No Holding Back (McKenzies of Ridge Trail #1) - Lori Foster Page 0,1

his glossy dark hair neatly trimmed, precisely styled...but it was those piercing blue eyes that really caught and held her attention.

His gaze had veered away from her, but that didn’t make him unaware. Sterling pegged him as ex-military, or maybe something deadlier. He was too damn physically fit to be anyone ordinary.

Her nostrils flared a little as she looked him over. In the seedy area of town where locals slumped in their seats and laughed too loudly, he was always...mannered. Contained. Professional but not in the way of a suited businessman.

More like a guy who knew he could handle himself in any situation. A guy who easily kicked ass, took names and did so without a scratch. Those thick shoulders... Studying his body left a funny warmth in Sterling’s stomach, sending her interested gaze to his pronounced biceps, watching the fluid bunch and flex of them with the smallest movement. His pullover shirt fit his wide chest perfectly, showing sculpted pecs and, letting her attention drift downward, a flat, firm middle.

Lord, the man was put together fine. Add in a lean jaw, a strong but straight nose, and those cool blue eyes fringed by dark lashes, and she assumed he broke hearts on a daily basis.

Not her heart. She wasn’t susceptible to that kind of stuff. She could take in the exceptional view and stay detached. She could.

Only...this time she had to really concentrate to make it true.

His gaze locked to hers, catching her perusal, and his firm lips quirked in a small “you’re not immune” smile.

It made her mouth go dry.

He couldn’t know that, could he? Yet he looked as if he’d just read her every admiring thought.

Feeling oddly exposed, she held up her glass, realized it was still full and hastily mouthed, “Coffee?”

With a nod, he moved away to a service counter behind the bar. Less than half a minute later, he strode over in his casual yet confident way with a steaming cup.

He knew how she took it, with one sugar and a splash of creamer. He knew because he missed nothing. Ever.

Setting it before her, he asked, “Done with this?” indicating the shot she’d ordered—and hadn’t touched.

Usually, to justify her lengthy naps, she bought a couple of drinks. This time, exhausted to the bone, she hadn’t lasted long enough.

“Thanks.” Sterling sipped her coffee.

That he didn’t move away set her heart tripping. Defiant, she glanced up and caught a slight frown carved from what appeared to be concern. She was good at reading people—except for him. Most of the time she didn’t know what he was thinking, and she didn’t like that.

Suspicion prickled. “What?”

Heavy lashes lowering, he thought a moment before meeting her gaze again. “I’m worried that anything I say might put you off.”

Sterling stiffened with accusation. “What do you have to say?”

“Such a lethal tone,” he teased—as if they knew each other well. “You don’t have to order drinks just to be in here. You want a place to kick up your feet—”

Abruptly, she dropped her feet from the seat of the chair across from her. She unconsciously braced herself—to act, to react, to protect herself if necessary.

“Or to rest without being disturbed,” he continued, ignoring her tension. “You’re always welcome.” As if he knew her innate worry, as if he could see her automatic response to his nearness, he took a step back. “No questions asked, and no drink order necessary.”

Before she could come up with a reply, he walked away.

For twenty minutes, Sterling remained, but he didn’t look at her again.

Not until she walked out. He watched her then. Hell yeah, he did. She felt his gaze burning over her like a physical touch. Like interest. It left her with heightened awareness.

Of him.

Damn, damn, damn.

* * *

CADE WANTED TO kick his own ass.

She’d been coming into the bar for months now. She hadn’t yet given her name, but he knew it all the same. He made a point of knowing everyone in the bar, whether they were important to his operation or not.

Sterling Parson. Star for short.

Privately, he called her Trouble.

At a few inches shy of six feet, her body toned, she walked with a self-possessed air that he recognized as more attitude than ability. She wore that swagger like a warning that all but shouted Back off.

Her long wavy brown hair was usually in a ponytail, occasionally in a braid and sometimes stuffed under a trucker’s cap.

Despite the loose shirts she wore with straight-legged jeans and mean lace-up black boots in an