Excerpt of Tattooed Tryst by Cynthia Sax

Chapter One

The stranger paused on the threshold, his angular face turned in her direction, his eyes shielded by sunglasses. A wide, silvery scar sliced across his cheek from his left eye to his chin, a snug–fitting T–shirt barely contained his muscular chest and a long coat hung open from his shoulders, the leather as black as his military–style crew cut.

Lori expelled a soft sigh, her appreciation tempered with disappointment. Everything about the man screamed dangerous male, his status acutely clear.

Passing through and not looking back.

Not interested in repeating past mistakes, Lori ducked her head and scrubbed spilled syrup off the gleaming–white counter, her actions deliberately casual, as though million of strangers sauntered across the small town diner's black–and–white checkered floor, their leather coats flapping around bodies as hard as honed steel.

He perched on the stool in front of her, and linked his fingers before him, the tanned skin striped with scars. His scent, an intriguing combination of leather and burned matches, teased her nostrils.

"Coffee, black, five sugars," he rumbled.

"Sure thing, sweetness." Lori poured the steaming–hot java and plucked five sugar packets out of the holder, using routine to settle the fluttering of desire. "Here you go." She set the mug, sugar packets, and a teaspoon before the stranger, careful not to touch him.

He ripped the packets open, added the sugar, and slowly stirred the coffee. "No comment about the sugar?" A corner of his mouth lifted into a semblance of a smile. There was no reflection, not even a shadow, in his dark lenses as he curled his hand around the white ceramic mug.

"We like our sweet stuff here." Lori returned to her scrubbing of the syrup spill, vividly aware of his proximity.

"Hmmm..." His lips flattened once again into a grim white line. "Is that so?" He removed his sunglasses, his eyes the blackest black, his irises lit with a flicker of red–and–blue flames.

"Name's Trake." He dropped his gaze to her nametag. "Sit down, Lori." He patted the seat beside him, his palm smacking the red vinyl. "And tell me about your Pearl Falls." His command was barely audible above the buzz of conversations around them.

"I'm working." She narrowed her eyes, suspicious of his sudden interest in her small town. "And there's not much to tell, Detective."

"I'm not a detective." He rejected her wild guess.

She tilted her chin upward. "But you are a customer and waitresses don't socialize with customers."

Trake looked at her and then at the empty stool. "You're refusing me?" He frowned and rubbed his chest, the stench of burnt cotton rising from his body. "You're refusing me," he repeated. "What does that mean?"

"That I'll get fired if I sit down on the job. That's what it means." Lori rolled her eyes, amazed at the man's arrogance. "You're not my only customer." A hand waving from two tables away caught her attention. Reality break's over. She nodded at Big Rig Gerry, a truck driver notorious for his impatience. "I have to—"

"No." Trake caught her wrist, his hand moving quicker than her gaze could follow. "You don't. They won't remember you neglected them." He held her easily, his grip firm, yet gentle.

She glared at him. An angry retort dangled on the tip of her tongue.

"And you won't remember me," Trake stated with a quiet certainty, the bone–deep loneliness she felt reflected in his scarred face.

He's been forgotten.

"I'll remember you," she promised him, wishing someone would offer her the same assurance. "You're not the type of man anyone forgets."

He searched her countenance as though seeking verification. Yep, he's been left behind too. Lori's remaining resistance melted into a puddle around her practical white sneakers.

"No, you won't remember, Lori." Trake shook his head sadly, weariness weighting each word. "Every human forgets me."

Human? "I'm not every human." She eased onto the stool and he released her wrist, his calloused fingertips lingering over her skin, directing waves of bliss up her arm. "I remember everything, too much, I sometimes think." She summoned a smile. "So talk to me."

The request hung in the air. He stared across the room at the door and she watched him warily, wondering when he'd leave and why she cared.

Trake shrugged. "It won't be a breach of protocol, not if I phrase it correctly, and you'll never remember."

Breach of protocol? She blinked. "Phrase what correctly?"

He fixed his unusual gaze on her. "I'm looking for my brother. I have nine Earth days left to find him."

His brother forgot him. Damn. I hate being right. "And if he doesn't want to be found?" She covered Trake's hand with hers, his skin abnormally hot. "Some people don't want to be found, you know."

"Why?" Lines appeared between his dark eyebrows.

Because she's starting over with a new family, a new daughter. Because a small town girlfriend doesn't fit into his big–city plans. "There could be any number of reasons," Lori murmured.

"I have to find my brother." His jaw jutted, determination written all over his handsome face. "I gave my vow and I don't—"

The brass bells above the diner door tinkled. Trake lunged to his feet, reached inside his coat and whipped out a gun. A beam of bright blue light shot from the flared muzzle and spread outward, expanding to fill the room.

Time stopped. Everyone froze. Coffee hung from the pot in Shirley's hands. Officer Penny paused in mid–bite, her mouth stretched to accommodate a giant piece of sausage. Mayor Jim's beefy fingers hovered an inch above Rob's flannel–covered shoulders.

"Trake," Lori whispered, the quiet eerie. "What just happened?"

He pivoted on his booted heels, his long leather coat swirling around his calves. "Why aren't you immobilized?"