Page 4 of Tempting as Sin
His breakups had always been amicable, or at least they’d ended up that way. There may have been a glass or two thrown at the time, and he may have heard the words “Peter Pan” and “Commitment Phobe” more than once, but the bad feelings hadn’t stuck, had they? As often as not, he’d be invited to the wedding a year later, and he always made sure to send a great gift.
Take the brunette behind him at the concierge desk, back at the hotel. She’d flashed the room number on her key folder a little too obviously, had held his gaze a shade too long, but she’d seemed pleased enough with a slow grin and a tilt of his head, giving her the rush and the confidence of knowing she was beautiful, and making her feel like he was tempted. What was wrong with that?
He didn’t want to make anybody feel bad. He never had. That was theoppositeof what he wanted. He loved making women happy. But you couldn’t exactly hold a press conference to explain that you weren’t trying to break any hearts and your only goal was to leave a woman with a smile on her face, could you?
No. You couldn’t.
He didn’t head for the blonde. He headed for the bartender, a competent bloke with fast hands who was blending a couple margaritas right now, his sharp gaze not missing a trick. When Rafe caught his eye, he said, “Be right with you,” poured the drinks into two salt-rimmed glasses with a little extra showmanship, added lime wedges with a flick of his wrist, and turned to Rafe even as the cocktail waitress headed off with the tray. “What can I get you?” he asked, wiping down the bar with a clean towel, summing Rafe up with a glance and then coming back for a second look. Classic double take.
“Give me a beer,” Rafe said, taking his brand-new soft twang out for another airing. “Whatever’s on tap that’s good. And another one of whatever the blonde at the end of the bar is drinking.”
More assessment, and the barman said, “She’s been shooting everyone down so far. If it doesn’t work, you could take out the contacts and drop the accent.”
Rafe grimaced. “Still need some work, do I?”
“To me,” the barman said. “But what do I know.” He drew a pint glass of IPA from the tap and then went to work on the other drink.
“What is that thing?” Rafe asked, not sure if he was fascinated or appalled.
The barman poured it out, then added a couple of fresh raspberries, which sank slowly through the bubbles, and a sprig of mint. “Pink Flirtini. Raspberry vodka, cranberry juice, and Champagne.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope.” The bloke slid it across the polished surface of the bar, took Rafe’s credit card, and said, “Woman like that sits at the bar for two reasons. One, because she wants to be noticed, or two, because she wants backup. That’s my job.”
“Message received,” Rafe said. “Run a tab for me, would you? I could end up drinking alone.”
Was it stupid? Probably. But it was one drink on one night.Ifit worked. What harm could it do?
How long had it been since she’d gone out alone, Lily wondered? At night, among strangers? She couldn’t even remember. Ever since the divorce, she’d felt like she was missing the top two layers of skin. Or maybe she’d just stopped being numb, and this was what having feelings was like. In any case, the last thing she’d craved was any experience that reminded her of Manhattan, let alone Hollywood. The surface gloss and the ugliness beneath, the constant positioning and repositioning. A hall of mirrors, until you didn’t know what was real and what was illusion.
In a small town, she’d discovered, you saw the same people every day, and they saw you. Asking a question about your snowplow blade at the hardware store, pumping your gas, or waiting your turn at the four-way stop. You never reallyknewsomebody to the bone, of course. Except Paige. All the same—who you were wasn’t who yousaidyou were. It was what you did when you thought nobody was watching, and in small-town Montana, somebody was always watching.
Or what you did when you were with people with less power than you. That, most of all.
So—no. She hadn’t been out alone in a while, especially not in the fishbowl that was a high-end bar at night. But it wasworking.She’d declined three offers of company without losing her poise, and she’d been able to stay detached, to use this as a research trip, and as…fun.
That’s right. It was fun, not an ordeal from which she’d return home to have sentence passed on her looks and her behavior. She’d always tried not to hurt anybody. Tonight, she’d realized that she didn’t have to let anybody hurther.It felt like a big moment.
Meanwhile, there was that people-watching. San Francisco wasn’t the trendiest place on earth, but some of the women in here were rocking their day-to-night style all the same. A structured trouser suit in cream, paired with giant hoop earrings and stilettos. A deep gray jacket with ruffled detailing, saying you were serious, but you were a woman, too, and anybody with a problem could move along. A sleeveless silk top in rich purple with a bow at the high neckline, showing off toned arms. Strong and feminine and fun, and she was loving it.
Nobody was giving much hint of the lingerie underneath. They had the confidence to save that for later. She’d bet they were spending on it, though. She hoped so, because she’d decided this afternoon to add a couple more high-end lines to the shop. Ones that came in sizes that went beyond “Medium.” Not everybody here was young or thin, but they cared about their presentation, and they were looking just fine. She could work with that.
She didn’t notice the man until the cocktail glass hit the bar beside her nearly empty one. He was on her other side, standing in the smidgen of space at the end of the bar. She glanced over just enough to see his arm. Black sweater with the perfect amount of white cuff showing beneath, fastened by a silver cuff link. With a chain. The trousers would be black, too, she’d bet anything.
She didn’t have to look any further to be sure, but she did anyway, maybe to doublecheck whether her instincts still worked.
They did.
His dark-blond hair was cut long at the top, slicked back, and parted at the side. Check, check, and check. He was missing the fashionable scruff, but that was probably because blond didn’t work so well for that, or because the financial services company didn’t allow it. He’d probably had a David Beckham poster on the wall of his suburban bedroom growing up, though, right next to his shelf of “I Participated” soccer trophies.
She’d never been snarky, even in her own mind. It was kind of fun.
“Cosmopolitan, right?” her visitor said, inclining his head toward the hot-pink drink, his confident smile showing off the effectiveness of his tooth-whitening program. “A little too muchSex and the City,but I can forgive you being stuck in the past when it looks that hot.”
She looked him over, and his smile went all the way from confident to cocky. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he said, leaning a bit closer. “If you’ve got a tattoo on your lower back, I win a bet. My buddy says a flower. I say a bow, because you’re just asking to be unwrapped. I might have to take a picture to prove it, though. Would that bother you?”
Ah. A pickup artist. She said, “You’re a little behind the times yourself, aren’t you? It’s been a while since The Neg worked on women. We don’t actually fall for being belittled, whatever the workshop said.”
