Colin.
He remained unscandalized. “You want to play poker or something?”
“Yeah, all right.” She mashed the cards into a messy pile for him to deal with, turning her attention to her food.
The next time one of the girls came up for a fresh drink, she loitered at the far end of the bar, drawing Colin away from the perceived competition. Libby watched the exchange with the detached curiosity of a research scientist. Which, as it happened, she was.
Colin knew how to get tips—which weren’t even compulsory in New Zealand—though he wasn’t aggressive with women. In fact he appeared to approach the whole dance rather lazily, but he was nonetheless in total control, his prowess made clear without a single openly flirtatious remark uttered or a physical boundary crossed. He knew how to talk in low, intimate, familiar tones, and how to lean on the bar and to drum his fingers across the wood in a way that could alter the rhythm of a woman’s heartbeat. He knew precisely how long to keep his hand on a glass before releasing it, the gesture unmistakable in its promise of pleasurable dominance.
Libby wondered if he’d slept with one or both of these girls, if they’d ever been upstairs to his flat on some other rainy, lonely Monday night and been shown an undoubtedly memorable time. She wondered for the first time where Colin’s scar had come from, and whether a woman had been involved then too.
Two uneventful hours later, however, Colin shouted, “Last call!” and the girls gathered their coats and bags and shuffled to the door.
Libby stayed perched at the bar, giving no indication that she was going anywhere this fine evening, thank-you-very-much. It earned her a pair of heated glares. It was an evil, satisfying deception to take part in. They didn’t need to know she was only dawdling because she had a crush on the bartender’s frigid older brother but was too chicken to be left alone with him.
Colin locked the door behind his thwarted seductresses.
“Make yourself useful and wipe the tables down, eh?” He tossed Libby a wet rag and pulled out a ledger. He counted the cash in the till and made a visual inventory of the bottles that lined the shelves behind him.
Sneaking a glance at him as she ran the cloth over the bar, Libby could admit that she saw the appeal. “Sorry if I ruined your chances for securing some enjoyable female company this evening, Tiger.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “And what do you think you are, then? I’ll be enjoying you silly in about ten minutes’ time.” He consulted a nonexistent wristwatch then turned back to the ledger.
“Oh really ?” Libby propped her fists on her hips and gave him a haughty look.
His voice went dark and husky. “Really.”
She threw the wet towel back at him. “You can think again, Romeo.”
“I can picture it now,” Colin murmured, staring transcendently into space.
She approached the bar and leaned on it, challenging. Colin turned and met her eyes with his own.
“Let me paint you a picture,” he said seductively, leaning closer.
Libby raised an eyebrow.
“You,” Colin drawled. “And me.” His tongue flirted with the edge of his mouth, one of Libby’s own favorite instruments of torture. “Sprawled on a ratty old couch, in the amorous glow of the telly. Glasses of ice water sweating in our hands. The salty, sensual oil of unevenly microwaved popcorn stinging our fingers. Hours and hours of Asian blokes from the seventies kicking the shit out of each other, and us, watching. You…and me…wearing nothing…but… our clothes .”
Libby snorted, amused and secretly relieved.
Colin grabbed her uninjured hand with a dramatic, fake-longing-filled gasp, and his eyes rolled up in ecstasy. “Oh God, I can go all night, can’t you, Libby?”
“Get off me,” she said, laughing, and wriggled her fingers out from between his.
“Hit that switch next to the steps.” Colin pointed to the door that led up to the flat,
He remained unscandalized. “You want to play poker or something?”
“Yeah, all right.” She mashed the cards into a messy pile for him to deal with, turning her attention to her food.
The next time one of the girls came up for a fresh drink, she loitered at the far end of the bar, drawing Colin away from the perceived competition. Libby watched the exchange with the detached curiosity of a research scientist. Which, as it happened, she was.
Colin knew how to get tips—which weren’t even compulsory in New Zealand—though he wasn’t aggressive with women. In fact he appeared to approach the whole dance rather lazily, but he was nonetheless in total control, his prowess made clear without a single openly flirtatious remark uttered or a physical boundary crossed. He knew how to talk in low, intimate, familiar tones, and how to lean on the bar and to drum his fingers across the wood in a way that could alter the rhythm of a woman’s heartbeat. He knew precisely how long to keep his hand on a glass before releasing it, the gesture unmistakable in its promise of pleasurable dominance.
Libby wondered if he’d slept with one or both of these girls, if they’d ever been upstairs to his flat on some other rainy, lonely Monday night and been shown an undoubtedly memorable time. She wondered for the first time where Colin’s scar had come from, and whether a woman had been involved then too.
Two uneventful hours later, however, Colin shouted, “Last call!” and the girls gathered their coats and bags and shuffled to the door.
Libby stayed perched at the bar, giving no indication that she was going anywhere this fine evening, thank-you-very-much. It earned her a pair of heated glares. It was an evil, satisfying deception to take part in. They didn’t need to know she was only dawdling because she had a crush on the bartender’s frigid older brother but was too chicken to be left alone with him.
Colin locked the door behind his thwarted seductresses.
“Make yourself useful and wipe the tables down, eh?” He tossed Libby a wet rag and pulled out a ledger. He counted the cash in the till and made a visual inventory of the bottles that lined the shelves behind him.
Sneaking a glance at him as she ran the cloth over the bar, Libby could admit that she saw the appeal. “Sorry if I ruined your chances for securing some enjoyable female company this evening, Tiger.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “And what do you think you are, then? I’ll be enjoying you silly in about ten minutes’ time.” He consulted a nonexistent wristwatch then turned back to the ledger.
“Oh really ?” Libby propped her fists on her hips and gave him a haughty look.
His voice went dark and husky. “Really.”
She threw the wet towel back at him. “You can think again, Romeo.”
“I can picture it now,” Colin murmured, staring transcendently into space.
She approached the bar and leaned on it, challenging. Colin turned and met her eyes with his own.
“Let me paint you a picture,” he said seductively, leaning closer.
Libby raised an eyebrow.
“You,” Colin drawled. “And me.” His tongue flirted with the edge of his mouth, one of Libby’s own favorite instruments of torture. “Sprawled on a ratty old couch, in the amorous glow of the telly. Glasses of ice water sweating in our hands. The salty, sensual oil of unevenly microwaved popcorn stinging our fingers. Hours and hours of Asian blokes from the seventies kicking the shit out of each other, and us, watching. You…and me…wearing nothing…but… our clothes .”
Libby snorted, amused and secretly relieved.
Colin grabbed her uninjured hand with a dramatic, fake-longing-filled gasp, and his eyes rolled up in ecstasy. “Oh God, I can go all night, can’t you, Libby?”
“Get off me,” she said, laughing, and wriggled her fingers out from between his.
“Hit that switch next to the steps.” Colin pointed to the door that led up to the flat,
Similar Books
