No matter what his brother thought, Chase wasn’t a monk. He’d just kept his social life discreet in deference to his fatherlike status, and over the years, the habit stuck. Most recently he’d hooked up with Cindy Dixon, who lived in Hampshire, the next town over. They were friends who’d begun sleeping together when the whim struck, neither wanting to be indiscriminate in this day and age. The arrangement satisfied Chase physically, but no longer inspired him, so he wasn’t surprised when this sexy siren captured his attention.
Russet-colored hair cascaded past her shoulders in thick waves, making him itch to run his fingers through the unruly strands. Chase tightened his grip around the bottle and let out a slow groan. One glance and he wanted to know her. All of her.
“She’s a hot number, all right.” The bartender swiped the counter down with his rag. “Don’t think I’ve seen her in here before. I’d remember if I had.”
Chase wouldn’t be forgetting her anytime soon. The combination of sultry sexiness in her appearance and the inherent vulnerability in her expression as she settled in beside him made one heck of an impression.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, leaning across the expanse of the bar, too close in Chase’s biased opinion.
“Hmm.” She pursed her lips as she thought. “Scotch straight up.”
Chase cocked an eyebrow, surprised. He’d have voted for a cosmopolitan or a white-wine spritzer.
“You sure about that?” the bartender asked. “A big drink like that doesn’t mix well with a little thing like you.”
She squared her shoulders, clearly offended. “Last I heard, the customer was always right,” she said in a haughty tone more due a blue blood or politician than the sprite she appeared to be.
Chase grinned. Obviously, he could add gumption to her list of attributes.
“It’s your choice,” the bartender replied. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when I have to confiscate your car keys.”
“Then it’s a good thing I took the Metro,” she shot back.
“Point, to the lady.” Chase laughed.
“Thank you,” she said without bothering to look his way.
The bartender placed the glass filled with amber liquid in front of her. “Remember, I warned you.” He headed for a new round of customers at the end of the bar.
She stared at the contents a moment before lifting the glass for an experimental sniff and wrinkled her nose. “Still smells as vile as the last time I tasted it,” she said to herself.
Chase laughed. Again. Twice in a matter of minutes. A record for him. A testament to the staid life he lived and a tribute to this woman’s effect on him. He was beyond intrigued. “Then why order it?” he asked her.
“Heavy-duty stuff for a heavy-duty night.” She shrugged but didn’t lift her stare from the glass.
Chase wasn’t insulted. Her preoccupation was obvious and from her words, so was her pain.
“Bartender? Give me the same,” Chase said when the other man glanced over.
“What are you doing?” she asked, surprised.
“Joining you. It’s unhealthy to drink alone.” She looked his way at last and a burst of raw sexual energy exploded inside him, knocking him off balance.
Apparently, he wasn’t alone because gratitude and a hell of a lot more flickered in her golden gaze. He thought he’d been prepared, but it had been too damn long since he’d felt anything beyond the ordinary for any woman or any thing. Since stepping off the plane in D.C. a few short hours ago, the world had opened up for him, offering myriad possibilities. He wanted her to be one of them.
“Here you go, buddy.” The bartender slid the glass Chase’s way. “She just became your responsibility,” he said, and walked off to help the thickening crowd.
She flicked a long strand of copper hair back off her shoulder. “I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can.” He raised his glass, waiting while she did the same. “Cheers.”
She inclined her head. “Cheers. Wait. It’s proper to toast before drinking, and I always do the proper thing. To …” She paused, nibbling on her full lower lip.
His mouth watered, since he wanted nothing more than to suck that luscious, full pout into his mouth and taste her. “To?” he prompted.
“Life’s dirty secrets.” She clinked her glass against his.
The sound echoed inside him as did the raw anguish he sensed inside her. “I’m a good listener,” he said, then mentally kicked himself. He wasn’t looking to be her friend, when he’d rather be her lover.
Instant attraction, instant lust. He’d never experienced the surge quite so strongly before. He wasn’t about to walk away from it now. Not on the night that represented the beginning of his new life. To hell with his usual sense of caution. It was time to leave the noble Chase Chandler behind and act on his desires.
“Thanks, but … I’d rather not talk.” The flickering in her gaze told him she desired something more. Something from him.
Something he was all too willing to give.
* * *
Sloane stared into the stranger’s seductive blue eyes. A woman could get lost in that serious, intent gaze. The man had a hidden fire deep inside him, something akin to what burned inside her. Dying to escape. Tonight. And her stomach churned with possibilities.
She lifted the butterscotch-colored liquid to her lips, taking a sip, never breaking eye contact. Because she’d had scotch with her roommate at school, she was prepared for the distinctive taste and the burning sensation going down. Warmth flowed through her veins, due more to his stare than the fiery liquor.
He raised his glass and matched her drink, a sexy smile curving his lips. She’d said she didn’t want to talk. Obviously, he respected her wishes. She liked that about him.
His passionate stare held on to hers. She searched the blue depths as if they held the secrets to life. They didn’t, of course. Those were held by the adults who withheld information from their children. She didn’t doubt Michael Carlisle’s motive. It was hard to think of him as her father now. It was just as hard not to.
As any parent does, he’d always claimed to act in his girls’ best interests. But he’d screwed up this time because Sloane wasn’t one of his girls. And the decision not to tell her about her parentage shouldn’t have been his to make. She wondered what the media would think if they knew the perfect senator lived a lie.
She nearly laughed aloud. Sloane Carlisle lived a lie. Hell, Sloane was the lie. As a result, she didn’t know who she was or where she fit in. She’d never known. At least now she understood why.
Why she wanted to run free, when her family was content with the restrictive boundaries imposed by the press and, by this time tomorrow, the Secret Service.
Why she hated being forced to conform in dress and personality, while her stepmother, sisters, and father reveled in formal attire and convention.
Sloane was different because she wasn’t one of them. She didn’t know who she was and, for tonight, she didn’t care. There had always been a wanton woman inside her, and she wanted to set the long-repressed Sloane free.
“I’ve always thought talking’s overrated,” the stranger said at last.