Nobody Does It Better. Julie Kenner
closed her eyes and sighed. No matter how much she wanted him next to her, Alexander was not going to miraculously appear. Not in person. Not in the flesh.
Hadn’t she dated enough men to know that?
She took another sip of wine, then studied the deep red liquid. It was just as well, really. She knew exactly what she wanted out of life, had it all mapped out, in fact. Alexander was too suave, too cool, too dangerous to be part of the respectable suburban life she’d get around to eventually.
She twirled the stem of her wineglass between her fingers. True, there was a part of her—a tiny but persistent part—that prodded her to cut loose, to take a walk on the wild side. To get out there and squeeze the Charmin at least once.
She’d struggled hard to keep that part under control, and she didn’t intend to blow it. A man like Alexander would throw a real kink into her carefully thought out plans. So it was for the best that he’d never appeared on her doorstep.
At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.
Rachel leaned back in the booth and snorted. “Well, if you’re not waiting for an Alexander to sweep you off your feet, then what the devil are you waiting for?”
“Nothing. I date. I date nice men, the right kind of men.” Men who did absolutely nothing for her. No heart pounding. No toes curling. No…anything.
“The kind Daddy would approve of? Let me give you a clue, my friend. You date boring men. And you don’t even do that very often. Actually, considering the men I’ve seen you go out with, it’s just as well your diaphragm’s a little dusty.”
She glared at Rachel. “For your information, I don’t even own one.”
“Maybe you should. You need a little adventure in your life.”
Paris wasn’t about to confess that she’d been thinking almost that very thing. “I have adventure. I’m practically drowning in adventure.” What she really wanted was passion. Just one taste of the stomach-churning, knees-wobbling, lose-all-control kind of passion she imagined with Alexander. One moment of reality to fuel her imagination and tide her over for the rest of her life.
“You’ve got adventure, sure. But it’s in your head. I’m talking reality.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” Paris said, more harshly than she intended. “Could we get back on track? I didn’t force myself onto a plane, leave my goldfish with a neighbor, and come all the way from Texas for Introduction to Dating 101.” She took the last gulp of wine and leaned back, then saw the cute waiter out of the corner of her eye, staring right at her. And soaking up every word.
Great. Just great. When his smirk transformed into a full-blown smile, the heat in her cheeks rose in proportion to his expanding grin. Her stomach lurched as mortification swept over her. Half of her wanted to ask him out just to show Rachel up. Her more practical half wanted to scold him for eavesdropping on a rather embarrassing conversation.
She chose a middle ground. “Could you bring us some water?”
“Sure thing.” His deep voice held just enough of a New York accent to add flair without stealing attention from the rest of him. As he leaned over to clear their empty glasses, Paris inhaled his cinnamon-musk scent, a nice contrast to the smell of beer and tobacco that wafted through the pub. The dark stubble on his face contrasted with honey-colored waves to give him a wild, bohemian quality. His hair was the kind a woman’s fingers, and her kisses, could get lost in.
His profile danced on the edge of her memory, just inches out of reach. Why did he seem so familiar? She knew she’d never seen him before, yet his appearance called to her. His features were angular, with high cheekbones and a well-defined jawline. The tip of his nose bent just a little, as if broken in a reckless youth.
He moved away, weaving his way through the tables.
Then it hit her—that chiseled face, the sensual mouth, his bad-boy-playing-at-respectable air. Could it really be?
“Waiter!” she called, desperate for another look. When he turned and stepped into the light, Paris quelled a gasp. She’d been right. In her mind, she could picture every line, every angle, every contour of Alexander’s face. Except for the dark blond hair, this waiter could be Alexander’s twin.
“Miss?”
With a start, she realized she’d been staring, her mouth hanging open like an idiot. At least she’d refrained from drooling.
She grappled for something to say, then noticed the empty bowl that had earlier held cashews. “Um…could we also get something to nibble on?”
Her cute waiter nodded. “No problem.”
DEVIN O’MALLEY TRIED to get a grip on himself. He rarely noticed women. For years he’d been too immersed in his business to bother. Of course, that didn’t stop the women from noticing him, and if they made the first move, Devin had no qualms about reciprocating. He’d entertained plenty like the brunette named Rachel, in and out of his bed, usually converting their casual talk about sex into low-pitched moans and desperate pleas once the lights went out.
Yet he’d never once experienced such a tug of pleasure just from watching a woman like the petite blonde with the deep brown eyes. And it had been ages since he’d puzzled over how to ask a perfect stranger out on a date.
But he was wondering about how to ask this one.
Paris. The name seemed to fit, even though she lacked the exotic appearance he’d expect to accompany that name. She wasn’t a classic beauty. Each of her features, standing alone, boasted some flaw. Brown doe-eyes spaced a little too far apart, untamed eyebrows a shade darker than her neatly pinned golden curls, a nose that was just a little crooked, a too-small mouth that didn’t do justice to the perfectly shaped, full lips.
Empirically, her features were flawed. As a whole, her face was striking. It had certainly struck Devin. She was every fantasy he’d ever had rolled into one woman. And then some.
Her friend said she needed a man. Well, he intended to apply for the job.
“Pass me some nuts, would you, Jerry?” Devin asked as he slipped behind the mahogany and brass bar.
“We’re out. Want me to run to the back?”
“I’ll do it,” he said, actually grateful no one had bothered to stock the bar. He needed a few minutes to get his head in order. To plan his attack.
A large room with high ceilings and bare walls, the stockroom was a hodgepodge of electronic gadgetry and miscellaneous supplies. Devin found the cashews under a stack of misprinted menus and grabbed a box.
“Larry? Federal prosecutor Larry? He doesn’t have any magnetism. No one will buy that he’s Alexander.” Devin almost dropped his bundle. That smooth voice belonged to her.
“Well, I’ll be,” he mumbled. He’d forgotten that the room shared a thin wall with booth twelve.
“He’s perfectly fine,” Rachel replied.
“People have an image of Montgomery Alexander. Not just anyone can step into his shoes.”
Whoever this Alexander guy was, Paris sure seemed taken with him. The lucky bastard.
Devin took a deep breath. What the hell was he doing, eavesdropping on a woman he didn’t know and envying a man he’d never met? “Dev, you’re a basket case,” he muttered.
“You can say that again.”
Jerry’s whisper carried, and Devin spun around, a finger to his lips.
“Don’t worry,” Jerry assured. “The sound only comes in. Don’t ask me why. I just—”
Devin held up his hand. The women were talking again.
“So you’re okay with the idea?” Rachel asked. “All we have to do is find the right guy?”