The Fisherman’s Daughter was exactly as advertised—a tavern that served beer, hard spirits, and hearty food. No fancy hors d’oeuvres and chichi décor for this place. It was all wooden beams and buxom serving maids.

“Wenches,” Janvier said when she voiced the thought. “They’re always wenches in a tavern.”

She watched him take a leisurely survey of the plump, silken flesh on view. “If I liked women, I’d go for the redhead.”

“Hmm, too short. I like my women long and lean.” A smile that told her he was thinking thoughts that would undoubtedly make a lesser woman blush. “But, for a ménage à trois, yes, she’d do.”

“Any man who tries to bring a third into my bed had better be wearing armor.” She played a silver throwing star in and around her fingers.

“Possessive?” Janvier said, his tone dropping. “So am I.”

Raising her head to answer, she froze. “Callan just walked in with a small Hispanic woman.”

Janvier ran his foot up her calf. “A bit on the side?”

“No. She moves like she knows how to use that gun hidden under her shirt.” Watching the two banter with the barman, she ate a chunky piece of fried potato. “Time to earn your keep. Charm your way into their circle.”

“In that case, you’ll have to pretend to be my bit on the side.”

“I can’t pretend to be harmless.”

A thin line of blood marred Janvier’s thumb as he picked up the gleaming silver star she’d left on the table. He didn’t even flinch. “I’ve always been known to skate on the wrong side of the line.” Getting up, he slid the star into a pocket and began to amble toward the bar, his lazy, long-limbed stride catching every female eye in the place . . . including that of Callan’s enforcer.

But the woman went on immediate alert the instant Janvier reached out to tap Callan on the shoulder. “Cal, that you?”