IMPATIENTLY WAITED for Shandi to begin the evening shift at the bar.
It had been midafternoon before he’d finished the second of his scheduled meetings and accompanied his business advisor and the bank’s trio of officers from the basement conference center to the lobby.
The group had lingered long enough sharing financial war stories that Quentin had finally suggested a drink—a multipurpose suggestion. He’d felt like a fool paying more attention to the comings and goings in the bar than to the conversation.
At least in the bar his distraction wouldn’t be as obvious, his obsession as apparent. By the time the others had left an hour later, however, Shandi still hadn’t put in an appearance. Quentin then decided on an early and solitary dinner.
He’d convinced the hostess in the hotel restaurant, Amuse Bouche, to seat him where he had a clear view of Erotique. He finally caught sight of Shandi, of course, the minute his server walked away after placing his salad of seared Norwegian salmon, mixed greens, cucumbers and yellow-pepper vinaigrette on the table.
His first instinct was to rush through his meal and hurry into the bar. But then he realized how very much he enjoyed simply looking at her, watching her and doing it while she remained unaware. He usually didn’t have the benefit of flying under the radar and he took full advantage.
She looked completely at ease, dodging the other bartender, weaving in and out and around as they both filled orders, mixed drinks, poured, served and chatted up patrons. She smiled and laughed, her face expressive and engaged, fresh. She enjoyed herself as she worked. It showed. He liked it. And he found himself relaxing while he ate.
He took his time and let his anticipation build. He tasted little of the food on his plate and didn’t touch the complimentary wine a female diner sent over. It wasn’t food or drink his appetite required. And he didn’t want to feel obligated because of the gift and get caught up by a conversation in which he had zero interest.
His only interest was Shandi. Thing was, he wanted more from her than sex. He wanted to see her smile for him, at him, because of him. He wanted to share her optimism, her outlook, her disposition. And then he wanted it all so suddenly that the distance between them was too much, the wait unnecessary.
He signaled for his server, paid for his meal and headed for Erotique.
“How did your meetings go?” Shandi asked as he hoisted himself up onto one of the funky black chairs at the half-moon-shaped bar and leaned against the inverted-triangle back.
The lights above, a strangely cool pink shining down from nested fixtures, turned her blond hair nearly white. Until she cocked her head. And then all he could think about was cotton candy.
He wrapped his hand around the highball glass she set in front of him, focusing on the drink she was pouring instead of her sweetness and the way he wanted her. “Well enough, I suppose. As meetings go.”
She laughed lightly, a soft lyrical sound of crystal and bells. “Doesn’t sound like meetings are much your thing.”
He shrugged. “Depends on the topic.”
“And this one was?” she asked, nodding toward another customer who signaled for a drink.
“Money,” Quentin said, ice clinking on glass. She gazed at him quizzically before stepping away to deliver the bourbon-and-rocks.
He studied her as she moved, as she talked, taking care of her customer, appearing to give the man her full attention yet all the while aware of the needs of the other bar patrons.
He wondered how long she’d been serving drinks, if it was experience tending bar or her natural ease with people that made her efforts seem effortless.
Then he wondered why Hush had her wearing pants when the business of the hotel was eroticism and the length of her legs defined the word.
He could not get enough of the way she walked, of the sway of her hips, the curves of her ass in motion. He’d settled into this particular seat two nights in a row now for that very reason.
From here he had a clear view of the length of the bar and beyond. And watching her was quickly becoming his favorite pastime.
When she returned to where he was sitting, she picked up their conversation right where she’d left it, asking, “You don’t like money?”
“If it’s mine, sure. If it’s not…” He left the sentence hanging and shrugged. “I don’t like being obligated.” He also didn’t like talking business when he wanted to get to know her.
“Ah, you don’t like being in debt, you mean.”
This time he shook his head and laughed as much to himself as for her. “A necessary evil, unfortunately.”
“Tell me about it.” She waved over his head at a cute Gwyneth Paltrow look-alike walking through the lobby. Her eyes danced as she smiled. When he asked, she answered, “That’s Kit.”
“A friend?”
“She’s the director of public relations. We’re forever comparing our student loans that rival the national debt. And I’ll probably be paying mine off with my retirement fund since I waited so late to get up the guts to start school.”
Hmm. “Why did you need guts to start school?”
“If you want that story, you’ll be here all night,” she replied, a teasing lilt to her voice, a suggestion—one that seemed to be an invitation he do just that. That he insist she tell him. That he stay with her all night.
He wanted to. He just didn’t want to do it here. Not with an audience. Not when his room upstairs put a sheikh’s palace to shame. So he simply lifted a brow and tapped his fingers on the side of his glass.
Shandi rolled her eyes, her grin charming him, her reluctance intriguing him, her coy flutter of lashes too cute to be anything but real. “You’re going to stick around until I tell all, aren’t you?”
“I don’t have a single place to go or another person to see.” She might be teasing him, but the reservation in her voice convinced him not to press any button that would send her skittering away. “I’d say you’re stuck with me.”
She shook her head slowly, leaned into the corner. Leaned close to him. Still not quite comfortable, but near enough that he knew she wanted to stay.
One dark blond brow arched upward. “Okay, but consider yourself warned. Because when you fall out of your chair from boredom and need stitches on the back of your head, I won’t be held responsible.”
“Got it,” he said and fought back a grin.
She took a deep breath. “It wasn’t so much starting school that required the guts as it was moving here against my family’s wishes to go. I already had an associate’s degree, which I wasn’t using, by the way—”
“Why not?”
She stared at the bar’s surface, rubbed away a water spot instead of looking at him when she spoke. “Because my parents claimed to need my help at work.” She shrugged, gestured with one hand. “They own a bar. Though compared to Erotique, the Rattler’s really more
