Читать книгу Matchless Millionaires - Elizabeth Bevarly - Страница 11

That night, Ryan nursed a beer at the bar of the White Fir Tavern. As he took a swig of his drink, he looked around him morosely.

The White Fir was your typical rustic roadside bar, except it claimed to have been in existence since 1930. A steady trickle of upscale tourists through its doors lent it some pretension. The wood surface of the bar was so dark and beer stained, it was practically black. An unused pool table stood to one side, along with a fifties-style jukebox.

The place was about half-full, and between the steady drone of conversation and the wail of Chuck Berry, the waitstaff could be heard calling out orders to the short-order cook.

Ryan glanced behind him. The short blonde at the middle table looked familiar from the day he’d stomped out of Distressed Success. What had Kelly called her—Erica?

She sat now with a big, equally blond guy. A husband or boyfriend, he figured.

Given the way things had gone with Kelly earlier in the day, he wasn’t inclined to introduce himself to one of her friends.

In any case, Erica didn’t appear to recognize him. Or if she did, she preferred to keep her distance. Maybe Kelly had already confided in her and Erica was calling him ten kinds of rat under her breath.

He shook his head. If women just got over the loyalty thing, he thought wryly, they could rule the world.

On the other hand, his major problem appeared to be a lack of self-discipline. He couldn’t believe he’d let loose and kissed her.

He needed to have his head examined—or get laid. The second approach had its appeal, but the only woman he was interested in at the moment was Kelly and going to bed with her would only worsen the problem, not lessen it.

He wished to hell his month at the lodge were over. Of all the places in the world, Hunter would have to have chosen Kelly’s backyard to build his damn house, and he’d have to have chosen the month when she’d be working there, parading her tempting butt in his face.

He took another swig of his beer. He needed to stay away from her.

No more helping out with her decorating. It had been a mistake from the beginning to offer his assistance. He could see that now.

Too bad the only thing he could still see was the memory of Kelly lying across a bed like the greatest temptation.

“So how’s it going over there at the lodge?” Erica asked.

“Fine,” Kelly said curtly, setting down a lamp with more force than necessary.

It was Friday morning and they were straightening up inside Distressed Success in anticipation of opening the store at ten.

Erica quirked a brow. “Just ‘fine'?”

“He’s a pain in the butt,” she blurted. There was no need for her to explain who he was.

Erica laughed. “I thought he was helping you.”

“He is.”

Beside her, Erica stopped setting out new inventory and searched her face. “And?” “Yesterday, he kissed me.” Erica’s eyes widened, then she grinned. “I guess he’s taken to heart the saying about loving your enemy.”

Kelly arched a brow.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?” Erica asked.

“This situation is not funny.” She’d been brooding all last night over how she was going to face Ryan again. How was she ever going to be able to work at the lodge anymore?

Erica pretended to consider. “Let’s see … wealthy, gorgeous guy puts the moves on you.” She nodded knowingly. “Yup, definitely not funny.”

“Afterward, he regretted it,” she said in a rush, reliving the moment. “He couldn’t believe he’d committed the unpardonable sin of being attracted to a Hartley. I guess the parallels to his father and to Webb’s affair with Brenda were too much for him.”

“Jerk,” Erica agreed cheerfully. “I should tell you some of the insensitive things Greg said to me when I first met him.”

Kelly frowned. “Are you defending Ryan Sperling?”

“No,” Erica responded. “He’s an arrogant jerk who deserves to be taken down a peg.”

“Exactly.”

“Still,” Erica said, tilting her head, “you haven’t told me how you felt when he kissed you.”

“I—”

The truth was … the truth was, it had been wonderful. She’d felt dizzy with sensation. Aloud, she said, “Does it matter? It ended badly.”

“Repressed sexual desire,” Erica responded knowingly. “Ryan slipped the leash yesterday and he’s pissed off. Still, it’s not good to repress emotion.”

Kelly sighed impatiently. Sometimes she forgot that she and Erica had bonded over the fact they were both the children of free spirits. Erica was the youngest child of 1960s flower children who’d spent time in Haight-Ashbury, and she … well, she was the daughter of Brenda Hartley.

“Ryan’s not repressing anything,” Kelly replied. “It was just a kiss. Unplanned and spur-of-the-moment.” And out of control. “I’ve been at the lodge all week and he’s helped me out. That’s it. In the evenings, he takes himself off to who-knows-where.”

“The White Fir Tavern,” Erica said.

Kelly looked at her blankly. “What? How do you know that?”

“It’s where I meet Greg after work so we can drive home together. Greg and I have seen Ryan eating dinner or having a drink at the bar a couple of nights this week.”

So that was where Ryan went when he left the lodge alongside her in the evenings. She’d wondered where he was going, even though she’d told herself not to.

