Chapter 1 #2
With the glass to my lips, I look over my shoulder, seeing a man in a navy trench coat heading to a table in the corner.
He drops his briefcase on one of the velvet chairs and shrugs off his coat, throwing it on another chair.
His tall, lean frame is carrying a beautiful mid-grey suit.
His dark hair has flecks of silver on his temples, only noticeable because of the nearby spotlight shining on him briefly before he moves out of the light into the shadows and drops heavily into a seat, taking his mobile to his ear and raking a hand through his hair.
Then his eyes meet mine, his head tilting.
Refined, classic, a square jaw and heavy brow that makes him look as if he’s permanently in deep thought.
Handsome. I hum under my breath and turn back toward the bar, resuming avoiding reading the paperwork, working my way through my second martini.
By the third, the much-needed, warm sense of disconnection comes over me, and I feel my strung muscles finally loosen and stop aching.
By my fourth, I still haven’t read the papers.
Not that I need to—the words are imprinted on my brain, every last one of them.
On a sigh, I hold up my glass and study the last inch in the bottom, wondering if I should have a fifth.
Undoubtedly not. And yet I tap the bar anyway.
One more before I start the slow walk home, take a long shower, and spend hours trying to get to sleep.
Maybe I’ll have two more martinis. It’s the only thing that helps with my eternal insomnia.
Nothing else. Not sleeping pills, not therapy.
Only alcohol.
As I contemplate that, I notice the sitcom playing on the telly in the bar.
Good God. Is that a best of from Fawlty Towers?
I sit up straighter, focused, remembering watching the reruns with Dad.
It was his absolute favourite. I watch as Basil and Manuel heave a dead guest out of a huge basket.
“Oh shit. I remember this scene.” And then I chuckle as they enter a room where another guest is blowing up a naked inflatable woman doll. English humour at its best.
When was the last time I laughed like that?
I smile and knock back the last of my fourth martini as something appears in my side vision, in between the stool by me and the next one.
A man. The man I watched settle at the back table over an hour ago.
He’s removed his suit jacket, and my eyes travel up his shirt, his neck, across his dark stubble, until I’m looking straight into his eyes.
Grey eyes. Lazy, grey eyes that shimmer a little under the hazy glow of the lights hanging over the bar. “Do you need a pen?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve been looking at that paperwork for over an hour, so I wondered in maybe you needed a pen.”
I chuckle. God, that’s twice tonight. “Cute. I haven’t heard that one before.” He’s original too. This man has a lot going for him. But then I come to my senses. I do not want to flirt. Not tonight. “I don’t need a pen.”
His nod is slow and thoughtful as he accepts a short fat glass of clear liquid from the barman. “What about a date?”
I look at the empty seat next to me, the martini before it still waiting to be drank. Drops of condensation slide down the glass to the paper coaster beneath it. The drink is purposeless . . . just like this stranger’s question. “I don’t need a date.”
He rests a forearm on the bar, leaning on it, and faces me. His eyes are something else. Glittery but cold, still slightly narrowed. Thinking deeply. About me? Trying to figure me out? Please don’t bother, handsome stranger. I’m not worth the effort.
His lips are full, slightly parted. Raising his glass to them, as if he knows my focus is glued there, he sips, and my gaze follows, watching as he licks his bottom lip, waiting for me to answer.
“You’re very handsome,” I say out of nowhere, definitely making him pause a beat.
“Thank you.” He points to the martini that’s still untouched in front of the stool next me. “So whose is this if you don’t need a date?”
“Mine.”
His frown is quite stunning, a delicate fan of lines springing from the corners of his eyes. “Yours?”
“It’s a deterrent. Stops unwanted men joining me and trying to talk me into bed.” If they’re wanted, I’ll drink the martini. I expect a smile from him, but there’s no hint of amusement.
“Is that a common problem? Random men in hotel bars trying to talk you into bed?”
I point to the martini. “It was before the deterrent. It seems you’re immune to my tactics.” And I’m apparently not immune to this guy’s looks, which are creeping into the realms of stunning. I look down at my empty martini glass. I’ve had too many.
“Wondering if you’ve had too many?”
I’m unable to hide my surprise when my head snaps back up. “Maybe.”
