peace of mind, she’d managed to clean her face and hands without slopping too much on the rest of her body. Deirdre had a feeling her hair looked as if it had been jammed under a cap all afternoon, but she also had a feeling that sticking her head under the kitchen faucet would not be the best way to deal with the problem. Particularly since it would probably result in just the kind of view Leon was hoping for.
Tom gave Leon a narrow-eyed glance as he came into the kitchen. “You can take off. Looks like the dishes are all done now. Go sweep the main room.”
Leon gave her one more look, maybe hoping she’d doused herself since the last time he’d looked at her five seconds before, and then headed out the kitchen door.
“Here. I raided some more of Ferguson’s stock. Figured we could both use something that didn’t smell like sweat and paint.” Tom tossed her a T-shirt then pulled his own T-shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor at his feet.
Deirdre took a deep breath and told herself to calm down. She’d seen a man’s naked chest before. Craig had displayed his every chance he got.
But somehow Craig’s chest hadn’t been so…nice. Tom’s muscles were hard and flat, not bulging like Craig’s, as if they’d been inflated shortly before he entered the room. His skin was slightly pale, but still warm, dusted with fine golden hair. He wore a silver medal on a chain around his neck that nestled in the center of his chest, catching the light.
Tom pulled on the clean T-shirt, and she almost groaned in disappointment.
Get a grip, Deirdre.
She picked up the dark blue T-shirt from the prep table where he’d dropped it. On the front, two obese referees seemed involved in a fight to the death. “Fourteenth Annual Labor Day Soccer Tournament and Beer Fest,” the letters read. Deirdre sighed. She’d seen worse—in fact, she’d worn worse within the last week. “I’ll change and meet you out front.”
Tom stood where he was for a moment, then grinned. “Yes ma’am. I’ll give you some space.” He turned and walked back through the swinging door, out into the main room again.
Deirdre stared down at the T-shirt, telling herself she wasn’t disappointed in the least.
Chapter Thirteen
Tom glanced around the Coffee Corral, trying to assess the amount of business they were doing on a Sunday night. Good, but not spectacular. People who came to the Corral were usually local. It wasn’t on Main and it served neither goat cheese nor pork rinds, which put it sort of in the middle of the road for Konigsburg. The owner and cook, Al Brosius, raised an eyebrow when he saw Tom and Deirdre heading for the counter to place their orders. “Scoping out the competition, Ames?”
“Looking to get fed, Al.” Tom gave him an easy smile. Al wasn’t as much of a tight-ass as Tolly Berenger at the Silver Spur, but he still had his reasons for not wanting Tom to move into the Konigsburg restaurant trade. “Besides, the Faro and the Corral draw different crowds. Believe me, you don’t want my frat boys.”
Al shook his head. “Nah, but I’d take a few of your blue-hairs. Send me the overflow next time, okay?”
“You got it.” He turned to Deirdre. “What’ll you have?”
She was chewing on that delectable lower lip again as she studied the menu posted above the counter. Tom carefully studied the menu himself so he wouldn’t watch her. Getting a hard-on in the middle of the Coffee Corral was not on his agenda.
“I guess I’d like the Corral Burger with fries.” She gave Al one of those smiles of hers, simultaneously innocent and sultry. “Could I get a salad, too?”
Al grinned back at her, his dark eyes much friendlier than they’d been when he’d looked at Tom. “A beautiful woman who eats. Will wonders never cease?”
Deirdre’s cheeks turned a faint pink. “I’m really hungry. And it smells wonderful in here.” She gazed up at Al from beneath her lush dark lashes, the naughty librarian sprung to life.
Tom studied Al’s menu for all he was worth. Apparently, Deirdre’s lower lip wasn’t the only thing that sent his body into overdrive.
After he’d placed his own order for fried catfish and coleslaw, Tom guided her to a booth near the back. He didn’t think they’d run into anybody they knew at the Corral, but he had no idea where Dempsey was hanging out when he wasn’t making threats at the Faro. And he wanted some time for a personal conversation.
All afternoon he’d been trying to figure out how much to tell her, and how to phrase it.
Guess what? Your billionaire daddy wants me to fire you and throw you out of the shop
was accurate but wasn’t likely to earn him any points for sensitivity. Still, however he phrased it, he knew he needed to tell her something about what was going on—to at least warn her about what her father was apparently planning. Who knew what else the old man might have in mind?
Dempsey’s parting shot still echoed in his mind
. You’ll wish you’d taken it.
Even allowing for the fact that Dempsey was a self-dramatizing asshole, he didn’t much like the sound of that. Particularly since he figured Deirdre had a good chance of being hurt in the fallout of whatever dumbshit thing Dempsey was planning to do, probably on her father’s orders.
She nibbled on a leaf from the salad Al had handed her before they’d left the counter. “Would you like some of this? It’s really good.” A drop of oil glistened on her pouty lower lip.