The Merciless Travis Wilde

Uh-oh.

She was surely a gift, too. For someone.

But that someone wasn’t him.

To put it kindly, she wasn’t his type.

Big hair that looked as if it had been shellacked into submission. Makeup she probably had to remove with a trowel. Tight cotton T-shirt, her boobs resting on a muffin-top of flesh forced up by too-tight jeans.

All that was bad enough.

What made it worse was that he knew the unspoken etiquette in a place like this.

A lady made a move on you, you were supposed to be flattered. Otherwise, you risked offending her—

Her, and the neighborhood aficionados who’d suddenly shifted their attention his way.

“Hello,” he said with forced politeness, and then gave all his attention to his plate.

“You’re new here.”

Travis took a bite of hamburger, chewed as if chewing were the most important thing in his life.

“I’m Bev.”

He nodded. Kept chewing.

She leaned in close, wedged one of her 40 Double D’s against his arm.

“You got a name, cowboy?”

Now what? This was not a good situation. Whatever he did, short of taking Bev’s clear invitation to heart, would almost surely lead to trouble.

She’d be insulted, her pals would think they had to ride to the rescue …

Maybe honesty, polite and up-front, was the best policy.

Travis took a paper napkin from its metal holder, blotted his lips and turned toward her.

“Listen, Bev,” he said, not unkindly, “I’m not interested, okay?” Her face reddened and he thought, hell, I’m not doing this right. “I mean, you’re a—a good-looking woman but I’m—I’m meeting somebody.”

“Really?” Bev said coldly. “You want me to believe you’re waitin’ for your date?”

“Exactly. She’ll be here any—”

“You’re waitin’ for your date, and you’re eatin’ without her?”

The guy on the other side of Bev was leaning toward them.

He was the size of a small mountain and from the look in his tiny eyes, he was hot and ready for a Friday night fight.

Slowly, carefully, Travis put down the burger and the napkin.

The Mountain outweighed him by fifty pounds, easy, and the hand wrapped around the bottle he was holding was the size of a ham.

No problem. Travis had taken on bigger men and come through just fine. If anything, it added to the kick.

Yes, but the Mountain has friends here. Many. And you, dude, are all by your lonesome.

The Voice of Reason.

Despite what his brothers sometimes said about him, Travis had been known not just to hear that voice but to listen to it.

But Bev was going on and on about no-good, scumbag liars and her diatribe had drawn the attention of several of the Mountain’s pals. Every last one of them looked happy to come to her aid by performing an act of chivalry that would surely involve beating the outsider—him—into a bloody mass of barely-breathing flesh.

Not good, said the Voice of Reason.

The bloody part was okay. He’d been there before.

But there was a problem.

He had a meeting in Frankfurt Monday morning, a huge deal he’d been working on for months, and he had the not-very-surprising feeling that the board of directors at the ultraconservative, three-hundred-year-old firm of Bernhardt, Bernhardt and Stutz would not look kindly on a financial expert who showed up with a couple of black eyes, a dinged jaw and, for all he knew, one or two missing teeth.

It would not impress them at all if he explained that he’d done his fair share of damage. More than his fair share, because he surely would manage that.

Dammit, where were a man’s brothers when he needed them?

“The lady’s talkin’ to you.” The Mountain was leaning past Bev. God, his breath stank. “What’s the matter? You got a hearin’ problem or something, pretty boy?”

Conversation died out. People smiled.

Travis felt the first, heady pump of adrenaline.

“My name,” he said carefully, “is not ‘pretty boy.’”

“His name is not pretty boy,” The Mountain mimicked.

Bev, sporting a delighted smile, slid from her stool. Maybe he’d misjudged her purpose. Maybe setting up a fight had been her real job.

Either way, Travis saw his choices narrowing down, and rapidly.

Bev’s defender got to his feet.

“You’re making a mistake,” Travis said quietly.

The Mountain snorted.

Travis nodded, took a last swig of beer, said a mental “goodbye” to Monday’s meeting and stood up.