‘YESSS! MARGARITAS!’ Lars had shouted, and they had all laughed with a certain degree of manic anticipation.

And so it was that, four margaritas each later, they were all talking much more loudly than they’d intended.

Somebody approached their table, and the room fell silent.

Fuck, thought Bella, looking up at the Hell’s Angel looming over them (he was even bigger than Lars, if that were possible). His black leather trousers squeaked and his Guns ’N Roses T-shirt rode up over his vast, hairy belly. Tattoos covered every last inch of flesh, from fingertip to throat, and his long, bushy beard still bore traces of the chili he’d consumed earlier.

‘Did you just say, Damian?’

‘Uh – yeah,’ babbled Poppy, who was looking cute as ever in skinny jeans and a blue-and-white-checked shirt, in a nod to the cowboy territory in which they found themselves, her hair hanging just above her delicate shoulders in silky blonde pigtails. ‘We’re not talking about the devil or anything like that …’ (Did Hell’s Angels believe in the devil?) she panicked ‘… it’s just that he’s my husband … I mean, Damian’s my husband, not that the devil is my husband … and we’re looking for him – Damian, I mean, not the devil …’ she trailed off, flushed.

The Hell’s Angel smiled slowly, giving her the once-over. He held out his hand.

‘You must be Poppy. Yeah, he described you well enough.’

‘What? You mean he was here? In this bar?’ The tracker hadn’t picked that up – Damian clearly hadn’t switched his phone on in the Texas Tavern.

‘Hell, yeah! Your husband won the annual Roadkill and Rolaids Chili Cook-Off just a couple days ago …’

‘What?’ Poppy repeated, her usual eloquence deserting her completely now. ‘Roadkill?’ How fucking insane had Damian actually become since she’d last seen him?

The Hell’s Angel laughed. ‘It’s only a name, honey bunch. Us Americans can do “irony” too, you know.’ He settled his huge frame into the last chair left at their table. ‘Your Damian …’ he drawled the word out … ‘sat here, right at this very table. And man, did he talk about you. He was so goddamn boring that we asked him to take part in our annual chili cook-off, just to shut him up. Man, his spices were good … We didn’t think you English guys knew how to cook …’

Poppy, Bella and Lars looked at one another for a few seconds before collapsing in hysterical giggles. Poppy and Bella were holding their sides, gasping and spluttering; Lars was thumping the table.

‘That’s because he’s half Indian,’ Bella spluttered eventually, wiping her eyes, and Poppy and Lars both cracked up again.

‘Roadkill Chili Cook-Off,’ Lars gasped. ‘Oh, Damian – oh, man …’

‘So what did he say about me?’ asked Poppy, once she could get her breath back, her heart overflowing with love at the idea of Damian beating all these chili-obsessed freaks at their own game with his wonderful spices.