Fortune's Secret Heir. Allison LeighЧитать онлайн книгу.
to speak to the party’s hostess. One way or another. How he accomplished that...well, that was yet to be decided.
“Good evening, sir. What can I get you?”
He hadn’t been interested in a drink. Just the right spot. He glanced over his shoulder at the young woman behind the bar. She was dressed in the same nondescript tailored black sheath all the other female party attendants wore, yet he found his attention lingering on her. The display of bottles on the table behind her slender hips said there was no limit to what libation a person might desire.
He might as well fit in. There didn’t seem to be a guest there who didn’t have a glass in their hands, either obtained from one of the bars or from one of the attendants circulating through the room with gold trays and crystal flute glasses. “Dry Manhattan.”
He caught the quick dismay in her expression before she nodded. “Certainly.” She quickly turned to face the array of liquor bottles, her hand hovering but not exactly reaching.
She had auburn hair. And once upon a time he’d had a weakness for redheads.
But no more, he reminded himself. Plus, no matter how her curves filled the dress, she looked like she wasn’t even old enough to be serving alcohol, anyway. The dark red tresses were pulled back in a high, youthful ponytail that revealed the pale skin at her nape above the collarless black dress. She had a cluster of faint freckles there that struck him as ridiculously young.
And she was wearing a Mickey Mouse watch.
“Use the Bushmills,” he advised. “Two bottles to your right. There. The twenty-one year.” Some might consider using that fine a whiskey in a cocktail a waste, but Ben took perverse pleasure in doing so.
The bartender sent him a grateful smile and plucked the bottle from its neighbors, turning back to face him and the bar again. Her cheeks were a little flushed, her guileless blue eyes chagrined. “I don’t usually tend bar,” she admitted softly. “I was actually supposed to be doing valet tonight but the usual bartender had a family emergency. I’ve done all sorts of things for the temp agency, but this one is new territory. Please don’t hold that against anyone but me.”
It had been too long since he’d been amused by anything a female said, redheaded or not, and he leaned his elbow on the bar and watched her slender fingers uncap the bottle, trying not to imagine how their light touch would feel. “Like the host? Is she as terrifying as everyone claims?”
The girl’s eyes met his for a millisecond before flitting away. “I haven’t met her, actually. I just meant—” she lifted a shoulder left bare by her dress and the long tail of her ponytail slid behind her back “—you know. The catering company hired for the party.”
It was clear as day that she didn’t have a clue what to do with the whiskey. He could have taken pity and told her to just pour him a shot and be done with it. Whiskey like that was meant to be sipped, anyway. Perhaps with a drop of water, but nothing else. Or he could have changed his order to a beer; there was a healthy display of good labels on that score, too.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he assured her. He reached across the bar top and picked up a clean pilsner glass. “This’ll do to mix it in. Fill it with ice.”
Her fingers brushed his as she took the glass and she sucked in her full lower lip, leaning to one side to scoop ice from some hidden source beneath the bar into the glass. He dragged his eyes away from the smooth skin of her throat, revealed when her collar pulled slightly to one side.
“Now a shot of whiskey,” he directed when she straightened and looked expectantly at him again. “Half as much of vermouth. Dry.”
That bottle she clearly knew.
“Dash of bitters.” He pointed and she quickly reached.
“Now stir. Gently,” he added, reaching over to guide her hand. Her gaze met his again in a here-and-gone second and the long crystal stirrer she’d snatched up immediately slowed.
He smiled slightly and let go of her hand.
“I use a martini glass, right?”
“Right. Just strain out the ice.” He glanced over his shoulder, surveying the room quickly to verify he wasn’t missing anything or anyone. When he looked back, she was pouring the last drop into the glass. “And a lemon twist.”
She quickly dropped a curl of lemon rind inside the cocktail and set the glass atop a small napkin in front of him. “My first Manhattan.”
He lifted the glass. “Firsts are always memorable.”
Her eyes skated over his again and her cheeks went red. He reminded himself that she wasn’t responsible for the animosity he’d developed of late to women in general, and he lifted the glass in a silent toast before moving away a few feet. The spot he left was soon filled with more customers, most of whom didn’t request anything more complicated than wine. White. Red. An occasional gin and tonic. Even though he found himself lingering, she was more than capable of dealing with the requests.
Pretty soon, that line dwindled, too, and Ben’s Manhattan was rapidly becoming a memory. There was a quartet of musicians playing old standards and the small clusters of party guests were migrating, growing larger as more family connections were drawn and discovered.
His lips tightened and he turned away from the sight, his focus colliding with the pretty bartender, who jumped guiltily as if she’d been caught staring.
In appearance and apparent guilelessness, she seemed the antithesis of the women with whom he’d been dealing lately, and he exhaled, giving up the notion of disinterest. He finished off the drink and headed back to the bar.
Her eyes followed the glass when he set it, empty, in front of her. “Would you like another, sir?”
He had a company of people who called him “sir.” “Call me Ben.”
Her eyes flicked up to his and her lips pressed softly together.
“And no,” he answered. “But I’ll take a mineral water.”
She leaned sideways again and retrieved a small bottle, which she opened and poured the contents into a clean glass. She set it atop a fresh cocktail napkin and began sliding it toward him. “Firsts might be memorable, but I guess they’re not always successful.”
He wrapped his hand around the highball glass before she could withdraw her hand, and his fingers brushed hers. “The Manhattan was perfect,” he assured. “But I’m driving.” It was only an excuse. He wanted his head clear for an entirely different purpose.
“The party’s expected to last hours.”
He leaned his elbow on the bar again. “What else do you know about the party?”
Her gaze flicked past him, then back again. “Nothing, sir.”
“Ben,” he reminded her.
The corners of her full lips twitched. “Sir,” she repeated.
He felt his own lips twitch despite himself. “Name badges tonight seem reserved for guests. What’s your name?”
“Ella Thomas.”
“How old are you, Ella Thomas?”
Her full lips parted a little in apparent surprise. She had the faintest of spaces between her perfectly white two front teeth. It added a distinct interest to an already interesting face. Her brows were dark slashes above those translucent blue eyes; her nose was a little long and her smile was disproportionately wide.
Interesting. Mesmerizing.
If he’d been interested in being interested, of course.
“We’re not really supposed to fraternize with the guests,” she was saying.
“No problem.” He gestured at his name-tag-free lapel. “Not a guest. On the job.” He stuck his hand across the bar toward her.