To the Limit Read Online Free Page B
hands, she brought it to her mouth and tossed it back.
Liquid fire. Instant tears. The whiskey burned all the way to her toes. And did its job. When the flames eased, a mellow warmth seeped through her blood and steadied her.
"Thanks," she said when she could speak.
Only then did he toss back his own shot. "You need another?"
She shook her head. "Coffee would be good, though."
Eve watched in silence as he eased out of the booth and walked over to the bar. Then she buried her head in her hands. And laughed. What else could she do?
It wasn't enough that she'd been attacked last night. It wasn't enough she'd almost been blown to bits tonight. She had to deal with Tyler McClain, too.
Who said Fate didn't have a sense of humor?
Chapter 3
Fourteen years. It had been fourteen years since Eve had seen McClain.
Sure, it had been inevitable they'd meet up again someday, but in her wildest dreams she hadn't figured it would be in the dead of night, in the middle of a job, or that explosions would be involved.
She'd always sort of hoped it would have played out a little differently. Like with her behind the wheel of a Mack truck and him flattened on the pavement like a crushed beer can growing smaller and smaller in her rearview mirror.
She raised her head, raked her hair back from her face. OK. So it had been a long time ago. She'd been a kid. So had he. Neither one of them had known what love meant—and it sure as the world hadn't involved a quick tumble in a moonlit cabana.
But his great escape from her life that night had pretty much proven that Tyler McClain possessed what she'd since categorized as the triple-A factor. He was an arrogant alpha asshole—just like any other man she'd trusted like she'd once trusted McClain.
He returned to the booth with two heavy cream-colored mugs filled to the brim. One had a chip in the handle. She noticed he took that one for himself.
"In the stupid question department—are you all right?"
He studied her face with a grim scowl. His eyes were the same warm mocha brown she remembered as he considered her across the booth.
And she was not up for a stroll down memory lane even if just looking at his outrageously handsome face kindled memories of that first sweet crush.
Besides, it was a little late for him to be asking about her well-being. She'd needed to hear that from him fourteen years ago.
"I'm peachy." She wrapped her fingers around the coffee mug, disgusted to find that her hands were still a little shaky. "Now tell me what you have to do with Tiffany Clayborne."
"Sorry. That falls under client confidentiality. Just like Molotov cocktails fall under somebody's royally ticked at you. Ready to talk to me now about who's got it in for you?"
She would never be ready to talk to him. "That falls under I have no clue. Besides, what makes you think it wasn't meant for you?"
"I came in the back way, cupcake. If the boom boom had had my name on it, the joker who threw it would have followed me and tossed it through the window."
OK. So she couldn't argue with sound logic. But she wasn't about to discuss her life—or her death threat—with him.
"Tiffany Clayborne is a friend of mine," she finally said, skirting back to the issue of finding her. "I'm worried about her. Now what's your tie to her?"
"OK, disregarding the issue that you and Tiffany Clayborne don't strike me as the type to be 'chummy', why are you worried? So worried that you're breaking into a private office?"
It all came back to one thing. She wanted an answer before she gave up any more information. "What do you have to do with Tiffany?"
He simply looked at her.
Stalemate. This was getting her nowhere.
"I've got to go." She eased toward the side of the booth.
"Wait," he said wearily, and reached across the booth to clamp her forearm in his hand. "Just wait a second."
She stared at
Liquid fire. Instant tears. The whiskey burned all the way to her toes. And did its job. When the flames eased, a mellow warmth seeped through her blood and steadied her.
"Thanks," she said when she could speak.
Only then did he toss back his own shot. "You need another?"
She shook her head. "Coffee would be good, though."
Eve watched in silence as he eased out of the booth and walked over to the bar. Then she buried her head in her hands. And laughed. What else could she do?
It wasn't enough that she'd been attacked last night. It wasn't enough she'd almost been blown to bits tonight. She had to deal with Tyler McClain, too.
Who said Fate didn't have a sense of humor?
Chapter 3
Fourteen years. It had been fourteen years since Eve had seen McClain.
Sure, it had been inevitable they'd meet up again someday, but in her wildest dreams she hadn't figured it would be in the dead of night, in the middle of a job, or that explosions would be involved.
She'd always sort of hoped it would have played out a little differently. Like with her behind the wheel of a Mack truck and him flattened on the pavement like a crushed beer can growing smaller and smaller in her rearview mirror.
She raised her head, raked her hair back from her face. OK. So it had been a long time ago. She'd been a kid. So had he. Neither one of them had known what love meant—and it sure as the world hadn't involved a quick tumble in a moonlit cabana.
But his great escape from her life that night had pretty much proven that Tyler McClain possessed what she'd since categorized as the triple-A factor. He was an arrogant alpha asshole—just like any other man she'd trusted like she'd once trusted McClain.
He returned to the booth with two heavy cream-colored mugs filled to the brim. One had a chip in the handle. She noticed he took that one for himself.
"In the stupid question department—are you all right?"
He studied her face with a grim scowl. His eyes were the same warm mocha brown she remembered as he considered her across the booth.
And she was not up for a stroll down memory lane even if just looking at his outrageously handsome face kindled memories of that first sweet crush.
Besides, it was a little late for him to be asking about her well-being. She'd needed to hear that from him fourteen years ago.
"I'm peachy." She wrapped her fingers around the coffee mug, disgusted to find that her hands were still a little shaky. "Now tell me what you have to do with Tiffany Clayborne."
"Sorry. That falls under client confidentiality. Just like Molotov cocktails fall under somebody's royally ticked at you. Ready to talk to me now about who's got it in for you?"
She would never be ready to talk to him. "That falls under I have no clue. Besides, what makes you think it wasn't meant for you?"
"I came in the back way, cupcake. If the boom boom had had my name on it, the joker who threw it would have followed me and tossed it through the window."
OK. So she couldn't argue with sound logic. But she wasn't about to discuss her life—or her death threat—with him.
"Tiffany Clayborne is a friend of mine," she finally said, skirting back to the issue of finding her. "I'm worried about her. Now what's your tie to her?"
"OK, disregarding the issue that you and Tiffany Clayborne don't strike me as the type to be 'chummy', why are you worried? So worried that you're breaking into a private office?"
It all came back to one thing. She wanted an answer before she gave up any more information. "What do you have to do with Tiffany?"
He simply looked at her.
Stalemate. This was getting her nowhere.
"I've got to go." She eased toward the side of the booth.
"Wait," he said wearily, and reached across the booth to clamp her forearm in his hand. "Just wait a second."
She stared at
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