Fast & Loose

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  She bet this guy was wearing wingtips of the gods.

  He was, after all, sipping a post-dinner snifter of one of the most expensive ports on the menu. And he’d dined on the prime rib. And he’d paid for everything with his platinum American Express Card.

  Best of all, he’d done all that alone.

  What a shame, to be visiting a city like Louisville during Derby, when there was so much going on, and be all by yourself, with no one to enjoy the festivities with. A man in possession of a platinum card ought to be out on the town, having fun with someone, not sitting alone at the bar. Someone like…oh, Bree didn’t know…her. She’d spoken with him on and off as she’d worked, had laughed at a joke he told her—even though she’d heard it before—and had responded with just the right amount of interest and perfectly gauged smile to his flirting. She’d made it as clear as she could without donning a hat that said, “If You Have the Cash, I Have the Inclination.” All she needed at this point was an invitation. And it didn’t even have to be engraved.

  Unfortunately, just as Bree was drying her hands on a linen towel, a woman approached her quarry and perched on a stool beside him. Thanks to his broad smile and the way he settled his hand on her shoulder, it was clear the two knew each other and that he’d been waiting for her. With another sigh of resignation, Bree decided to call it a night. Both with her shift—which had actually ended nearly a half hour ago—and her gold digging.

  “She’s a call girl.”

  The comment came from behind Bree and, surprisingly, it was in no way surprising. Rufus Detweiler, who had been working behind the bar when Bree started at the Ambassador, was as good at evaluating the customers as she was. But for every step up the social ladder she liked to place someone, Rufus was equally determined to take that person down a peg. She had no idea why he had a chip on his shoulder when it came to the upper class. But that chip was roughly the size of Gibraltar, and it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

  Bree spun around to face him, thinking, as she always did about Rufus, that it was too bad he wasn’t rich. Then again, a rich guy who looked like Rufus—tall, dark, and handsome didn’t begin to cover it—wouldn’t have to buy the affections of a woman. On the contrary, he could sell himself to the highest bidder, and walk away with even more gold filling his pockets.

  “You don’t want to mess with a guy who uses a call girl’s services,” he added. “That’s a one-way ticket to blood work you don’t want to have.”

  He’d leaned forward a little as he spoke, so that he could lower his voice. And also send a ripple of warm desire down Bree’s spine. A most unwelcome ripple of warm desire, at that. Rufus was the last guy she should be longing for.

  Not that she was longing for Rufus, she hastily reminded herself. Any other woman would respond the same way to a guy who towered over her and had rhapsodic brown eyes and silky dark hair that hung nearly to his shoulders and was swept back from a truly beautiful face by a careless hand. And who had shoulders broad enough to effortlessly hoist a keg, and hands skilled enough to perfectly coil a slender length of lemon peel, and forearms sculpted like an Adonis. And a butt that begged for the cupping of a woman’s hands, and legs long enough to cradle a woman’s hips, and feet big enough to cause serious speculation about the size of his—

  Ahem. Anyway, any other woman would respond the same way to Rufus that Bree did. It had nothing to do with any longings—and, more importantly, any feelings—she might have for the guy. She didn’t have any feelings for the guy. Which was why she was able to treat him so cavalierly when she saw him at places like Fourth Street Live and he asked her to dance. Just because she still felt guilty about her behavior that night, it wasn’t because she cared about Rufus or his feelings. It was just because she cared about, um, looking good. Yeah, that was it.

  She crossed her arms over her midsection. “How do you know she’s a call girl? Maybe she’s his daughter.”

  Rufus looked past Bree, then met her gaze again and smiled. “Not likely. Not unless he’s looking for a visit from social services. Check it out.”

  She turned again to see that the couple at the end of the bar were…Ew. It didn’t take Emily Post to say that was way too much tongue for public consumption. Jeez, people, get a room. Even if they do cost seven hundred bucks a night.

