Page 6 of Sirens
His overly manscaped brows shot toward his surgically perfected hairline as an embarrassingly pleased smile stretched across his face. “Well, hello there. You must be new.”
“How’d you guess?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.
“It’s my job to know everyone in Townsend Harbor,” he said, pronouncing the tiny coastal town’s name with an extra flourish of pride. “I’m?—”
“Oh, I know exactly who you are, Mr. Mayor.” Maggie winked at him.
And soon, the 37,000-plus listeners of Maggie Michaels’ Murderous Victorian Madams podcast would too.
Especially since—according to at least one contemporaneous source—Townsend Harbor’s mostly ornamental political figurehead happened to be living in the mansion that once belonged to one Madame Katz during the height of her rumored dirty dealings.
“But you don’t know my usual drink?” Mayor Stewart gave Maggie an extra-toothy grin.
“Give a girl a break,” she said, leaning forward just enough that her breasts brushed her forearms. “I’ve been in town for all of five minutes. Let me finish memorizing Townsend Harbor’s most influential citizens, and I promise I’ll get their drinks licked.”
The mayor’s Adam’s apple bobbed above his starched collar. His lips parted to issue what she assumed would be a lame-ass retort when his cell phone vibrated on the bar.
He glanced down at it and frowned. “Will you excuse me?”
“Of course.”
The smile he gave her as he slid from his stool was tighter. Less polished.
Maggie watched him weave through the tables and out into the hallway, the phone pressed to his ear. She was still watching him when she registered a shape moving toward the mayor’s still-warm barstool in her peripheral vision.
“Seat’s taken,” she said.
“Not anymore.”
Had her head whipped toward the voice any faster, Maggie might have slipped a cervical vertebra.
Again.
Trent McGarvey leveraged his impressive wingspan to reach behind the bar and grab a towel, keeping his eyes on hers as he breeched a barrier that felt far more sensual than it should.
Maggie watched, open-mouthed as he efficiently wiped a stretch of the old wood clean before setting down his leather messenger bag and plopping down on the stool.
“Now,” he said, pinning her with a killer smirk. “How about that Manhattan?”
TWO
McGarvey Highballer
SPEEDING MOTORIST DUCKING THE COPS
Trent leanedagainst the polished oak bar, his elbows pressed into a countertop so old the Virgin Mary might have given birth on it.
He glanced at the familiar menu with the Thursday specials of fish and chips, marionberry cheesecake, or jambalaya.
On Thursday, he read through emails and approved Deputy Probable cause statements over a much-needed cocktail, sometimes ate the jambalaya (decent for this far north), then turned in before the live music at nine thirty.
Tonight, though, his eyes refused to follow anything but the incredible curves of the terrible bartender’s body as she made a mockery of her profession.
He was a sucker for a woman possessed of so many round cheeks. And she waskillinghim with her red hair pulled back in a bouncy ponytail, revealing the damp, downy skin of her neck and the adorable curve of her stubborn jaw.
Trent felt a twinge of guilt as he watched her, knowing that he should not be admiring her so openly, but he could swear to every god that her V-neck wasn’t pulledthatlow a minute ago.
He glanced around to find something less seductive to focus on. Suddenly the glass vases in the windows took on incredibly feminine curves, the drink menu now seemed to offer only sexy liquors, and the décor?
