“Only most of the time.” She shrugged, then brushed some loose hair back from her forehead. “Fallout from my overachiever syndrome.”
“Something that runs in the family?”
She stepped away from the bar and laughed. “You are just not giving up, are you?”
“I never do. Not when there’s something I want.”
She stood there for a moment staring at him, her pulse quickening at the base of her throat. When she smiled, when she tilted her head to the side and grinned, he swore he felt the glass he was holding threaten to crack in his hand.
“Quentin,” she started, then paused. “Are you coming on to me?”
He couldn’t help the way his mouth crooked up on one side. “I’m doing my best.”
“Okay then.” She nodded. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“And now that you have?”
“I don’t know.” She gestured toward the other end of the bar. “I’m thinking about getting back to work. Quitting while I’m ahead and all that.”
Interesting. “How are you ahead?”
“Well, I haven’t had to mention anything about my three older brothers and how a year later I’m still waiting for one of them to come and drag me home by the hair.”
He thought of her hair loosened and draped over his skin, thought of her courage in the face of her family’s expectations, thought of the long, hard career road down which she wanted to travel.
And then he wondered why he was thinking about more than bedding her.
“You remind me a lot of a girl I knew in high school.” He shifted to sit more comfortably in his chair. “Her situation was different, her family nothing like yours. But she still had to make her way on her own.”
“And did she succeed?”
He smiled, thinking of his two friends from Johnson High in Austin, of Heidi Malone from the wrong side of the tracks who’d played sax and become the fifth member of his band, who was now an attorney defending women’s rights, thinking of her married now for six years to Ben Tannen.
“Oh, yeah.” Quentin’s smile widened. “She’s come a long way from the waif I knew her as then.”
“Really. So you have a thing for waifish schoolgirls, do you?”
He laughed aloud, the sound unfamiliar to his ears. He started to speak, was stopped by the movement of the chair beside his.
“I certainly hope he doesn’t, considering the wealth of experienced fish in the sea he has to choose from.”
Quentin turned into a cloud of perfume. The woman who’d sat beside him was gorgeous in that way of starlets, with perfect makeup and perfect hair, nails as bright as jewels and jewels as subtle as her plunging neckline.
She was most definitely on the make. And these days Quentin much preferred the thought of bedding tousled bartenders.
“Sweetie, would you get me a Cosmopolitan? Light on the cranberry.” The woman gave her order to Shandi, then dismissed her and turned his way. “You are buying tonight, aren’t you, hon? Or did I get all dressed up for nothing?”
Nothing was just about it. Not a twinge in his body. But he smiled because that’s what he did, and when Shandi returned with the woman’s Cosmo, he said, “Put it on my tab.”
YOU HAVE A THING FOR WAIFISH schoolgirls, do you?
Gah, had she actually asked him that? What was wrong with her? What was she thinking? Oh, wait. She wasn’t thinking. A big, fat problem that seemed to be worsening as the night grew long.
Show her a gorgeous man and for some ridiculous reason she lost every bit of her mind.
Here she was, telling Quentin all the things she didn’t want him to know—especially where she’d come from—giving him the ammunition he needed to deduce who she was. Who she wasn’t. Who she didn’t ever want to be.
And once he figured out all of that…
In the back room of the bar, Shandi rested against the wall next to the telephone and bulletin board, then beat her head against the surface almost hard enough to leave a dent.
Uh, a dent in the wall, not in her head. Her head was thick and indestructible, or so was the obvious conclusion, what with the way none of her lectures on what to say and what not to say had managed to sink in.
The phone rang in her ear. She jerked up the receiver more to kill the noise than because it was her job while Armand covered the bar. “Erotique. Shandi Fossey.”
“Shan, will you kill me if I bail on tomorrow night’s movie? Daddy called and insists I come for dinner, and there’s no way I can get back by eight. I’m going to spend the night and return Wednesday morning.”
Well, crud. Once again, April’s priorities and unbreakable family ties meant Shandi would be spending her night off scrambling to find a last-minute date. “Depends. Are you taking Evan with you?”
“Don’t be nuts. It’s a command performance. Family only. Some ridiculous emergency about Trevor being seen in public with Stefan Navarro.”
Shandi rolled her eyes. “I was wondering about that.”
“About what? My brother’s sexuality?”
“No. About whether or not you really considered Evan family.”
“Jeez, Shan. Give it a break, will you? Evan and I are fine. And I rather like having him here all to myself.”
Right. As long as you have him that way fully clothed, Shandi mused, then took it back.
Evan and April’s relationship was none of her business—even though they were her two very best friends and had been since that first day after classes last year when, bleary-eyed and suffering from information overload, she and April had shared a table in the Starbucks where Evan worked as a barista.
“Fine,” she grumbled. “I’ll go to the show by myself.”
“Well, yeah, you could.” April paused strategically. “But you don’t have to.”
“You’re not fixing me up, April. You’re not, you’re not, you’re not. Never again in this lifetime. Understand?” Life was too short to suffer through bad blind dates.
“Trust me. I know better. Besides, I don’t have to.” April paused. “Evan says you’ve got some guy at the hotel who’s dishy.”
Ah, yes. The 3:30 a.m. sacred hour of confession. “He is dishy, but I don’t have him. In fact, he’s currently at the bar being had by a Bambi in serious need of paint thinner. You should see the layers she’s troweled on.”
April snorted. “Not everyone can manage the fresh-faced farm-girl look, you know. You’ve pretty much cornered that market.”
“Uh-huh. And thanks for rubbing it in.” The reminder was hardly what Shandi needed when she was doing all she could to wipe away every trace of the farm.
She wanted to fit in, not stand out. To gain attention because of her skills, not her accent and the fact that, yes, she really had ridden in barrel-racing competitions.
To prove to her family that she damn well could make it on her own. To prove the same to herself.
This time April sighed. “You know, sweetie, you really do need to get over where you come from.”
“Oh, and you don’t let where you come from dictate your relationship with Evan?”
“Why? Has he