If Looks Could Kill

“Tell Miss Veda that I won’t be home for supper. I’m staying late at the club.”

What was one more lie between them, after a lifetime of lies?

The minute he entered Jazzy’s Joint, the roadhouse ambience put him at ease. In this place he wasn’t Farlan MacKinnon, Chairman of the Board of MacKinnon Media. In here, he was just another man looking for a glass of beer and a quiet corner where he could drown his sorrows. Of course, he’d already drowned quite a few sorrows with three glasses of bourbon at the club, but the numbing effect of that liquor had begun to wear off. He needed to renew that languid feeling only alcohol produced.

Surrounded by loud music and smoky air, Farlan walked up to the bar and ordered. The bartender wasn’t especially busy since this early in the evening there was only a handful of patrons. A couple of guys in the back shooting pool, one sitting at the other end of the bar and another man at a nearby table, nursing a glass of what looked like whiskey.

“I haven’t seen you around here in quite a while,” the bartender said.

“You know who I am?”

“Of course. Everybody in Cherokee County knows you, Mr. MacKinnon.”

He shrugged. So much for finding anonymity in this place. “You have me at a disadvantage, madam. You know me, but I don’t know you.”

“Lacy Fallon.” The middle-aged bleached blonde offered him a kind smile. “I’ve been bartending here ever since Jazzy opened up this place.”

Farlan nodded, then glanced around the room. “Guess it’s a bit early for most folks.”

“Yeah, this place doesn’t usually start hopping on a Saturday night until after nine.”

“Well, that suits me fine. I just came in for a beer. I’m too old for much of anything else.”

“You don’t look too old to me,” a feminine voice behind him said.

The bartender frowned and turned up her nose as if she’d smelled something rotten. Farlan glanced over his shoulder. The girl standing only a few feet away was a pretty little thing and probably not a day over twenty. She wore too much makeup and not enough clothes.

“We don’t want your kind in here,” Lacy Fallon said, loud and clear. “Jazzy’s done sent you packing once. If you’ll leave now, I won’t call the police.”

Farlan glanced back and forth from the young woman to the bartender and realization dawned. The unwanted customer was a prostitute. He hadn’t realized there were any in Cherokee Pointe. But then again, he hadn’t been in the market for a hooker. Not since . . .

“I’ll leave quietly,” the girl said, then cozied up to Farlan and whispered, “Want to give me a ride? Or if you’d prefer, I could ride you.”

Farlan didn’t flinch, but his gut tightened. He inspected the girl thoroughly, from head to toe. For a split second his old eyes played a trick on him, and he saw the ghost of a pretty young woman from his past.

He paid for his drink, then said, “Why don’t I give you a lift home, young lady? You shouldn’t be in a place like this. You should be out on a Saturday night date with some nice young man.”

Glowering at Farlan, the bartender harrumphed. Hell, let her think whatever she wanted to. He had no intention of taking this girl up on her offer, but he did want to spend a little time with her. And he didn’t owe Lacy Fallon or anyone else an explanation.

The young woman curled her arm around his as they walked out of Jazzy’s Joint. “I don’t have a place of my own, so you’ll have to rent us a room somewhere. Or if you’d rather, we can just do it in your car. I give great blow jobs.”

Without replying to her offer, Farlan led her out of the bar and down the street to his Bentley. He unlocked the car and helped her in on the passenger’s side; then he slid behind the wheel and turned to her. “I don’t want sex from you. But I am willing to pay you for an hour or two of your time tonight.”

She stared at him, her expression one of doubt. “How much? And what do you want me to do?”

“Would a hundred dollars be sufficient for . . . say, two hours of your time?”

She grinned. “Yeah, I’d say a hundred is just fine, depending on what I have to do to earn the money.”

“Take a ride with me. Talk to me. Tell me about your hopes and dreams.”

She looked at him as if she thought he was crazy. “That’s it. That’s all you want from me?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s all.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m perfectly serious. You see, I’m a lonely old man with only a few truly happy memories. Some of those mem ories are about another pretty young woman who had so many hopes and dreams for her future.”

She shrugged. “Sure, if talk is all you want. I can talk all night for fifty bucks an hour. And if you change your mind about the blow job or—”

“I won’t change my mind. I know what I want.”

She’d told him she was eighteen. He’d asked to see her driver’s license. Sure enough, she was legal. Just barely. Despite his penchant for tasty young things, he couldn’t risk screwing around with jail bait. He’d learned his lesson ten years ago when a certain fifteen-year-old gal’s daddy had come after him with a shotgun. If Farlan hadn’t had the law in his hip pocket back then—both the sheriff and the chief of police—things might have gotten nasty. But once Farlan paid her father fifty thousand not to press charges, the whole ugly mess simply went away. Not one word had ever been printed in the local paper, thanks to the fact that MacKinnon Media had a monopoly on the press in Cherokee County. Max couldn’t help shivering just a bit whenever he thought about the whole situation and how close he’d come to ruining his life. He owed Farlan a debt he could never fully repay.

Max lay in bed, naked as the day he was born, and let her remove his soiled condom. When she got up, he swatted her smooth, round backside. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled at him, then disappeared into the bathroom. With the heat of passion fading, he felt a sudden chill, so he dragged the sheet and blanket up to his waist.

He had needed this evening’s entertainment, needed it the way he needed air to breathe. Sex with his wife—which he got about once a month, if he was lucky—had never been great, not in years. Not after she got a little older and more demanding. He liked ’em young. So sue him. If all men would admit the truth, most of them would prefer a sixteen- year-old to a thirty-year-old.

Hell, he wasn’t a damn pedophile. Little girls didn’t turn him on. They had to be mature enough to have tits and a furry pussy before he was interested. Somebody between fourteen and twenty. He’d enjoyed his share of the younger ones in the past, until he’d picked the wrong gal. Ever since then, he’d made sure they were either legal age or in an illegal profession. Lately most of his pickups were the later. Young prostitutes.

When she came out of the bathroom, she started putting on her clothes. Max patted the bed and motioned to her.