him to the bar. She watched him order a beer, then move to a table near the window where the last rays of sunset turned the water beyond to liquid fire and the white tablecloths crimson, and glittered on his fancy silver watch.
Oh. My. God. It was the guy she’d seen last night. Her pulse rate zipped straight off her personal Richter Scale. He’d shaved.
But he was still dangerous.
She shifted on her stool for a better view of yesterday’s hero. The evening glow accentuated the angular contours of a tanned face on the wrong side of pretty-boy handsome and a strong, shadowed jaw. Mid-thirties, give or take. His teak-coloured hair, although shorter, was still somewhat dishevelled, as if he’d run his fingers through it, prompting images of lazy lust-filled afternoons on black silk sheets.
She should be so lucky.
But he had the most soulful eyes she’d ever seen. She reached for her mineral water, checked her watch and sighed. Two hours and ten minutes till she finished for the night—but he’d be gone by then.
Ben Jamieson flicked an eye over the pianist, then returned for a longer, in-depth perusal. And decided his evening had just taken a turn for the better. Why spend it alone dwelling on his own personal anguish when the distraction he needed was right here?
Rave would tell him to go for it—he could almost see his mate grin and raise a glass in salute to women everywhere. For tonight at least he could appreciate the soothing harbour view while he watched those clever—and ringless—fingers on the keys.
Kicking back, he took a large gulp of beer and studied her. The way those fingers tickled the ivories, he imagined they could do a pretty good job on a man.
So classical wasn’t his thing. The classic lines of the pianist more than made up for it. That full-length slinky sapphire number she’d poured herself into begged to be taken off. Slowly, an inch at a time. You didn’t hurry over a body like that.
Tall, he noted, but not too tall. Like a long, slim candle. He’d bet she’d burn with a cool blue flame, and damned if he didn’t want to singe his fingers. And that hair—a loose twist of sunshine at the crown of her head, held by a sequinned clasp. There was something about upswept hair that made his fingers itch. That smooth, exposed nape, and all that silk tumbling into his hands.
It was shaping up to be an interesting evening after all.
As Carissa launched into another bracket of light classics she couldn’t resist another peek. He didn’t look the classical type. His music preferences didn’t bother her. His head turned as if he’d felt her watching him, and their gazes collided over the raised lid of the baby grand. Instant heat flooded her body.
She dragged her eyes away, fumbled with the keys again and swore softly. She’d played the cocktail bar Friday and Saturday nights for two years and not missed a note. With her brain threatening meltdown, she reached for her sheet music and refused to look his way again.
Concentrate on the important issues, she reminded herself. Such as not losing this gig and how she was going to pay the land-tax bill. Her Monday to Thursday job at the suburban café paid half what she made here. Even the extra money a lodger would bring in would only skim the top of the pile, and if she didn’t get someone pronto she’d have to advertise beyond the staff cafeteria; something she didn’t want to do. Always risky for a woman living alone.
She’d always been able to put distractions aside when she played. Not tonight. Tonight she couldn’t raise the shield that shut out the rest of the world. She was all too aware of the clink of glass and ice and money, conversation, the light outside as it changed from dusk to dark.
And him.
At ten-thirty Carissa closed the piano, shuffled her music into a neat pile and slipped it into its folder.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ The deep liquid voice with its hint of gravel made her jump.
The scent of aftershave and beer hit her as she turned, her habit of a cool smile and polite refusal already on her lips, but the words died in her throat.
Something like panic leapt up and grabbed her by the throat, then worked down to her stomach, squeezing the air out of her lungs on its way. ‘Sorry, management doesn’t permit employees to socialise with guests.’
Refusing—was she nuts? Taking a deep breath, the new, unattached Carissa smiled. ‘Leastways, not in the hotel.’
He grinned. ‘A walk, then, and a drink by the waterfront. The name’s Ben Jamieson.’ One corner of his mouth lifted crookedly, revealing the most kissable dimple in his right cheek. Up close she saw that his eyes were bright jungle-green and sparking with interest.
She clutched her folder to her chest to hide the sudden tremble in her hands. ‘I’ve a train and a bus to catch, and I don’t like to leave it too late.’
‘I’ll pay your cab fare home.’
‘Oh…I…’
‘Walk with me. It’s a pleasant evening and we’ll only go as far as you want.’
Those erotic images popped into her head again, but if he’d intended it as a double entendre he was astute enough to show no sign.
She smiled as she pushed in the piano stool. ‘It’s the best offer I’ve had all night.’ The best in years, in fact, and the mind-set was still taking some adjustment.
‘Why don’t you start by telling me your name?’
‘Carissa.’ She kept her eyes on his, aware of his body heat, his fresh soap smell, his masculinity. Dangerous, she warned herself. ‘Just Carissa.’
He smiled again, and everything inside her melted a few more degrees. ‘So, Just Carissa, do you have a bag or something?’
‘In the staff locker room. I’ll change and meet—’
‘No.’ His eyes didn’t leave hers, but their green fire scorched all the way to her toes. ‘Do me a favour—don’t.’
She cleared her throat. ‘Okay…But I need my bag.’
He accompanied her past the press of bodies at the bar, and across the foyer, checked his messages—ah, he was a residential guest—while she headed for the locker room.
Her brain was a whirl; her insides were doing a quick shuffle. To waltz off with a complete stranger—she’d never done anything so impulsive or so reckless.
‘Why don’t we combine the two and walk to the station?’ she suggested as they walked out into Sydney’s tropical summer evening.
Streetlights attracted bugs, which hummed in a seething ball around the globes. A languid breeze drifted off the water.
He glanced at her. ‘Why? Is someone expecting you?’
If she was going to back out, now was the time. But he was on a first name basis with the concierge, had a room there, and people had seen them leave together. ‘There’s no one.’
‘I don’t like the idea of a woman catching a train alone at this time of night. Then a bus, for heaven’s sake. Do you always
