About That Night Read online

  Damn it, Kane should be the one handling this. The one hearing all about their mother’s love life with her white-toothed, greasy-haired, flexible, less-than-well-endowed boy toy.

  C.J. jerked to his feet, intending to find his brother and force him to take responsibility for what happened at his engagement party. He turned blindly, took a step and slammed into a waitress.

  He grabbed hold of her upper arms to keep her from falling. Opened his mouth to apologize, only to have the words catch in his throat when he raised his head.

  Trouble.

  That was his first coherent thought. The kind of trouble that had a man forgetting all about his goals, self-preservation and his pride. The kind that brought a man to his knees and made him beg for more.

  Her hair was long and tumbled past her shoulders in soft, flaxen waves. Her mouth was lush and red. Her eyes the color of smoke. As he stared at her like some moron who’d never seen a woman before, those lips curved. Her gaze sharpened. Stayed direct and knowing.

  His gaze skimmed down the long line of her throat, lingered briefly at the V of pale skin and hint of cleavage visible above the button of her white shirt. While the other waitresses wore pants, she’d chosen a black skirt that hugged her hips, showcased the indentation of her waist and ended midthigh.

  Definitely trouble.

  The very best kind.

  “Sorry, cowboy,” she said, her husky, seductive voice matching her looks. “Not going to happen.”

  The humor in her tone, the glint in her eyes snapped him out of his reverie. “Excuse me?” he asked, sounding as formal and disapproving as the old biddies who congregated at the country club. Next thing he knew, he’d be adding a bless your heart at the end of his sentences.

  She smiled, all feminine power and confidence. “You looked like you were ready to take a big old bite out of me. But I’m not on the menu.”

  He wanted to snatch his hands away, stick them in his pockets like a schoolboy who’d been admonished to look but not touch. She couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t be the only one feeling the slow burn of desire, the heat of pure, unadulterated lust.

  The instant connection.

  He frowned. No. Not connection. Connections weren’t instantaneous. They were made over time, through common ground, parallel goals. Love at first sight was a myth, one invented by starry-eyed romantics who couldn’t admit what they were really feeling was human nature at its most basic. Sexual hunger. Need.

  He wanted her.

  And she stood there, seemingly unaffected.

  Testing her, needing to know for sure, he loosened his grip. Slowly drew his hands down the silky material of her sleeves, let his fingertips trail over the soft skin on the back of her hands before dropping away.

  Her expression remained cool and amused. But he heard her small, quick intake of breath. Saw the awareness in the depths of her eyes. The answering desire.

  He grinned and ducked his head, catching a tantalizing whiff of her spicy perfume as he whispered in her ear.

  “Gotcha.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  GOTCHA.

  Ivy Rutherford’s gaze snapped up to the cowboy’s. Her throat was dry, her palms damp.

  She could still feel the warmth of his breath against her skin, the single word triumphant. A challenge.

  Oh, she was in so much trouble here.

  Something passed between them. Something heated and tangible and, on her part, wholly unwanted. The music and sound of background conversation faded until it was nothing but a low hum. He edged closer and she breathed in his scent, something crisp and musky and undoubtedly expensive. Damn it. Damn it! She wanted him to touch her again. Wanted to do some touching of her own.

  Gotcha, indeed.

  Crap.

  He needed to back up. He was close. Too close. Closer than was appropriate, especially for a waitress and a customer.

  Way too close for her comfort.

  Pride held her immobile. Forced her to stand her ground instead of stepping back the way she wanted and putting some much-needed distance between them.

  “It’s cute that you think so,” she murmured, keeping her tone even. Her eyes steady on his. “But don’t be getting delusions of grandeur.”

  If possible, his grin amped up another few degrees, all cocky and pleased with her response. She shouldn’t have found it so attractive.

  “Aw, darlin’, you wound me.”

  “I doubt that.”

  He nodded, rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowing as if he was in deep thought. “How about, you can’t blame a man for having such delusions when faced with you?”

