Next in line came the Scotch brigade—Rob Roy, Rusty Nail, Scotch-and-Water, and Dewar's-Straight-Up. And then, at the point where the bar began to curve around, seated in his usual spot … Dorsey bit back an involuntary—and very wistful—sigh.
Then came Oban-over-Ice.
Oban-over-Ice was, hands down, Dorsey's favorite of her regulars, which wasn't saying much, because she didn't like any of her regulars except for Oban-over-Ice. Still, she did like him—probably more than she should.
Outside Drake's, his name was Adam Darien, and she'd learned quite a bit about him over the course of her month-long employment at the club. He was, after all, in the bar more evenings than not, and he often ate his dinner seated right where he was now. They'd shared more than a few interesting and often animated conversations.
She knew that he was the editor-in-chief of Man's Life magazine, which, in her opinion was really far too elitist and sexist a publication for any self-respecting woman—rich or poor—to condone, but it did usually contain a very nice fiction piece, and once, she'd found a great recipe for a Manhattan in there, and the arts section was far superior to anything she found in any other publication. But other than that, the magazine was pretty much an affront to womanhood everywhere. Even if Janet Reno and Gloria Steinem had both given profiles in the magazine recently. Really good ones, too.
Dorsey also knew that Adam Darien had just recently purchased a new, jet-black, Porsche 911 cabriolet. She knew that, because the two of them had discussed at length the pros and cons of that car and the new Jaguar roadster. Mr. Darien had been leaning toward the Jag until Dorsey had assured him the Porsche was one fine piece of automotive machinery, and when you compared German and British engineering, well … say no more. Unless he was willing to import a mechanic named Nigel, he was much better off with the 911.
Had Mr. Darien been any other kind of man—one who wasn't incredibly handsome, successful, intelligent and self-aware—she might have thought his frequency at the club was a result of loneliness. But there was no way—no way—she would ever believe a man like him was lonely. Doubtless he simply enjoyed the camaraderie and excessive testosterone levels at Drake's. After all, he always left well before bedtime. Even if he didn't wear a wedding ring—something she just happened to notice one day when she hadn't been looking, honest—she was sure there was some woman, or perhaps women—he did rather seem that type—waiting for him at home.
But that was all beside the point.
Because Mr. Darien was, when all was said and done, a member of Drake's. He was a suit-and-tie-wearing, establishment-supporting, stock-and-bond-owning, woman-objectifying … man.
And anyway, regardless of how much she knew about him, she scarcely had time to think about him, had she? He only braved entry into her brain once or twice—or ten or twenty—times a day, and only during those few—or several—off moments when she had nothing else to think about. She especially didn't have time to think about him while she was here at Drake's, even if, every time she turned around, she saw him sitting there staring at her.
Like right now, for instance.
With those incredible brown eyes.
And that impudent little grin.
And that dark hair that would never quite stay tamed, as if he ran his fingers through it in exasperation constantly, hair that Dorsey always found herself wanting to reach out and ruffle herself. Over and over and over again. Preferably while both of them were somewhere other than Drake's. Somewhere alone. In the dark. Horizontal. And naked.
And then there was the way his jacket was always hanging on a nearby peg, and the way his vest was always unbuttoned, and the way his necktie was always askew, as if he only conformed to the suits because he had to, and if he had his choice, he'd much rather be wearing something else entirely—like maybe a sexy denim shirt and some tight Levi's or something. Or some sexy silk pajama bottoms with no tops or something. Or nothing at all or something.
Um, where was she?
Oh, yeah. She was thinking about how she never had time to think about Adam Darien—she was far too busy with … stuff. Besides, doing things like thinking about him, and, oh … imagining what he looked like naked would only make him that much harder to forget when the time came for Dorsey to leave her position here at Drake's. And the time would definitely come. In just a few months, too. So Mr. Darien would always remain on the fringes of her thoughts. And he would never, ever be naked when he was hanging around those fringes.
Well, okay, almost never.
Twisting the wedding band on her left hand, Dorsey covered the short distance between herself and the bar, trying to pretend that she didn't feel his gaze consuming her, noting that, in addition to her regular customers who had shown up early this cloudy, fallish Friday afternoon—one of whom, she couldn't quite help but note again was Mr. Darien—one of Edie's regulars was still hanging around.
Edie Mulholland was the daily lunchtime bartender at Drake's, and Straight-Shot-of-Stoli was the most regular of her regulars.
According to Edie, he came in every afternoon at two-thirty, and Dorsey had seen for herself how he stayed until a few minutes after she left for the day at four.
Had Dorsey been a more charitable woman, she would have assured herself that Straight-Shot-of-Stoli cared for Edie the way a man his age might care for one of his daughters. But even if he'd never made a pass at the other bartender, Dorsey was reasonably certain that Straight-Shot's intentions toward Edie were anything but honorable.
He looked to be in his mid-forties, something that would make him more than two decades older than Edie. But Dorsey had to grudgingly admit that he was a very
