Fast & Loose Elizabeth Bevarly (bts book recommendations .txt) 📖

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