“Leave it to me.” Carson’s soft breath tickled his cheek. “I will make this work.”
Jake wasn’t sure that he could.
Chapter Two
Glancing at the clock over the bartender’s head, Bree sighed and tried not to hobble in her black stiletto patent leather boots. It was damned difficult, though, and she leaned into the bar in an attempt to take the pressure off the balls of her feet. She sat her empty tray down on the counter. “I need a Vodka Collins, a Mojito with light ice, straight bourbon, and something fruity. She doesn’t care what it is as long as it has pineapple.”
The bartender-his name was Ted, she thought-snickered and started on the drinks. Turning her back to him, she glanced out over the party crowd. Her earlier thoughts that the party wouldn’t heat up until ten o’clock were on track. Even though the crowd was smaller than anticipated, and rather sophisticated and artsy, they knew how to throw down a good time.
She was ready to go home.
“How you doing?” Ginger tap-danced her way up to the bar. “Isn’t this exciting?” She smiled broadly, tossing her amber locks over her shoulder. Sidling closer, she lowered her voice and said, “How are the tips? I think I’ve tucked minimum of five hundred in my bra. Hell, we are going to have a pile of money to give to the shelter.”
Bree glanced to Ginger’s chest. “You look lopsided. Your right tit is lumpy.”
Slapping her tray on the bar, she did a quick adjustment. “Look at this place, Bree. My God! I wish we could land a sale like this. They just bought it, I heard. I’m thinking close to a mil. What do you think?”
Bree broke her gaze from Ginger and perused the room. A harmony of party sounds swirled around them-a classy jazz tune laid a nice bass level to the cacophony; people talking and bursts of laughter balanced the treble. The people were a trip. Dressed in all kinds of couture, from vintage eclectic, to Goth Christmas, to diamonds and black tie, there was an air of sophisticated funk about the room.
But Bree was only in tune with the home. Floor to ceiling windows faced the view of the mountains and the twinkling valley lights below. The great room was large; the bar she stood at was a permanent fixture. Solid oak. Wood beams crisscrossed the ceiling; others stood as pillars throughout the room, lending a rustic, Southwest feel. The interior walls were stucco; the floors terra cotta tile. The kitchen behind her was magnificent-she’d stuck her head in there earlier in the evening-complete with state-of-the art stainless everything.
“It’s all custom. Fixtures. Woodwork. Don’t you love those built-ins over there? And what about that stained glass sky light. Look at that fireplace, Bree. Looks like red rock stone. Fabulous. Four bedrooms and baths. A spa downstairs. Indoor pool. A guest casita outside…
“One mil, eight hundred thousand.” Bree uttered her prediction while Ginger continued to spout the home’s assets.
“Actually, we got it for a steal at one-point-two.”
Both women turned. Bree gasped at the sight of the man standing immediately behind them, leaning into the bar. The color of his sparkling eyes rivaled the most clear blue turquoise she’d ever seen. His chiseled features forced her to catch a breath. It was difficult to immediately discern whether he was Anglo or Native…probably bi- racial. His complexion was much darker than hers; his semi-short, light brown hair, deliciously unkempt.
What a beautiful man.
And there was something slightly familiar about him.
Looking anywhere but straight into his face, Bree acted nonchalant. “You’re right. That price was a steal.”
“We know.”
The man pushed away from the bar and held out a hand to Bree. “Carson Graham. And you are?”
“The hired help.”
Ginger poked her elbow in her side, and Bree jumped. She took Carson’s hand and shook it. “I’m Bree, and she’s Ginger.”
Carson snickered. “Bree?”
“Yeah. Like the cheese.”
The right corner of his mouth stayed in smile-mode.
“And she’s Ginger, like the cookie.”
Carson laughed out loud.
The bartender set the last of her drinks on her tray. Squeezing between Carson and Ginger, she smiled back and said, “And I have drinks to deliver. Nice to meet you.”
Her fumbling fingers grasped the tray and in that second, she realized she was trembling. Not since she’d broken up with Sam a couple of months ago, had she realized how much she missed being close to a man.
She loved men.
Men.
Plural.
And that was the trouble. The men she dated always seemed to want some sort of commitment. It was difficult for her to settle. And sooner or later, bored and unsatisfied, she strayed…
Carson stopped her with a hand to her forearm. She rested the tray against the bar and once more, peered into his eyes. “Have we met?” he queried.
Confused, unsure why he seemed so familiar, she shook her head. “Um, earlier tonight? No.”
Cocking his head to one side, he narrowed his gaze and studied her. “No. Prior to tonight. I never forget a face.” He wriggled his fingers, as if he was itching to touch her. “Or a profile.” Then he did just that, touched her. Reaching out, he grazed a soft, fingertip stroke across her cheekbone and then traced the outline of her jaw, as if he were rendering a line drawing of her face. An unexpected shiver crannied through her and sped toward her center. His touch had instantly aroused her and it came from out of nowhere. “I’m an artist,” he continued, “and I never forget a contour…”
Bree huffed out a quick breath, trying to quell the short pants that wanted to escape her mouth. “I’m not sure, Carson. I-”
Someone bumped into her from behind, pushing her closer into him. He steadied her against his chest-which did absolutely nothing to quell her arousal, but served to completely stimulate it. She inhaled, deep, and took in the sharp spice of his aftershave, and nearly melted.
Her face was in his neck. “I should deliver those drinks,” she whispered.
Steadying her in front of him, Carson stared deep into her eyes, then lifted the tray and put it in her hands. “Go deliver your drinks, Ms. Santa. I’m not going anywhere.”
She hesitated, and did a slow turn, as Carson’s hands dropped to her hips and his fingertips grazed the hem of her skirt.
And the cheeks of her ass.
The action sent her sex into a decadent pucker of desire.
It was another hour before things slowed down enough to where Bree could catch her breath and a couple of sideways glances at Carson. Each time their eyes met, a little thrill raced through her. It was approaching midnight, the appointed time of the charity auction, and the remaining crowd of about forty people were either settling into sofas and overstuffed chairs, drinks in hand, or milling about aimlessly chatting with one another.
Carson Graham, at the moment, was no where to be found.
She snickered to herself. Graham. Like the cracker.
“What’s so funny?”
Ted the bartender busied himself cleaning up behind the bar. “Just thought of something,” she told him. “No big deal. Hey, you need some help?”
“Yeah.” He was loading some dirty glasses into a plastic carrier. “Mind taking some of these back to the kitchen? I need to start a dishwasher load. Somehow I became bartender and chief bottle washer once the weather turned nasty.”
