Fast & Loose (9 page)

“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.

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?

Wrong.

The place had been packed when he entered. But the majority of patrons had been men in business suits, clearly here enjoying an after-work libation before heading home—or out to dinner, or wherever men who had normal nine-to-five jobs went after work. Cole’s job was one that had irregular hours that generally ran from sunup to sundown, including weekends. But it had other perks, not the least of which was working only the hours one wanted to work—provided one wanted to work from sunup to sundown, including weekends.

Anyway, he’d spied one of those solitary places at the bar between two men, so he had made his way there and wedged himself in, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, and succeeding for all of three minutes.

That was how long it had taken for a pair of attractive young women in business suits to move behind him and pretend they were trying to get the bartender’s attention, when really, what they were doing was leaning into Cole and saying, “Oh, excuse me,” a lot. He might have given them the benefit of the doubt if it hadn’t been for the fact that every “Oh, excuse me” had been followed by a sultry giggle and even sultrier look, coupled with the fact that the first woman ordered a Sex on the Beach to drink, and the second ordered a Screaming Orgasm. Cole had been tempted to order a Could You at Least
Try
to Be Subtle in retaliation, but he was pretty sure a drink with that name hadn’t been invented yet.

He was mentally reviewing Susannah’s list of recommendations, trying to recall if there was an establishment on it called No Dames Allowed when a movement at the other end of the crowded bar caught his eye. It was the same movement that had caught his eye two nights before, at a different downtown bar. A movement of russet-colored curls that drew his eye faster than a yearling with champion bloodlines.

Damn. It was Craggedy Ann again. Either she was a real barfly, or Cole Early was the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet. And considering the way his life had been going the last several years—Sex on the Beaches and Screaming Orgasms notwithstanding—he was going to have to go for the latter.

He stood and turned to the two giggling women behind him. “Ladies,” he said, “take my seat, please.” Then, without awaiting a response, he started to make his way toward the other side of the bar.

Craggedy didn’t see him right off. She was too busy talking to the bartender working that stretch of the bar, a woman with long black hair who had her back to Cole. She was dressed in jeans again, coupled with yet another T-shirt, this one a beige V-neck. Since there were no empty seats at this end of the bar, either, she had to lean forward to be heard, between two men who chatted with each other, oblivious to her presence. Probably because her “Excuse me” had been genuine, and she hadn’t ordered any drinks with the words
sex
or
orgasm
in them. As Cole drew nearer, he realized Craggedy must know the bartender, because they were talking way longer than it took to simply order a drink, and Craggedy was nodding and smiling at something the woman said in a way that indicated the two were friendly.

And then, suddenly, she laughed at something the woman said, a full-bodied, genuinely delighted laugh that carried all the way across the bar and ended with her smiling in a way that momentarily stopped Cole in his tracks. Because it was the most uninhibited smile—and the most joyful laugh—he’d ever seen or heard from a woman. He remembered a song lyric from a while back about drinking whatever the waitress brought and always feeling full. That was what Craggedy’s laughter reminded him of. Of someone who, no matter what life served up, would have a voracious appetite for it and relish the flavor regardless of what it was, because who knew when the feast would come to an end?

He wondered if she was that uninhibited in all her pursuits.

Doubtful, he told himself as he began to inch his way toward her again, remembering the way she’d stiffened up when he touched her at the realty office. He’d named her Craggedy Ann for a reason, he reminded himself. Because she’d been so damned, well, craggedy. Evidently, it was only with her friends she felt so liberated. With him—hell, probably with most men, considering the appalling lack of feminine wiles the woman seemed to have—she’d been as buttoned up, figuratively, anyway, as a Victorian.

Damn. Where was a Sex on the Beach or Screaming Orgasm when you needed one?

As if he’d murmured the question aloud, her head snapped to the right and her gaze met Cole’s, her blue eyes flashing when she recognized him, with the same derision she’d shown Friday. Oh, yeah. She was definitely
not
the fun-loving, spontaneous, outgoing type, at least when it came to him. Nevertheless, when her gaze locked with his, for one strange, almost surreal moment, he felt as if everyone and everything else in the room evaporated, shifting into a weird, fuzzy haze that encircled the two of them and arced between them, connecting them in a way that was way too New Agey and chick flicky for his comfort. Then the moment was gone, and the voices of the other bar patrons were filling his ears again, and someone he’d never met before was laying a hand on his forearm and calling him by name and asking him what Silk Purse’s current odds were. And Craggedy Ann, he couldn’t help noting, was looking at him like an ill-treated foal who wanted to run from its abusive handler.

Oh, hell. She was going to bolt, and then he would have missed another chance to talk to her. Though why he’d want to talk to a woman who had so far looked at him either with dread or fear, he had no idea. All he knew in that moment was that he needed to talk to her.

“Wait!” he called out before he even realized he’d intended to speak.

But Craggedy Ann ducked behind the slender bartender working the bar, who in turn spun around to see what Craggedy was hiding from. When she saw Cole coming toward them, her eyes widened in panic. For all of two seconds. Then she began to look at him with an expression that troubled him even more than the openly sexual looks he’d been fielding from groupies for days. Because the only thing scarier than a sexually predatory woman was a financially predatory one. And this chick, whoever she was, had “Gimme” written all over her.

