whiskey. Tanya Bastille had once been beautiful, with vivid blue eyes, a sensuous mouth, and yards of blond hair that fell like silk halfway down her back. She was tall and slender with the kind of body that could drive a man just a little bit insane if he wasn't careful. Looking at her now, he barely recognized the young woman who'd once held his heart in the palm of her hand.
The years had not been kind to her. Skin that had once glowed with health had gone sallow and sagged like cheap leather from her high-cheekbones. The heavy makeup did little to accentuate eyes that had gone hard with bitterness. Her hair was still long, but she'd bleached it platinum, and it looked as brittle as her smile.
Nick knew the lines etched into her face were not from age. Grief gave a person a distinctive look that was hard to describe. He recognized it because he saw the same thing when he looked in the mirror. He knew firsthand how grief hollowed a person out. How it could age a person before their time. If not on the outside, then on the inside where the scars were visible only to those who shared them.
Tanya hadn't yet seen her thirtieth birthday, but she looked a decade older. There was a falseness to a smile that had once been guileless and engaging. A hard edge to a face that had once been soft. Eyes that had once been pretty were glassy with the effects of alcohol or whatever drug she used to get through the day. He could tell from the size of her pupils that even though it wasn't yet six o'clock, she was already well on her way to oblivion.
"You got anything stronger than alcohol back there?" she drawled.
"Just the usual legal stuff," he said with the same easy tone he used with all the customers.
"You always did make the best hurricanes, Nicky. Why don't you mix me up one like you used to?"
"You look like maybe you've had enough."
"Honey, I'm just getting warmed up." She smiled a too bright smile. "Make it a double, will you?"
Turning away from her, Nick reached for a tall glass and began to mix, taking it easy on the alcohol. He knew from experience that even a sober Tanya could spell trouble. An intoxicated Tanya could make a tornado look like a Sunday picnic.
"So, how long you been out?" she asked.
"Two days."
"Hmmm. How long's it been, Nicky? A couple of years?"
Nick knew exactly how long it had been, right down to the hour. Some days he could still feel that internal clock ticking silently inside him, counting out the seconds to freedom.
He slid the tall glass across the bar. Never taking her eyes from his, she picked it up, puckered her lips around the straw, and drank deeply, ''Ah, that's good. You still got the touch, don't you?"
Nick didn't say anything, but he could tell from the look in her eyes that she wasn't going to go away. “That's three bucks," he said.
"How have you been?" she asked, digging into the tiny purse slung over her shoulder.
"I think you know how I've been."
"You're still angry."
"Look, we're busy as hell tonight—"
"Too busy for your ex-wife, huh?"
''That's three bucks for the drink," he repeated.
She smiled, but it was the smile of a piranha with evil things on its mind. She'd zipped the purse, and he knew she had no intention of paying. He figured three dollars was a small price to pay to get her the hell out of there. But he had the sinking feeling it wasn't going to be that easy.
"I didn't even know you were in town until Jo Nell Jenkins over at the bank told me you'd come in to straighten out Dutch's accounts." She suckled the straw. “I can't believe you let me hear it from a complete stranger."
"I didn't come back to Bellerose for you, Tanya. In case you've forgotten, we're divorced."
"We may not be married legally, but we've still got that bond, you know? I mean, come on, you were my first. We had a good time, Nicky. We had a son together."
A wave of fury swept through him at the mention of Brandon. He didn't want to talk about his son. He didn't want her to speak
The years had not been kind to her. Skin that had once glowed with health had gone sallow and sagged like cheap leather from her high-cheekbones. The heavy makeup did little to accentuate eyes that had gone hard with bitterness. Her hair was still long, but she'd bleached it platinum, and it looked as brittle as her smile.
Nick knew the lines etched into her face were not from age. Grief gave a person a distinctive look that was hard to describe. He recognized it because he saw the same thing when he looked in the mirror. He knew firsthand how grief hollowed a person out. How it could age a person before their time. If not on the outside, then on the inside where the scars were visible only to those who shared them.
Tanya hadn't yet seen her thirtieth birthday, but she looked a decade older. There was a falseness to a smile that had once been guileless and engaging. A hard edge to a face that had once been soft. Eyes that had once been pretty were glassy with the effects of alcohol or whatever drug she used to get through the day. He could tell from the size of her pupils that even though it wasn't yet six o'clock, she was already well on her way to oblivion.
"You got anything stronger than alcohol back there?" she drawled.
"Just the usual legal stuff," he said with the same easy tone he used with all the customers.
"You always did make the best hurricanes, Nicky. Why don't you mix me up one like you used to?"
"You look like maybe you've had enough."
"Honey, I'm just getting warmed up." She smiled a too bright smile. "Make it a double, will you?"
Turning away from her, Nick reached for a tall glass and began to mix, taking it easy on the alcohol. He knew from experience that even a sober Tanya could spell trouble. An intoxicated Tanya could make a tornado look like a Sunday picnic.
"So, how long you been out?" she asked.
"Two days."
"Hmmm. How long's it been, Nicky? A couple of years?"
Nick knew exactly how long it had been, right down to the hour. Some days he could still feel that internal clock ticking silently inside him, counting out the seconds to freedom.
He slid the tall glass across the bar. Never taking her eyes from his, she picked it up, puckered her lips around the straw, and drank deeply, ''Ah, that's good. You still got the touch, don't you?"
Nick didn't say anything, but he could tell from the look in her eyes that she wasn't going to go away. “That's three bucks," he said.
"How have you been?" she asked, digging into the tiny purse slung over her shoulder.
"I think you know how I've been."
"You're still angry."
"Look, we're busy as hell tonight—"
"Too busy for your ex-wife, huh?"
''That's three bucks for the drink," he repeated.
She smiled, but it was the smile of a piranha with evil things on its mind. She'd zipped the purse, and he knew she had no intention of paying. He figured three dollars was a small price to pay to get her the hell out of there. But he had the sinking feeling it wasn't going to be that easy.
"I didn't even know you were in town until Jo Nell Jenkins over at the bank told me you'd come in to straighten out Dutch's accounts." She suckled the straw. “I can't believe you let me hear it from a complete stranger."
"I didn't come back to Bellerose for you, Tanya. In case you've forgotten, we're divorced."
"We may not be married legally, but we've still got that bond, you know? I mean, come on, you were my first. We had a good time, Nicky. We had a son together."
A wave of fury swept through him at the mention of Brandon. He didn't want to talk about his son. He didn't want her to speak
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