“Both times there’ve been women hitting on him, too,” Erica supplied.

She felt a stab of jealousy.

Stop it, stop it, stop it, she told herself.

Still, she steamed over Ryan’s double standard. Apparently, he was willing to paint her as a wanton hussy while he hung out with the swinging singles crowd at the White Fir Tavern.

She, meanwhile, had spent her evenings the way she usually did—quietly at home, alone. Often, she was simply trying to catch up on billing and other correspondence for Distressed Success.

Erica shrugged. “You’d think Ryan would expect to see you there, offering lap dances to the male patrons, from the things he’s said to you.”

“Yes,” she mused, “he would, wouldn’t he?”

This wasn’t the smartest idea she’d ever had, Kelly conceded.

Still, now that she was here, she had no choice but to brazen it out.

Inside the White Fir Tavern, she spotted Erica and Greg sharing a table near the center of the pub.

The second thing she noticed was Ryan, sitting at the bar holding a beer, turned mostly away from her and the entrance.

Kelly noticed Erica’s eyes widen when she saw her.

She’d told her assistant to go on home, since she just needed to finish closing up shop for the day. Instead, she’d gone to the back of the store and changed clothes before coming on over to the White Fir Tavern herself.

She knew Erica and Greg would be there, maybe sharing a quick drink or some finger food before heading home to the kids and relieving the babysitter, who happened to be Erica’s mother.

Of course, the other person Kelly knew she’d find at the White Fir Tavern was Ryan.

But as she moved toward Erica’s table, she refused to look around because she didn’t want to lose her nerve.

And judging from the look on Erica’s face, Kelly knew exactly how she must appear. Her whole outfit begged for attention, from the bronze halter top to the black skirt and three-inch spike heels.

She got plenty of looks from the male patrons—admiring, appreciative and lustful.

As she approached Erica, Greg turned around, too, and his arrested expression put both courage and fear in Kelly’s step, since it was probably a good indication of what Ryan’s reaction would be.

“Hi,” Kelly said brightly, stopping at their table.

“What are you doing?” Erica asked in a low voice.

“Just what we discussed,” she responded. “Living up to what’s expected of me.”

Greg looked from Kelly to his wife. “Anyone care to fill me in?”

Erica nodded her head toward the bar. “It’s about the guy over there who’s staying at the lodge this month while Kelly is decorating. Ryan Almighty Sperling. He thinks Kelly is a—” she paused and threw Kelly an apologetic look “—slut. Kelly has taken it into her head to make a point.”

Kelly watched as Greg looked up at her. “Well, I’d say she made it, all right.” His glance moved beyond her, and his lips twitched. “And to the guy at the bar, too.”

“Good,” she said emphatically, though she felt the hairs at the back of her neck prick. “I’m going to get myself a drink.”

She sauntered to the bar, taking care not to look directly at Ryan, though she could sense the heat of his gaze.

“Jack and diet,” she instructed the White Fir Tavern’s bartender, a genial-looking man in his sixties.

The bartender’s eyes crinkled and he set down a napkin before her. “Coming right up. Lady knows what she wants.”

She smiled. “Today I do. Thank you.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ryan said roughly.

She took her time turning to face him.

His expression was grim as his eyes raked her, pausing at her cleavage, where her breasts threatened to spill from the restraint of her halter top.

“What am I doing here?” she challenged. “I thought you were the newcomer.”

His lips thinned. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m acting the way you expect me to,” she said with defiance. “Isn’t this where you thought I’d be?”

Given his opinion of Hartleys, he should think she’d fit right in here among the women hanging out at the White Fir Tavern—and pawing him, if Erica was to be believed.

The bartender set her drink down before her and she picked it up and took a sip, scanning the room. More than a few men continued to look her way—and enjoy.

Ryan threw some bills down on the counter and said grimly, “I’m settling the tab for both of us.”

Kelly threw him a flirtatious look, then turned to walk away.

Without invitation, Ryan followed.

She stopped at her table and gestured at Erica and Greg. “Have you met my friends? Erica and Greg Barnes—” she waved a negligent hand in Ryan’s direction “—this is Ryan Sperling.”

Erica smiled and Ryan and Greg shook hands.

She and Ryan sat down at the small round table.

Erica turned to Ryan. “So, Kelly mentioned you’re staying at the lodge while she’s decorating.”

“Yes, I am.” Ryan shot Kelly a look, but she refused to turn his way. “Just for the month.”

“How do you like Tahoe?” Greg asked.

“I haven’t been here in several years,” Ryan responded, shooting her another look. “It’s interesting coming back. Some things have changed and others are really familiar.”

While Erica and Greg continued to make desultory conversation with Ryan about the local area, the atmosphere at the table continued to carry an undercurrent of tension.