Not that there weren’t a lot of men out there who would have probably been glad to provide for her. She was a beautiful woman, her black hair offset by clear aquamarine eyes and an Angelina Jolie mouth, all of it arranged beautifully atop some more than decent curves that even the mannish white shirt, black trousers, and splashy necktie couldn’t diminish. But she wasn’t his type. His type was…

Well, normally, he would have said his type was any woman whose body had produced estrogen at some point in her life. At the moment, however, he was thinking in more specific terms. Specifically, any woman whose body had produced estrogen at some point in her life and
didn’t
look at him as if he were a big ol’ ATM. Even if he had, in the past, dated more than one woman he knew was interested in him primarily for one thing, and that was the fact that there were so many numbers before the decimal point in his annual income. That hadn’t mattered to him, though, because he’d only been dating those women for one thing, too, and although it had involved numbers—and letters, too—they had nothing to do with the women’s earning potential and everything to do with a label inside an article of lingerie they wore.

Craggedy’s friend Goldie Digger, he had to admit, would actually fill that requirement—and that article of lingerie—nicely. In spite of that, his gaze was still drawn to her friend. Who, he noted with some regret, wouldn’t fill much of anything.

In spite of Craggedy Ann’s obvious attempt to hide from him, Cole moved forward again, this time ignoring all the greetings, hands, and questions until he could circle the bar and see her pretending to study a drink menu with the same sort of fascination a high school freshman might show for the periodic table. Smiling, he covered what little distance remained between them until he was standing right behind her.

“Hello, again,” he said, ducking his head close to her ear to ensure she heard the words. And also to see if she still smelled like patchouli. Which she did. Which made him feel even luckier for some reason.

She spun around to look at him, her eyes even bigger and more panicked than before, her mouth forming a perfect surprised
O
.

“Hello yourself.”

But it wasn’t Craggedy Ann who spoke. It was her friend, Goldie Digger.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Goldie continued. “Didn’t we meet at the Cannes Film Festival last year? Or George Clooney’s place in Malibu? Or was it that fundraiser at Bill Gates’s compound?”

Wow, Cole thought. If she shoveled it any higher, they were all going to be bagged up as Miracle-Gro.

“Sorry,” he said over his shoulder to Goldie. “Never been any of those places.” To Craggedy, he quickly added, “We didn’t get a chance to introduce ourselves when we bumped into each other Friday. I’m—”

“Cole Early,” Goldie said, sounding a little frazzled. “That’s the name I was trying to remember.”

When Cole didn’t acknowledge her remark, she leaned across the bar as far as she could, and damned if she didn’t manage to insinuate herself between him and Craggedy. Her feet had to be dangling above the floor on the other side to have managed the feat, but that didn’t deter her from wriggling closer still. Even more annoying, Craggedy did nothing to stop her friend from coming between them. In fact, Craggedy inched a few steps to her left, away from him, stopping only when the presence of another body at the bar prevented her from going any farther.

But she didn’t stop looking at him, Cole noticed. Unfortunately, she didn’t stop looking panicky, either.

“I know we’ve met somewhere,” Goldie hurried on, tossing her hair in a way that probably would have been provocative if she hadn’t been hanging over a bar like a limp sausage.

Cole looked at her face long enough to take in the big eyes and full mouth and cheekbones sharp enough to hew logs. Definitely a beautiful woman. And definitely not one he wanted to get to know better. Now the woman
on the other side
of her…

Well, it wasn’t that he wanted to get to know Craggedy better, either, he hastily amended. It was just that she was a familiar face in unfamiliar surroundings, and Cole was tired of feeling uncomfortable. In situations like this, comfort was found with those who offended you least. Craggedy, by virtue of her appearance at the realty office Friday, was the first friend he’d made in this town. Hell, considering how he’d been juggling his days between the farm in Shelbyville, meetings at Churchill Downs, and a seemingly endless list of Derby-related functions, she was the only friend he’d made in this town.

“I’m Sabrina Calhoun,” the woman he wasn’t interested in getting to know better went on. “Bree to my friends. So you should definitely call me Bree. In fact, I’m sure you’ve already called me that. Probably from the other side of the bed.” She threw him a dazzling smile that said, “
Just kidding…but we could change that right now.
”

“Nice to meet you, Sabrina,” he lied, deliberately using the name she’d told him not to. “Who’s your friend?”

She seemed stumped for a minute, as if she couldn’t believe Cole was expressing an interest in someone other than herself. She was about to speak again, but a customer who’d been trying to flag her down since she’d started talking to Cole called out impatiently and quite adamantly, “Oh,
miss
. I’d like to place an order, please. If you can fit me into your busy social calendar.”

For a moment, Cole thought she was going to turn on the guy and tell him that no, as a matter of fact, she didn’t have room on her busy social calendar for him. Instead, with a rueful smile for Cole and a surprising amount of grace, she squirmed back down to the floor to perform the job she was hired to do. Something that left Cole free and clear—or, to put it in horseracing terms, fast and loose—to talk to Craggedy.