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* * *
If she had any objections to wearing the tight black T-shirt with the pub logo on it, she hadn’t said a word. He’d realized it was a bit too small when he’d chosen it from the stack of shirts in the storeroom, but it did show off Echo Raintree’s fine figure to its best advantage.
The customers didn’t complain, either. Every eye of every male in the place, young and old, married and not, followed her as she served drinks and food and brilliant smiles. Complete with dimples.
Yes, she’d done this before. He might think her a fine employee if she hadn’t slept through the first two hours of her first shift.
He could’ve cut her some slack, he supposed. She’d had a long day. He’d been to the States a time or two himself and he knew very well that the trip was a challenging one. He could empathize. To a point.
If he cut her some slack, they’d never be finished. And he wanted to be finished. He wanted to get this done and send her on her way. If she got too curious, as his last student had, she’d have to go. Finished or not, on the verge of an ugly death for a pretty young woman or not, it was a risk he could not, would not, take.
The crowd began to clear out half an hour before closing time. It was a weeknight, after all. Echo cleaned tables without being told. She handled a bar towel like someone who’d done it before. The way she moved was oddly tempting. Graceful but strong. She flowed from one table to another, easy and, at least for now, unworried. Yes, tempting.
He could not afford to be tempted, not by her. If he was ever stupid enough to get involved with a woman again, if he allowed his body’s demands to override his brain, it would not be someone with the last name Raintree.
One thing he could say for her. Princess or not, she did not shy away from work.
As the last customer left, Echo walked to the counter and took a stool there, directly across from Rye.
“If I was wearing a shirt this tight at home I’d get a ton of tips. Here? Nada.”
“We don’t tip.”
She pursed her lips in what he assumed was mock displeasure before saying, “So I noticed. I think tipping is a practice that should be instituted ASAP. Barmaids across Ireland would be ecstatic.”
In spite of himself, he smiled. Her complaint was lighthearted, and had been delivered with her own smile.
He didn’t allow his smile to last. She was not his friend; she was not going to stay in Cloughban.
“Be here tomorrow at eleven.”
“I’ll be working a split shift?”
He nodded.
“It’s not like you do any business at lunchtime,” she argued. “You don’t need me.”
He glared at her, just a little.
“Fine, fine, I’ll be here by eleven.”
If tonight’s reception to her was any indication, his noontime business was about to pick up. Not that he would tell her that. She might take it as a compliment. As they got to know her, his customers seemed to forget that her last name was Raintree. Most of them, anyway.
“Don’t be late.”
She headed to the back of the room to grab her sweater. “Never again, boss, I swear. I’ll be here early. I’ll stay all day. Whatever it takes to convince you that I am not spoiled and undisciplined, I’ll do it.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it. Good night, Raintree.”
“Night, boss.” She exited by the front door, and when she was gone the pub felt suddenly and completely empty.
* * *
Even satellite phones were not entirely secure, but all things considered...there was no other choice.
“There’s a Raintree in Cloughban.”
After a short pause, the man on the other end of the line asked, “Which one?”
