“Well look who’s here,” Sam announced.
Sydney heard the distinct drop in tempo. She looked up and stiffened. Charlie.
“And what to my wondering eyes should appear?” Sam swiveled in her seat to face Sydney, pleasure glittering within the rounds of her eyes. “But there’s a handsome young thing with him.”
“It’s his friend from South Carolina. I met him during the tournament.”
Sam perked at the mention. “Oh, really... Then why is this the first I’ve heard of him?”
Sydney cocked her head to one side and said, “He’s a friend of Charlie’s—or did you miss that part?”
“So what? Doesn’t make them identical twins,” she said, her head turning back in the guys’ direction.
“Close enough for me.” Sydney pulled her drink close. Wrapping fingers around the base of her glass, she was content on ignoring the duo. Charlie was a user, a womanizer. It wasn’t a stretch to assume the two had things in common. Otherwise, why would they be hanging around together?
“They’re headed our way,” Sam informed her as the bartender wiped the counter around them, openly ogling Sam.
Sydney groaned and sought refuge in another sip of fruity martini. “Great.” She looked over her shoulder. Sure enough, Charlie and Clay were headed straight for them. As usual, Charlie’s gaze was filled with conceit, as though she and Sam were begging for his company. Clay on the other hand, wore an expression of unguarded interest.
Charlie strolled up to within feet and said, “Hey Sydney.” He touched upon her friend. “Sam.”
“Hello,” Sydney returned, purposely draining her voice of cheer.
“Who do we have here?” Sam asked, eyeballing Clay like a bird on a worm.
Always the direct one, Sydney mused, but had to admit, she did enjoy seeing Clay again. The man was certainly easy on the eyes and after putting Charlie in his place the other day, had already scored a point with her in positive territory. Dressed in jeans and white button-down, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his collar lifted ever so slightly, he appeared sporty and fresh. Her gaze wandered down to his chest. And sexy. Recently tanned by the Miami sun, she thought his skin set off the Puka shell necklace within his open shirt rather well. Sydney lifted her gaze and bumped into his smile. As though caught red-handed, she gulped. Definitely sexy.
Clay extended a hand toward Sam. “Clay Rutledge.”
“Sam Rawlings.” With an approving nod to Sydney she took his hand and shook. “I understand you’ve already met my friend here.”
His smiled broadened. “I have. Good to see you again, Sydney.”
“Nice to see you, Clay,” she returned, as casually as she could.
“So what are you girls up to tonight?” Charlie asked. “Any hot plans we should know about?” He waggled his brow in what Sydney found to be a grotesque gesture.
“Hot is my middle name, Charlie. You know that.”
He laughed. The way Sam stated it as a matter-of-fact, there wasn’t much Charlie could do. With a light clap to Clay’s shoulder, he said, “I’m trying to show my friend here a good time while he’s in town. Any ideas?”
“Why not start right here?” Sam slanted an eye toward Sydney. “Couple of attractive women, expert bartender on hand...”
Charlie looked at Sydney and she iced him with a “don’t even think about it” look.
“Sounds good to me,” Clay said and stepped over next to Sydney. He placed his hands on the back of her chair in what she found to be a presumptive move. Her insides shifted. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it.
Visibly uncomfortable, Charlie glanced between the two.
“Why don’t you wander around a bit, Charlie?” Sam suggested. “See what you can rustle up in the way of prospects. Don’t worry.” She patted the top of Clay’s hand. “We’ll look after your friend here while you’re gone.”
He looked at her, then Clay, and finally to Sydney who continued her freezing glare.
“Trust me,” Sam said and moved her hand to squeeze Charlie’s shoulder. “He’s in good hands.”
“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.” He nodded, as if it were exactly what he intended. “Clay? You okay here for a while?”
He signaled for the bartender’s attention. “I’ll wait for you right here, brother.”
Like a wicked old matchmaker, Sam slipped a smile to Sydney.
“Suit yourself.” Charlie perused the bar, searching for direction. His features suddenly relaxed as he let out a low whistle. “Well, look who just walked in.”
All eyes followed his gaze to the three women entering the bar. Three attractive twenty-something blondes wearing thigh high short skirts and four inch heels. The girls swaggered past and met up with another group of women seated by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Biscayne Bay. The dock beyond was lined with a spattering of lights, a few low-rises and then a sheet of black water was dotted with red and green markers. Like a dog latching onto the scent, Charlie made a show of following his nose toward the trio.
The man made Sydney ill.
“So what are we drinking?” Clay asked.
“Gin martini.”
“Mine’s mango,” Sydney said, suddenly conscious of Clay’s close physical presence as he stood by her side. So close, the blue of his eyes seemed to grab hold of her. His cologne clung to the very air around her shoulders, the bare skin of her arms. Subtle, rich, it was a mix of cedar and citrus and one hundred percent appealing. She cleared her throat. “Um, it’s good. You should try one.”
He looked at it and shook his head. “Looks a bit frou-frou for me.”
“Hm...” Sydney turned her head away from Clay, more a need to gather her senses than anything. The man was definitely attractive, in an alluring, distracting kind of way.