  She had to fight to hide a smile. “Better.”

  “I was going to say when faced with one of God’s greatest works, but that seemed like overkill.”

  She pointedly eyed his hat. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who cares much for being subtle.”

  A middle-aged man brushed past them, and the cowboy stepped aside to give him more room, a handy excuse in Ivy’s mind to shift closer to her. “You’re right. I prefer the direct approach.” He scanned her face, taking his time before meeting her eyes again. “Makes it that much easier to get what I want.”

  There was a strange fluttering in her chest. It was clear enough what he wanted.

  Her.

  He wasn’t the first. Wouldn’t be the last. Men were simple creatures, after all. They saw a pretty face, a curvy body and wanted them. If a woman coddled them a bit, stroked their...ego...and gave their friends something to envy, even better. For that, they’d put in the time, the effort to chase a woman, to make her his.

  Until the thrill of that chase waned and the next woman came along.

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you you don’t always get what you want?” Ivy asked.

  He laughed, low and long, as if that had been the most ridiculous question anyone had ever asked him.

  Glad to know she could amuse him so.

  “No,” he finally said when he’d contained his mirth. “My mother never told me that. No one has.”

  “It’s like a dream come true,” she said drily. “Finally meeting a man brought up to believe that ordinary, mundane things such as failure and rejection are below him. Your mother didn’t do you any favors, did she? And since she didn’t, let me be the one to pass on this extremely valuable lesson. There comes a time in everyone’s life when there’s something they want, but it’s just out of their reach. That time has come for you.”

  His grin sharpened. The gleam in his eyes turned downright predatory. “That sounds like a challenge.”

  Dear Lord, he was right. She had been challenging him. Baiting him.

  Flirting with him.

  Okay, yes, she was attracted to him. She wasn’t dead, was she? And he was gorgeous—even with the cowboy hat. But she didn’t lose her head over things like a sharply planed face, wavy golden hair and a pair of broad shoulders all wrapped up in a perfectly tailored dark suit.

  Men lost their heads over her.

  She’d been twisting males around her little finger from the time she could talk, had learned at her mother’s knee how powerful a smile or glance could be. Yet, with this man, she felt unsure. Nervous that if she continued to play this dangerous game, she’d lose.

  It was the way he watched her, she decided. As if he sensed the truth beneath her words. Could see what she so desperately needed to hide—her interest in him, how much she was enjoying him, his smile and humor, his confidence and looks.

  You don’t always get what you want.

  No, she certainly didn’t. That was life. One long journey of trying and trying and trying. Of mediocre triumphs and spectacular failures. She had no qualms about going after her goals, wasn’t afraid to fall on her face during a long, hard climb. But just because you wanted something, just because you busted your ass, kept your focus and worked hard every day didn’t mean you’d succeed.

  Just because you wanted something didn’t mean it was good for you.
r />   “Let me get you a drink,” the cowboy said, glancing around as if searching for a waitress—when one was right in front of him. “We can talk. Get to know each other better.”

  “Yes, that sounds like a great idea. And I’m sure none of my coworkers, or my supervisor, will care if I sit down in the middle of my shift and toss back a few with a customer.”

  He frowned. Scanned her from head to toe, as if suddenly remembering she should be getting him a drink. Not the other way around. “What time do you get done?”

  “You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.” It was flattering. Knowing he was willing to work a bit to get her time and attention.

  That she was seriously considering telling him she’d be done by midnight annoyed her to no end. She didn’t date customers, never hooked up with men she waited on. It set a bad precedence. Gave them the crazy idea that she’d serve them in bed, too.

  An unsteady blonde in leather tottered over to them. Pressed against his side. “Darling,” she said, tugging at his elbow, “don’t flirt with the help. It’s unseemly.”

  Ivy bit back a wince. Damned her cheeks for heating.

  The help.

  Well, if that didn’t put things into perspective, nothing would.

