Deirdre picked up a shirt and then set it down again quickly. “My lord! Did you see how much these cost?”
“They’re vintage. I told you. Collectibles.”
“I don’t think I can afford vintage. And I need something for wearing, not collecting. Can’t I just get something new?”
Clem frowned. “I guess you could go for some of that sequin crap like the stuff Carolee has up front, but they’re sort of obvious. And that’s what Sylvia wears. You need your own look.”
“Well, I can’t afford this look.” Deirdre picked up another shirt, then paused. “Wait. You want T-shirts? I’ve got T-shirts. And they won’t cost a thing.”
Clem’s frown didn’t lighten. “What T-shirts? Something you brought with you? You’ll want to clear it with me first, believe me.”
Deirdre shook her head. “The ones in the back room at the shop. Tom said he didn’t have any use for them. There’s got to be something in there that will fit.”
“As long as they’re not something your grandmother would wear, I guess they’ll work.”
Deirdre’s grandmother had never worn anything that hadn’t come from Neiman-Marcus or New York City, but she figured that wasn’t something she needed to share just then. “Believe me, they won’t be.”
“Okay.” Clem rubbed her hands together. “Now let’s talk jewelry.”
Considering that it was a weeknight, business was surprisingly brisk that evening. Tom did a quick head count—two or three empty tables, and a couple of groups of six. He checked his watch. Deirdre was a few minutes late, which didn’t seem like her. But Tom figured she was entitled to the occasional messed-up day, as long as she didn’t make a habit of it. Besides, she’d stayed late with the lunch shift today.
Fortunately, Sylvia was on time for once. And making sure everybody knew it. “Where is that Deirdre, anyway? I can’t take care of all these tables by myself.”
“She’ll be here. Have Chico carry the drinks over for you.”
Sylvia pouted in his general direction before flouncing back to her tables, giving her hips an extra flip in his direction. Tom made a show of not noticing. He hadn’t taken Sylvia up on any of her earlier implied offers, and he wasn’t interested in starting now. He mixed a couple of whiskey sours and checked his watch again.
“I’m here,” Deirdre panted behind him. “I’m sorry. I got held up.”
Tom turned toward her and froze, staring.
Her jeans were like a second skin that fit better than most people’s first one did. Her bright red T-shirt looked to be maybe a half-size too small—it hugged the curves of her breasts lovingly. She’d pulled her long black hair up in a topknot, but a few strands lapped against her neck and the golden hoops at her ears. And her lips were pinker than usual, as if she’d been chewing on them.
She was, without doubt, the hottest woman he’d seen within the last month. Possibly year. Possibly decade.
Tom squinted at the black printing across her chest. “Liddy Brenner Festival 2007?” Somehow he managed to keep his voice from shaking.
“It was one of the ones in the back room at the shop. I hope you don’t mind.” Deirdre chewed her lip for a moment and Tom felt all the blood leave his brain, heading south.
“That’s okay,” he croaked. “Use them any way you want.”
“All right. Could I get some change?”
Tom went on staring at her, trying to get his brain back in gear again. “Change?”
“My ten dollars in singles?” Deirdre’s brow furrowed. “Are you feeling okay?”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “Never better. Ten dollars, coming up.” He turned hurriedly toward the cash register. Anything to get away from staring at the honky-tonk vision in front of the bar. She’d probably have to slug him in another minute or so.
When he turned back again, Deirdre gave him a dazzling smile that had his groin throbbing. “Thanks.”
She started to tuck the money into her jeans pocket, then paused, sliding her fingers in slowly so that she could work the dollar bills under the skin-tight fabric.
Amazing.
He hadn’t thought it was still possible for him to get this hard this fast.
Deirdre gave him another bright smile then and headed for her first table.
Tom blew out a breath as he watched her. Something told him it was going to be a very interesting night.
The first table she walked by stared after her, mesmerized. One kid’s jaw actually dropped in disbelief. Finally, one of them raised a hand. “Miss,” he called. “Ma’am?” His voice sounded as if it was on the verge of cracking, although Tom had already carded them and knew the kid was at least twenty-one.
Deirdre turned back to him, raising one of those parenthesis eyebrows of hers. “Yes? Can I get you something?”
The kid stared at her, his face flushing in the dim light of the bar. “Yes, yeah,” he stammered. “Beer. I’ll have beer.”
