Mr. Pink

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The Four Seasons bar is one of my favorites in San Francisco. Dark panels, leather, and marble compliment a view of downtown. It’s sexy and masculine all at once, and I love that Miles, the maître d’, greets me by name, ushering me to my usual spot by the fireplace. “Beer or bourbon tonight?”

I also love that Miles knows what I like. “Bourbon.”

I settle into the wingback and scan the bar. It’s early yet, and mostly empty, but it will start filling up in the next hour. Miles arrives with a tumblerful of my latest favorite, Van Winkle 25, neat. You don’t pollute a spirit this gorgeous with water of any kind. A tumbler costs more than what most people make in a month, but it goes down smooth, warming my belly. I lean my head back and shut my eyes, savoring the flavors still lingering in my mouth. Caramel, vanilla, and a heat so pleasant it could almost be considered foreplay.

When I open my eyes, they land on the most exquisite specimen of femininity I think I’ve ever seen. I straighten in my chair, instantly aware. She sits at the bar, angled toward the fireplace. My first scan registers flame red waves, cascading past her shoulders, the kind of hair that begs to be fisted and tugged. Creamy skin spotted with golden freckles, and legs for days that bow into delicate ankles and black stilettos. The second scan back up her shapely curves shows black lace, modestly falling just above her knees, no wedding ring, and an ivory column of neck begging to be tasted. Her eyes flash suspiciously when I meet hers. I offer her an unashamed smile. She’s caught me staring, but who wouldn’t stare? She’s f*****g gorgeous. A burst of protective energy spikes through me. Every man on the prowl will be pissing on her lamppost inside of an hour, and I want to make damned sure they know I got here first.

I raise my glass to her, then sit back, dropping my gaze, studying her at discreet intervals. She looks… nervous, out of her element. Divorcee? On the rebound from a break-up? I take another sip of my drink, fighting the urge to approach her. I don’t give a s**t about protecting anything but my own a*s, so why now? She looks strong. Tough, even. But there’s a fragile vulnerability I spot when she looks at her hands, and it pulls in my sternum. Like the one and only time I rescued a mangy, abandoned mutt by the side of the road. Rocco became my constant companion through college, and I got rip-roaring drunk the day I had to put him down. Maybe I do have a compassionate bone in my body. But only one. Women are for pleasure, not comfort, I remind myself harshly, and I’m looking to get laid, not emotionally entangled.

Still, I can’t bring myself to look away, especially when she signals for Miles instead of the bartender. Now, my curiosity is piqued. “Midleton Bluebell, neat?” he asks. He knows her and her drink, which surprises me. Both in the drink choice and the fact that Miles knows her. How is it I’ve never seen her here before? And obviously, she has taste. Top of the line Irish whiskey is a dozen steps above St. Paddy’s swill.

“Yes, thank you, Miles,” she answers, and her voice reverberates through me like a gong, spawning an ache in my balls it will take all night to lose. Her voice is husky. Sweet. And as complex as the whiskey she just ordered. I want to hear it all night. Strike that, I want to hear that voice moaning in ecstasy while I feast on her. I want that voice to surround me, covering my skin like a blanket, invading my senses and blocking out all other thoughts.

As if in a fog, I signal Miles.

“Yes?” he asks quietly, giving me a look that says he knows what’s coming. Miles doesn’t miss a thing.

“I’ll cover the lady’s beverage,” I murmur. “But don’t let her know it’s me.” Everything inside me warns this woman may be out of my league, which is saying something. But I’ve learned through the years to listen to my gut, and my gut says watch out.

Miles’s eyes light briefly, as if he’s amused by my offer. “No need. The lady’s drinks are always on the house.”

I nod and thank him, brain spinning. Who in the hell is she? I have to find out. My curiosity is so strong, I can barely sit still. Yet, somehow, I instinctively know if I get up now, I’ll chase her away. I fight a sigh of frustration, bringing my attention back to savoring my drink. I have to accept that for the first time in my life, I may have just been c**k-blocked by my Four Seasons wingman. But the night is young, and there’s an ocean of p***y waiting to be tapped. If not the luscious woman before me, then someone else more willing.

I sneak another look her direction and catch her staring at me. No suspicion in her eyes this time. It’s something deeper, more unfathomable, as if she’s sizing me up. I sit a little taller in my seat, almost preening under her gaze. But it’s time to cut things off, for now. “Enjoy your drink,” I say. “You made an excellent choice.”

“Thank you.” Her voice flows over me like water. “It’s one of my favorites.” And then she flashes me a smile. The weight of it hits me like a punch to the gut. It’s summer sunshine, ocean breeze, and promise wrapped into one. And it’s genuine, too, reaching all the way to her luminous, dark green, nearly hazel eyes. My breath catches in my throat and for half-a-second, I forget how to breathe.

Again, the question pops into my head - who is this woman? And more importantly, when will I see her again? Stupid question, and one I shove away. I don’t ‘see’ women. Dating has no place in my life. I drain the last of my Van Winkle, maybe a little too fast, but the urge to walk away is strong now, before I do something stupid.

I stand. “Enjoy your evening.” I smile down at her with more than a little regret. This woman screams complicated, and even though my balls are heavy with desire, I’ll have to find satisfaction somewhere else tonight. Before I drop into the seat next to her and start asking questions just so I can be enveloped in that husky voice a little longer, I force myself to walk away.