Deception (Southern Comfort) by Lisa Clark O'Neill Page B

quiet and deadly serious.
    Sam blinked, surprised by the undertone, but then shook her head and offered a tight smile.  “Nothing I can’t handle.  But I do need a refill on some beer.”
    “Of course.”  Dane nodded and lifted a hinged section of the wooden bar so that he could take care of the order himself.  “What do you need?”  His dark blue eyes studied her earnestly.
    “Three Budweisers and a Miller, draft.”  She watched him as he started to fill the pilsners.  About six inches taller than her own height, trim and muscular, with waving blond hair and aristocratic features, Dane looked like he should be presiding over a boardroom or a courtroom instead of pulling drafts in a sleazy bar.  No doubt his father was grooming his only son to take over the reins of his vast empire one day, but from what Sam had seen Dane was more adept at avoiding anything that seemed like work than at running any sort of actual business.  In his late twenties, he still acted like a consummate playboy, although she guessed he had decades yet to get his act together.  Alan Wilcox – Dane’s father – was only a little past the mid-century mark and still healthy as a horse. 
    And she couldn’t feel too snarky toward Dane, because he’d had the decency to not only visit her brother in the hospital after his accident, but also offered Sam this job when it looked like she’d be sticking around.  So maybe his the world is my oyster attitude got on her nerves from time to time, but all in all she guessed he was okay.    
    Dane finished the Miller and went to work on the Buds.  “This is your fourth double shift in the past five days,” he pointed out mildly, sliding a full pilsner onto her tray.  “I only had you scheduled for two.”
    Sam eyed him steadily, wondering why he’d even mentioned it.  She hadn’t realized he paid any attention to the schedule.  “Sherry asked me to pick up a couple of her shifts.”  So that she could do a job for Prime Time – the agency she’d stripped for – which paid better than the measly tips she earned here.  But that was beside the point.  She hoped Dane wasn’t looking to fire Sherry; she was one of the few female friends Sam had made.  Most women made assumptions based on her figure, and were either too threatened or judgmental to give her a chance. “I hope that’s not a problem.”
    Dane glanced up as he filled the last glass.  “As long as the shifts are covered, I could care less who’s working them, but…” he hesitated, which was totally out of character.  It seemed like he usually spoke first and thought later. “You’ve been working yourself into the ground, Sam.  For the past three months, you’ve done nothing but bust your ass here and then sit by Donnie’s bedside.  It’s not healthy, all this work and no play.  It’s making you dull, sweets.”
    Sam felt her brow wing up.  His tone had been playful, but his eyes were serious.  “And this is your concern… why?”
    “Donnie’s a friend of mine,” he said, looking… dear God, was he actually hurt?  “And I kind of thought that you and I were friends now, too.”  He sat the final Budweiser on her tray.  “I don’t like the shadows under your eyes, Sam.  And I know Donnie wouldn’t like them either.”
    She blinked, having gone temporarily speechless.  Foam slid down the pilsners and pooled on the tray when Dane pushed it toward her along the bar.  She glanced at it, then back at his Ivy League face.
    Was it possible this man was deeper than a thimble?
    Another man sitting a ways down the bar cleared his throat, and Sam looked over to see if he was listening.  She didn’t like airing her laundry in public, but he appeared to be consumed with his beer.  He’d been nursing it like a baby with a bottle for a while now, probably caught up in his own problems.  “I… uh, appreciate the concern, Dane, but I’m fine.  Really.”  Sure she was tired, but that