that she didn’t even bother to ask what he was drinking anymore, or if he even wanted a second? he wondered. Come to think of it, he couldn’t in fact remember the last time she had asked him what had once been the lead-in to all their encounters. However, the question she was asking now was a new one.
“Yeah,” she replied. “You seem like the musical type.”
“Well, I played saxophone in my high school pep band,” he confessed. “And I was part of a little jazz combo in college.”
She smiled, and Chase felt ridiculously happy that he had said something to please her. “Really?” she asked. “Saxophone?” She seemed to consider something for a moment, then nodded in what he could only liken to approval. “Saxophone’s cool.”
“Well, I haven’t played in years, of course—”
“But you were pretty good, right?”
He nodded, all modesty aside. “I was very good.”
Sylvie’s smile broadened as she placed his drink before him. “So tell me something else,” she said.
“Yes?”
“How have you been feeling lately?”
He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. “I’ve been feeling fine lately,” he told her. “Why? Do I look bad? Do you know something I don’t?”
She shook her head. “Just wanted to make sure you’re in good health.”
“By my physician’s latest account, my health is excellent, thanks.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Why so many questions?”
She studied him intently for a long time before answering, and suddenly Chase wasn’t sure he wanted to hear her reply.
“Can I be honest with you?” she asked him.
“Of course.”
She glanced around at their surroundings, at the two other bartenders and six or seven customers seated at the bar, at the flurry of waiters and waitresses who hustled around the service bar. His own gaze followed hers, and he wondered again what she was up to.
“I don’t think we should talk about it here,” she said. “But I’ll be getting off at eleven if we don’t get slammed any harder than this before then. Could I...could I maybe buy you a cup of coffee after my shift?”
Chase didn’t know what to say. He’d never seen Sylvie in a social situation before. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure he’d ever seen what she looked like from the waist down. Her invitation had come out of nowhere, completely unexpected. It unnerved him for some reason. He glanced down at his watch to find that it was just past ten. He’d have to wait an hour for her to finish up. Not that he had anything better lined up for the evening, he thought, but he probably ought to decline her invitation.
“Sure,” he heard himself reply, wondering when he’d made the decision to accept her invitation instead.
She released a long breath and looked very relieved for some reason. “Great. I appreciate it. So, what do you think of the étouffée...?”
* * *
A little over an hour later Sylvie sat opposite Mr. Buchanan at a tiny cocktail table in the corner of Cosmo’s bar, clutching a cup of coffee as if it were a lifeline and feeling a little sick to her stomach. Was she crazy? she asked herself, studying the man opposite her as unobtrusively as possible from beneath her lashes. For the past hour she had completed her work behind the bar on automatic pilot, her thoughts instead whirling around one customer in particular.
What did she really know about Mr. Buchanan, anyway? she wondered. Not his first name, that was for sure. But he was handsome, intelligent and successful, had impeccable taste and knew how to play the saxophone. There didn’t appear to be any one particular romantic interest in his life to prevent him from fathering her child. Although he’d come into Cosmo’s a couple of times with a date, he’d never seemed to be with the same woman twice. As he himself had said, he was rabidly single.
He was older than her thirty years, she reminded herself further, by a full decade. And he was too much a workaholic to enjoy any kind of social or family life, something else that was a definite factor in Sylvie’s favor. At his age, and with his occupation, he had no desire to be saddled by the responsibilities of fatherhood. If she had a child by him, there was no doubt in her mind that the baby would be hers alone.
But could she really ask him to do what she was thinking of asking him to do? Would she be able to go through with it herself if he agreed? Her stomach knotted painfully again. She tried to find reassurance by reminding herself how often she had thought her plan through, and how well she had everything under control. Unfortunately, when she looked into the cool green eyes of the big man seated across from her, she suddenly wondered if she really understood at all exactly what she was getting herself into.
“So, Sylvie,” Chase began, uncomfortable in his realization that the two of them had been sitting at the table for more than five minutes without exchanging a single word. “What’s on your mind?”
She was staring down into her coffee cup as if it held the answers to the secrets of the universe, her long blond bangs falling in a silky sheath over her forehead. A stray tress she had tucked behind one ear fell forward, too, and Chase suddenly wanted nothing more than to reach across the tiny table and push it back into place. He’d never really noticed how soft her hair appeared to be. But in the dim glow of the candle flickering on the table between them, everything about Sylvie suddenly seemed soft.
“I, uh,” she began quietly. She inhaled deeply, and Chase waited to hear the rest. “I sort of have something I’d like to ask you.”
“Another question?” he said, smiling when she continued to avoid looking at him. “You’ve had quite a few of those tonight.”
She nodded. “I, uh...” She paused, inhaled deeply, released her breath slowly and tried again. “I, uh, I have an older sister,” she began, finally glancing up, her gaze settling on his.
Good God, her eyes were blue, he thought again before the significance of her words struck him. Then he began to understand where all this was going. Oh, no. He’d heard that “I-have-a-sister/niece/cousin/dog groomer/hairdresser/whatever” speech before. Too many times. If Sylvie thought she was going to fix him up with her sister, she had another think coming. He’d had his fill of blind dates. Not only did they always backfire, he didn’t have the time.
“A sister,” he repeated blandly.
She nodded again. “She had a baby last year—that would be my nephew whose picture I showed you earlier this evening, and—”
“A baby?” Chase asked incredulously. Sylvie wanted to saddle him with a wife and a kid? What was she trying to do, wreck his life completely? What had he ever done to her? Hadn’t he just told her a short time ago that a family was the last thing he needed messing up his happiness?
He held up a hand to halt any other big plans she might be hatching. “Hold it right there, kid,” he instructed her, ignoring her frown at his use of the word kid. She probably wasn’t that much younger than him, but Chase was