“What kind of beer?”
“A…draft.” The boy winced, probably because somebody had kicked him under the table.
One of the other boys leaned across the table, waving a bill at Deirdre. “A pitcher. Bring us another pitcher, sweetheart.”
Tom saw Deirdre narrow her eyes. She was so far out of the kid’s league he should be getting the bends, but Tom had to admire his
cojones
.
“A pitcher it is.” She leaned forward slightly, snatching the bill from his hand, then turned back toward the bar, her hips giving a natural swing that looked like the move Sylvia had been trying unsuccessfully to perfect.
The boys stared after her, spellbound. One of them clasped both hands across his heart, flopping them to imitate a beat. The others broke into desperate snickers.
Deirdre flicked an annoyed glanced over her shoulder without breaking stride. A couple of the boys looked like they might faint.
Dear lord in heaven.
Tom only hoped they’d all get through the evening without any visible scars.
Deirdre had felt breathless with excitement, to say nothing of the jeans, when she’d finally made it to the Faro. She’d had to dig through a stack of T-shirts before she found one Clem approved of, but when she pulled it on, Clem nodded slowly, grinning. “Oh boy. I’d almost like to stick around tonight to watch, but I think I’ll leave you to it. Have fun.”
She had. At least for the first hour or so. Sylvia had cast a few annoyed glances in her direction, but Deirdre had been too busy to pay much attention. All of a sudden, everybody in her station needed something. Beer. Nachos. Pitchers. Margaritas. Even a couple of glasses of wine. They’d kept her hopping back and forth between the tables, so busy that Chico had started following her with a tray of drinks.
Actually, she figured Chico was following her for reasons other than carrying her tray. The more raucous tables quieted down noticeably when he walked by.
However, the first fight of the evening actually didn’t involve her at all. A couple of the guys at the pool table got into an argument that graduated to shoving. She’d seen them before, and Harry had called them the Steinbruner brothers. At the moment, they weren’t being very brotherly. Chico stepped up beside them and the two subsided into snarls.
Deirdre stood at the side of the room, watching with wide eyes. She’d never really seen a bar fight before, although she’d sat through her share of yelling at Brandenburg, Inc.
“Miss,” somebody brayed from the other side of the room. Deirdre took a deep, calming breath and walked briskly toward the table—four more boys who looked barely legal. She knew Tom checked IDs, but she hoped he recognized fakes. She’d never noticed how many young guys they had in the Faro before.
“What can I get for you gentlemen?” She gave them the smile she’d begun using, spreading her lips to show just the right amount of teeth. She’d practiced in the mirror a few times after watching Sylvia. It didn’t exactly feel natural, but it seemed to do the trick.
“Depends, honey.” One of the boys leaned forward with what he probably thought was a sexy smile. “What have you got?”
The easiest way to deal with juvenile jerks seemed to be to take them literally. “We have Shiner, Lone Star, and Bud on tap. A lot of bottled imports—some new microbrews. And mixed drinks. Would you like to order something?” She delivered the speech without smiling, since smiling seemed to bring out the worst in kids like him for some reason.
“Yeah.” The boy leaned sat back in his chair, his gaze traveling up and down her body. “Bring me another one of these. A Bud.” He shook his beer stein in her direction. “You can take this back, too.”
Deirdre stood still. She’d have to lean across the table to get the stein, and she had a feeling that wouldn’t be pleasant. On the other hand, this was her job. She blew out another breath and stretched her hand toward him. As she leaned down, one of the other boys reached up and squeezed her breast.
She straightened abruptly, staring at him in shock. “You…jerk,” she blurted.
The other boys guffawed, high-fiving the groper.
“Out.” A male voice sounded over her shoulder. Deirdre turned, expecting to see Chico. Instead, Tom Ames stood behind her. All of a sudden, he seemed a lot taller than the six-feet-something she’d originally estimated. His blue eyes were glacial. He held a sawed-off pool cue in one hand.
“Aw, man,” one of the boys began, “we were just…”
“I know what you were just. Pay your tab and get out. Now.”
Another of the boys struggled to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process. “You can’t throw us out of here. We didn’t do anything.”
“You groped my waitress. And you’re shit-faced, or close enough to be dangerous. I want you out of my place.”
