Page 36 of Irish Rose
“Whiskey.”
He downed the first one easily, appreciating its bite. But it did nothing to relax his muscles. He took a second and sipped it more slowly.
Erin was perfectly aware that he was there. She doubted he’d been in the room ten seconds before she’d felt his presence. She smiled and flirted with Lloyd and the others who wandered her way, and told herself she was having a wonderful time. But she never stopped watching Burke and the women who gravitated to him.
Adelia had been right—the talk was horses. Purses, the size of which made the head reel, were discussed and the politics of racing dissected. Erin took it in, determined to hold her own, but as she nursed her single glass of champagne her gaze kept roaming.
The man didn’t even have the courtesy to say “how do you do,” she decided. But then he seemed more interested in the leggy blonde than in manners. Erin accepted a dance with Lloyd, and if he held her a bit too close she ignored it. And watched Burke.
It didn’t appear to bother her to have the young Pentel stud pawing her, Burke noted as he swirled his whiskey. And where in the hell had she gotten that dress? Setting down his whiskey, he lit a cigar. She was nothing to get worked up over, he reminded himself. If she wanted to wear a dress that was cut past discretion and bat her baby blues at Pentel, that was her business.
The hell it was. Burke crushed out his cigar and, leaving the blonde who had snuggled up beside him staring, walked over to Erin.
“Pentel.”
Annoyed, but as well-bred as his father’s prize colt, Lloyd nodded. “Logan.”
“I have to borrow Erin a minute. Business.”
Before either of them could object, Burke had maneuvered his way between them and had Erin in his arms.
“You’re a rude, shameless man, Burke Logan.” She was delighted.
“I wouldn’t talk about shameless while you’re wearing that dress.”
“Do you like it?”
“I’d be interested to hear what your father would say about it.”
“You’re not my father.” Though she smiled, there was more challenge than humor in the curve of lips. “Doesn’t a man like you worry about luck, Burke? No wearing of the green on St. Patrick’s Day?”
“Who says I’m not?” His eyes tossed the challenge right back.
“Money doesn’t count.”
“I was talking about something more personal than money. If you want to go somewhere private, I’ll be happy to show you where I’m wearing my green.”
“I’m sure you would,” she murmured, and tried not to be amused. “Now, what business do we have?” He wasn’t holding her as close, not nearly as close as Lloyd had been, but she felt the pull of him.
“You’ve come a long way from dancing in moonlit fields, Irish.”
“Aye.” Some of the pleasure went out of her as she studied him. “What does that mean?”
“You’re an ambitious woman, one who wants things, big things.” God, it was driving him mad to be this close, to smell her as he had once before in a dim garden shed with rain pelting the roof.
“And what of it?”
“Lloyd Pentel’s not a bad choice to give it to you. He’s young, rich, not nearly as shrewd as his old man. The kind of man a smart woman could twist easily around her finger.”
“It’s kind of you to point that out,” she said in a voice that was very low and very cold. She didn’t know what possessed her to go on, but whatever it was, she swore she wouldn’t regret it. “But why should I settle for the colt when I can have the stallion? The old man’s a widower.”
Burke’s mouth thinned as he smiled. “You work fast.”
“And you. The skinny blonde’s still pouting after you. It must be rewarding to walk into a room and have six females trip over themselves to get to you.”
“It has its compensations.”
“Well, why don’t you get back to them?” She started to pull away, but his hand pressed into her back so that their bodies bumped. The flame that was never quite controlled flared at the contact. “Damn you,” she said from the heart as he tightened his fingers on hers.