  “Yes, darling,” Ivy said, mimicking the older woman’s slightly slurred, superior tone, “listen to your date. One must always remember one’s station in life.”

  Ivy never forgot hers.

  The blonde’s smile was none-too-sober and as fake as her boobs. “Aren’t you sweet?”

  Ivy matched her toothy grin with one of her own. “Not particularly.”

  “She’s not my date,” the cowboy said, keeping a hand on the woman’s upper arm. “She’s my mother.”

  His tone was pure resignation with a bit of embarrassment thrown in for good measure. Ivy could relate. Her mother had never been able to grasp the concept of acting—or dressing—her age, either.

  “I’ll have a dirty martini,” his mother told Ivy as she clung to her son’s arm—though Ivy guessed that had less to do with maternal love and more to do with her being three sheets to the wind. If she let go, she’d probably fall on her surgically modified, freakishly smooth face. Though that huge helmet of teased and sprayed hair might protect her from brain damage. “Three olives.”

  “And damn the calories,” Ivy said under her breath, taking in the woman’s ultrathin frame. Looked as if those olives were tonight’s dinner.

  She turned to the cowboy, was taken aback by his easy grin. Guess he’d heard her. She wanted to return his smile, but the help were to be seen, not heard. Ordered about, not engaged in small talk or flirtations. At least, not publicly.

  She shook her head. She really needed to cut back on those reruns of Downton Abbey.

  “And you, sir?”

  His eyes narrowed on the sir, which, admittedly, she’d emphasized. No harm reminding them both why they were there. Who they were.

  But she hated seeing that smile fade.

  “Bourbon,” he said. “Neat.”

  She inclined her head. “Right away.”

  Ivy brushed past him. Could feel him watching her as she crossed the room toward the bar, but she refused to look back. Though she possibly added a bit more sway to her hips.

  “Table 15 needs drinks,” she told her coworker Vanessa. “Could you handle that for me? Dirty martini for the Dancing Queen. Three olives.” They’d all seen the blonde shaking her ass in that leather dress. “Bourbon, neat, for the cowboy.”

  Setting cocktail napkins on her tray while Kent, the bartender, filled her order, Vanessa shook her head, her short, artificially red hair swinging. “Don’t try to pawn your butt-grabber off on me. I’ve gone the entire evening without any pats, rubs or pinches. I’d like to keep it that way. Preserve the record.”

  Ah, the life of a cocktail waitress. People thought the goods being displayed were theirs to touch. Even a subdued, family-type gathering such as an engagement party could get out of hand once the alcohol started flowing.

  “He’s not a butt-grabber,” Ivy said. A man who looked like that, with that deep, subtle twang, didn’t have to resort to creepy tactics to get a woman’s attention.

  “I was talking about the woman,” Vanessa said. “She looks capable and more than ready to eat anyone alive. And there must be a reason you don’t want to deliver them yourself.”

  Many, many reasons. The number one being self-preservation.

  “Trust me,” Ivy said. “Your butt is safe. And the reason I don’t want to deliver them myself is because it’s my break time.”

  “Fine. I’ll switch you table 15 for table 8.”

  “Done.” Ivy skirted the bar and snagged a flute of champagne from a tray before pushing through the door to a small hallway. She walked past the kitchen on her right, then, farther down, a small break room on the left and kept going until she reached the metal exterior door.

  She pushed it open and stepped out into the night. The cold stung her cheeks, stole her breath. Still, she kept going, her high heels echoing on the pavement as she crossed the dimly lit parking lot to her ancient car. She climbed behind the wheel, shut the door and stared blindly through the windshield.

  What was that? What the hell was that?

  The cowboy had flustered her. Unnerved her. Worse than that, he’d known it.

  She’d given him power. Control. Had pretty much handed them over to him on a platter along with her good sense and a portion of her pride.

  She took a gulp of champagne. Bubbles exploded inside her mouth, the taste light and expensive, but it did nothing to wash away the bitterness rising in her throat.

