he followed, the momentum bringing him closer still. She arched a dark blond brow but didn’t push him away. “You did have a phone call. A very conveniently timed one.”
She tugged. He moved in, one more step that brought him near enough to feel the ragged breath she released. “Unless my telepathic reception was off and you weren’t begging for a rescue.”
Cute. Very cute. Covering her nerves with cocky bravado when at this distance he could see the sheen of perspiration on her skin.
He took the handset away from her and hung it in place without anything close to a struggle. “No. I was begging. And thank you for the save.”
She shrugged, then tucked her hands behind her. “All in a day’s work.”
“I’ve heard that about your profession.”
“Hey, what’s a bartender for but to hear confessions and intervene on behalf of those seeking salvation?”
Salvation. Was that what drew him to her? The idea that she possessed the secret to saving him from sliding deeper into his cynical pit? “Well, you do deliver a truly religious experience.”
“I aim to please.”
God, but her face was amazing. Her smile wide and dimpled. Her eyes reflecting lights found nowhere in the room. Wisps of baby-fine hairs framed her face, and he found himself reaching up, smoothing several where they brushed her temple.
There were so many things he wanted to know about her, to ask, to hear her tell him in that soft Oklahoma voice. He didn’t know which to ask first, and so in the end he said nothing. He simply stroked the bare shell of her ear.
“You’re staring, Quentin,” she said, her voice a whisper.
He blinked, pulled his hand away, clenched his fingers. Most women visibly preened beneath his stare. Shandi’s soft accusation intrigued him almost as much as the hint of a blush on her cheeks.
“So,” he began, backing a step away, needing even that little bit of distance in order to avoid seeming as if he was only here to get his hands on her. “What’s next?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, a move more protective than defensive. “What do you mean?”
He nodded in the direction of the bar. “I’m assuming you need to get back to work.”
“I do,” she said almost in relief.
“And I can’t stay here forever.”
“You can’t.”
“And if Mrs. Cyprus is still drinking me into the poorhouse,” he added with a pained grin, “I’m not going back out there.”
Shandi held up one finger and pushed open the bar door far enough to look out. When she stepped back, two impish dimples belied her somber tone. “She is. Though I will be sure to tell her you’ve settled your tab with regrets.”
What he was regretting was that tonight’s time with Shandi was coming to an end. That he hadn’t yet managed to throw out a great line that would reel her in.
He’d been the pursued, the proverbial trophy for so many years that he couldn’t even remember how to bait a damn hook—proving again how very much he needed this change in his life.
And then Shandi asked, “Do you ever get used to it?”
“Used to what?”
“The groupies? The fame hunters? Whatever you call them?”
So now she was a mind reader, too? Unbelievable. “If you mean the I’ll-stroke-yours-if-you’ll-stroke-mine come-ons, then yeah. I’m used to it.” He took the admission further. “These days I’m surprised when it doesn’t happen.”
He’d grown used to women’s scrutiny; it came with the job and the looks, and there had been a time he’d embraced the attention for the perk it was.
But he was long past that place in his life, past taking advantage of offers or free glasses of wine, past welcoming the advances, past defining his success by how often he was recognized.
“And here I was just thinking how lucky you are to have turned your passion into a successful career.”
He liked that she’d been thinking of him. But the last thing he wanted to inspire in her was sympathy. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Look, I’ll be in the city till the first of next week. I’d like to see you away from the bar. Hell, away from the hotel.”
She pursed her lips into a bow while thinking over his suggestion. “I’m off tomorrow night. And—” she gestured toward the phone “—I was just stood up for a movie date.”
He grinned. “I’m a huge movie fan.”
She laughed, a crystal clear sound that tickled like wind chimes. “Is that so? Not even knowing what I was going to see?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m more interested in the company.”
“Okay then,” she said after only a moment’s hesitation. “The theater’s only a few blocks from here. You want to meet in the lobby at seven?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Super.” She clasped her hands together. “I’d, uh, better get back before Armand drags me back by my hair.”
He smiled. “Before you go?”
She arched both brows, nodded.
“Is there another way out of here so I don’t have to sneak out through the bar?”
“C’mon. I’ll take you out through the kitchen. Chef is pretty famous in his own right, so he’ll totally understand wanting to avoid the groupies.”
Quentin turned to follow her through the swinging doors at the rear of the room, the same lightness in his step that he’d noticed after making the decision to return to Texas.
He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or bad and quite frankly right now he didn’t give a damn.
SHANDI RIPPED THE YELLOW long-sleeved silk T-shirt over her head and tossed it to the floor on top of the cropped black jeans, the denim corset dress, the rose-colored ruffle-front blouse and at least four other similarly inappropriate outfits.
Evan, who’d been sitting on the foot of her bed, collapsed onto the mattress with an exasperated groan. “Why am I here, Shandi? Why the hell am I even here?”
She plodded out from behind her room divider, a silk screen of Mae West prints. Wearing her ratty chenille bathrobe, she dropped to sit on the hardwood floor in the middle of all the clothes.
“You’re here because A, you have nothing better to do, B, April can’t be here and C, I happen to trust your taste and I need the opinion of an eye other than my own.”
“I’m gouging mine out now, so you’re SOL.”
She