After some time, a young waitress in a low-cut top came around to take an order of drinks. The waitress smiled invitingly at Ryan, who looked as if he didn’t mind the attention, and Kelly thought sourly that bare boobs were apparently acceptable on anyone not named Hartley. She put in an order for a green-apple martini—one of Brenda’s favorites. After that, she remained determinedly distracted, smiling an invitation at the men who happened to look her way.

Eventually, though, Erica and Greg announced they had to get back to the kids.

When everyone rose from the table, Erica leaned close. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Kelly smiled reassuringly. “I’m having the time of my life, can’t you tell?”

With a look of semiserious warning, Erica turned toward the door and Kelly took the opportunity to walk back to the bar and settle herself on a stool, leaving Ryan alone at the table.

Ryan’s presence had been keeping men away, she thought irritably, and it was time she did something about it.

After she’d ordered another fabulous martini— why hadn’t she discovered them earlier in her life?—she smiled at the attractive man sitting next to her. She’d noticed he’d looked her way occasionally since he’d walked into the bar fifteen minutes ago, and now she met those looks straight on.

He looked to be around thirty, with sandy-blond hair and blue eyes. If it had been wintertime, she would have said he was a ski bum, drawn to the slopes nearby. Tahoe attracted those with money to burn to its slopes, lake and nearby casinos.

“Buy you a drink?” he offered.

She smiled back. “Thank you.” Then she leaned closer, conspiratorially. “You’re more likable than the other guy who offered to buy me a drink tonight.”

She used the term offered loosely. Ryan, in typical high-handed fashion, had announced he was settling the bill and that was that.

The man next to her smiled back. “I noticed you the minute I walked in.”

She learned his name was Tate and he was another money-to-burn fun seeker vacationing in Tahoe.

All the while, however, she could feel Ryan’s eyes boring into the back of her head.

She took another sip of her drink, her third, and thought she had a nice little buzz going.

She cast a sidelong look at Tate, then one at Ryan, who still sat sullenly, beer in front of him, at the table they’d shared with Erica and Greg.

The contrast between the two men couldn’t have been more apparent. One was a blond thrill seeker, the other a dark angel with a mission. And the more she talked and flirted with Tate, the more she thought she preferred the former.

She smiled languidly at her bar buddy. He was a nice man, she decided with a warm rush. He was full of effusive compliments that bolstered her confidence, unlike another man she could name.

She leaned in, resting her hand on Tate’s arm.

Ryan’s jaw hardened.

She was tipsy and getting more inebriated by the minute.

Of course, the smooth-talking charmer Kelly was flirting with was enjoying every second of it. Likely, he was waiting for the moment when she was so far gone he could convince her to head home to bed with him.

On top of it all, the guy had thrown him a couple of amused looks, as if he knew he was an interloper and was enjoying the fact.

Ryan’s hand flexed on his drink. He itched to slug Prince Charming.

He knew the type. Growing up under Webb Sperling’s roof had taught him to identify it.

He told himself he didn’t care, but then Kelly leaned toward the guy, laughing, her eyes too bright, and Ryan downed the last of his drink and rose.

As he walked toward the bar, he told himself he was just irritated this was the thanks he got for toiling for her all week.

“Are you here with someone?” Charming said to Kelly, noting his approach.

“No—”

“Yes,” Ryan cut in, “she’s with me.” Kelly swung around. “No, I’m not.” She looked beyond him. “Where are Erica and Greg?” “They left,” he responded flatly.

“Oh, right.”

He looked at her closely. She’d clearly passed tipsy and was well on her way to ditsy.

He turned then and sized up the guy she was with.

There was a reason, he thought, that the initials for Prince Charming were P. C. The guy looked as if he never put a foot wrong—as if he knew exactly how to ingratiate himself with women.

“Tate Henderson,” the guy said, offering his hand.

“Ryan Sperling,” he responded, ignoring the hand.

Tate’s face registered surprise. “Ryan Sperling? The guy behind El Ray Technology?”

“None other,” he responded curtly.

Tate, however, became more animated. “I’ve heard of you. You’re a legend in the cable world, not to mention a favorite on Wall Street. Those shares you offered—“

Kelly stifled a yawn with her hand.

Ryan glanced at her. He was putting a damper on her tête-à-tête with Tate and she clearly wasn’t happy about it.

Ryan didn’t mind invoking his wealth and power when it suited his purposes, and now definitely suited his purposes.

Ryan signaled the bartender and leaned forward, wedging himself between Tate and Kelly to order another drink, tonic water that he intended to sip while he kept an eye on Kelly’s Brenda Hartley impersonation.

Turning back after he’d ordered, he took the opportunity to murmur to Tate, “Sweetness is on her way to Happyland. I’m here to make sure she gets home safely—and alone.”

Tate raised his eyebrows. “What’s she to you?”

“There’s a family connection.”