  Men never flustered her. Why should they? They were simple souls with simple needs. Basic needs. When they saw her, they saw opportunity. What she could do for them. What she had to give them. How she could make them feel.

  Why shouldn’t she turn that around—twist their desire for her, their attraction to her—to her advantage? A warm smile, a light, friendly touch to an arm, some harmless flirting could all increase her night’s tips.

  And she was always—always—the one ruling the game.

  Until one tall, green-eyed cowboy had to come along and mess things up.

  She finished the champagne. Wished she’d helped herself to two glasses.

  Or at least had had the foresight to grab her coat.

  The cowboy’s fault, as well. He’d scrambled her thoughts. Her attraction to him had thrown her for a loop, but that was over now. No man got the better of Ivy Rutherford.

  The passenger door was yanked opened and she squeaked in surprise, her breath hanging in the air a few inches before her face like a tiny cloud.

  “What are you doing out here?” Ivy asked seventeen-year-old Gracie Weaver as the teenager flopped onto the seat and shut the door. “And where’s your coat?”

  Ivy shook her head. Great. She sounded like a mom. Not Ivy’s mother, of course. One of those sitcom moms who always had time for their kids, cared about whether they were warm enough.

  One of those moms who loved their daughters instead of blaming them for ruining their lives.

  “Brian said he saw you leave,” Gracie said, her teeth already chattering. “I figured you’d be here.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  “One of the guests wants to speak with you. Said it was important.”

  Ivy’s fingers tightened on the glass so hard, she was afraid it’d shatter into a million pieces. Slowly, carefully she set it on the console next to her sunglasses and an empty to-go coffee cup.

  “Oh?” Her voice sounded strangled, so she cleared her throat. “Which guest?” she asked, though she already knew.

  Oh, yeah, she knew.

  “The guy in the cowboy hat.”

  “Tall? With blond hair and green eyes?”

  “Yes and yes. Plus, he’s the only guy in the building—probably in the whole town—wearing a cowboy hat. Not sure how else to narrow it down
for you.” Gracie frowned and rubbed her hands together, then blew on them. “Do you think it’s acceptable to wear a cowboy hat indoors? Because my grandma would have a fit if Dad wore his baseball cap inside the house.”

  “Let’s focus on the topic at hand, shall we?” If Ivy didn’t keep Gracie on track, the kid could veer so far off topic, they’d never find their way back. “I’m sure whatever the cowboy wishes to discuss, he can do so with Wendy.” It would serve the cowboy right if Ivy sent her uptight supervisor over to see what he wanted. “Besides, I already switched tables with Vanessa. She’s more than capable of getting his drinks.”

  “But he wants to talk to you,” Gracie said.

  “He seems like a guy well used to getting his way.” She remembered the confidence in his eyes, bordering on arrogance. The way he held himself, as if he owned the room and everything—and everyone—in it. “This will be a great life lesson for him.”

  “What if he gets upset?”

  “He’ll get over it. A little disappointment never killed anyone.”

  “I wouldn’t disappoint him.” The teen was all innocent earnestness and dreamy sighs. “He’s completely hot. And nice. We had a very interesting conversation earlier, and he didn’t come across as creepy at all.”

  Ivy smiled. Leave it to Gracie to put her in a better mood, no matter what the situation. “Well, noncreep or not, I have no intention of doing his bidding.”

  “I’m just saying he seems decent. And,” Gracie continued, pulling something from her pocket, “he gave me this for finding you.”

  Ivy raised her eyebrows at the one hundred dollar bill currently being waved in her face. “Really? He bribed a minor to do his dirty work?”

  Gracie wrinkled her nose. “I think it was more of a tip. Which means he’s generous.”

  “What it means is that he’s willing to pay any price to get his way. That he doesn’t mind throwing his money around.”

  “You could give him a chance. Maybe he just wants to get to know you.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Ivy said blandly. “After speaking with me for less than five minutes, he’s intrigued by my mind. Attracted to my sparkling personality.”