About That Night. Beth Andrews
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yet, the fact that she was standing here said otherwise.
“My mother would punch me in the throat if I dared call her mama,” he said. “Plus, she helped raise my brother, and he’s an idiot.”
The waitress tipped her head to the side, making all that abundant hair slide over her shoulder. “Ah, yes, the groom-to-be.”
“You know Kane?” He wasn’t sure if that was a point in her favor. Or against it.
“We’re not acquainted, if that’s what you’re asking. Although I did go to school with Charlotte.”
“Then how did you know he’s my brother?” Another thought occurred to him, one he would have considered much earlier had she not scrambled his thoughts so easily. Too easily. “How did you know which room is mine?”
“Oh, I have my ways,” she said with a wink. Then she turned and walked farther into the suite, as if expecting him to trail after her like some sort of puppy, eager for her time. A pat on the head.
His eyes dropped to the sway of her hips, the way her skirt hugged her ass.
And he followed.
Not his fault. He was, underneath the wealth, a simple man.
“When I stay at a hotel,” he said as she set the champagne on the wooden bar next to the window, “I expect my privacy to be respected.”
“Not much privacy in Shady Grove, I’m afraid. Or, I’d guess, in small towns in general. Pretty much everyone knows everyone else. If you don’t, you can still get the information want. You just need to pay attention.” She bent, searched under the bar for a moment, then straightened with a cloth napkin in her hand. Unwrapped the foil from around the bottle and loosened the wire cage. “People say all sorts of things in front of—as your mother so charmingly described me—the help. When a guest needs something or has a complaint, we get all the attention. But most of the time, we’re invisible, just ghosts delivering drinks and cleaning up messes.”
She didn’t sound bothered by it, more as though she was stating a fact.
He skimmed his gaze over her face. No hardship there. He’d spent the greater part of his evening wanting to get another close-up look at her. He wasn’t going to waste one moment of it. Not when he’d given up hope of seeing her again.
“You could never be invisible,” he told her, his voice gruff. “And you know it.”
A small smile playing on her lips, she inclined her head as if in thanks. Or agreement. “Either way, I hear plenty. Probably more than people realize. And you, Clinton Bartasavich Jr., were a hot topic of conversation.”
“Is that so?”
He got enough gossip in Houston. He sure as hell didn’t need it following him to this Podunk town.
“Now, don’t be getting all sensitive,” she said, obviously detecting the irritation in his tone. She covered the cork with the napkin, pressed the bottom of the bottle against her hip and neatly twisted until there was a soft pop. “If you hadn’t wanted people to talk about you, you probably shouldn’t have worn that hat.”
“I like my Stetson,” he said easily.
She made a humming sound. Pulled out two wineglasses from the shelf. “Yes. So did plenty of the women at the party. Trista Macken’s grandmother wondered what you would look like in it...and nothing else.”
The back of his neck warmed with embarrassment. He glanced at his hat, sitting on the desk next to his open laptop. “Someone’s grandmother imagined me naked? I might never wear the damned thing again.”
“If it helps, I think the only reason she said it was because all the chardonnay she was guzzling loosened her tongue and her inhibitions.”
Frowning, he considered it. Shook his head. “Nope. Doesn’t help.”
“Don’t be too hard on Mrs. Macken. She was actually the one I overheard say you were Kane’s brother.” The waitress poured champagne into the glasses. Picked them up and sashayed toward him, a siren in high heels and tiny skirt, certain of her appeal, confident of the effect she had on a man. “Though I’d already guessed you two were related, given the resemblance between you.”
“That still doesn’t explain how you knew which room was mine.”
“Now, that’s where my amazing deductive skills come into play.” Stopping in front of him, she offered him a glass. After he took it, she sat on the sofa and crossed those long legs, her foot swinging idly. “It’s obvious no regular room would do for someone like you—”
“Someone like me?” he asked, eyes narrowed.
She vaguely waved a hand at him. “The designer suit, diamond cuff links and that air of privilege and entitlement surrounding you make it clear you only accept the best. The best suites at King’s Crossing are all on this floor, the top floor. The best rooms, the best views of the river... It was all pretty simple, really.”
“And you knocked on every door on this floor until you found me?”
“Not quite. Come,” she said, patting the spot next to her. “Have a seat and I’ll tell you a secret. You can keep a secret, can’t you?”
He sat, his thigh pressed against hers. Let his gaze drop to her mouth for one long minute before meeting her gaze again. “If the price is right, I can.”
“I asked a coworker who works the front desk to find your room number.”
“Which coworker?” It had to have been a man. What warm-blooded, heterosexual male could refuse her anything?
“So you can get him fired?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
He set aside his untouched champagne. “Maybe I want to thank him.”
She laughed, a slow, sexy sound, which did nothing to help his already screwed-up equilibrium. “You don’t. You want to march down there and hand him his ass.”
“More of your deductive skills at work?”
“More like good, old-fashioned common sense. It’s clear you’re a man used to getting what you want. You don’t ask for anything. You demand it. And when you don’t get it, there’s hell to pay.”
“These theories you have about me are fascinating.”
“You don’t really think so, but there’s more. For instance, when I asked if you could keep a secret, you said if the price is right, which tells me you don’t do anything free. No favors from you.”
“Favors come with strings attached.”
“I won’t argue. People are inherently users. They’ll take and take and take until a person has nothing left to give. Then they’ll move on to the next poor soul they can suck dry.”
“A cynic.”
She lifted her glass in a mock toast. “A realist. Something we have in common. You’re also neat—no clothes lying around, cluttering up your space, no shoes to trip over. A place for everything and everything in its place, if I had to guess. You have a hard time separating yourself from your work,” she continued, gesturing to his laptop and the contract he’d been reading when she’d knocked on his door. “How am I doing?”
His shoulders went rigid. He didn’t like her reading him so clearly when he couldn’t get a handle on her. Hell, he didn’t even know her name.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” he said tightly.
“Only one?” she murmured before sipping her champagne. “I must be losing my touch.”
He had to bite back a sudden grin. Damn it, but he appreciated her quick mind. Her self-assurance and intelligence.
Shit. He was in so much trouble.
“You