The bartender appeared and with one eye still firmly hooked on Sam, asked Clay, “What can I get you to drink?”
“You have Kalik?”
“Coming right up.”
“What a nice surprise to run into you again,” he said, his gaze warm and fluid, his smile electric as it coaxed her focus back to him. “I’ve been wondering how your game went.”
“Fine,” she said. The sharp reminder that this man had seen her in her bathing suit was somewhat unnerving. It made her fitted skirt feel almost conservative, despite the fact it rose halfway up her thigh. She dropped a hand to rest over top of her exposed leg.
“I wanted to come back and watch you play, but Charlie wouldn’t go for it. And since I’m at his mercy...”
“I’m sorry for you.”
He raised a brow. “You don’t care much for Charlie, do you?”
She looked up at him. “Is it that obvious?” Sydney pitched over to Sam for a little reinforcement on the subject but none was forthcoming. She merely smiled and sipped. And watched.
The bartender slid the clear bottle across the bar top in front of Clay, the shiny aqua label snagging her attention. More a silvery aqua, it was crisp and pretty.
“Thanks,” he said to the man, then asked her, “Is it personal or professional?”
Unfamiliar with the brand, she allowed her mind to drift. “Both, actually.”
“Anything you care to share?”
Completely ignored in the conversation, Sam seemed content to watch. Pulling an olive from its stick with her teeth, she slowly chewed.
Briefly settling her gaze on Charlie talking to the women, his patently obvious method of come-on revolting even from this distance, Sydney wondered how the girls could stand listening to him. “Charlie mistreated a friend of mine,” she said at last, the din of conversation rising around her.
Clay frowned. “Sorry to hear it.”
“Yes, well, seems to be a habit of his,” she said and looked at Clay, uninterested in masking her contempt, “though it seems to me you should know that better than anyone.”
“Because we’re friends?”
She wondered at his surprise. Who better if not you, she
thought, glancing askance at him.
“Charlie and I grew up together, but once he left for college he didn’t look back. In fact, it’s been a few years since I’ve seen him so we’ve been trying to catch up. I’m actually staying at his place until my parents arrive for the events.”
Sam popped back in. “Events?”
“Special Olympics.”
She drew a line between them with her gaze, as though pulling the two closer together. “Do you work with the Special Olympics?”
Chapter Four
“My son is one of the athletes,” Clay said to Sam, but closed in on Sydney, as though her reaction to his revelation was most important.
His son? In the Special Olympics?
Sam tapped Sydney with a rapt gaze and asked, “What sport?”
“He’s a swimmer.”
“You his coach?”
Clay laughed. “Hardly. I’m more like the support staff.”
“He pretty good?”
He beamed and raised his beer. “Stands a chance to win the gold.”
“Sydney here is your liaison for the events,” Sam said, tapping her on the arm. “She can get you whatever you need.”
“That’s what I hear,” he said, then flipped up his beer for a swig, a steady eye on Sydney.
“More like assistant to the Special Olympics organization,” she clarified, embarrassed by Sam’s assertion. “Most of the details have already been handled. My job is to facilitate.”
“She’s too modest,” Sam said. “It’s her job to make sure your events run smoothly and the athletes and their families enjoy themselves while they’re here.” She thrust a shit-eating grin behind the last statement.
He smiled, a tad too wide for casual appreciation. “I like the sound of that.”
Sam simmered in a knowing grin, downed her martini and stood. “It was nice to meet you, Clay.”
Sydney’s heart lurched. “What? Where are you going?”
“I have a date with Vic.” She winked to Clay. “And I don’t like to keep my man waiting.”
Sydney doubted she had any such date, but to call her on it in front of Clay would only reveal her obvious motive of pushing the two of them together.
Reaching for her purse, Sam opened her wallet and pulled out a bill. “Here’s some money for my drink.”
Clay raised a hand in protest, “Let me get this round.”
She smiled at his offer. “Thanks, but I want to give my new friend a special bonus,” she said, sliding a mischievous gaze toward the young bartender. “Ensures me prompt and courteous service next time around.”
“Somehow, I don’t think you have any trouble in that department,” he returned, his features mellowing in admiration.
“I like him,” Sam said to Sydney. “Too bad I can’t stay.”
Sydney spied the twenty dollar bill and thought, not bad for five minutes of the man’s time. “Give my regards to Vic, will you?” she directed Sam. “Tell him he’s a lucky man to steal you away from me tonight of all nights,” she underscored, signaling she knew this was nothing more than a ruse to push her together with Clay.
Sam’s smile turned devilish grin. “I will.” She extended her hand to Clay and said, “Nice to meet you, Clay.”
“Same here.”
“Take good care of my friend, will you?”
“You can count on it.”
She chuckled. “Oh yes, I like him already, Syd.” Sydney turned her face up for the expected kiss goodbye. Sam leaned down with a whisper, “You owe me one.” Then pecked her cheek.
“Yes I do,” Sydney said, loud enough to be sure Clay heard.
“Ta-ta!” Sam blew a kiss to the bartender as she hurried off, her long legs and frilly skirt quickly consumed by the throng of young professionals.