  “Okay, so she’s not his daughter,” Bree conceded, turning back to Rufus. “It still doesn’t mean she’s a call girl.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Maybe. Maybe not. But as long as he’s got someone to”—Rufus looked down the bar again, flinched a little at whatever he saw, and looked back at Bree—“do that for him, it does make your chances of bagging him pretty slim.”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah.

  “C’mon,” he said. “Shift’s over. Our relief is here. Tips were substantial for a Tuesday night—gotta love this time of year. Best of all, I invented a new drink.”

  She grinned. Rufus was notorious for creating new drinks and naming them after great works of literature. “What’s this one called?” she asked.

  “Tequila Mockingbird.”

  She chuckled at that. “What’s it like?”

  He grinned back. “Sin. Because it’s a sin—”

  “Tequila Mockingbird,” she finished with him, paraphrasing a passage from the book.

  He listed the ingredients. “A little Cuervo, a little Cointreau, a little passion fruit liqueur. And a little splash of ginger ale to make it sing. Let me whip us up a couple, and we can head for a booth in the back. The band tonight is supposed to be an excellent jazz combo. Weird name, though. I mean, who’d name a band Smuth?”

  She shook her head. “Thanks for the offer,” she said. “But the drink sounds like it has too much mocking and too little bird for me.”

  “Then lemme buy you a beer and we can head for a booth in the back.”

  She shook her head again. “You’re a good guy, Rufus, and truly, thanks, but I think I’m going to head home. I’m beat. And Lulu’s staying with me for a couple weeks and has been home alone all night. I’m not being a good hostess.”

  “Call Lulu and tell her to meet us at Deke’s. You’ll be almost home, Lulu won’t be alone, we’ll still hear some great music, the planet will be swiftly tilting on its axis, and all will be right in the universe.”

  Bree sighed, and patted his arm gently. But that only made her realize that his upper arms were as solid and exquisitely formed as his forearms, something that generated another one of those ripples of warm desire. This one, though, shimmied through her entire body and pooled in her midsection like a puddle of steaming need. Immediately, she dropped her hand back to her side. But her fingertips continued to tingle, as if whatever strange thing was arcing between them couldn’t be severed just by physically separating from him.

  “Rufus, you’re trying too hard,” she told him, her voice softer than she had meant it to be, making her sound as if she didn’t mean what she was saying. “Like I’ve said a million times, unless you’ve got the cash—”

  “I’m not interested,” he finished for her. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and quickly corrected himself, “I mean, you’re not interested. Because, me, Bree…”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. Rufus had made it no secret over the two years they’d been working together that he was very interested in Bree, an interest she’d done her best to keep at bay. And not just because Rufus’s net worth on any given day could fit into the tip jar, either. But because there were times when Bree found herself not wanting to keep his interest at bay. And, even worse, not caring what his net worth on any given day might be.

  It really was as easy to love a rich man as a poor one, she knew. Provided one met a rich man who was a lot like Rufus.

  He held her gaze for a moment, his dark eyes earnest. “Maybe the problem isn’t that I’m trying too hard,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’s that I’m not trying hard enough.”

  Bree ignored the shudder of pleasure that wound throug
h her at the frankly offered declaration. “Rufus…” she began, stringing his name out across several time zones. But all she added was, “I gotta go.” She scooped up her purse from where she’d stowed it beneath the bar, started to extend a hand to pat his shoulder again, then remembered what had happened the last time she did that and drew her hand back. “You’re a good guy, Rufus,” she said again. “But I really do have to go.”

  “You need me to walk you to your car?”

  She shook her head. “Not tonight, thanks. I didn’t have to park in the garage. I found a place on the street.”

  “Next time then,” he told her.

  She nodded. “Next time.”

  RUFUS DETWEILER WATCHED AS BREE CALHOUN—THE light of his life and the woman he loved, the cream in his coffee and the jam on his bread, the Mc in his McMuffin and the oo oo in his Froot Loops, the…the…

  Dang. He was getting hungry.

