Page 3 of The Distiller's Darling

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Iain surveyed the sexy American with renewed interest. He’d been eyeing her all evening. Hearing her give as good as she got had him itching to know more about her. The woman had fire. And he liked it.

“At the risk of sounding like a cliche,” Iain whispered, shifting closer to her side while her brother laughed about a joke he’d just told at her expense, “can I get you a drink—one that’s not my family’s whiskey?”

She glanced at her parents, who were in deep conversation with the other couple, and shrugged. “Sure, that’d be great.” Without saying goodbye, she turned and walked away, clearly expecting Iain to follow.

Which he was more than happy to do. She was stunning from the front, but the back of her dress—a network of criss-crossed silver beaded strands that shimmered with each step she took—was a work of art that rippled over her flesh, hugging her in all the right places.

Iain lengthened his stride to catch up and held out his hand. “I’m Iain, by the way. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name back there.”

Moving into a corner where they were partially hidden from the crowd by a potted palm, she stuck out her hand in return. “Naomi. And it’s nice to meet you.”

Iain took Naomi’s hand in his, and was unnerved to feel an instant, white-hot bolt of … something … travel straight to his gut. He didn’t believe in love at first sight, but there was definitely something between them. Some unexplainable chemistry he’d never felt with anyone before—and he was desperate to explore it further.

Preferably somewhere her family wasn’t nearby, and a bed was.

“About that drink I promised—”

“—What do you say we get out of here, and go somewhere less stuffy?” she interrupted before he could suggest the very same thing.

They smiled at one another, and then Naomi looked away briefly before setting her fingers to her mouth. Dropping her hand, she said, “I’m sorry. That probably sounded awfully forward.” She didn’t sound particularly sorry, though, Iain noted.

“Not at all.” He grinned. “In fact, I was just about to ask if you wanted to get out of here. I know this little bar down the street that makes the best cocktails—”

“Gibson’s?” she asked, her eyes catching the light and twinkling like the crystal in the chandeliers above.

“Yeah, you know it?”

“Oh, Iain,” she laughed, setting her hand to his arm. “Everyone knows Gibson’s. It’s the hottest place in town right now.”

“Oh.” He should have known she would already know all the best places in San Francisco. That he’d honestly thought he’d stumbled on an undiscovered gem after spending thirty minutes with the barman earlier that afternoon made him feel a bit foolish. He should have known better. After all, he’d practically been that barman once.

She stepped out of their alcove and tossed him a smile over her shoulder. “Come on, let’s grab my wrap and we can head out. If you like Gibson’s, I’ll show you somewhere even better.”

Thirty minutes later, they were tucked into a dark booth in the back of a bar Iain wasn’t sure should still be standing. The floor was slanted, the walls were bowed, and the patchy ceiling wasn’t much taller than the woman sitting next to him. He’d been in some questionable establishments over the years—including a pub built into a cave where monks used to hide out from raiding hordes—but this one took the prize for ’most likely to crumble in on itself.’

Looking around, he blew out a whistle. “This is …”

“A death trap?” She laughed again, a warm sound he was growing to enjoy.

Once they’d left the ball, Naomi’s whole demeanor had changed. Her shoulders had instantly relaxed, and her eyes looked less wary, like she wasn’t constantly on guard. She hadn’t said anything, but he got the sense she didn’t enjoy those fancy events nearly as much as her family wished she might. Honestly, he could relate.

“That’s exactly what I was going to say.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure if there’s a bad earthquake, we’re dead.” She looked around the joint, her face happy and her eyes bright. “Although, come to think of it, this building’s been here since before 1906, so we’re probably safe.”

“1906? Oh, the earthquake?” Upon touching down in San Francisco last week, Iain had quickly learned there were three topics of conversation you could safely embark on if you found yourself in conversation with a stranger here: the weather (it was great), technology (it was either life-changing or the root of all evil, depending on your audience), and when “the big one” might hit. Apparently, there’d been something everyone called “a four-point-two” the day before he’d landed, causing some damage in Berkeley, and it had people on edge.

“One and the same,” she said, tossing back the last of her gin and tonic. Iain didn’t like to brag, but he thought the gin his family made was slightly more flavorful. Then again, he supposed he wasn’t at all impartial.

“I can’t imagine living like that, always on the verge of disaster without any warning.”

“Oh, it’s not too bad. The worst we’ve had since 1989 is a little bit of the bed rocking in the middle of the night.” There was a beat of silence, then Naomi’s eyes went wide with recognition at what she’d just said. She laughed again. “Oh, no, you probably think …”

Iain eyed her over the rim of his glass. “That you have a fantastic sense of humor and are utterly delightful. Not to mention incredibly beautiful.”

She eyed him back, her expression quickly shifting from jovial to thoughtful. “I’m just going to put this out there—and you can tell me I’m insane for even suggesting it—but do you want to go back to my hotel?”

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