Rebecca Zanetti - Provoked

But would he? The demons had taken him nearly four years ago. Demons tortured with obscene mind games, often rendering the victim stark crazy and suicidal. After years of such agony, could any man survive? Kane blinked twice. Wallowing in fear wouldn’t help.

“We’ve been so close to finding him, so many damn times,” Dage said. “New intel is that the demons have created a base somewhere in the southwest. I’m hoping they’ve moved Jase there.”

“Maybe.” Kane wouldn’t have. He would’ve kept any prisoner at home base and away from the known vampire headquarters in the States. Of course, vampires didn’t keep prisoners. But as strong as the king was, he was also an older brother who needed something to cling to. Some type of hope allowing him to function. “We’ll find him.”

“Yes, we will. So tell me about the woman.”

Kane shrugged. “White blond hair like a demon. Black eyes. Tall, graceful . . . beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Dage breathed out. “Interesting. I always figured if we found a demon destroyer, she’d be a massive monster with warts. In my three hundred fifty years, I’ve never seen one. In fact, I’d thought they’d died out.”

The woman certainly lacked warts or monstrosity. Kane took a drink of the dark ale, enjoying the rich hops. “Which begs the question . . . how has she hidden so well, and why stop now? Why is she broadcasting so damn strongly? I felt the vibrations the second I drove into this small Colorado town.”

“Well, if there’s a mystery to solve, you’re the guy to solve it. Just get her to help us.”

“I will.” God help the woman if she refused.

One of the drunk women yipped loud, fell off her saddle, and crashed to the floor. A chorus of applause rippled throughout the bar.

Who the hell were these people?

Dage cleared his throat. “Ah, Kane, I know this isn’t your kind of mission. But you were the only one I could send.”

“Not a problem.” Jesus. He knew how to deal with people—he merely preferred not to. “I have to go—see you soon.” Clicking off, he took a deep breath, resisting the urge to cough from smoke and the scent of spilled tequila. Hunting werewolves was a hell of a lot easier than hunting one small woman.

He caught her eye and lifted his bottle in a silent toast. Oh yeah, sweetheart. We’re both about to leave our comfort zones. Smiling as she flushed and broke eye contact, he swallowed a good drink of the brew. Let the real games begin.

Amber wove around another cowboy on his way to the restroom, her gaze on the full tray of tequila shooters, her mind on the guy by the door. Make that the man by the door. There was nothing guy-like about the smooth tourist. And if she didn’t miss her guess, he was no tourist.

Wearing black silk trousers and shirt, he hinted at money. Dark hair that curled over his nape, deep eyes so blue as to be almost violet, and rugged features hinted at intelligence. Dig deeper, and the hints ended to a blatant display of . . . maleness. He had it.

Lounging in the booth, he apparently couldn’t care less he didn’t belong in the Western bar. And the rest of the patrons stayed clear of him. Quite unusual, considering most of the women had given him “come take me” eyes all night. But not one of them had the guts to approach the stranger. He might as well have had a “stay the hell away” sign on his chest. Or on his chiseled face.

She’d delivered no less than eight beers to him, and he appeared as alert after the last one as he had when she’d arrived for her shift. Thank God it was almost closing time and she could get away from his constant appraisal.

Those dark eyes never left her. They cataloged, watched, and kept track. But there was no leer, no creepy expression in them. He just . . . watched.

She’d had about enough of him. Her feet ached from being on them all night, and the muscles along her neck were killing her. But she needed the money, so she’d taken the waitressing job a week ago.

Too bad she wasn’t trained in anything other than nurturing plants and trees. It was definitely time to sign up for some night classes at the college.

With a sigh, she headed his way, having to concentrate to keep from tripping over her boots. Something about the stranger reminded her of her femininity. The silly thought caught her up short. Man, she had to stop sneaking away from the group and reading goofy romance novels.

But she couldn’t help herself. Sure, she’d been taught to rely on herself and that she had to create her own happy ending. But wasn’t that what the heroines in those books did?

Finally she reached his table. “Last call, buddy.”

A smile curved his full lips . . . one that had odd tingles wandering down her spine. The grin failed to soften the harsh angles of his face, making him seem even harder than before. Man, he was good-looking. Almost too much so. He slid the empty beer bottle across the table, his fingers long and tapered.

“Buddy? That’s a new one on me. Thanks, but I’m finished.” Reaching for a wallet in his back pocket, he slid a fifty toward her. “You haven’t taken a break in five hours. Please sit down while you count my change.”

Smooth, cultured, his deep tone zinged butterflies through her abdomen. She glanced around at the now nearly empty bar. She could spare a moment. Curiosity forced her to sit, even while warning whispered in the back of her head. She knew better. “Why have you been looking at me for five solid hours?” Not reaching for the fifty, and certainly not reaching for her change pouch, she stared him right in the eyes.

A flash of temper filtered across his face that he quickly banished. “I don’t have time to dance with you. You know exactly why I’m here.”

“I do?” She frowned. Her heart sped up. “You lied about the northern rocks?”

Danger lived in his frown. “Sweetheart, I don’t know a thing about any rocks. I do, however, need your help.”

Oh, for goodness’ sake. Was this some sophisticated-guy come-on ? “I’m really not interested.” She softened her voice to appease him. While he appeared classy, there was no doubt the guy was dangerous. The way he filled out the expensive shirt showed toned muscle. But the danger lived in his eyes and on his skin. Instinct kept her alert.

Anger flattened his full lips. “You won’t help?”

She inhaled deeply. The scent of cedar and musk—maleness—tickled her senses. Perhaps the guy was merely lost. “Maybe I’ve misunderstood. What kind of help do you need?”

He paused, taking her measure. “The demons have my brother.”

Her mouth went dry. Alarm bells in her brain widened her eyes. “Ah . . . demons?”

“Yes.” Calculation and an odd sorrow flashed across his face. “The demon nation captured him, and they’ve imprisoned him for almost four years. I need your help.”

“Oh. Well now.” Moving slowly, scooting from the booth, she sighed in relief when she reached her feet. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Those demons, well now.” Subtly, she nodded to Butch, who had just finished wiping down the bar. “But, well, there’s nothing I can do.” Except send the wacko back to his spaceship.

Butch’s cowboy boots clomped through peanut shells on the wood floor, all three hundred pounds of him showing grumpiness. “Problem?” His bald head glinted under the dim lights, and pure pissed-off male shone in his eyes as he glared at the crazy guy.

A nervous giggle escaped Amber. “Ah, no. It’s just, this man should probably get going.”

Butch nodded his massive head. “Pay and get out, fella.”

“Kane.” Most men immediately rushed to do Butch’s bidding. Not this guy. With an appraising glance, he slid the fifty closer to Amber, his gaze on her. “Kane. Instead of ‘fella’ or ‘buddy.’ Kane.”