the accent.”
“Oh, God, that was incredibly rude, wasn’t it?” She stuck her hand out, which was so small, it practically disappeared inside his when he reached out and clasped it for a formal shake. “I’m Annie Davis. And you’re…”
“Sean. Sean Murphy.”
“Like Bond,” she mumbled, “James Bond.”
“Not exactly,” he said, chuckling, “I didn’t say ‘Murphy. Sean Murphy. Besides, Bond was a Brit.”
“You’re not?”
“God, no.”
As if realizing she’d insulted him, she nibbled her lip. “Sorry. I only like the older movies and you sound like Sean Connery.”
So she had good taste, in Bonds at least, but obviously no ear for accents. “Connery’s a Scot. It’s not even the same island.”
She appeared so flustered, he knew he shouldn’t tease her, but he couldn’t help himself. The woman, who he figured to be in her midtwenties, a few years younger than him, was too adorable. Especially when trying to come up with something to say without putting her foot in her mouth.
“What are you?”
“A man, so I’ve been told. An Irish one. Also your date.”
She tugged her hand free of his, as if just realizing he still held it, and lifted it to her face, rubbing lightly at her temple. “I’m not very good at this.”
“And I’m teasing you,” he admitted with a soft laugh.
“I don’t respond well to being teased,” she warned him, frowning. “My oldest brother woke up with raw catfish in his mouth one morning because he’d started calling me Little Miss America after I got my first period.”
Her face, pretty and creamy-skinned, flooded with color. Her hand flew up again to cover her lips as her own words repeated in her ears. “I didn’t just say that, did I?”
Sean couldn’t help bursting into a peal of laughter. “You did, yes.”
“Get me out of here.”
He stepped in her path to prevent her from heading for the door, liking her more and more by the minute. How could he have thought her merely pretty? When her blue eyes sparkled like that, the woman was breathtaking.
“I prefer swordfish. Just so we’re clear. And while I enjoy sushi, I generally like my seafood grilled.”
“Will you excuse me while I go hide under a table?”
“No, I won’t, céadsearc,” he murmured, taking her arm. Noting the softness of her skin, he caught the faintest scent of peaches and smiled a little. Not musk. Not cloying gardenia.
Peaches.
Unwilling to let her out of his sight, he steered her to a shadowy corner near the bar. He had the feeling she’d bolt if he didn’t handle this right. Though why any woman would plunk down five thousand dollars to spend an evening with him, and then run away, he had no idea.
“What did you call me?”
A slip of the tongue. “I called you sweetheart,” he admitted.
“That’s sexist.”
“You American women…you mustn’t be so on guard. ‘Twas only an endearment.”
“How can I be your sweetheart when we just met?”
“Not my sweetheart,” he admitted. “But I must say, judging by how many times I’ve wanted to smile since the moment you opened your mouth, I think you must be very sweet and very funny and very good-hearted.” He grinned. “Stealth catfish attacks notwithstanding.” Letting go of her arm—the silky skinned, soft arm—he added in a half whisper, “I’m looking forward to knowing you, Annie Davis.”
He meant it. But the fact that he’d said it to her almost surprised him. Sean didn’t usually let his guard down so quickly. Something about this young woman, however, had him dropping the smooth veneer and the jaded mannerisms that suited him so well in his daily life.
He wasn’t flirting, or charming his way into her good graces. He was merely speaking honestly to her, something he wasn’t often free to do with women. Usually he was paid to tell them exactly what they wanted to hear.
Except “no.” They never liked hearing that. Sean, however, had no compunction about saying it.
“We are supposed to be getting to know each other, aren’t we?” he asked. “So tell me about yourself.”
He waited, wondering how she’d respond, this sweet-smelling blonde, who watched him with uncertain eyes.
“That word you said…what language was that?”
“Irish…some call it Gaelic.”
She frowned. “Can you speak without the accent?”
“We still haven’t established that I’ve got one,” he murmured, for some reason enjoying teasing her, even if it might someday cost him a mouthful of raw fish. Cute, that.
She looked away a frown tugging at her pretty mouth. “Well, I don’t think I ever said he didn’t have an accent.”
“Who?”
“You.”
“Pardon?”
“I mean him.”
“I ask again. Who?”
“It doesn’t matter. I was talking about you…the you I want you to be, if you’ll agree to it.”
He sighed. “I think I need a drink. Want one?”
When she declined, he gestured toward the bartender. He pointed to a bottle of whiskey and motioned first for a finger full, then widened his fingers to make it a double.
The drink was in his hand a few moments later, brought by an attentive waitress in a short black skirt. She smiled coyly and brushed her hand against his for a moment longer than was technically necessary to pass him the napkin-nested glass. Then she sauntered away, a definite flounce in her step.
“Boy, talk about rude.”
“What?”
“That waitress totally ignored me, not offering me a drink or even a glance. Like I wasn’t even here.” She rolled her eyes. “She might as well have ripped off her uniform and scrawled her phone number on those fake double-D’s of hers.”
“How did you know they were fake?”
“Oh, puh-lease…” Then, obviously having noted his inflection, asked him the same thing. “How did you?”
He responded
