Shameless. Ann Major

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      The Pope named a preposterous sum that made her gasp.

      “Johnny says you rolled the dice for him,” The Pope said. “He says he gave you our money. Pay us, and we’re out of here.”

      “I don’t have it.”

      “Then get it. If you don’t, we hurt you. Understand, sexy girl?” Nero said, pinching her arms.

      She shivered. Oh, dear. They weren’t kidding. Her eyes flew to the front door and to the back. She had to run. But before she took even one step, they read her mind.

      “Oh, no you don’t—” Nero grabbed her by the hair, intending to haul her out the door with him, when she bit his hand and then screamed for help.

      On a howl of pain, he let her go. Since The Pope was blocking the exit, she ran toward the ladies’ room. Nero would have chased her, but the wide-shouldered customer who reminded her of Phillip had sprung from the bar, stuck out a booted foot and tripped him.

      “The lady said to let her go,” said a hard voice as the short, dark thug went sprawling into chairs and tables that toppled on top of him.

      “Stay out of this. The witch owes us money.”

      It was an exciting conversation. She would have loved to have stayed and listened, but it didn’t seem smart to stick around. There was a window in the ladies’ room just big enough for her to squeeze out of.

      Once she made it to the ladies’ room, the shouts from the bar got louder. Mo must have tackled the other guy.

      “You a cop?” The Pope yelled.

      “He’s got cops’ eyes. He moves like a cop, too—”

      “We gotta blow this joint.”

      “What about her?”

      “Later—”

      As Stella stood on the toilet and opened the window, she heard gunshots pop in the bar. In a panic, she shoved her guitar through the window. Then she scrambled out of it herself, only to lose her hold on the window frame and fall so hard, she nearly broke her ankle.

      She got to her feet, straightened her ripped gown and then fluffed her hair. When she reached down to get her guitar, it wasn’t there.

      A large hand curved out of the darkness, and she jumped about a mile and then moaned in pain because she’d landed with all her weight on her bad ankle.

      “Easy. I won’t hurt you.”

      The big, handsome guy from the other end of the bar, the one who’d tripped Nero, held out her guitar.

      She grabbed it and hugged it to her chest.

      “Need a ride?” he asked in a hard, precise voice.

      “As a matter of fact—” She blurted out her address.

      “You can’t go home. Can’t stay in Vegas, either. Not with those guys after you. They’ll kill you…or worse.”

      She gulped in a breath and then followed him to a sedan that was parked in the shadows. “But—”

      “Do you think those guys are going to quit if you can’t give them what they want?”

      She swallowed.

      “Honey, they know where you live.”

      “You’re scaring me.”

      After he helped her into the front seat of the vehicle, he said, “Didn’t your mama ever teach you never to ride with strangers?”

      “I didn’t have a mama.”

      He shut her door. “Everybody has a mama.”

      When he slid behind the wheel, she said, “I was five when she died.”

      “Too bad.” He started the engine and revved it.

      “You don’t know the half of it. Foster homes. Cinderella. The whole bit. Only without the prince. But when I was little, I used to sing with my mama on stage. She told me I was going to be a star. And…and I believed her. But she died….” Her voice shook. “On a cheerier note, if you’re a bad stranger, I can always beat you up with my guitar.”

      He didn’t laugh as they sped away. “That’d be a waste of a good guitar.”

      “Thanks for saving me.”

      “So, where to?”

      “The bus station.”

      “And then?” he persisted.

      “Texas.” She was surprised by her answer. Texas?

      “Is that home?”

      “Not exactly. But I have an old boyfriend with a hero complex.” Phillip—he was the only man she knew tough enough to save her if those guys ever caught up with her. Oh, dear. Phillip—

      “The poor sucker your song’s about. You left him, didn’t you?”

      “He’ll still help me.” He would. She knew he would.

      “What if he’s married?”

      “He’s not.”

      “And you know this how?”

      She stared out her window at the bright glitter of Vegas. She wasn’t about to admit she’d kept tabs by reading the Mission Creek newspaper online, so she bit her lip and said nothing.

      When they got to the bus station, he got out with her and carried her guitar to the ticket window for her. Pulling out his wallet, he said, “You gave your sleazy manager all your money, didn’t you—”

      “No, but I left my purse in my, er, dressing room.”

      He counted out five one-hundred-dollar bills.

      “I don’t need nearly that much.”

      “It’s a loan.” He handed her his card.

      “I’ll pay it back. All of it. I really will….”

      His face was grim as she read his card. “A.T.F. You’re A.T.F.” Her voice softened when she read his name. “Cole Yardley.”

      “Good luck,” was all he said before he strode away.

      “Thank you, Mr. Yardley,” she whispered after him. “Thank you.” Although he’d refused to open up, something about him made her long for Phillip.

      She broke the first hundred and bought a one-way ticket to Mission Creek, Texas, where Phillip now lived. Phillip’s uncle had died, and he’d inherited the ranch and made it his home.

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