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everything. With a gritty sense of purpose. She stared straight ahead, her eyes glued to the road as she zipped around slow-moving vehicles, frequently changing lanes. Her speed continually edged over the posted limits and she often did not come to a complete halt at stop signs.
    He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from telling her how to drive. It was her car. If she didn’t mind getting it whacked, what business of his was it? He was just glad he was wearing his seat belt and paid extravagant health insurance premiums.
    Ten minutes later, Charlee parked her Corvette outside a small neighborhood bar flanked on one side by a twenty-four-hour wedding chapel and a tanning salon on the other. She removed her gun from her waistband, leaned across his knees, stuffed her weapon in the glove compartment, and locked it.
    Her breasts brushed lightly against his thigh in the process. Panting like a 1-900-Phone-Sex regular, Mason fumbled for the door handle and struggled to control his out-of-whack libido.
    Charlee exited the car, just as she’d slid in, by hoisting her delectable fanny over the door frame Magnum, P.I., style. He tried to imagine Daphne alighting from an open-topped vehicle in such a blasé manner and he laughed out loud.
    “What’s so funny?” She whirled around and stabbed him with her stare.
    “Nothing.”
    “I know what you’re thinking.”
    “You do?”
    “Typical white trash bar.”
    “I never said that.”
    “You didn’t have to. I can read you like a mail-order catalogue.”
    “Hey.” He raised his palms. “Don’t assign your prejudices to me.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “You have a problem with where you’ve come from.”
    She shrugged and turned away, but not before he caught the uncertain expression on her face. He’d nailed her insecurities. He hurried to open the door for her and she blasted him with a quelling glare.
    “After you.” He bowed with an exaggerated flourish.
    She snorted, tossed her head sassily, and trod over the threshold into the crowded, smoky tavern. The rundown bar was a far cry from his usual watering hole, the exclusive Hidden Hills Country Club in River Oaks.
    The jukebox blared a Garth Brooks classic about friends in low places. The smell of beer, menthol cigarettes, and stale popcorn filled the air. A leather-clad, tattooed crowd packed the room. They sized Mason up with suspicious glances as he and Charlee made their way toward the bar.
    A few people called out greetings to her. She smiled and nodded but didn’t stop to chat. She was a woman on a mission and being with her made him feel more resolute. His growing respect for her shot up a notch.
    Two men on bar stools scooted over for Charlee as she bellied up to the bar but they closed ranks around her, leaving Mason standing awkwardly to one side and fending off their glares. She spoke to the bartender, but between the loud music, laughter, and hum of voices, he couldn’t hear what she said.
    He tried to lean in closer, but one of the men on the bar stool jostled him with his elbow, sloshing beer over Mason’s arm. He frowned and started to say something but the guy was skunk-drunk. He wrote off the shove as an accident.
    “Excuse me,” Mason said. “Could I please step up to the bar?”
    “Can you?” the guy, who wore a black leather vest, chains, and a gold spike through his chin, challenged.
    How tedious. Obviously the beer slosh hadn’t been an accident. Mason sighed inwardly. He didn’t have time for this crap. “Come on, mister. I don’t want any trouble.”
    “Oh, yeah? Then how come you dragged your preppy ass in here?”
    “Since you’ve been imbibing heavily I’m choosing to ignore that remark.”
    The guy looked over at his buddy. “Did he just insult me, Leroy?”
    “Yup,” Leroy, who had a cobra tattooed on his forearm, agreed. “I didn’t go to
coll-ege,
but I do believe he just insulted you, Thurgood.”
    “I’m with her.” Mason nodded at