The boy took a staggering step in Tom’s direction, and then stopped as Chico stepped up to the other side of the table. “You heard what the man said.”
“Deirdre?” Tom half turned in her direction. “What do they owe?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. They’re paid up.”
Chico’s mouth slid into a grin that didn’t reach any other part of his face. “Except for the tip.”
“Tip?” The first boy stared at him open-mouthed. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Chico’s biceps flexed, sending a ripple through his tattoos. “Give the lady her tip, jerk-off. You need to pay her for the insult.”
Tom frowned. Deirdre had a feeling he hadn’t planned on going quite this far. Chico folded his arms across his massive chest, studying the boy in front of him. He seemed to be considering weak spots.
The boy reached into his pocket and tossed a wad of singles on the table. “Here you go…Deirdre.” Somehow, he made her name sound like an obscenity. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Place is a shithole anyway.”
Chico frowned. For a moment, Deirdre was afraid he’d take a swing at the kid on general principles.
Tom shook his head slightly. “Just go.”
The boys headed for the door, rolling their shoulders and trying for macho. From the far side of the room, somebody gave a particularly moist raspberry. One of the boys paused in the doorway, his hand clenching. Then his buddies grabbed his arm and pulled him outside.
Deirdre exhaled slowly. She stuffed the tip in her left pocket, then began piling dirty glasses onto her tray, praying that nobody would say anything to her. The noise level seemed to increase again, everyone talking to fill in the silence left by the boys’ exit.
“Are you okay?” Tom brushed the table with a rag, grabbing the empty pitcher.
“Of course,” Deirdre mumbled. She wasn’t exactly okay, but she needed to be. And she needed everybody to leave her alone until she got it together again.
Guts up, Deirdre.
Tom took the tray out of her hands and walked back toward the bar. Deirdre pressed her lips together hard to keep them from trembling. Then she headed to the next table.
For the rest of the evening she worked on autopilot. Part of her desperately wished Clem were there, if only to tell her this was supposed to happen and that she hadn’t screwed up somehow. Across the room, Sylvia moved with the kind of no-nonsense stride that Deirdre wished she could develop. Maybe she had do-me jeans, but she didn’t yet have the follow-through to go with them. She should probably just go back to the khakis and knit shirts. They felt safe, even if she didn’t get anywhere near the tips she was getting with this outfit.
But the tips were the point. The more tips she made, the closer she was to getting the shop ready to go.
She reminded herself to smile, although she’d never felt less like it in her life. She remembered how she’d felt when she’d walked into the Faro that evening. Strong. Powerful. Sexy.
Well, maybe not sexy. Deirdre closed her eyes for a moment.
Yes, damn it, sexy!
She, who’d never been known to turn anybody’s head, had been really sexy. Clem had grinned at her on her way out of the kitchen, muttering, “Go get ’em, tiger.”
And then somehow she’d managed to screw everything up. She blew out a breath as she wiped off an empty table. Oh well, tomorrow was another day.
Maybe she’d go back to her old jeans again. Built for comfort, not for speed. The bills waded in her pocket pressed hard against her thigh as she leaned over. Lots of bills. Probably twice as many as she’d made before.
She stood up again and tossed her towel back on the tray.
Guts up, Deirdre.
Maybe she’d give the new jeans one more night.
Chapter Seven
Tom watched Deirdre work the room. Her spine was ramrod straight, and it looked like she was making a major effort to keep her hips from swinging. Not that it made much difference. She was still the sexiest thing in the Faro, although the competition was admittedly slim.
He’d had a feeling something was going to happen when he’d seen her come in, but he’d figured it would be a couple of those young fools fighting over her. His fault. He should have anticipated some asshole getting grabby.
Now Deirdre was trying to act like she was still wearing her khaki camouflage.
Not gonna happen, babe. Not in those jeans.
As the evening wound down, Tom found he really wanted to punch somebody, preferably one of the jerks who’d been sitting at her table. At least the guys who were left in the room were treating her like the rare jewel she was. Although the fact that Chico was sitting in the doorway to the beer garden regarding everyone with his one-wrong-step-and-I-flatten-you expression probably helped. Tom only hoped they were also rewarding her heavily for the privilege of watching her walk across the room. Sylvia sent a fairly smug smile Deirdre’s way every once in a while, as if she’d somehow gotten what she deserved.