from the start.
‘Hi, honey.’
Kane’s head whipped around to find a very good-looking blonde sliding seductively onto the bar stool next to him. Everything she had—and there was plenty of it—was on display. For a split-second, Kane felt his male hormones rumble a bit. Till he looked into her eyes.
They were pretty enough, but empty. Kane could never stay interested in women with empty eyes.
Natalie had had intelligent eyes.
Pity she hadn’t wanted children.
‘You look as if you could do with some company,’ the blonde added before curling her finger at the barman and ordering herself a glass of champagne.
‘Bad week?’ she directed back at Kane.
‘Nope. Good week. Not so great an evening,’ he replied, still thinking of his brother’s problems.
‘Loneliness is lousy,’ she said.
‘I’m not lonely,’ he refuted. ‘Just alone.’
‘Not any more.’
‘Maybe I want to be alone.’
‘No one wants to be alone, lover.’
The blonde’s words struck home. She was right. No one did. Him included. But divorce—even an amicable one—made a man wary. It had been fifteen months since he’d separated from Natalie, three months since their divorce had become final. And he still hadn’t found anyone new. He hadn’t even succumbed to the many offers he’d had for one-night stands.
Women were always letting him know they were available for the night, or a weekend, or whatever. But he just wasn’t interested in that kind of encounter any more. He’d been hoping to find what he thought Curtis had. A woman who wasn’t wrapped up in her career. A woman who was happy to put her job aside for a few years at least to become a career wife, and mother.
Now he wasn’t so sure if that creature existed. The sort of women he found attractive were invariably involved with their jobs. They were smart, sassy, sexy girls who worked hard and played hard. They didn’t want to become housewives and mothers.
‘Come on, lighten up a bit,’ the blonde said. ‘Get yourself another drink, for pity’s sake. That one’s history.’
Kane knew he probably shouldn’t. He hadn’t had anything to eat tonight and the whisky was going straight to his head. He wasn’t interested in the blonde, but neither did he want to go home to an empty house. He’d have one more drink with her, then make his excuses and go find a place in town to eat.
THE bar Curtis Marshall frequented every Friday night was called the Cellar, so Jessie shouldn’t have been surprised to find that it was downstairs from street level. Narrow, steep stairs. Stairs which made her walk oh, so carefully in her four-inch-high heels. The last thing she wanted was to fall flat on her face.
The music reached her ears only seconds before the smoke.
Jazz.
Not Jessie’s favourite form of music. But what did it matter? She wasn’t there to enjoy herself. She was there to do a job.
The bouncer standing by the open door gave her the once-over as she slowly negotiated the last few steps.
‘Very nice,’ he muttered as she walked past him.
She didn’t answer. She straightened her shoulders and moved further into the smoke haze, her eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the dimmer lighting as they scanned the not-so-crowded room. Nine o’clock, she reasoned, was between times. Most of the Friday after-work drinkers had departed, and the serious weekend party animals had not yet arrived.
She’d never been to this particular bar before. She’d never heard of it. It was Jack who’d informed her that it had a reputation as a pick-up joint.
The décor was nineteen-twenties speak-easy style, with lots of wood and leather and brass. Booths lined the walls, with tables and chairs filling every other available space. The band occupied one corner, with a very small dance floor in front of it.
The bar itself was against the far wall, semicircular in shape, graced by a dozen or so wooden-based, leather-topped stools. A long mirror ran along the back behind the bottle shelves, which gave Jessie reflected glimpses of the faces of people sitting at the bar.
There were only half a dozen.
She recognised her target straight away. He was sitting in the middle, with a blonde sitting next to him on his left. There were several vacant stools to his right. As Jessie stood there, watching them, she saw the blonde lean over and say something to him. He motioned to the barman, who came over, temporarily blocking Jessie’s view of the target’s face in the mirror.
Had the blonde asked him to buy her a drink? Was he right at this moment doing exactly what his wife suspected him of?
Jessie realised with a rush of relief that maybe she wouldn’t have to flirt with the creep after all. If she got over there right now, she could collect evidence of his chatting up some other woman without having to belittle herself.
Jessie’s heart pounded as she headed for the bar, nerves cramping her stomach. She still hated doing this, even second-hand.
Think of the money, she told herself as she slid up on the vacant stool two to the right of the target. Think of Emily’s beautiful, beaming face on Christmas morning when she finds that Santa has brought her exactly what she asked for.
The self-lecture helped a little. Some composure returned by the time Jessie placed her bag down on the polished wooden bar-top. Very casually she extracted the mobile phone, pretended to check her text messages, turned on the video then put it down in a position which would catch what was going on to her left, both visually and verbally.
‘Thanks,’ the blonde purred when the barman put a glass of champagne in front of her. ‘So what will we drink to, handsome?’
When the barman moved away, Jessie was able to watch the target’s face again in the mirror behind the bar.
There was no doubt he was handsome, more handsome than in his photograph. More mature-looking, too. Maybe that photo in her bag was a couple of years old, because his hair was different as well. Not different in colour. It was still a mid-brown. But in place of the longer waves and lock flopping across his forehead was a short-back-and-sides look, with spikes on top.
The style brought his blue eyes more into focus.
That was another thing that looked different. His eyes. In the photo they’d seemed a baby-blue, with a dreamy expression. In reality, his eyes were an icy blue. And not soft at all.
They glittered as he smiled wryly and swirled the remains of his drink. He hadn’t noticed her arrival as yet.
‘To marriage,’ he said, and lifted his glass in a toast.
‘Marriage!’
