Page 3 of Alaskan Blackout
How unfair that her first twinge of sexual attraction in eighteen months had to be for a guy she already knew was a treacherous jerk. She read enough newspapers to recall that Duke Kingsley had bestowed the entirety of his estate on two of his biological sons—Quinton included—while completely disregarding the others. Luckily, Clay had turned his back on his arrogant siblings three years ago, so being disinherited hadn’t cut as deeply as it might have if he’d been expecting to finally be recognized by his father.
“Clayton doesn’t have a sister.” The dark-haired rancher stared at her like she was the imposter here and not the other way around. Everything about him appeared custom-tailored, from his charcoal-colored button-down that fit his broad shoulders to precision, to the jeans molded to strong thighs.
Not that she could see the jeans anymore with him seated at her bar. Unfortunately, her brain remembered what he looked like a littletoowell. But good looks didn’t buy a man a pass in her book. Far from it. All the more reason to be wary.
“You have a hell of a lot of nerve calling yourself family to Clay when you knownothingabout him.” Unwilling to engage in dialogue with a man she’d hung up on countless times in the past six months whenever he’d phoned the bar, McKenna stomped off to wait on patrons who were actually prepared to pay money for her time and service.
She would let Thinks-He’s-a-King Kingsley cool his heels by himself for a while since she had no intention of giving him what he’d come here for. And how dare he suggest Clay didn’t have a sister?
Twenty minutes later, that last thought still circled a wounded place inside her, adding to an old ache. Not that she would have ever allowed it to show. She traded fish stories with Ryker, who thought it only fair to spend the thirty bucks he’d won in the Cyclone Shack since she’d been instrumental to his winnings. She appreciated him patronizing her bar. Or what would be her bar, one day soon, when she finished repaying Clayton for the business he’d tried to give her when she’d returned to Dutch Harbor eighteen months ago, broken and alone.
That was what real family should be about, she thought with leftover fury as she cast a glance toward Quinton Kingsley once more. He still sat at the bar where he’d been before. Only now he had company in the form of Angela Forrest, the widowed wife of a fishing boat captain who’d gone down with his ship five seasons ago. Angela, fit and lovely as she entered her mid-fifties, sipped her usual afternoon ginger ale while nodding and smiling at whatever King Arrogant was saying to her.
A woman the locals admired, Angela often took it upon herself to welcome newcomers to the area, the same way McKenna would bet she’d done for years with new crew on her husband’s boat. McKenna would bet half the people in the Cyclone Shack right now had sailed with Captain Forrest at one time or another. And while Captain Forrest had made them feel at home on the sea, his wife would have made sure crew members families felt at home back on land.
McKenna reminded herself to let Angela know Quinton Kingsley would not be staying in Dutch Harbor for long. Furthermore? Quinton wasn’t the kind of people they wanted in their close-knit community.
“You got eyes for the new guy, McKenna?”
The question, spoken quietly and conspiratorially by Ryker as he opened his second bottle of a local craft brew, snapped her out of her meandering thoughts.
“Of course not,” she hastened to set the record straight as she dragged her gaze away from Quinton and hurriedly cleared empties from the bar stools on Ryker’s other side. “Since when do I have eyes for outsiders when the best men I know live right here?”
Ryker’s hoot of laughter suggested he didn’t buy that. “Best men? Is that what you called young Billy Jenkins when you tossed him out on his ear last weekend?”
McKenna cringed to recall her loss of temper Friday night when the bar had been full to overflowing and a rowdy table of young guys kept hassling some female tourists. It wasn’t just bad for business; it was offensive to her as a woman.
Nevertheless, her tirade about it had probably been over the top since the kid’s harassing comments about the ladies had sparked hurts of her own from harassment of another kind. She hoped news of that hadn’t spread too far around town, but that was probably wishful thinking.
“Come on, Ryker.” Methodically, she carried empty bottles to the recycling container and dishes to a plastic tub destined for the kitchen. “Billy and his followers are still knocking on the door of manhood. Talk to me after they weather their first full fishing seasons on the sea.”
Ryker’s smile slid away as he lifted his bottle to acknowledge her point. “No doubt that’ll put some common sense in their heads and fear of God in their hearts.”
Hurrying away with her dirty dishes, McKenna refused to allow her eyes to stray toward the place where Quinton Kingsley still sat. If Ryker could discern something in her expression when she looked at Quinton, then clearly she wasn’t hiding her curiosity about the man well enough.
But after a year and a half of working in Alaska, through the cold and wet months where the sun didn’t rise until after 10:00 a.m. and set again just seven and a half hours later, McKenna had learned to be stronger. Tougher.
Mentally, emotionally and physically.
She could dig her heels in with the best of them. She would resist the lure of the stranger she needed to be wary around.
So she wasn’t concerned about Quinton Kingsley’s arrival. Because whatever a Lower 48 man could dish out, she could handle. Shehad toafter the way one of them had nearly crushed her.
Putting blinders on herself, she managed to get through one hour after another with Quinton sitting in the middle of the bar. The rain stopped eventually, but the weather remained windy and cold, whipping through the front door anytime anyone new entered the Shack. She’d even managed to take Quinton’s order at one point since she couldn’t very well allow him to sit there without buying a damned thing. She was a businesswoman now, first and foremost.
During that brief exchange, Quinton had been as brusque and efficient in their interaction as she’d been. But now, as the night wore on and the bar began clearing out while she wiped down the tables, she could see that Clay’s stubborn half brother wasn’t about to give up and leave anytime soon. He’d quizzed two of the locals on Clay’s whereabouts already, but McKenna knew he couldn’t have learned anything concrete about where his half brother had gone since Clay hadn’t told a soul besides her.
But obviously, Quinton wasn’t going to limit his questions to her alone.
Why had she thought he might give up when these Kingsleys were—by all of Clay’s accounts—entitled by birth into believing they deserved the wealth and good fortune that came their way?
When at last the bar was empty, save for Quinton and her, McKenna walked briskly to the stereo behind the counter and snapped off the music. For the first time since Ryker had pointed out that she had “eyes” for Clay’s half brother, she allowed herself to look her fill at the Kingsley heir who’d strode into her bar late that afternoon.
“It’s closing time,” she announced, peeling an elastic hair tie from her wrist and using it to gather the ends of her wind-tossed mane. She’d barely had time to breathe since walking into the Cyclone Shack after her early fishing outing, let alone run a brush over her head. Not that she cared what she looked like in front of this man. “That means even entitled ranchers need to make their way home for the night.”
Rounding the bar, she flicked off one set of lights that illuminated the bar and reached for her coat from one of the pegs on the wall. She left her fishing waders there after finding a second to peel them off halfway through her shift.
Behind her, Quinton made a low whistle.