Clay lowered into the seat vacated by Sam and his eyes danced with pleasure. “Looks like it’s just you and me.”
“Yes,” she replied, uncertain as to where this was going. While she enjoyed the company of handsome men, she had no interest in taking this one any further.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Sydney looked down and was surprised to see her glass near empty. She looked at him, looked around and debated whether or not she should stay. The lounge had grown to standing room only, bodies packed in around the bar, noise level ratcheted up. Stress levels were falling, conversations were rolling, libidos were heating... The atmosphere was certainly conducive to lingering. She peered over at Clay and he smiled, his gaze expectant.
Why not? What else did she have to do? Sure as hell beat sitting at home alone, sulking over her current assignment. “Sure,” she replied, then suddenly remembered Clay was her assignment—or part of it, anyway.
Pleased, he ordered the drink, took a sip from his beer and commented, “Your friend’s quite a pistol.”
“Yes, among other things.” Sydney smiled. “A real live wire, that one.”
“She work with you and Charlie?”
“No. She’s a lawyer. Works with my cousin, Diego.”
“He was the guy who stopped by the other day, right?”
“Yes,” she replied, noting that someone has a good memory.
“So how did you fare in the tournament?”
“We won.”
“Way to go.” He brightened and raised his drink in cheers.
Sydney gave a hollow clink from her glass to his bottle and added, “My teammate sprained her ankle during the last set, so it was a good thing it was our final match or who knows. Things could have ended much differently.”
He grimaced. “Bad?”
“Nothing that won’t heal.”
He shook his head in admiration. “You two are some amazing players.”
“Thanks.” She smiled, warmed by his vote of confidence, though she doubted the man even knew what constituted “good” when it came to volleyball. But did it matter? Sometimes it was enough just to hear the words. She glanced at his left hand and saw no ring. “So where’s your son?” She looked around, as though she’d somehow see him. “Is he here?”
“No, not yet. He’s with my parents back home. He comes down with his coach and the team on Saturday.”
“They fly in on private jets, don’t they?” she asked, accepting her drink from the bartender with a nod of thanks.
“That they do, the day before opening ceremonies.”
Responding to the bartender’s questioning glance, Sydney slid the twenty dollar bill toward him. “She said this was for you.”
The man took it without hesitation. “Let me know if I can get you anything else,” he offered, his previous animation gone. Dutifully, he cleared Sam’s martini glass from the bar and moved on to the next patron.
Sydney learned that the special flight project that transported the athletes to the events started with a couple of planes volunteered by Cessna and over the years had blossomed into a major undertaking. But like most things associated with the Special Olympics, it seemed volunteers signed on in droves. This weekend they were expecting hundreds of private jets to fly in, all provided free of charge to the athletes. She thought it was an extraordinary venture in size, scope and generosity.
“It’s a very big deal for him,” Clay said. “He’s so excited he can hardly stand it. These events are all about the team, the competition, and as one of the better swimmers, he’s feeling center stage right now.”
“You didn’t want to fly down with him?”
“When it comes to the national games, families are welcome, but sidelined. We don’t get VIP treatment like the athletes do.”
Sydney couldn’t tell if Clay viewed this as a positive or negative.
“Actually, Q wants to hang out with his team this week.”
“Q?”
“That’s my boy’s name—Q.”
“That’s an odd name,” she said, more thinking aloud than anything.
He chuckled, unaffected. “I come from one of those families that hands down names like most people hand
down the family jewels—or china—depending on where you come from. In our family, every first born son is a Charles and I’m the third.”
“I didn’t know Clay was short for Charles.”
“It’s not. I’m Charles Clayton Rutledge the Third,” he said with an imperious flair, thickening his southern drawl, exaggerating the importance of his title. “But as you’ve already seen, we have quite a few ‘Charlies’ running around South Carolina. No need for another.”
Her sentiments exactly, Sydney thought with more than a touch of disdain. Yet she found this tradition curious. “So you chose to go by your middle name?”
“Yes, ma’am. And my son is the fourth, so we call him Q—short for quad.”
“Interesting.” Odd, but interesting at the same time.
“Anyway, when my parents suggested I head down early for a few days on my own to catch up with Charlie, Q seemed happy about it. He’s staying with them this week and once they see him off at the airport, they’ll drive down.”
“No wife?” she asked the obvious.
Melancholy deepened the blue of his eyes to near navy and Sydney regretted asking.
“No.” He sipped from his beer. “She and I divorced when Q was three. It was shortly after we received his diagnosis of autism.”
His wife left after the diagnosis? Instinctively, she reached over but stopped short. She hardly knew the man. “I’m sorry,” she murmured and closed her fingers into her palm. He looked at her hand. Slowly, she pulled it back adding, “That must be so hard on you.”
Clay drew his beer closer and stared at the bottle as he seemed to consider her comment, turning it about in his mind as if evaluating its validity.
A man leaned over the bar to her right, his body so close they nearly touched. Catching a rise of his cologne, the musky scent reminded her of Javier. Sydney turned her shoulder away as the bartender clicked into service. “What’ll it be?”
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