Trevor’s vintage Dodge Charger was in the parking lot, so he was definitely here, somewhere. Where would a Trevor beast hide?

The telltale cluster of women caught her attention first, circling their target like agitated sharks. Target acquired. She headed for the feeding frenzy and spotted their quarry. Tally ho. Trevor was hunched over a beer on the last barstool at the end of the bar, scowling murderously. Not that it stopped the ladies from surrounding him in a tight flock. If they had any idea how dangerous he really was, they would be giving him a much wider berth.

She reached the group, a preponderance of blondes. One of them snapped, “Go find your own guy. This one’s taken.”

“Yeah. I know,” she replied flatly. The complete lack of emotion in her voice apparently gave the woman pause. Or maybe the cold promise of bodily harm in Anna’s eyes penetrated her alcohol induced fog. Either way, the woman fell back as Anna moved forward. Splash one.

The hovering women dispersed for the most part as she scowled her way through them. The next woman who put up resistance—a redhead—required a pretend-accidental hip check to move her aside.

“Hey!” she complained stubbornly.

When Anna gestured with her head for the woman to scram, the redhead grabbed her beer and beat a hasty retreat.

Trevor’s head turned slowly, just far enough for one baleful golden eye to glare at her.

Grinning unrepentantly, Anna slid onto the stool next to him, vividly aware of how he towered over her. And she was no delicate flower, herself. “I cleared out the groupies, didn’t I?”

“Thanks for nothing.”

She waved an airy hand. “No thanks needed. I’m happy to run off the local talent. What are teammates for, after all?”

“You do realize I was going to get laid, tonight.”

“Laid? With that bunch, you could’ve had a full-on Roman orgy.”

He groaned. “Even more the opposite of thank you.”

“You sound like you’ve never had an orgy. I thought you Brits were all super repressed in public but completely off the chain in private.”

He glared into his beer glass, which was mostly full. Some of the Reapers drank more when they were upset, but Trevor went the other way. He tended to get quiet and withdraw into his own head when he was chewing on a problem.

What on earth was up with him? She’d heard him and Cal Kettering, the Reapers’ commander, shouting in Cal’s office earlier. What those two peas in a pod could be arguing about, she had no idea. But Trevor was her swim buddy, which, as she saw it, gave her every right to stick her nosy nose into his personal affairs.

“Wanna talk?” she asked over the din of country music twanging across the dance floor.

“About what?” he asked cautiously.