  Anyway, he watched as Bree Calhoun, his reason for living, walked out of the bar without him. Again.

  Of course it wasn’t that she was always walking out of the bar without him. Again. A couple of nights a week, when she didn’t have anyone else to walk out to her car with, she was driving out of the parking garage without him. Again. And there had been a handful of times when he’d walked her as far as the hotel lobby, and then she’d strode out the front entrance without him. Again. And on one especially memorable night, when Lulu was supposed to have picked her up but had to work late, Rufus had driven Bree all the way to the intersection of Bardstown Road where she lived, and she’d exited the car without him.

  Ah, good times. Good times.

  You’re a good guy, Rufus.

  How many times had she said that to him over the past twenty-seven months, eight days, nine hours, thirty-seven minutes and—he glanced at his watch—forty-two seconds since he met her? After working together for more than two years, he knew Bree was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, and she thought he was—he bit back a grimace—a good guy.

  What the hell was wrong with him that she thought he was a—he swallowed his revulsion—good guy?

  And it wasn’t like Bree was one of those weird women who went for the dark and dangerous type. On the contrary, the woman craved security and stability more than any human being Rufus had ever met. He knew her well enough to realize that was the reason—and not because she was shallow and only craved creature comforts—why she was so dead set on bagging herself a rich guy. Of course, it helped that she had spelled that out to him in no uncertain terms the first time he asked her out. Bree, he’d said, you want to go to a movie sometime? Maybe have dinner and a beer afterward? To which she had pointedly replied, Rufus, you’re a good guy, so I’ll tell you this up front. Unless the reason you’re working here is to commune with the common man after a long day of counting your money, I won’t go out with you. Any guy I go out with has to have reeking piles of filthy lucre at home. The currency for my affections is currency. The only thing tender I want out of a man is legal tender. Unless you’ve got the cash, I’m not interested.

  Never in his life had he heard a woman use so many different words for money in one breath. Rich guys, not good guys, that was what Bree Calhoun wanted. Correction: rich guy. She’d settle for one. Provided he had seven figures at his disposal. And although Rufus Detweiler might be many things—a hard worker, a man of his word, a literary mixologist, a reasonably gifted musician, an art lover provided the art in question wasn’t too abstract—rich guy had never been, nor would ever be, listed on his curriculum vitae.

  He swiped a cloth over one last bottle ring on the bar before tossing in the towel—literally, if not figuratively, since he’d never give up on Bree—then called out a halfhearted farewell to the bartender who had relieved him. Then he exited the bar on the side where sat the most recent object of Bree’s financial affections. The young woman with him had disappeared, he noticed. Probably needed to do some major lipstick repair after that…that…gak…that exchange of bodily fluids she’d performed with the guy.

  The moment Rufus slipped under the bar and appeared on the other side, however, the guy said, “Excuse me. Can I ask you a question?”

  Rufus shrugged. “Sure.”

  “The girl you were working with tonight. Bree?”

  Immediately wary, Rufus replied, “Yeah?”

  “Is she single?”

  Reluctantly, he nodded. “She is.”

  “Does she have a boyfriend?”

  Even more reluctantly, Rufus shook his head. “She does not.” He didn’t bother to add that the price of her affections was steep, however. He was confident this guy could afford her. He just didn’t deserve her.

  The guy smiled in a bland, benign, insurance-salesman kind of way. “Just wanted to be sure. I’m going to be in town for another week, and she and I hit it off pretty well, but I wasn’t sure if that was because she might be interested or if she was just doing her job, making nice with the customers.”

  Rufus grinned now and waved a hand airily before himself in a theatrical pshaw kind of way. Then he said, “Pshaw. It was definitely because she was interested. Bree’s genuinely interested in every customer who sits down at this bar. She’s doing so much better since they doubled up on her medication. She’s even stopped bringing her gun to work every day.”

  The guy’s smile fell. “She brings a gun to work?”

  “Only sometimes.”

