Callie had waited and waited, crying for a while and fantasizing about smashing her fist into Laurence’s aquiline nose.
After pulling herself together as best as she could, Callie had searched for Enid in all the places she usually frequented, but hadn’t found her. Enid delighted in being an artist’s model and lived a rather free and easy life, thanks to an inheritance from her paternal grandmother. Men were a disposable commodity to Enid, and she changed lovers frequently. Despite the fact that she and Enid were cousins, their mothers having been sisters, they were as different as day and night. Callie had remained a virgin until she’d become engaged to Laurence.
God! She had to stop thinking about him! Heartless cad. Better off without him.
Callie decided that the Princess Inn would be her last stop. If Enid and her new boyfriend, Niles, weren’t there, she wouldn’t continue searching. She’d go home, have herself another good cry and wait until morning to tell Enid that not only had she lost her fiancé because he was in love with another woman, she would have to temporarily rely on Enid’s generosity until she found a new position.
The pub featured a perfect Georgian era facade with Victorian decor. Elegant and probably very expensive, Callie thought, as she scanned the bar area. If Enid were here, her new boyfriend must have plenty of money. Either that or Enid was picking up the tab. Callie searched the place thoroughly, garnering several odds stares and a couple of propositions. But she didn’t catch a glimpse of Enid anywhere. Enough of this! Time to go home, she told herself. She would simply have to live through this night alone, no matter how much she needed sympathy and comfort.
Just as Callie turned to leave, she noticed a man sitting alone in a back booth. She wasn’t quite sure why her gaze fixed on him—and lingered—or why she couldn’t make herself stop staring at him. Oh, he was quite good-looking. Actually more than good-looking. He was devastatingly handsome. In a terribly masculine way. Not young. Not a boy. Probably late thirties. A good ten or fifteen years older than she.
He glanced at Callie and for a split second she stopped breathing. His eyes focused directly on her, freezing her in place. Some inner instinct warned her to run. Now! But his gaze held her hypnotized.
The man’s face possessed a world-weary expression and his beautiful blue eyes spoke silently of some deep sadness within him. She had never seen eyes such a brilliant blue or a man’s lashes so long and thick. He’d been blessed with black Irish looks—black hair, blue eyes and a fair, ruddy complexion. He was, without a doubt, the best-looking man she’d ever seen.
A heavy stubble darkened his cheeks and chin, as if he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. From the tousled appearance of his stylishly cut hair, she assumed he’d been raking his fingers through it. And his rather expensive-looking navy blue suit was slightly rumpled. She couldn’t help wondering if perhaps he’d slept in it last night.
Without taking his eyes off her, he lifted his glass, saluted her with it and downed the last drops of what she thought was probably Scotch whiskey. His lips lifted ever so lightly in an almost smile that never reached his eyes. As if it were a palpable thing, the stranger’s misery reached out to her, drawing her to him.
Callie took a hesitant step in the man’s direction, her gaze still riveted to his. Somehow she knew he was as unhappy and as alone as she. Could he sense her pain, the way she had sensed his?
He tilted his head, motioning to her, and the almost smile grew wider but remained only a parody of a real smile. As if of their own volition, her legs moved, taking her closer and closer to the stranger. When she stopped at the edge of the booth, the man stood. Unsteady on his feet, he chuckled and grabbed the edge of the table.
With a magnanimous sweep of his hand, he bowed to Callie. “Won’t you join me, lovely lady?”
She hesitated only a second before she nodded and slid into the booth. With staggering unease, he slumped onto the seat. “May I get you something to drink?” he asked, but didn’t wait for her reply before he tried again to stand. A bit wobbly, he braced his hand on the tabletop.
“Thank you,” Callie said. That would be nice, Mr., er, Mr….?
“Lonigan. Burke Lonigan.”
His devastating smile did evil things to her stomach, making it tighten and then turn somersaults. Oh, dear me, she thought. Mr. Burke Lonigan was undeniably lethal.
“I’ll get myself another,” he said, his speech slightly slurred. “And you will have a—”
“Chardonnay,” she said, her voice creaky. She cleared her throat, feeling uneasy and uncertain. And breathlessly attracted to a perfect stranger.
Mr. Lonigan made his way across the crowded room to the bar area, leaving her with her confused thoughts. What was she doing? Had she lost her mind? She’d never been the type to pick up men in pubs. Not until now, a pesky inner voice chided.
He returned from the bar, their drinks in hand, set hers before her and slid into the booth.
“What’s a pretty lady like you doing all alone?” he asked.
“I was looking for someone.”
“A man?”
“No, actually, I was looking for a friend—a girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend, huh? Looking for her to chat her up, I suppose.”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Good friend, is she?” he asked. “Someone you can trust with your problems?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have a friend like that,” he said, his eyes piercing her with their intense stare. “Would you like to be my friend? Just for tonight?”
A hint of tears glistened in his eyes. Unshed tears. Agonized tears. She saw the pain and understood—this man was hurting in the worst way. Hurting as she was hurting. Had someone broken his heart? she wondered.
Without thinking about what she was doing, Callie reached over and placed her hand atop his and squeezed gently. “Yes, I’ll be your friend, just for tonight, if you’ll be my friend.”
It was apparent she wasn’t going to find Enid tonight, and she desperately needed someone with whom she could share her misery. Why not this handsome man, this stranger she would never see again? She’d often heard that it was easier to talk to a stranger. Perhaps it was.
Suddenly Callie felt him tense as he looked at the whiskey. His hand beneath hers balled into a fist. As he removed his hand from hers, she noted a slight tremble.
“Do you really need more to drink?” she asked.
“If I’m going to drown my sorrows, I do,” he told her.
“Can a person really drown their sorrows? If they can, then I’d be willing to give it a try.”
“What sorrows could a pretty young thing like you have?” He lifted the whiskey to his mouth and downed half of it in one swallow. The shiver that went through his body was barely discernible.
“The sorrow of having been betrayed by my fiancé,” she explained, not really understanding why she was pouring out her heart to this man. “He dumped me this afternoon. Seems he’s
