The bartender handed him a water, and he took a grateful sip.
“So, you’re Richard. Richard what?” she asked.
The question seemed to catch him off guard. He straightened his tie. “Would you believe Smith?”
His question of an answer tipped her to annoyed. “Smith. You don’t say. What a coincidence, that’s my name too.”
“Really?”
She glared at him. “No.” Idiot.
“Too bad.” He sipped his remorse away. “Jaclyn Smith will forever be my favorite angel.”
Mine too. “What’s with the mystery, Mr. Smith?”
“I, um . . .”
Her silence spoke volumes while she waited for his response.
He shrugged, finally babbling out, “Well, I mean, you’re here late. Really late. And you must frequent this bar regularly enough, because the bartender knows what you drink. And by how this all went down, I guess . . .” He ran a finger along the smooth edge of the bar and sucked in a breath. “I’m just not sure if you’re, uh, a . . .”
She whipped her head toward him, her eyes blazing while he fumbled his explanation. “Oh my God. You think I’m a prostitute?”
More shrugging of his broad shoulders as he struggled to smile.
“Just to be clear, unlike me, I’m pretty sure a hooker would let anyone buy her a drink. In fact, the three of you would qualify under the call-girl definition of ‘the more the merrier.’”
Richard actually seemed to blush. “No, of course not. I never imagined you were, um, a working girl. It’s just that I’m, um—”
“Married?” she asked, disappointed. Though by the looks of his left hand, a ring had never graced his finger, as it was smooth. No signs of a tan line or indentation.
“No,” he said with a slight huff of indignation. “I’m definitely not married. Look, I’m just digging the hole deeper, and as cool as our little scam has been, I’ve got to work in a few hours. I need to get going. How can I discreetly hand you half of this wad of cash before I head out?”
Oh, I’m not done playing with you, Mr. Smith.
He’d barely tugged the smooth leather wallet from his back pocket before she slid her hand around his forearm. Hopping off her bar stool, she energetically yanked him off of his.
“Oh, I know a way. And bring your drink.”
With his newfound fortune, he left a C-note on the bar.
Leading him along, Jaclyn glued her body to his. It was nothing to fake a conversation punctuated with over-the-top giggles as they passed the two other men. Overtly flirting, she pressed her breasts against him as they strolled out to the lobby and toward the elevators. When the doors opened, she shoved herself against him, backing him inside.
The doors shut.
Three
Once the elevator doors closed, Jaclyn pressed the button for the twentieth floor of the West Tower, and promptly declawed herself from her full-on man attack.
Silence filled the small space as they were whisked upward. A chime announced their arrival. Richard stepped forward to exit, but she snatched his elbow, easing him back.
“Whoa there, cowboy.” Again, she pushed a button, this time hitting the one for eleven. The doors closed. “In case your friends check the elevator, I want them to think we’re going to my room. We’re going to keep an eye out until they leave. I’ve got a great spot for spying.”
“Somehow, I’m not surprised. And they’re not my friends.”
The doors opened to the famous eleventh floor “rooftop” pool. Touted in travel magazines as an architectural feat, the pool was nestled on a roof of a shorter tower, flanked by the taller twenty-story towers.
Round-the-clock access to the secluded venue offered a private oasis at the moment. Shimmers from the backlit water played perfectly against a backdrop of multicolored city lights and a warm, sweet-scented breeze.
They strolled to the far end of the inviting crystal-clear water, looking out over a glass half wall to the empty street below. Waiting on the undynamic duo’s departure was taking forever. With a half-hidden yawn, Jaclyn plucked Richard’s glass from his hand and poured his remaining bourbon into her lowball, then set his aside.
He smirked. “Sure, help yourself.”
She sipped. “The last thing we need is you choking to death because you can’t handle your booze. In a way, I’m saving your life.”
He leaned an elbow on the glass railing, fully facing her. “You know, there’s an old proverb that says if you save my life, you’re entrusted to care for it.”
Amused, she mirrored his stance. “Well, the way I heard it is if I save your life, you’re now indebted to me for the rest of yours.”
His eyes were pure playtime, teasing her with a knowing glance. “I’m actually prepared to accept your terms. Shall we put it in writing, back-of-the-napkin style, or are you as good as your word?”
“Oh, I’m so much better than my word.” She tasted her drink, swallowing and letting the heat of the bourbon slide slowly down her throat.
Their gazes locked, and seconds ticked by.
Is he going to kiss me or what?
“So,” Richard said, “are you sure they’re not guests? Maybe they’re going back to their rooms.” He looked at his watch. “And as much as I’d love to grab a poolside chaise and glamp, I really do need to head out soon.”
Guess not.
Lifting her gaze from his lips, she eyed him up and down. “I know they’re not guests like I know you’re not a guest, but for different reasons. Your pals were on an obvious late-night pub crawl, checking out the best Dallas bars have to offer, and the Joule is world renowned. They were wearing shirts with the same logo, for a convention that’s hosted at the Gaylord. They’ve been taking their time going from one place to another, not overly drunk, but also not exactly sober. Trust me, they’re not staying here.”
Richard looked over the edge, studying the architecture of the pool overhanging the sidewalk below. Distracted by the anti-gravity feat, he seemed totally engrossed in something other than the hot-and-bothered woman standing inches from him.
Jaclyn wasn’t sure he’d caught a single word she’d said until he asked, “What about me?” His dazzling blue gaze returned to her. “How do you know I’m not a guest?”
Echoes rose from the street below of men being a little too loud for two in the morning, and Richard and Jaclyn both popped their heads over the railing to see her prediction materialize. The men were leaving the hotel, still jovial, although they must have been kicked out after last call.
“See?” she said smugly. “Not guests.”
Nodding, he conceded her point. “You were right. But you’re probably used to that.”
They exchanged smiles that promised more, and started walking slowly back toward the elevator.
“And me?” he asked.
“You? Take a look at yourself,” she said, and he gave himself a quick once-over. “You’re still in a suit and tie, likely burning the midnight oil. Then you decided to get away, maybe walk away to refocus. But thinking you’d be back quickly, you didn’t bother changing into something casual, as if you’re used to wearing suits like a second skin. And, if you were a guest, you would have gone somewhere else. My hunch is that hitting a bar wasn’t exactly on your mind, because you don’t strike me as the type to drink your way through a puzzle. Well, that and I’ve seen you drink.”