If someone had told Tamara Post a month ago that she’d be in
one of Ft. Worth's most exclusive members-only clubs sipping
champagne at her ex-husband’s Taz's engagement party, she
would have laughed in that person’s face. If they’d have
said she’d be working as the office manager at B-Squad
Security and Investigations, which her ex-husband’s fiancé,
Bianca Sutherland, owned—and loving it, she would have
punched them square in the nose. Ex-beauty queens and former
soon-to-be trophy wives didn’t roll that way.
It was funny how life turned out.
Settling in on the velvet-covered settee in the Corsair
Club’s private party room, she contemplated getting another
glass of wine from the open bar.
“Looking for one of these?” The man belonging to the deep
bass voice held out a glass of her favorite chardonnay.
Whereas everyone else in the room was dressed in designer
suits and glittering cocktail dresses, the tall, dark and
handsome man in front of her was in pressed Wranglers,
cowboy boots and a crisp white dress shirt. If he’d had a
tie or a sports coat on at one time, he’d ditched them a
while ago, judging by how his shirtsleeves were rolled
halfway up his corded forearms. Not that she noticed that,
or had scoped out the way his broad shoulders filled the
shirt to perfection, or was tempted to ask him to turn
around so she could confirm that his ass looked as good in
those jeans as she imagined.
Men were no longer on her to-do list. But wine? Yeah, that
she could do.
“Thank you.” She took the glass and drank a sip.
The man sat down beside her, his brawny frame taking up most
of the settee she wasn’t already parked on. One of his
jean-clad legs brushed against her bare knee and for the
first time in months a wave of warm desire had her clenching
her thighs together.
Unable to figure out how to inch away to allow for space
between them without being obvious about it, she crossed her
legs. The move made her emerald-green skirt slide up her
thigh a bit more than she was comfortable with under the
circumstances. Still, giving him a glimpse of skin was
less...unsettling...than actually touching him.
“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” He held out
his hand. “I’m Isaac Camacho.”
She knew that name, and now she’d have a face to go with it
every time she entered in expense reports. “You work with
B-Squad.”
He nodded. “On a come-and-go basis as a freelancer.”
“Why’s that?” From the number of B-Squad clients she’d had
to turn away in the past month, Tamara knew the team could
use another member.
“I’ve been told I don’t play well with others.”
His grin did something funny to her stomach.
“Now that really is too bad. It’s important to play
nice—mostly.” It came out before she could stop it. Damn it.
She didn’t flirt. Not anymore. Men had been her drug of
choice for too long and she’d sworn off.
He leaned in close. “Look, I don’t want to make a scene but
we need to get out of here. Now.”
Her heart fluttered. She mentally rolled her eyes at
herself. What could she say? Old habits die hard—even when
they were oh so bad for her. “Why’s that?”
His full lips flattened into a grim line. “There’s a bounty
hunter making his way through the front of the restaurant
now. He’s got papers on you.”
