Beth Andrews - His Secret Agenda

“OKAY, GUYS, NIGHT’S OVER,” Allie told the last three men left in the bar. “Last call was forty-five minutes ago. Time for you to move on.”

Two of them slid their chairs back, but the dark-haired one in the middle, the biggest one, didn’t budge. “I’m not done with my drink,” he slurred.

She sighed. Why were the biggest ones always so much trouble? “You’ve got five minutes to finish it and get on your way. Or else I call the cops to come and escort you out.”

“That won’t be necessary,” the taller, lankier one on the left said, his Adam’s apple bouncing as he swallowed. “Right, guys?”

The shorter one with the thick neck nodded, while Big Guy glared at his beer.

“Five minutes,” she repeated, walking away.

Since Dean had everything under control behind the bar, she finished wiping off tables. She hated to think about what her night would’ve been like if he hadn’t shown up. Even Noreen had said he wasn’t half-bad.

And from Noreen, that was high praise indeed.

Allie scrubbed at a sticky spot on a corner table. She had to admit Dean had impressed her. He’d not only saved her ass—as he so eloquently put it—but he’d stuck around to help clean up. Which meant she might get home and in bed before the sun rose.

Yep, no doubt about it. Dean was her hero. She wiped the table dry before setting the chairs on it. She just had to figure out how she was going to persuade him to give up his job in Saranac Lake and work for her instead.

She ran her hands down her jeans, picked up her rags and headed behind the bar. “You have everything under control back here?”

“So far,” Dean said.

He was quite the man of understatement. But during the past few hours she’d come to realize that although he talked slowly and took his time, he was far from stupid or lazy. He got the job done, kept the customers happy and seemed at ease whether trying to sweet-talk Noreen into cleaning, or shutting down a young coed when they’d overimbided.

Hey, maybe there was something to being laid-back.

She’d have to give it a try sometime.

She refilled her glass, drinking from it and then nodding at the three young men getting to their feet. “I’m glad they’re leaving. I was afraid I’d have to call Jack.”

Dean tipped his hat back. “Jack? That your boyfriend?”

“No, my brother.” She ran her finger through the condensation on her glass. “He’s also the police chief.”

“That’s handy.”

“It’s great,” she agreed. “I can always count on him to bail me out. And then lecture me until my eyes cross.”

Was it any wonder she’d never told Jack what had happened a year ago, what she’d done, before she’d bought The Summit? Even after all these months she still had a hard time facing herself in the mirror. She didn’t need to face her family’s disappointment in her, as well.

She bent to tie a bag of garbage closed as the three kids passed the bar. Instead of moseying on out, though, the big one stopped. “I changed my mind.” He hefted himself onto a stool and slammed his hand on the bar. “I want another beer before we go.”

“Sorry, no can do,” Allie said before Dean could respond. “We’ve already had last call.”

“Come on, Harry,” his tall buddy said, glancing warily at Dean. “Let’s get back to the hotel. We’ve got a twelve-pack there, remember?”

Harry—did people still name their kids that?—stood and shoved his companion into the bar. “Back off. I want my beer here.”

“I’m giving you ten seconds,” Allie said, making her voice as cold as the weather outside despite the uneasiness in her stomach, “then I’m calling the cops.”

Harry puffed up his chest, swaying with the effort. “I’ll go when I’m ready to go.”

Both of his friends began talking at once, trying to convince him. Before Allie could pick up the phone to call in the cavalry—namely Jack—Dean sighed and tossed down his cleaning rag. She grabbed his arm.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He looked at her as if she’d been drinking the disinfectant solution. “I thought I’d convince young Harry and his followers to go home.”

“But there are three of them.”

He gently peeled her fingers off his arm. “I appreciate your concern, but I think I can handle the Three Stooges here.”

Then he walked around the bar. She bent down and picked up the Louisville Slugger Dillon had made her promise to keep under the bar for protection. Her hands shook as she wrapped her fingers around the handle.

If she had to hit someone with this thing she was going to be mighty ticked off.

Dean, in no particular hurry that she could see, sort of…ambled…up to Harry and his friends. The kids flanking Harry took a step back. Must be Dean’s sheer size. It couldn’t be his fierce demeanor. From what she’d seen of him, the guy was so easygoing she was surprised he didn’t slip into a coma.

“You’re ready now,” Dean said quietly.

Harry held on to the bar as if trying to remain upright. “What?”

“You said you’d go when you were ready. You’re ready now.”

“Says who?”

Allie blinked. Had she somehow been transported back to grade school? No, they weren’t a couple of ten-year-olds calling each other names. They were two very large, fully grown men facing off in front of her.

Dean kept his hands loose at his sides. “Bar’s closed.”

“Back off.” The guy punctuated his statement by shoving him in the chest.

Dean took a step back to keep his balance, and Allie tightened her grip on the bat, her pulse skittering. But instead of losing his temper, he looked at Harry’s friends. “You’d better get your buddy out of here before he lands all of your asses in jail.”

Harry sneered. “Why don’t you go back to the range or wherever you came from?” He leaned forward and knocked Dean’s hat right off his head.

Oh, Harry, that wasn’t a smart move.

“Kid,” Dean said with a quiet intensity that made her shiver, “you have a lot to learn. The first of which being don’t ever touch another man’s hat.” He stepped forward. The two smarter ones backed up. “Now, you’ve got two seconds to get your butt out of this establishment—”

“Or what?” Harry asked, with more beer-induced bravado than brains.

Dean actually grinned. A dangerous and—okay, sexy—grin that said please give me an excuse so I can smash your head in.

Not that she blamed him. After all, Harry had knocked his hat off.

“Or else I escort you out personally,” Dean said, making no doubt that it wasn’t a statement, but a promise.

The two men stared each other down. Tension filled the room; the threat of violence permeated the still air.

Allie cleared her throat. “I hate to interrupt this testosterone battle, but do you want me to call the police?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Dean said, never taking his attention off the kid. “Will it, Harry?”

“No,” Harry grumbled after a moment. His friends, sensing their chance, took hold of his arms and started pulling him backward. “This bar sucks, anyway.”

She loosened her grasp on the bat. Crisis averted. Thank God.

Or it was until Harry wrenched free of his friends and swung wildly at Dean’s head.

She gasped and raised the bat to her shoulder, but Dean didn’t need her coming to his rescue. In one smooth move he stepped to the side, pulled his arm back and punched Harry. Allie grimaced at the crunching sound of bone hitting bone as Dean’s fist connected with the drunk’s nose.

Harry groaned and slid to the floor in a heap.

Allie’s palms were so sweaty the bat slipped out of her grip and hit the floor with a loud bang. But nobody seemed to notice. Harry’s friends stared wide-eyed at Dean, and Harry…well, poor Harry wasn’t doing anything except bleeding. While Dean stood there, big and imposing and a little scary, with his hands clenched.