“You haven’t.” A slow sip of his drink. “I’d say you’ve had just enough.” And with that, he pushes off the bar and wanders back to his table, and I turn on my stool to follow him, my eyes greedy. Wide shoulders. A perfect arse. Long legs. Thick thighs.
I breathe out and return to face the bar, catching the barman’s raised brow before he quickly lowers it.
“It’s nothing,” I assure him, taking the deterrent martini and knocking it back.
“And now I’ve definitely had too much to drink.
” I slip down off my stool and hand my card over, letting him charge it while I get my coat on and pack my things into my bag.
“Thank you.” I slide a ten-pound tip across the bar and head out, stopping at the guy’s table.
He didn’t pursue me. Didn’t ask me to a room.
And that strangely intrigues me. Little does, normally. “It was nice to meet you.”
“We didn’t really meet.” He stands, every tall inch of him rising deliberately and slowly from his chair.
“Camryn.” I offer my hand, and he takes it, holding it lightly as he shakes. His persona may be cool, but his touch is fire, and the heat works its way through my body, all the way to between my legs. It makes me stand up straighter, the warmth generating a pulse deep in my belly.
“Dec,” he murmurs, his eyes on my mouth, surely noticing that I’ve had to part my lips to subtly pull in some air.
“That’s a pretty lame shake for a businessman, Dec.”
I can tell he’s amused, though his mouth doesn’t show it, only his eyes. “You want me to shake your hand like I’d shake the hand of the man I’m about to screw over?”
“Yes.”
His hold tightens. “Better?”
“Much,” I reply, tightening my hold too.
His head does that wonderful, thoughtful slight tilt again, his eyes twinkling. “Take a seat.”
“I’ve had too much to drink to do that.”
He nods, contemplative, and it’s so fucking sexy.
His broodiness. His impassiveness. His detachment.
How he isn’t revealing his cards. I like it.
Most men I encounter in hotel bars lay it on thick.
Throw some naff one-liners, chat-up lines, or a strategically placed fact about themselves hoping to impress and seal the deal.
They never impress. I’m not interested in being impressed.
I’m interested in escaping. Killing time.
They help with that for a while. Until they don’t.
It’s unhealthy, even I, in my warped walk-through life, can appreciate that.
Which is why I tell myself it won’t happen again, usually immediately after it’s happened.
They never turn me on. Never make me come, so I do that myself.
And they never spike the incredible tingles like I’m feeling all over my skin now.
“Don’t you trust yourself?” he asks.
I pull my hand from his, and it’s instantly cold again. “Not in the least.”
Lowering to his chair, Dec relaxes back, drink in hand, and kicks his ankle up onto his knee. Every perfect inch of him pushes against the material of his shirt and trousers, giving me a good idea of just how perfect he is beneath. “Well, it was nice to nearly get to know you, Camryn.”
“Good evening, Dec.” I slowly turn and walk away, stopping at the entrance when he calls my name. I’m forced to take a breath before I look back. He’s still relaxed in his chair. Still casual. Still impassive.
“You’re very beautiful,” he says quietly.
I don’t thank him, because he’s wrong. I get out of there before I do something utterly stupid. It wouldn’t be the first time, but I vowed the last time would actually be the last time.
You’re very beautiful.
He wouldn’t say that if he knew me. I’m a mess. No one truly wants a mess.
I push through the revolving door and break out into the cold, dark air, tying the belt of my coat, my shoulders a little hunched.
The temperature has dropped, but the martinis will keep me warm on the walk home.
The martinis are undoubtedly also the reason why I turn onto Regent Street and brave the pre-Christmas chaos, as well as the twinkling light displays stretching from one side of the street to the other.
Following the curve of the buildings, I walk slowly, dragging out my journey, unable to stop myself from taking in the faces of people I pass. Most smiling, either with someone or chatting on the phone.
My pace automatically slows as I approach a particularly busy stretch of the pavement, pedestrians stepping into the road to avoid the bottleneck of people trying to get into a store.
A toy store. The sound of children screeching their delight invades my ears, parents laughing at the staff dressed as elves on the door blowing massive bubbles, enticing the kids into the magical wonderland full of toys and teddy bears.