The other man’s lips quirked up. “It’s always something like that.”

Tate downed the rest of his drink, then leaned back to reach into the pocket of his jeans.

“Leave it,” Ryan said. “I’ll settle the tab.”

Tate gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and slid off his bar stool as Ryan stepped back from the bar.

Kelly frowned. “Where are you going?”

“It’s been a pleasure, sweetness,” Tate responded, tossing an amused look at Ryan.

Kelly’s frowned deepened. “You’re leaving?”

Tate glanced at Ryan. “I’d ask him.”

Ryan and Kelly both watched as Tate moved off toward the door, then Kelly swung to face Ryan.

“You chased him off,” she accused.

“No chasing was involved.”

“Thanks a lot,” she muttered. “It’s none of your business.”

She took another swallow of her drink, then looked surprised when she came up short.

Ryan watched as she signaled the bartender.

“Don’t you think you should go easy?” he asked.

“I’m not talking to you.”

He sighed and settled down on the bar stool beside her, opposite the one where Tate had been sitting. Clearly, she wasn’t going to make this simple.

“If you’re looking for some action, why don’t you go after the guy you really want?” he challenged.

She surveyed him. “I don’t want you.”

He arched a brow. “That wasn’t the case when you were moaning in my arms.”

Her lips pursed. “Go away.”

“Can’t. That option isn’t available to you.”

They sat without talking for close to an hour. She made vain attempts to flirt with other men, but Ryan knew his presence—like a dragon at the gate—would keep them away.

He’d have to put a stop to this at some point soon. She was obviously a drinking lightweight and, despite the sex-on-heels outfit, she seemed unaccustomed to the bar scene.

Finally he watched as she finished her drink and tossed a look his way. He looked back at her.

“You’re cute, you know?” she said, her voice a little slurred.

He arched an eyebrow. “Some have said so.”

Now this was an interesting turn in the conversation.

She tilted her head and touched his hair. “You’ve got wonderfully thick, dark hair.”

He stiffened at her touch, and want shot through him.

“Such deep, dark eyes.” She sighed, then pronounced, “Mysterious.”

She looked back at his hair and said sadly, “You’d have beautiful hair if you kept it longer than almost military length.”

An unbidden smile tugged at his lips. Nobody used a soft, frilly word like beautiful for him. And though he knew it was the alcohol talking, he felt his body grow taut in response.

She leaned toward him but, when it seemed as if she was about to lose her balance, his hand shot out to steady her, clamping down on her thigh—and staying there.

They both looked down, then she looked up and met his gaze.

“Nice hands, too,” she said huskily.

He could see the lovely rays of golden-brown in her hazel eyes and his hand tightened on her leg.

Then he caught himself. He wasn’t here so she could hit on him. He was here so he knew she got home okay.

“Let’s go,” he said.

She sat back. “Go?” she echoed. “Well, that’s direct.”

“You’re slurring your words.” He called over the bartender, then covered their tab plus a hefty tip.

She hopped off the bench, showing off mile-long legs and he sent up a prayer for resistance he didn’t have.

Then, because she teetered on her heels, he took her arm. And when that didn’t seem to do the trick, he bent in one quick motion and swung her into his arms.

She gasped and he could feel every luscious curve of her pressed into him.

He moved toward the front door, and one of the other patrons opened it for him.

He glanced down at her as he walked over the gravel drive to his car. “You know,” he said wryly, “I think I like you better drunk.”

“You know, I think I like you better when I’m drunk.” She frowned, concentrating. “Wait. Did I say that right?”

He smiled. “It came out okay.”

She looked at his car. “A black Mercedes. I wasn’t surprised you drive a Mercedes. You’ve always had money.”

He ignored the comment about money. Dangerous territory, he decided, right before he set her down—against the car, just in case.

He got the front passenger door open. “In you go.”

She looked around, perplexed. “Where’s my car?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re in no shape to drive.”

“Hmm … I guess I agree?”

Then, because she chose to just stand there and he was getting impatient, he picked her up and put her in the front seat.

He reached across her for the seat belt and strapped her in, all the while brushing against her, picking up her scent and testing his endurance even more.

“What’s the perfume you’re wearing?” he asked roughly.

She smiled. “Sin.”

“Of course.”

He closed the passenger door and went around the front of the car.

On the drive over to the lodge, she was chatty. She yawned a few times, too, tiredness winning out over the alcohol.

“You’re not as bad as you seem,” she observed after an interlude.

Her words came out sleepy, and he glanced at her, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. She was striving to keep her eyes open.

“You’re doing a good deed by staying at the lodge. Hunter Palmer was your friend and you’ll be helping sick people.”

“It’s my good deed for the decade,” he disavowed. “I’m as low and slimy as you think.”

If she was calling even him nice, she must really be tired or wasted or both.