LITMIR.BIZ

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Bikers and college students made up the majority of his clientele, but he got his fair share of businessmen and even the occasional bored housewife. Then there were ones like her, who were harder to classify. “What do you do?”

      “I’m a dancer.”

      Surprise jolted him. Exotic dancers were also frequent customers, but she didn’t look the type. He took in her trim figure and killer legs, and hazarded a guess. “Since when do ballerinas get tats?”

      She smiled and looked pleased. “I do some ballet, but mostly modern dance. Jazz. Hip-hop. Even Latin dance.”

      He thought of her dancer’s body. Fluid and graceful. Flexible and strong. The kind of body a man could get lost in….

      Don’t go there, Zach. “You must be pretty good if you make a living at it.”

      “Right now, I teach at the Austin Academy of Dance. But I have a chance at getting on with a dance company in Chicago. They’re doing a new stage production that combines hip-hop and jazz dance with urban and pop music. Sort of Riverdance meets Stomp. It’s called Razzin’!” Her eyes took on a new light as she spoke, like a student anticipating recess. “They don’t take very many new dancers each year, so to get on with them would really make my career.”

      “What do you have to do? Try out, or something?”

      “I’ve already had a tryout. Now I have to make it through a three-month internship in Chicago. If I do a good job with that, I can be accepted as an official member of the company.”

      It figured she was moving away. Further proof he wasn’t meant to have anything to do with a chick like her. “So is this tat a way of psyching yourself up to ace the internship?”

      Little worry lines creased her perfect brow. “Something like that. I’m not worried so much about the internship as getting to Chicago in the first place. My father doesn’t want me to go. In fact, he’s forbidden it.”

      The art-collecting father was apparently a bit over-protective. “But you’re twenty-three and can do what you want, right?”

      She nodded, though not with any assurance. “I can, but I’d really rather leave home on good terms.”

      “Maybe your old man will change his mind.”

      “I don’t know. He can be pretty stubborn. And he thinks by saying no he’s protecting me.” She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. “It’s my own fault, really. I’ve always lived at home. I’ve let him take care of me. I figure it’s time I stepped out on my own and did what I wanted for a change.”

      “Like getting a tattoo.”

      She smiled. “Yeah. I guess I just wanted to make a statement, you know?”

      “Well this ought to do it.” Theresa shut off the tattoo machine and leaned back to study her work. She gave a satisfied smile and nodded. “Looks good.” She cleaned the new tattoo and applied ointment, then plucked a dressing from a sterile container on the cart. “When you get home, take this dressing off and follow the instructions I’m going to give you. How good this looks depends on the care you give it now.” She taped the dressing in place, then stood. “How do you feel?”

      The blonde cautiously rolled her shoulders. “Okay.” She stood. “Thank you.”

      “No swimming for two weeks. If you see any kind of blistering or unusual swelling, see a doctor. It’s rare, but sometimes people are allergic to the ink.”

      “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She reached for her purse. “What do I owe you?”

      Theresa’s smile broadened. “Oh, you can pay Zach over there.” She nodded toward the counter.

      He shot Theresa a go-to-hell look, but her smile only broadened. That was the problem with working with your kid sister—you couldn’t intimidate her for anything.

      The blonde made her way over to him, carefully avoiding his gaze, which let him know she was definitely aware of him. The way he was aware of her. “You doing okay?” he asked when she stopped in front of him. She looked pale.

      She nodded and handed him a credit card. He took it, careful not to let his fingers brush hers. He didn’t want to risk the kind of reaction he’d had last time they’d made contact.

      He wrote up a ticket and slid the card through the reader, then glanced at it before handing it back to her. Jennifer Truitt.

      Did she go by Jennifer or Jenny or Jen? Then the last name registered in his brain. He stared at her. “Who did you say your father was?”

      She stiffened. “I didn’t.”

      He leaned toward her. “Who is he?”

      She flushed and stared down at the countertop. “Grant Truitt.”

      “As in, Police Chief Grant Truitt?”

      She nodded.

      He gripped the edge of the counter and groaned.

      “What’s wrong?” She looked alarmed.

      He could hardly speak around the knot of anger in his throat. “Your father is the police chief and I’m betting he doesn’t want you here.”

      She stuck her chin in the air. On anyone else, the gesture might have looked fierce. She looked like a girl facing down a firing squad. “I’m old enough to do as I please. Besides, he doesn’t know I’m here.”

      “Right. And you think he won’t find out?” Just what Zach needed—another excuse for the cops to hassle him and his customers.

      “What’s wrong?” She leaned toward him, her fingers almost—but not quite—touching his wrist.

      “Congratulations,” he said, turning to her. “You’ve just given your old man one more reason to hate me.”

      2

      ZACH FELT A MEASURE OF relief at the blatant confusion in her eyes. At least he could be fairly sure she wasn’t part of some plot to trick him into giving the cops a reason to shut him down. Grant Truitt was buddies with the mayor. Between the two of them, they were delivering on a campaign pledge to rid Austin’s Sixth Street entertainment district of any business the mayor deemed “not friendly to families.” He’d specifically mentioned Austin Body Art as the kind of place he’d like to see closed down.

      Never mind that the majority of citizens cared more about getting potholes patched than whether or not the tattoo parlors and “gentlemen’s clubs” were run out of business. The mayor and the police chief had zealously harassed anyone and everyone who didn’t fit their definition of a respectable businessman.

      “What do you mean, my father hates you?” she asked. “He doesn’t even know you.”

      “Oh, we’ve met. Right after the election, he and the mayor made a point of stopping by here, with the press in tow, to point out that I’m the type of person they wanted to run out of town so they could make everything squeaky-clean and bland.” That little publicity stunt hadn’t gone over well, ending with Zach threatening to throw both of them out of the shop. Though he hadn’t seen Grant Truitt in person since, he was sure the police chief hadn’t forgotten him.

      Zach had dealt with a barrage of health, fire and building inspectors looking for violations, and nosy cops who had accused him of everything from selling dope to working on underage kids. When they couldn’t find anything to pin on him, they’d laid off him for a while. Having the chief’s daughter added to the mix was just what he needed to stir things up again.

      “Why would my father hate you?” Jennifer asked.

      “Why does the sun shine? Play-by-the-rules pricks like him can’t stand people like me who don’t color in the lines.”

      She looked thoughtful. “I guess you’re not the

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