He pulled his papers towards him and started loading them back into his bag. ‘I’m in meetings all day so I won’t be here when you open up.’
‘You’re not going to be here?’
Disappointment touched her features and he schooled himself so satisfaction didn’t touch his. ‘I’ll swing by later in the evening and see it’s all OK.’
‘But—’
‘You can call me on my mobile if you need me.’ He stared at her. She stared back. ‘But you’re not going to need me. Are you?’
Lucy swallowed. Yes, she needed him. But that had nothing to do with the bar. She liked him sitting there keeping her company. He hadn’t noticed when Sinead had left—over an hour ago. She should have been sorting out the office some more but she’d found things to do out in the bar just so she could keep half an eye on him. The wrinkle in his brow when he was intently reading was undeniably cute. She liked the cut and thrust, the volley of alternates. His observance of her. His questioning. His look that suggested he felt as uncomfortable around her as she did around him.
No way was he her type. No way was she his.
But there was chemistry there. And they were circling around it like two wary wolves.
‘I’ll be fine.’ She would too. The bar would open, drinks would be on hand, music would play and, hopefully, customers would arrive. But she had the fantasy of it being an all-out hit. Of bodies cramming the dance floor, steaming it up. Of her standing behind the bar, presiding over a couple of hundred happy clubbers out for a good time. And she wanted him to witness that—to see that she wasn’t a flake. Wasn’t ‘just’ a waitress who flitted from job to job. She’d run the place—not just keep it afloat but make it come alive. Prove her worth, not just to him, but to herself. Ordinarily she estimated her worth as pretty low. She was better at making mistakes than making much else out of life. But maybe she could really swing something here.
She’d spent half the morning out doing the rounds of the fashion establishments, hair salons and chic cafés. Dropping a word in here and there, leaving some flyers she’d knocked out. She knew everything, everything came down to word of mouth. Lucy could do mouth. Get the beautiful women here, the right women, and the men would follow. So she’d made the calls, bluffed her way round without being too desperate-real-estate-agent sounding, and now all she could do was ensure the stage was furnished for the party people to play on.
True to his word he wasn’t there when she opened up. And he still wasn’t there when they were halfway through the shift. She told herself she didn’t care because everything else was perfect. She couldn’t quite believe it. Was she really making a success of something? Her? Lackadaisied Lucy? Sinead stood at the door downstairs in her black with her earpiece and microphone clipped on, her long blonde hair a river down her back—looking like every man’s action-heroine fantasy come to life—attracting huge amounts of attention.
Corey was working the bar with her and so was Isabel. Both were in black as requested and their hair was perfect. Her own hair was as wayward as ever—crazy half-curls that were impossible to control. So she hadn’t bothered. She’d just twisted it up out of the way. She too wore black—an A-line skirt to her knee, boots, mascara. But her top was scarlet—with black ribbon trim. No cleavage, not too tight, but definitely flattering. She and the others worked their respective parts of the bar relentlessly.
Lucy glanced over to the dance floor, amused by a gaggle of younger women dancing. Giggling together, they were having a fun time and try as they might the two guys standing at the edge of the bar couldn’t maintain their conversation for more than ten seconds without their concentration being splintered by the sight.
Daniel might be concerned about fire and emergency regulations but there were other more insidious elements that could threaten the safety of the clientele. Lucy knew only too well the kind of dangers that could be snuck in by unscrupulous men.
She’d instructed Sinead to carefully ID-check any younger women, knowing how well some make-up and a dollop of confidence could add a few years onto a girl to take her from under age to entitled entry. She’d done it herself—one time too many—and she’d paid a price. One she didn’t want anyone else to have to endure. So Sinead was downstairs, being tough.
But you didn’t have to be under age to be at risk. So upstairs Lucy had told Corey to keep the window sills and ledges cleared, encouraging customers to keep their drinks with them—in their hands—at all times. She’d made sure the bathrooms were well lit. She’d locked the cleaning cupboard that was across the small hall from the lavatory doors. If she were going to be in charge for a longer stint she’d request a CCTV camera be installed in the vestibule. They might not be able to monitor it at all times, but they’d have recordings. And if anything did ever happen, they’d then have evidence.
That had been her problem—lack of evidence. She’d just been marked the troublesome teen that no one would believe. Worst of all, she didn’t know what to believe herself. Her memory had been damaged by the chemical cocktail she hadn’t known she’d had.
She shook off the unhappy reflections and breathed in the party atmosphere. Bad stuff wasn’t going to happen here. She surveyed the scene once more. It was the success she’d dreamed of—almost. He hadn’t been there to see it.
She checked her watch for the eightieth time that night and hid the frustration. She’d wanted him to see her success. She grumped—what did she care anyway? He was just a jerk in a suit who wouldn’t know a good time if he fell over it. She, on the other hand, knew how to have fun in a club—by dancing. She shimmied along behind the bar, amusing herself by playing up to the punters. Smiling, chatting, never crossing the line, but encapsulating the sizzle vibe. They grooved to the music as they poured the drinks and kept the crowd coming back for refills. She laughed with Isabel over Corey’s second broken glass of the night and went and stood over him, doing her Mistress Lucy dominating boss act that he fully played up to—knowing by now her bark was a whole lot worse than her bite.
When she turned back to the queue at her end of the bar Daniel was at the front—still in a suit, stubble darkening his jaw. Hot eyes burning into her, their golden lights gleaming. Her heart sped and her smile was huge. ‘What’ll you have? On the house.’ She winked. Feeling friendly. Feeling like fun and frisk—and willing to take a risk.
‘Just a quick beer. I’m not staying.’
She got a bottle of one of the best, fighting the disappointment. ‘You should—it’s going off.’
He looked around. ‘Yep, you don’t need my help.’
His sour demeanour annoyed her. ‘Don’t you like to have a good time, Daniel?’
‘I prefer more intimate for my good times.’
‘Do you? I prefer a party atmosphere.’
‘Clearly.’
‘Yeah. I like the thrill of being close in a big crowd but knowing you can’t be as close as you really want.’ She did too—the delight of suspense, the torture of wanting and having to wait. It made an evening fun.
‘So you’re a tease.’ He sipped and added smartly, ‘Figures.’
She experienced an almost uncontrollable urge to slap him. Completely foreign—even the most annoying customer had never irked her as much as he did. Did the guy not know anything about
