My Guilty Pleasure. Jamie Denton AnnЧитать онлайн книгу.
where?” She sank the nine ball with a difficult bank shot.
“Miami.” He inclined his head toward the table. “Nice one.”
“Thanks.”
She slowly walked toward him, holding his gaze with every step. Damn if he didn’t have trouble remembering how to breathe. She bent forward to line up her next shot. Her slender fingers wrapped around the cue and she slowly slid the stick back and forth. His imagination headed south.
He cleared his throat.
She took aim, then missed. “So you get a sudden hankering for a long cold winter?”
He shrugged. “All that sunshine can wear on a guy after a while.” He hadn’t planned on returning to Boston, but when the offer from Samuel, Cyrus and Kane had come his way, he never once considered declining. Come Monday morning, he’d be the youngest partner on the letterhead of one of the city’s oldest and most prestigious firms, and heading up their litigation department. Not a bad gig for a guy like himself.
She made a sound that almost seemed like laughter. “Boston won’t disappoint you then.”
He leaned forward to line up his shot, then looked up at her. “So far it hasn’t.”
That wicked smile of hers returned. He shot and scratched.
She laughed again then effortlessly cleared the table, making one difficult play after the other until only two of his solid-colored balls and the eight ball remained. “In the side pocket.” She grazed the eight ball and sank it exactly where she’d called it.
“Thanks.” She scooped up her winnings and tucked the wad of cash into her back pocket. “Hello, Manolo,” she said, her grin widening. “Worthington is having a sale.”
“Play again?” he asked.
“Thanks, but no.” Her grin wavered slightly. “I really should be getting home. Maybe next time.”
She turned and walked away, heading toward the bar. He stared at the gentle sway of her hips in tight denim until his common sense took hold. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t let her get away just yet. He didn’t even know her name.
He caught up with her by the time she reached the bar. “You think you should be driving?” She hadn’t had a drink in at least ninety minutes. Her eyes weren’t glassy and her stride had been steady when she’d walked away from him. Honestly, he didn’t think driving under the influence was an issue at this point, but it was the best excuse he could come up with under pressure.
“Excuse me?”
He gave her his best winning smile. “Why don’t you let me buy you breakfast?”
“Thanks,” she said with a shake of her head, “but no. I’m fine.”
Yes, she was. Which was exactly his point. “There’s an all-night diner across the road. Just breakfast.”
She hesitated. He took that as a good sign in his favor.
“Coffee?” he offered.
“Maybe I could use some coffee.”
He smiled. “Good idea.”
“Hey, Mitch,” she called out to the bartender. “You want anything from the diner?”
Smart girl, Sebastian thought.
“No, I’m good,” the bartender answered, then looked him over and gave him a hard stare, leaving Sebastian with the distinct impression he’d suffer a severe pounding should anything happen to the blonde under his watch.
“TWO EGGS OVER EASY. Bacon, crisp. Rye toast,” Joey told the waitress.
“Pancakes and eggs for me,” her breakfast companion ordered. “With a side of sausage links.” He handed the waitress the menus.
Joey admired his long slender fingers and took a sip of hot coffee. “So, you have a name?”
He stirred cream and sugar into his own mug. “Sebastian.”
“First or last?”
“First. You?”
“Joey,” she said. Just Joey.
He set his spoon on the saucer. “I gotta ask. What’s a nice girl like you doing hanging out at a roadhouse like Rosalie’s?”
She hid a smile behind her mug. “What makes you think I’m a nice girl?”
“You made sure the bartender knew you were leaving with me,” he said, then took a sip of his coffee.
“Caution does not necessarily equate to being a nice girl.”
“You trying to convince me you’re a bad girl?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.” Maybe she’d take him home and screw his brains out. That ought to convince him.
The possibility intrigued her more than it should. Not that a tumble in the sack with him would be a hardship. Far from it. There wasn’t much about the man she didn’t find appealing. Even his arrogance was sexy.
He chuckled. “I think maybe not.”
She tried not to feel insulted. “You don’t know me.”
“I’d like to,” he said, then took another sip of his coffee. “Get to know you, I mean.”
And she’d like to get to know him. But then what?
The waitress returned with their meal, saving her from having to conjure up an answer. Still, she couldn’t help wondering how long she’d hold his interest. Until he discovered where she came from and became so intimidated by the Winfield name, and all that it implied, that he’d ditch her cold? He wouldn’t be the first guy scared off by her family’s wealth and reputation. The Winfield name was as old and prestigious as Massachusetts itself. Rumor had it they had roots as far back as the Mayflower. Thanks to her ancestors, and a ridiculous fortune made in the shipping business, she had more money in her trust fund than her grandchildren’s children would ever be able to spend.
Or maybe until he realized she wasn’t the clingy type and was perfectly content living alone? Or maybe until he learned that aside from her family, her career ranked at the top of her list of priorities?
“Are you allergic to cats?” she asked suddenly.
He slathered butter on his pancakes. “No. Do you like dogs?”
“Very much,” she said. Brooke was allergic, but Katie had recently acquired a cocker spaniel, which she’d taken to spoiling whenever she visited her sister.
“I know you like hard rock,” he said, pouring a generous amount of syrup over his pancakes.
She salted and peppered her eggs, then mixed them with her hash browns. “My tastes vary,” she admitted. She liked everything from hard rock to hip-hop to the stuff from the sixties and seventies her mother used to play so often, in addition to classical and opera. In fact, she was supposed to accompany her grandmother to a chamber music performance Sunday afternoon. “Let me guess, you’re a country boy at heart.”
He shook his head and his grin turned sheepish. “Motown. None of those CD remakes or compilations, either. Vinyl or nothing at all.”
She’d like to see him in nothing at all. “Temptations or Four Tops?” she asked, reining in those baser thoughts that could lead her straight to a broken heart.
“Temptations. Especially the earlier stuff before they cut David Ruffin loose.” He cut into a sausage link, then dragged it through the syrup pooling on his plate. “And before you ask, Smokey Robinson is a songwriting genius.”
“If we’re talking old school, I prefer Lennon and McCartney. Or Elton John and Bernie Taupin. But a man who knows his Motown…?” She plucked a strip of bacon from her plate. “Impressive.