Page 21 of The Devil's Scars

“Hey,” he said in a voice that could crush asphalt. “You OK?”

Zoe suddenly realized that she’d been staring at him like a lovesick teenager. She also realized that he still had no clue who the hell she even was. Oh, smooth. She straightened her shoulders, hoped to Christ that her voice came out semi-normal.

“I’m Zoe.” Oh, good, she sounded like herself. “Wolf said for me to come here and meet you.”

Scars stared down at her, equal parts horrified and delighted. Zoe Parish, in the very delectable flesh, was standing in front of him, and she looked like the best thing he could ever possibly imagine.

The thought that he’d be seeing her almost every day was the best news that he’d ever heard, and made him believe that there actually was a God. She was also totally fucking off-limits, since Wolf would skin him alive if he so much as touched one hair on her gorgeous blonde head – which made her nothing but torturous temptation. It also cemented his belief in hell on earth.

“Oh.” It came out a grunt, and he cleared his throat. “Oh, right. Hi.”

“Hi.”

He extended his massive hand, and she took it cautiously. That was when she felt the scars on his hands. Even without looking, just from touching the flesh under her fingertips, she knew now that his scars weren’t from a knife, or glass, or a prison yard fight gone way wrong. These were from burns, bad burns, burns that he’d carried since childhood maybe, and her heart squeezed. In her years as a tattoo artist, she’d covered up hundreds of scars, but in some ways, the most heartbreaking ones were burns. The stories attached to them were always, always so damn painful.

“So. Zoe.” Her name in his mouth was sweet. “Welcome back to Denver.”

“Thanks.” She moved away a bit and he let her go.

“You – uh. You want a drink?” he asked, gesturing at Cole, who’d been listening and watching all of this with avid interest. “I mean… can I get you a drink?”

“Oh.” She looked up at Cole too, flicked her glance briefly back to Scars. He was staring at her intently, and she saw that his eyes were an incredible clear blue. Little patches of perfect sky in a heart-achingly damaged face, and all the sweeter and more gorgeous for it. “Oh, no, it’s OK. You don’t have to do that.”

“Hell, babe, if he won’t, I sure as hell will,” Cole drawled.

Scars glared daggers of death at the other man, and Cole grinned, liking seeing his VP all gaga over a cute chick from the get-go. It had never happened before, and he was looking forward to yanking Scars’ chain. Just a bit. He stuck out his hand to Zoe. “Cole. Bartender extraordinaire, dance champion, jack-of-all-trades.”

She cracked a grin at that. “Zoe. Tattoo artist.”

“Yeah, I know. Wolf’s been singing your praises for years, babe.”

“He has?” she said, happy to have a reason to still not look at Scars.

“Sure.” Cole’s eyes sparkled at her, and she saw the lines around them, took in the shocks of gray in his dark hair. It was hard to tell in this light, but he looked older than she’d first taken him to be –closer to forty-five than thirty-five, for sure. “Now. That drink?”

“Uh. Yeah, OK. Thanks.” She sat on the stool, trying to look relaxed. “What do you suggest?”

“Shots!” Cole said enthusiastically. “Always shots!”

“Oh.” Zoe paused. “Well, I’m not really much of a drinker. Shots might actually kill me.”

“Aw, darlin’.” Cole winked. “Now you’re just throwing out a challenge to me.”

“To get me drunk?” Zoe said. “I’m the easiest drunk to ever walk through that door, so no challenge at all, I assure you.”

“Naw. The challenge is to make you a shot that’ll get you buzzed and happy, but not shit-faced.”

“Aren’t shots, by their very definition, supposed to get you shit-faced?”

“Yeah. OK, you’re right.” Cole thought for a few seconds. “Rum and Coke? Extra ice cubes?”

“Now you’re talking,” Zoe said with a grin. “Thanks.”

Cole moved away to make her drink, and it was just her and Scars again. He hadn’t said a single word throughout her exchange with Cole, and she hadn’t so much as glanced his way, but she’d sensed him next to her the whole damn time, knew that he was watching her. She’d felt that amazing something else coming off him, felt it as sure and strong as if he’d physically laid hands on her.

Gathering up her courage, she dared to glance at him again, and immediately wished that she hadn’t. Because Scars Innis was – hands-down and no debate – the hottest man she’d ever seen in the flesh. Not the most handsome, not the best-looking, definitely not the safest. But the sexiest, and God help her. His primal allure hung about him almost like a perfume, and it fogged her mind. Made her brain slow down, get all sluggish. Made her feel before she thought; made her want things before she could talk herself out of them.

Dangerous. Dangerous as all hell.

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