desperate reaffirmation of life in the face of tragedy. They all knew the dangers of the job, accepting and facing them on a daily basis. Despite stringent safety measures, accidents still occurred. The bitch of it was, this one had happened on his watch, to one of his men.
The blonde closed in on him, granting him the opportunity of an enlightening inspection. She was tall, more willowy than his first impression of her, with gentle curves and an intriguing sway of her hips as she walked purposely toward him. She was dressed conservatively for a Friday night, at least compared to ninety percent of the other female patrons. Her sleeveless blouse showed off the remnants of a summer tan and was tucked into a long straight skirt that fell just past her calves, shielding her legs from view. That didn’t stop his testosterone-induced imagination from running just a tad on the wild side. Sensible low-heeled brown pumps covered her feet, rather than the pair of CFM heels conjured by his wicked imagination.
She stopped in front of him, and her smile faltered slightly. Despite her height, the top of her head barely reached past his shoulders. He waited, wondering what kind of line she’d attempt to hand him, or if she had some unique approach to picking up guys in a bar. Not that he had anything against a woman who knew what she wanted, if he was in the market, which he wasn’t. Not by a long shot.
“I hope this isn’t too clichéd.” Her silky, smooth voice was confident, belying the slight frown tugging her honey-blond eyebrows downward in a show of apprehension. “But, would you allow me to buy you a drink?”
His standard reply, a polite, thanks, but no thanks, hovered on his lips, until she cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. He looked over the top of her head to the other two women he’d spotted at her table earlier on his way to the men’s room. The flamboyantly dressed platinum blonde gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up, while the other, a cooler-looking brunette dressed in a jewel-toned silk blouse and dark slacks, crossed her arms and arched her brow in apparent skepticism.
He didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out what was going on. Obviously, she’d either been coerced by her friends to approach him, or she was making good on some bet. Considering he’d been in on the giving end of similar antics himself, the signs were easy to spot.
The blonde turned to face him again, her apprehension clearly tangible now. She smoothed her palms down her slim skirt, then balled her delicate hands into tight fists. “You’d really be helping me out if you said yes.”
He’d reached his self-imposed two-drink limit over an hour ago, and quite honestly, was more than ready to go home for the night. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his brother Drew, just as he nudged Tom “Scorch” McDonough hard in the ribs, then pointed in his direction. Scorch had the audacity to whistle.
Just great, Ben thought. Could his timing be any more rotten? In no mood for the good-natured ribbing they’d surely hammer him with when he returned to their table if he blew off the blonde, he weighed his options. His youngest brother, Drew, would no doubt be the worst offender. Ever since he had surprised everyone by becoming involved in an actual monogamous relationship, the constant reminders of Ben’s sorry excuse for a love life had tripled, and had become twice as irritating. Even his other brother, Cale, and his new sister-in-law had begun to chide him gently about his single status, and they’d only returned from their honeymoon two days ago.
Against his better judgment, Ben decided a harmless drink with a beautiful woman was the lesser evil. Anything was better than being ragged on by the guys for allowing a looker like the one standing in front of him to slip through his fingers.
“Did you win or lose?” he asked her.
She tilted her head. A stray wisp of light-blond hair slid from the clawlike contraption holding her hair in place and brushed against her cheek. “Excuse me?”
“The bet with your friends,” he added with an inclination of his head in their direction. “Am I the prize or the parting gift?”
Her wide, kissable-looking mouth split into a full grin and she laughed, the sound warm and inviting. “You would definitely be the prize. Except it wasn’t exactly a bet.”
“No?” Damn, she intrigued him. Not a good sign.
“How about I buy you that drink and tell you about it?” she suggested.
He had nowhere in particular to go besides home, where he’d sit in the quiet, mulling the incident over and over in his mind, dissecting each and every move he and the others had made once they’d arrived on the scene. Nothing would change. The end result would remain the same, and he’d still have to come to terms with the probability that he could very well be the one solely responsible for the death of Ivan “Fitz” Fitzpatrick.
Suddenly, being alone held about as much appeal as a root canal. “Sure,” he heard himself saying. “Why not?”
Her eyes brightened considerably, as did her smile. “Jana,” she offered by way of introduction, then extended her right hand.
He clasped her small hand in his, impressed by the confident strength in her grip. “Ben.” No last names, he thought. Nothing too personal, which managed to convince him she wanted nothing more than to satisfy whatever wager she’d made or lost to her friends.
Her high-voltage smile faltered for a brief instant, and she pulled her hand away. “We’re in luck,” she said, indicating an empty booth.
Thankfully they’d be far enough away from his pals so she couldn’t discern their ribald comments or witness their raucous behavior. Not that he could blame them. It wasn’t every day he fell victim to a come-on by a beautiful woman.
He’d always had plenty of offers, he’d just never been all that good at lasting relationships. He dated, if a woman interested him enough to ask her out, but eventually they all moved on once they realized he wasn’t looking for emotional intimacy.
He had his reasons, and in his opinion, they were valid. After his mother had died when he was only ten years old, Ben had witnessed his father’s slow deterioration. Assuming the care of his younger brothers and attempting to shield them from the old man’s self-destruction had been tough, but he had learned a valuable lesson and had sworn he wouldn’t be like his father. Ben had been in his teens when he’d realized he had more in common with his mother, a woman who hadn’t allowed anything to interfere with what was really important to her. Something his father had resented so deeply he’d let it destroy him.
Physical intimacy, however, was another matter altogether, and had never been a problem in his opinion. In his experience with women, most of them wanted what he refused to give them—a commitment. His last girlfriend had accused him of being emotionally bankrupt because he hadn’t allowed her to clutter up his home with her personal things.
He caught the waitress’s attention as Jana slid into the booth. One drink, he told himself, then he’d thank her and leave. Granted, his body might be responding to the awareness starting to take hold, but just because she’d approached him didn’t necessarily translate to her wanting more.
More male laughter rose above the din, causing him to glance over his shoulder to the round table in the corner. Sure enough, his brother and friends were roaring with laughter. Ben didn’t care much one way or the other if they’d made him the butt of one of their jokes. They needed to blow off steam after the day they’d had. If he was the punch line, then he figured that was the least he could do for them.
JANA TOOK a slow, even breath in a vain attempt to convince her insides to stop jumping with nervousness. The hard part was over, and she had