  “Was she, uh…packing today?”

  “I doubt it. When she’s carrying, you can usually see the bulge in her pocket.” He looked right and then left, then lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “But, look, don’t say anything to the manager, all right? She’s in a temporary release program, and I’d hate to see her go back to doing hard time.” He pretended to waffle over whether he should say more, then added, “Not to mention, she has a nasty temper when she forgets to take her meds. I mean, if she found out someone had reported her…” He did the right-left look again. “Well, let’s just say I sure wouldn’t want her gunning for me.” He smiled. “No pun intended.”

  The guy nodded enthusiastically. “Uh, right. I won’t say a word.”

  Rufus patted his arm comfortingly. “You’re a good guy.”

  As he made his way to the exit, Rufus wondered how much longer he was going to be able to get away with this…this…Okay, this deliberate demolition of Bree’s efforts to bag herself a rich man. She had to be losing sleep at night, puzzling over why a woman as beautiful, funny, smart, and charming as she was had so much trouble landing what had, over the years, been dozens of potential Sugar Daddies here at the bar. If she ever found out it was because Rufus had purposely and with malice aforethought sabotaged every viable liaison by putting the right—or rather, wrong—idea into the potential Sugar Daddy’s head about her, she’d kill him. Purposely and with malice aforethought. Probably with her bare hands. Someday, he thought, that was going to happen.

  But not today.

  Today, Rufus had lived to crush Bree’s visions of Sugar Daddy Fairies again. Next time, however…

  Well. He’d just do like Scarlett and think about that tomorrow.

  Oh, man, that gave him an idea for another drink. Gone with the Seabreeze. He’d make sure to think about that tomorrow, too. In between thoughts about Bree Calhoun. And thoughts about how he could get her to realize that what a man carried in his pockets was of no consequence compared to what a man carried in his heart.

  Eight

  ONE WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THAT BY THE TIME COLE found himself surrounded by a bevy of admirers again on Wednesday night—when all he wanted was to enjoy a meal alone—he would have learned that the only way to do that was to go to the grocery store, buy provisions, and cook something for himself in the privacy of his rented home. But the only thing Cole hated more than not being able to enjoy a meal in peace was having to prepare that meal himself. At home in Temecula, he employed a full-time housekeeper who also cooked his dinner before she left at day’s
end. On those days he was working at the ranch, she also left something in the fridge for his breakfast and lunch the following day. Whenever he was away from the ranch, he ate out.

  He had been delighted to discover that Louisville, when it came to restaurants, was a major buried treasure. Susannah had visited the city on a number of occasions and listed enough recommendations that Cole could eat someplace different every morning, noon, and night and still have places left over for after-hours. What she hadn’t warned him about was how crowded many of them would be during the week this time of year. Nor had she cautioned him about the plethora of horse-crazy—and trainer-crazier—fans he would encounter.

  He told himself he shouldn’t be surprised. He’d also discovered that the two weeks prior to the Derby in Louisville were a veritable mini Mardi Gras of goings-on. But the festivities, as delightful—if sometimes odd—as they were, often hindered Cole’s ability to just read the daily racing forms and newspaper, which was what he generally liked to do when he ate alone.

  He also liked eating when he ate alone. As in, not being hassled by fans as he shoveled food into his mouth. That was why he’d taken to eating at bars the last couple of nights—literally. At the bar part of the bar, an act of clearly intended I-want-to-be-alone behavior that should have dissuaded anyone from coming up with the request to join him. Especially since he’d been trying for the past couple of nights to wedge himself in on a solitary seat between two men.

  And that was how he came to find himself seated at the bar in the utterly gorgeous Ambassador Hotel in downtown Louisville—number four on Susannah’s “List of Places You Have GOT to Visit While in Town.” Granted, Susannah had suggested it as a nightspot. All the more reason, Cole had concluded, to have dinner there. If it was a nightspot, it shouldn’t be too busy at the dinner hour, right?