by Beth Fred
Chapter 2
The bar wasn't crowded, but it wasn't empty, and it was still quieter than my room.
I scanned the room. There were empty seats here and there, but I needed one next to a power outlet. I would be here for a while and didn't know how much juice my battery had left. I spotted one bar stool with an outlet under it. Yes! I might be able to salvage this night.
As I approached my coveted bar stool, I got a lump in my throat. The guy sitting beside it was perfect—like male model perfect. Even sitting I could tell he was tall. He had caramel skin and curly black hair, and when he smiled at me, I noticed smoldering eyes and dimples to die for.
I felt the color rushing back to my face. Get it together, Tiffany. You're here to work.
I gave a polite smile back—okay, it was probably more than that—and slid my laptop and its charger out of my purse.
“Cómo estás?” he asked.
I knew like five words of Spanish. “Bien.” I ducked down to pull the power supply out and mumbled to myself, “My freaken sister is having an X-rated soiree in my room, because that's what a normal person does two weeks before they get married. Taxes are due in two weeks, and I have a hundred clients and a whole firm counting on me.” I plugged the charger into the outlet and came up with the computer end in my hand. He still looked at me. Wow. I had no idea he was paying attention. “Well, at least you don't speak English,” I mumbled. “Bien,” I said again louder.
He laughed.
The bartender looked at me. “En qué puedo servirle?”
“Something strong.” Yeah right. Like you can drink something strong. “Margarita.”
I opened my laptop and got back to reconciling files.
“Señorita?” the bartender said, putting the drink down beside me.
“Thank you—uh—gracias.”
I took a big drink of the margarita. It tasted like acid, but I forced myself to swallow. It burned going down. So much for that idea.
It was quiet enough in the bar that I could think. Between thoughts of killing my sister, I managed to clear accounts or flag them for further review when I got to the office. But every time I looked up, it seemed like the guy beside me had his eyes fixed on me. Yeah, right. Guys like that don't check out girls like me.
Most of the times I caught his glance, I blushed, so I tried to avoid seeing him. I glued my eyes to the computer screen. I heard him say something in Spanish to the waiter, and two minutes later, the waiter set another drink next to me.
I looked at the waiter confused.
“Del señor,” he said nodding his head toward the guy beside me.
Oh. So I had some Romeo beside me who liked to booze up girls who didn’t know Spanish. I shot him a glare, and before I could return my eyes to my computer, he gave me half a grin.
“Most girls say thank you, but it's okay. I don't speak English anyhow.”
“Uhh—sorry. About the English thing, I mean. And thank you, but no thank you.”
He shrugged. “Hey, everyone has a bad day. Actually, I find it amusing when you try to speak Spanish. In fact, please don't.” He laughed. “You can relax. It's not alcohol. You don't seem to be having a good time with that margarita, and it looked like you could use some help ordering.”
Heat rushed under my cheeks, and I couldn't help but smile. “Okay.”
“So, you have a bad girl sister?”
“Oh, man.” I slapped my head into my hands. “You heard all that, too?” I sighed. “She's not that bad, just a little—well, way too wild.” Why was I telling him this? He was a complete stranger. “I should work.”
I looked back to my screen, but he asked, “What are you working on?”
“Taxes.”
“Maybe we should have a late night business dinner on me. Then you could claim the trip as a deduction.”
Now I faced him again. “Thank you for the drink, señor, but I don't leave bars with guys I don't know.”
He laughed. “That's probably a good idea. My name is Lucas. My friends call me Luke. I know your sister is getting married, and she has strippers in your suite. You're more pissed off about it than most girls would be, so you probably don't approve of strippers or wild parties. I've done my share of partying, but I find both views kind of cute—not as cute as when you tried to take a swig of that margarita and almost gagged because you wouldn't spit it out. You're on vacation to the most beautiful city in the world, and you're doing taxes. I'm not sure I'm a complete stranger.”
“Lucas, you seem to have been paying stalkerishly close attention to my offhand vent, but you don't know me or anything about me. You've pegged me wrong. I have nothing against strippers or partying. But I didn't anticipate paying for it. I do have something against guys trying to pick me up in a bar.”
He laughed. “Miss, I'm not trying to pick you up. You look like you're having a bad day. I'm being friendly. You said you didn't intend to pay for it. Your sister called strippers you didn't want and expects you to pay for it?”
The way he said it, it was like a mixture of shock and disgust. Like he thought I should be upset that my sister had strippers in our room. In the back of my mind, I kind of thought I could be overreacting because my little sister was getting married—then again, I'm not exactly housewife material—and because she was marrying Emmett. “I'm her maid of honor. I'm hosting her bachelorette party.”
“If you're paying for the party, and you think it's too wild, go kick everyone out. Tell them it's your party and you'll kick ass if you want to.”
“But it's her party.”
He shrugged. “If I had a party for one of my brothers and he went wild with it, I'd kick his ass. Are you a prude, or is it wild?”
I shrugged. “It could be both.”
“How many girls did your sister bring?”
“I think 10 or 12. I booked three double suites and told everyone to sleep where they could, except for my room. The party was actually supposed to be in one of the other suites, but it spilled over and somehow ended up in our suite, too.” And I have no idea what the damage to the rooms and my credit card is going to be...
“Go tell your sister to chill.”
“I can't do that.”
A siren sounded outside the hotel. I looked to the glass wall and found a police car’s flashing lights in the circular drive.
“What could have happened here?” The resort seemed so safe.
Luke didn't answer. Instead, he seemed to be focused intensely on something. I turned toward the lobby and saw the hotel manager and two police officers rushing toward the elevator and speaking loudly in Español.
“We gotta go,” Luke said.
“What?”
“I think they're going to your room.”
“What? Why?”
