Mistress of the Underground. Lisa Childs
not Ben,” he said, with a luminescent gleam in his big, brown eyes.
“Oh, you’re not?”
He shook his head. “Who was I last night?”
“Stranger in a bar,” she said, as if reading a role from a playbill.
“So today,” he said as he ran his fingertips across the granite again, “I’m the lonely bartender.”
Somehow she suspected “lonely” wasn’t part of the role he wanted to assume, but already part of who he was.
“So who am I?” she asked him.
“Last night you were the sexy bar owner.”
“Still am,” she quipped, no matter that no one—including him—thought she belonged at the club.
His mouth lifted into a little grin. “No, today you’re a patron who left her purse here and came back after hours to pick it up.”
“I have a feeling that my purse is not the only thing I’m supposed to pick up,” she said, her pulse quickening with excitement.
“I have your bag back here,” he said, lifting the hinged counter so she could join him, “behind the bar.”
She smiled now. “Did you get this scenario from a country song? I didn’t think you listened to country.”
“I listen to everything.”
Even her? She shook her head. No, she would have had to talk for him to listen; he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t shared all his feelings during their marriage. She hung on to her smile, with an effort. “I thought you were just into that boring elevator music.”
“Come here,” he urged her, “and I’ll show you how boring I am.”
Weren’t they fighting because he thought it was crazy that she’d bought the bar? She’d rather not remind him of their argument. Better to distract him or herself from her fear that he was right.
“You know you should be wearing the uniform,” she said as she stepped behind the bar and walked toward him. She’d love to see him in the black pants and a pleated tuxedo shirt.
“I already changed out of uniform,” he said, gesturing toward the black pants and sweater he wore. The ones that had lain on her office floor just hours before.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be wearing anything at all,” she suggested, reaching for the hem of his sweater. She dragged it up and over his head, tossing it onto the bar.
His chest was bare, except for the light mat of black hair covering the sculpted muscles. Despite his hectic schedule, he somehow found time to work out.
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