Mysterious Millionaire. Cassie Miles
the Denver house while Ben stayed in Seattle, where his business was based.
The final court date for their divorce was in a couple of weeks, and he’d gotten to the point where he would gladly relinquish all the cash and property she wanted. But not custody. He’d never give up one precious moment with his beautiful five-year-old daughter. Natalie was the one bright spot in his life.
“Ain’t telling you to get married,” Jerod said. “But it wouldn’t hurt to start dating. Weren’t you sitting next to some cute thing at dinner?”
“Not my type.”
The only woman at dinner who had appealed to him was Liz. When he’d stepped into that hallway and had seen Ramon crushing her against the wall, he’d wanted to kill that sleazy jerk for laying his hands on her. If she’d given the word, he would have happily dragged Ramon out the door and thrown him in the lake. But those weren’t Liz’s wishes. Instead of fawning, she’d coolly informed him that she could take care of herself.
He had no doubt that she could have handled the situation. If he hadn’t intruded, she probably would have broken both Ramon’s kneecaps and knocked out his front teeth. He grinned at his mental image of a karate queen with tangled hair and a prickly attitude. Definitely a woman who could kick ass.
“What you need,” his grandpa said, “is to get back on the horse. Sure, you got bucked off once. That don’t mean it’s time to hang up your spurs.”
“We’re still talking about women, right?”
“Women. Horses. Same basic rules apply.”
Ben chuckled. If he compared Liz to the old gray mare, she’d likely buck him through a plate-glass window. “Sleep well, Grandpa.”
The hallway on the upper floor was calm and quiet. This multi-level house had been well built and soundproofed with plenty of room for noisy family or guests. Ben was tempted to retire to his bedroom and forget about the party that was ongoing in the lounge, but Charlene and her friends were as irresponsible as two-year-olds. He needed to keep an eye on things. To quell fights if they got physical and make sure nobody ripped off their clothes and dived into the lake. For the rest of the night, Ben would be the self-appointed sheriff.
He descended to the main floor, where Rachel and the staff bustled around, cleaning up the dining room and kitchen. He paused to compliment her and the chef on a job well done.
Then he went downstairs into the noise. With the fully stocked bar, carefully placed lighting and a state-of-the-art sound system, the lounge easily duplicated the atmosphere of a small, private club for eight or nine of Charlene’s friends. He wasn’t sure how many, couldn’t be bothered to remember their names. The guys seemed to be varying shades of Ramon. Big talkers. Some with trust funds. One of them—Andy?—Arty?—wanted to sell him a used Mercedes. As for the women—these were high-maintenance babes—much like his estranged wife. Been there, done them.
He was glad to see Liz stationed behind the bar. She’d discarded her maid cap and rolled up the sleeves on her uniform. For an apron, she wore a black sweatshirt with the arms tied tightly around her tiny waist. It was a goofy outfit that she somehow made look sexy as she juggled a silver martini shaker, poured a drink and garnished it with two olives speared on a toothpick. She slid the glass across the bar to a young man with a shaved head, who sipped, gave her an approving nod and strolled back to the pool table.
Ben rested an elbow on the bar. “You’ve done this before.”
“I’m a lot better at mixing drinks than serving a formal dinner.”
“You did fine.”
“Tell that to my growling belly. So, what’ll you have?” Her nose crinkled when she grinned. “No, wait. Let me guess.”
“Another of your hidden talents? You’re psychic?”
“No, but I’m a pretty decent bartender. That means remembering what people drink.”
He gestured to the guy who was walking away. “How will you remember him?”
“Baldy likes olives. That’s easy.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “See the woman with black hair and a hateful attitude? She’s a Bloody Mary.”
And a potential problem. Bloody Mary looked like she might go ballistic. “What about Charlene?”
“Top-of-the-line champagne. Lots of fizz and bubbles. And I wouldn’t try to pull a substitute because she’d know the difference.”
“How about Ramon?”
“Vodka and orange juice, the typical screwdriver. But with 7-UP. I call it a screwup.”
“Appropriate,” he said. “If I hadn’t shown up when I did, what would have been your next move?”
“Groin.” She illustrated with an emphatic jab of her knee.
He winced in sympathetic pain. “I’m glad you’re here. If things start getting out of hand—”
“I’ve got your back.” Her green eyes studied him. “Now, let me figure out your drink. Something basic and manly. No frills. Outdoorsy.”
He liked that description. “Go on.”
“Something strong. Maybe tequila. Are you the kind of guy who likes to get blitzed?”
An odd question. Even more strange was the way her attitude shifted from playful to serious, as if probing for a deeper answer. “I’m not a drunk.”
She held out both her fists. “Suppose in my right hand, I had a magic pill that would give you energy. In my left is one that makes you sleep. Which would you choose?”
“An upper or a downer.” He closed his hands over both her fists and pulled them together. “Neither. I like to be in control at all times.”
Charlene bounced up beside them. “What’s going on here? Ben, are you propositioning the help?”
“Go away, Charlene.”
“You’re such a grump.” She made eye contact with Liz. “You’d be doing everybody a favor if you got this guy to lighten up. He really needs a woman.”
Liz pulled her hands away from him. “That’s not part of my job description.”
“Speaking of uptight jerks,” Charlene said, “Where are Patrice and Monte?”
“You don’t want to see my sister,” he advised.
“Oh, but I do. I want my chance to gloat.”
The background music got louder and a couple of the women started dancing. Charlene shimmied toward them. When Ben turned back toward the bar, he saw an opened bottle of dark beer. The logo showed a sailboat scudding in the wind. “Good choice, Liz. It’s my favorite drink.”
“I knew somebody liked it.” She poured the beer into a tall, frosted glass. “There were two six-packs in the fridge.”
He settled onto a bar stool and spent the rest of the evening talking to Liz. Usually Ben kept to himself, but she was a good listener. He opened up. Spoke of his dreams, his love of the ocean and the purity of sailing in a hand-crafted wooden boat with a streamlined hull and perfectly designed sail—not unlike the wing of an aircraft—to catch the wind and soar.
Her green eyes shone with a steady light, encouraging him to wax poetic about the lure of open sea. “In a different era, I could have been a captain on a tallship.”
“Or a pirate,” she said. “A renegade.”
“Aye, matey.”
Though he probed, she avoided saying much about herself, claiming that her dreams generally revolved around mundane issues like paying her rent and having groceries. “What about your family?” he asked.
“Raised by a single mother.” She shrugged.