Men Like This. Roxanne Smith
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the hopes he wouldn’t notice her social handicap. “Are you Scottish?”
“Irish, actually, but I grew up in London. My accent often throws people off the trail. It’s something of a hybrid.” He rested his elbows easily on the bar.
He was getting too cozy. Time to scare him off. “You’re gay, right?”
His grin exploded, and his eyes twinkled. “Now, why would you go and ask such a question?”
His reaction threw her off guard. She hadn’t expected the question to amuse him. She shrugged and blithely sipped her beer. “Your fashion insight. Not only into my ensemble. Your jeans scream designer, and even your plain white T-shirt didn’t come from any two-for-a-dollar bargain bin. Statistically speaking, the odds are high.”
The Irishman’s half-cocked grin of amusement gave way to full-blown laughter. He had a deep, genuine laugh. A killer smile, too. Great lips. Nice teeth. Quinn’s reserve melted a tad.
His gaze swept her face as if seeing her for the first time. “Your powers of deduction are impressive, I’ll give you that. I’ll even go so far as to applaud your delivery because who doesn’t love a one-two punch of logic? However, your conclusion is flawed. You see, I’m quite obviously attracted to you. Your being a woman makes me not gay by its very definition.”
An unusual rush of pleasure heated her cheeks and gave her new appreciation for the dim lighting. She was used to the standardly good-looking man. Richard emulated a real-life Ken doll. Blake was a chisel-chinned blond.
This Irish stranger had something altogether different; an edge, a raw sexiness she’d never encountered before. How was he possibly attracted to her—bookish, mundanely good-looking Quinn Buzzly? Men like this wanted miniskirts and ankle tattoos, not classic features and high fashion. She frowned. Maybe he was gay and hadn’t come to terms with it yet.
Hot, charming, and smart. Damn. This wasn’t going as planned. “Touché.” She fought back a grin.
“Really?” He laughed again, this time with lifted brows in an expression of mild surprise. “You wave the white flag so easily? I expected more of a fight from a woman like you.”
“A woman like me?” She quirked a brow. Her new friend assumed much. “You don’t know me.”
He eyed her with open admiration. “You branded me gay by giving my denims a once-over. You’re clearly not a lady to be trifled with. D’you mind if I have a go?”
Quinn pretended to consider before nodding her acquiescence. What might he garner from her appearance alone?
He sat forward and rubbed his hands together. His eyes gleamed with anticipation and amusement. It made her dizzy to have a man look at her like that. “I gather you’re loaded by the ridiculous cluster of diamonds you’ve got pinned to your dress. Honestly, I’m questioning your personal judgment sitting in a place like this.”
She coughed politely. “It’s a brooch and it’s borrowed.”
“Ah, my faith in you is restored! Only the crazies actually buy those gaudy trinkets. The dress, however, is a worthy investment.” As if to drive his point home, the Irishman swept his gaze from her bare shoulders down to where the hem of her gown brushed the dark tiled floor.
A thrill shot through her alongside a wave of anxiety. This man oozed trouble. “How do you know the dress wasn’t borrowed too?”
“Because it conforms perfectly to every curve of your body.” His grin was too friendly to seem salacious despite his words. It was merely a wonderful compliment coming from him. “It’s obviously been tailored to fit.”
Quinn was torn. This stranger affected her big time. Was he real? He seemed so genuine and endearing. She’d believed the same of Blake at one time. Warning bells clanged in her head, but she was already falling for the Irishman’s easy conversation and playful demeanor. He flirted without applying pressure, and every smile reached his eyes.
Men like this….
She had to quit overanalyzing. She wanted to exist in the moment. She wanted to stop thinking so hard and engage with a handsome stranger. Why not? “You’re sure the diamonds are real?”
Nothing like an innocuous, inane question to be engaging. She vowed to take social lessons after tonight.
He drummed his knuckles over his knees. “My jeans are designer, remember? I recognize the good stuff when it’s right in front of me.” His extraordinary eyes glittered in the orangey cast of the overhead lights. “Now, are you determined to be rude to any man who shows interest, or am I particularly bothersome?”
His question prodded her into replying without thinking. “It’s a defensive maneuver. I’m not sure about you yet.”
The answer seemed to please him because his smile returned. He appeared content with the silence hanging between them. Quinn tried to take another drink from her beer and realized she’d polished it off during the course of their conversation.
The Irishman finally tore his bluish-green gaze from hers and motioned for the bartender. When Busty reached them, he ordered a whiskey for himself and a third beer for her.
She didn’t protest.
* * * *
“All right, let’s have it.” Their next round of drinks was delivered, and Jack readied himself to learn a little more about the blonde conundrum sitting next to him.
She sipped delicately from the beer bottle, having refused a glass, and blinked. “Have what?”
Jack tipped his drink back. He was being forward, but she hadn’t told him to get lost. Even if she did, he intended to do no such thing. After being abandoned by his friend over an hour ago in favor of a petite brunette with an impressive pout, Jack resolved to get something good out of tonight. An interesting conversation with the peculiar woman sitting beside him seemed a promising step in the right direction.
“I watched you have it out with your boyfriend along with everyone else here. I’m as curious as the next guy. Tell me about it.”
She took her time considering her answer. Jack appreciated her poise. She wasn’t flirty—he’d guessed as much before approaching her—but emanated more sensuality than she probably realized. She was all long, graceful lines and steady gazes.
Her chin came up right when it looked like she might give in. “Why would I tell you something personal like that? I don’t know you from Busty the Barkeep over there.”
Had he stopped smiling since she opened her mouth? He laughed quietly. The blonde had time in her musings to nickname the bartender.
What might his nickname be? Creep? Bothersome Foreigner?
Better he didn’t ask. “By personal you mean the public row you had?” He knew he had her there. He stuck out his free hand. “Jack Decker. You can call me Jack.” He displayed his best high-wattage, toothpaste-ad smile. “Now you know me from Busty.”
Finally! A smile broke through her painted lips to reveal the slightest dimple on her left cheek. With the faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose, she was cute as a damn button, yet possessed with the presence to fill a designer ball gown like she never wore anything else. She went from peculiar to downright intriguing.
Doubtful green eyes like polished jade looked over his face. “Jack doesn’t sound very Irish.”
He couldn’t believe it. She was teasing him. She had a sense of humor so dry he’d almost missed it. “Don’t tell me my mum. She’ll be crushed.”
Her hand gripped his. “Quinn Buzzly.”
“Quinn, eh? You sound more Irish than I do.”
“My mother was French.”
“Lovely to meet you, Ms. Buzzly. Now, will you tell me about your boyfriend?”
Quinn—he