Robin Bielman: Veiled Target

The waitress delivered their beers with a smile and lingered for a moment to gawk—yes, gawk—at her date. Tess cleared her throat to get the woman’s attention. “Thanks.”

The girl came to her senses and mumbled she’d be back to take their dinner order. Right. Tess would be lucky to finish her beer before bolting from Mr. Coulda-Been-One-Night-Wonderful.

Something changed in his demeanor then. His tight jaw relaxed. The intensity in his stare lessened. She heard him take a deep breath as he eased away from the tabletop. His chest remained puffed out; he wasn’t backing down, but retreating some. He’d obviously realized his slightly hostile tactics wouldn’t get him anywhere.

He lifted his beer and took a long, slow drink. When he replaced it on the table, the glass was half full. Tess picked up her drink and matched his swallow, her amber ale leveling off halfway down. While silence passed between them, she was painfully aware of his presence and tried to decide whether to say goodbye or wait to see what his change in attitude would offer.

She settled on waiting. A normal girl would stay. A girl who didn’t wear false bravado and eliminate Veilers for a living would stay. And most importantly, a girl who hadn’t been kissed in five years would stay. Maybe she’d misunderstood his rudeness. She lowered her leg and leaned over the table, elbows on top, palms flat against each other. His next words would make or break the date.

“I’m sorry. I’ve never been on a blind date before,” he muttered.

“Me neither. So we’re even.” Apology accepted .

Although they’d just met, she had a feeling he’d equal her in ways she found most appealing. His leather jacket hinted at adventure. His tan skin and solid build led her to believe she’d find him atop a mountain or in the wild surf of the Pacific just as often as she liked to be in those places. A burst of want stirred inside her.

“What made you agree to come?” He fingered the menu before him, as if deciding whether or not he wanted the date to continue through dinner.

“My two demon roommates. They threatened to do something hellish to me if I didn’t get my ass back in the dating game.” She leaned back and brought her arms to her sides, resting her hands on the leather seat.

His beer glass clinked his front teeth as he clumsily pulled it from his mouth and choked down the draft. “Demon? I beg your pardon?”

Interesting. She’d meant it as a joke, but his reaction made her think they might have even more in common. Did he know about Veilers? His attempt at hiding his response faltered and she decided to press a little further.

“Don’t worry. They’re not really demons. Although if I seriously thought about it, there are certain times of the month when I think the devil himself is pulling their strings.”

He gathered himself immediately. “Right.”

“Unless, of course, you know something I don’t. There aren’t real demons are there?”

“I don’t—”

“I mean that’s impossible, right?”

“I don’t—”

“You’ve never,” she asked, her tone inquisitive, “seen one have you?”

He waited a beat. Probably to make sure she wouldn’t interrupt him again. “I don’t believe there are.”

She looked at him for a few seconds, and then risked, “What do you believe in?”

The nervous tick Tess felt earlier seemed to jump across the table and land on Trey. He scrubbed the side of his neck. Phew. She was glad to be rid of it, and only a teensy tiny bit sorry she’d placed it on him. When he started to speak, she dipped her attention to the curve of his lips before refocusing her gaze on his eyes.

“That’s a very personal question considering I’ve only known you for five minutes.”

“Really? You think so?” She wiggled in her seat, careful to keep the neckline of her dress in place. “Because I feel like we could have met before.”

She couldn’t exactly explain it, or put a clear picture to it, but there was definitely something between them that extended beyond the past few minutes. The thought heated her from the inside out. Blind date or not, their paths might have somehow crossed.

“Does that line really work for you?” A genuine look of pleasure, albeit small, spread across his face for the first time since he sat down.

The back of her throat tickled. “That wasn’t,” she choked out, trying to stay calm, “a line. I really meant it.” Good onya, Tess. She reached for her beer and finished it, praying the cold liquid would alleviate the heat inside her. God, I hope my cheeks aren’t red.

Rather than reply, he picked up his beer. She could swear she saw the corners of his mouth turn up while he drank. Once finished, he placed the mug next to hers, slid them to the edge of the table and motioned to the waitress for two more.

Guess he liked the line.

As she inwardly cringed, she focused on slowing the hasty beat of her heart. This was worse than any assignment. It was like she had no control over her mouth—or other parts of her body. Assign her to a mark, and no matter how good looking, she never experienced an elevated heart rate, never worried a blush would cross her face. Assign her to a blind date and she became a bumbling idiot.

Scarier still, it felt good. Tess the eliminator had disappeared.

“I’m both glad and lucky you’re sitting across the table from me. Whether we’ve met before or not, you look quite stunning this evening.” He shrugged off his coat, ready to stay awhile. “And that isn’t a line either.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Playing nice wove a bewitching thread of vibrations through her. Damn. First meeting jitters aside, the air between them no longer felt as though it might crackle—except in a good, maybe-I’ll-go-back-to-your-place kind of way.

That was the only explanation she could think of as to why she let her defenses down and let a more unguarded side show. “I’m not very good or proficient at the whole dating thing.”

“Because of your one-liners?” Amusement crossed his handsome features.

Smart-ass.

“You arm-wrestle?” she asked.

“What?” His brows furrowed. His smile waned.

“Can you arm-wrestle?” She had the feeling she wouldn’t beat him at verbal sparring, but no one could beat her at arm-wrestling. Not even a two-hundred-pound, muscle-clad, hunk of man.

The waitress hit the side of the table with her hip, momentarily drawing Tess’s attention away from the most inviting blue eyes she’d ever had the pleasure of gazing into. Beer sloshed onto the table as the waitress traded their empty mugs for full ones before hurrying off.

“Sure, I can arm-wrestle.” He looked insulted that she’d even considered the notion he couldn’t.

Good. She had him off balance already.

“Are you left or right handed? And be honest.”

“Honestly, I’m right handed.”

Tess studied him. He didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t fidget or scratch behind his neck. He did have a fresh scar above his left brow, the skin lighter there, the sutured line still pink.

“Cool. Me too. Let’s do this left handed then.”

“By do this, you mean arm-wrestle?” His eyes widened. “Me?”

“You got a problem with that?” She put her arm, bent at the elbow, on the table.

He added his arm to the mix. “No problem here. But why?”

Because it was the first thing to come to mind when he’d flustered her. Because she hadn’t lost a match yet. Because she wanted to feel his hand in hers. She was dying to touch his skin again, absorb his warmth and anything else that went along with it. Their brief handshake wasn’t enough.