Page 2 of One Night With The Nanny

“Not yet, but your friend from last time hung around for a few days looking for you. Asked me three times if I had any idea how to get a hold of Wes, the poor guy.” He clicked his teeth at Reid before laughing.

“Always leave ‘em wanting more. If you go back, things just get messy.” Reid raised his glass at Jim and took a sip, groaning in delight. They were close to the same age and Reid enjoyed the bartender’s company and the bar’s quieter, classic ambiance. “Like mother’s milk,” he whispered. Reid wanted to enjoy martinis like his hero, but clear alcohols didn’t agree with him. Plus, the hotel had its own reserve of Maker’s Mark and used special bitters.

“Hey, now!” Jim hissed and notched his chin at the salon. “You’ve got a live one headed this way. He’s someone.”

“Someone? You’re a font of information, Jim,” Reid drawled as he casually turned, his gaze drifting around, but he didn’t hide his impressed grunt as he sipped.

“Someone, indeed,” he said, noting the strikingly tall, older man’s prowling stride and the way his eyes didn’t capture all the glittering lights reflected off the many chandeliers and ornaments around them. His focus was trained on the floor and he looked bored, a hand shoved in the pocket of his trousers as the other tugged at his tie.

Reid was wearing about $4,000 worth of bespoke tailoring but instinctively knew that his potential new friend was still way out of his league. No one yanked on a $500 silk tie like that and stuffed it in their pocket, like it was a cocktail napkin, unless they had a valet on standby to resuscitate it. And his hair was a work of art, an intriguing blend of thick ash blond and silver that had Reid’s fingers itching. He wanted to sweep them across that furrowed brow and twist his hands in the back of it.

“Good evening,” the man said to the bartender, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that had the hairs on Reid’s arms standing. Two very common, simple words. Yet, spoken with such innate elegance and gravitas. And the accent had Reid’s mind racing. It was definitely European and sounded regal—everything about the man, from his immaculate hair to his graceful composure and pin-straight posture, was regal—but Reid couldn’t place the accent. He liked it a lot, though.

Yup. He’s the one, if he’s into it.

“What can I get you, sir?” Jim asked, as he set a napkin in front of the other man.

Reid was momentarily distracted by the faint gray stubble dusting the man’s obscenely sharp jawline, his square chin, impossible cheekbones, and long, lean nose.

Please say me.

“Louis XIII, please,” he told Jim, then turned to Reid. “Would you like to join me?”

“Delighted,” Reid mouthed with a wide-eyed glance at Jim.

“I’ll have that right up,” he said, bowing at the other man.

“Are you a cognac drinker?” the man asked Reid and he nodded.

He certainly was if someone else was buying that. At $5,000 a serving, it was rare to see Jim place one of the black crystal bottles on the bar, along with the hotel’s signature tall-stemmed crystal glasses.

“What are we celebrating?” Reid asked as he slid his Old Fashioned aside.

“Celebrating? I don’t like to drink alone if I can avoid it,” the other man explained, sounding weary as he leaned against the bar. His icy blue eyes were shrewd, flickering as he quickly assessed. Reid resisted the urge to squirm and offered Jim a calm nod when their drinks were set in front of them. “I might have just avoided a multi-billion dollar quagmire in the restaurant,” he added and shrugged.

Reid humphed thoughtfully as he raised his glass. “Here’s to avoiding mistakes, then.”

“To avoiding mistakes.” Their glasses tapped, but the other man didn’t drink his. He watched as Reid took a long sniff, savoring the scent of oak and molasses.

“Wow!” Reid whispered, before taking a gentle sip, letting the velvety cognac coat his tongue. He swallowed slowly and licked his lips, chasing the hints of spice and vanilla. “I can taste plum and honey and…gingerbread.”

“That’s why I prefer having company when I drink. I could never put my finger on what it was. It’s gingerbread.” He laughed softly and sipped, still watching Reid closely. “My name’s Max,” he said as he offered his hand.

“Wes,” Reid replied as he took it. “Your accent is…beguiling,” he said, then winced and shook his head. “Why did I say that? That was too much. Who says beguiling?”

“I like it,” Max said. “I’m Austrian and Danish, but I spent most of my childhood in England and went to school there. But you’re pure New York City, aren’t you?”

“You got me.” Reid eased over onto his right elbow, taking a step closer. “Why do you look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet, if you just dodged a multi-billion dollar bullet?”

“It’s been a long week.” Max confided, his head tilting as he swayed closer. Christ, he smelled incredible. “That’s a curious American expression: ‘rode hard and put away wet.’ ”

“I believe it was Tennessee Ernie Ford,” Reid supplied.

“Fascinating. And something I’ve often wanted to try.”

Reid whistled and shook his head. “You’d better not be married,” he said, pointing his drink at Max, before taking a fortifying sip.

“Not for a long time.”

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