Читать книгу Sleepless in Las Vegas - Colleen Collins, Colleen Collins - Страница 3

The scrape of bar-stool legs against the floor interrupted Drake’s thoughts

In the mirror behind the bar, he observed a young woman sitting next to him. Even in this dim lighting, her hair gleamed like metal. Dye job or a wig. She wore so much eye makeup he couldn’t tell the color of her eyes.

His gaze dropped to her top—what little there was of it. A flicker of heat leaped in his chest as he caught the outline of her breasts straining the red, white and blue material.

She looked like a Fourth of July celebration about to pop.

“Like my top?” she asked in a Southern drawl.

He picked up her signals more clearly than if she’d banged a gong in his ear. Just because he picked them up didn’t mean he had to respond. Nope. He’d mind his own business and ignore her.

“It goes with my skirt,” she continued as though it were a two-way conversation.

He knew better than to look, but it was like telling Bambi to stay out of the forest. The skirt was thigh high and red. Below it, shapely legs in fishnet stockings ended in a pair of black stiletto heels with some kind of symbol on the side.

“It’s a fleur de lis,” she explained, pointing at her shoe with a frosty-pink fingernail, “for my boys, the Saints.” She grinned so wide, he saw she had a slightly crooked front tooth, which almost gave her a sweet, naive quality.

Clunk.

He looked stupidly at his phone lying on the floor and wondered when he’d let go.