A Perfect Storm
Page 58

Anyone looking at it would see no more than a young, carefree woman. He’d drawn her as innocent, even sweet.
She’d never admit it to anyone, but occasionally she wished she was that woman.
“I don’t know what to say.”
A bright smile lifted his homely features. “So you like it?”
“Well…yeah. It’s terrific. Really flattering.”
He ducked his face. “It’s not as pretty as you are.”
“Pffft.” She had mirrors, but she knew she had never been that…soft. Or gentle.
As if surprised by her reaction, he looked up again. “I tried, but I didn’t really do you justice.” And then with a puzzled frown: “You don’t know how pretty you are?”
On the round table rested a stack of papers, more pencils and a drawing pad. Huh.
Curiosity got the better of her, and she lifted the top drawing, but it was a still life of the jukebox and a booth. The one below it was the moon through the big front window, obscured by the thick iron bars. In the drawing, people filled the seats around the window, but they weren’t the focus.
Ignoring his question, Arizona asked, “That’s what you do?” She gestured at the papers. “You sit here in the Green Goose and draw?”
“I have to order food, too.” He smiled shyly. “Otherwise they make me leave.”
“Why here?”
“The lighting is good.”
Yeah, right. Arizona eyed the dim lamp over his table. Only the bar area boasted real light, and even there it was more for effect than illumination. “Those strobe lights can’t make it easy to draw.”
“They give interesting shadows. And I can draw people without them knowing it, because they can’t see what I’m doing.” He frowned. “Or maybe they just don’t care what I’m doing.”
Sad. With his mismatched clothes and childish manner, Arizona wondered at his age—and maturity level. Definitely not a kid but…all there? She couldn’t tell. “You’re really good.”
He adjusted his cap, shifted uncomfortably, then thrust the picture toward her. “It’s for you. Keep it.”
“Seriously? Gee, thanks.” What the hell was she going to do with a pencil drawing of herself? Not like she could hang it in Spencer’s home or on a motel wall. But no way did she want to hurt his feelings.
The noise swelled and ebbed around them. Someone jostled her, a couple edged past, two men laughed loudly.
Done wasting time, Arizona rolled it up and stuck it in her purse. The sketch was large enough that more than half stuck out of the top of her bag. She’d have to take care not to lose it. “Appreciate it.”
Flickering lights gave a glimpse of his beatific smile.
Now where had Terry Janes gotten to? She’d lost sight of him, and no way could she go snooping in back rooms.
Spencer would have a fit.
But she needed to locate him. Had he known she was about to follow? Was he hiding from her? The smarmy bastard.
Before she could decide what to do, the artist caught her arm again. “I…I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be pushy.” Concern replaced his happiness. “But you don’t want to talk to that one.”
“Who?”
Swallowing hard, he hesitated, then darted a fearful gaze around the room. “The guy you were going to follow.”
Damn it, was she really that easy to read? Arizona put her shoulders back in a cocky stance. “What makes you think I was going to follow anyone?”
“You’ve been watching him.” Distressed, he removed the hat and twisted it in his hands. “I saw you.”
After a more thorough scrutiny, Arizona figured him to be somewhere from his late-twenties to mid-thirties. He wasn’t exactly homely, but, except for a small scar under his right eye, he was pretty nondescript.
At her lack of response, he shrugged. “Since I was drawing you, I noticed you asking about a job.”
Even in the ever-shifting low lights, she could see the sincerity in his kind eyes. “What of it?”
Agonized, he looked around again, and then, rather than continue shouting to her, he pulled her in close. In a barely there breath of sound, he warned, “You don’t want to work here.”
An ally? Well, okay, then.
Sliding into the seat across from him, Arizona put her purse on the tabletop and leaned forward to meet him halfway. Matching his whisper, she asked, “Why not?”
“That guy you were going to talk to? That’s Terry Janes. He owns the place.”
This close to him, Arizona caught his scent, but it wasn’t unpleasant. More like fresh honest sweat and the green outdoors. Maybe like how someone would smell after just walking in from a park or after mowing a lawn.
Her gaze went to the scar under his eye. “You know him well?”
“Sort of. I don’t think he’s…” He chewed on his upper lip. “Well, he’s not very nice.”
What an understatement! Arizona debated the wisdom of talking to him. It could be risky. The fewer people she interacted with, the better her chances of making a strong play and getting away unscathed.
But she sort of felt sorry for the guy; he reminded her of an overgrown puppy—too eager, too annoying, but still irresistible.
And if he knew anything helpful about Janes, that could assist her.
Giving him her most engaging smile, Arizona held out her hand. “I’m Candy. What’s your name?”