Rafael's One Night Bombshell. Tina Beckett
“Temporary” was a state of being that Cassie knew how to rock. And she could at least blur the memory of what she’d seen tonight, even if she couldn’t blot it out entirely.
After that, she needed to find a new place to live.
She slung her purse over her shoulder as she reached her destination and parked her butt on the tall stool. Ron himself appeared in front of her, puffs of white hair and a pink Hawaiian print shirt making her smile.
Before he could even open his mouth to ask, she said, “I’ll have what he’s having.”
Where had that come from?
“Sure thing, chica.” As Ron reached behind the bar for a bottle, the stranger’s head swiveled toward her, his fingers still twirling the tiny glass. And those eyes... Straddling the line between brown and predatory, they caught at her, snatching away whatever clever quip she’d been getting ready to toss his way.
Clever? That was so not a word Cassie would use to describe herself.
Capable? Careful? Cautious?
Yep. Cs—all three of them. Only right now she was none of those things.
“Do you even know what I’m having?” He held his little glass up, the low lighting in the bar making the amber contents seem darker. More dangerous.
Or maybe that was the man himself.
“I’m sure I can handle whatever it is.”
The bartender set a matching shot glass in front of her. Suddenly she wasn’t quite sure she could handle it. But it was either slink off or gut it out. And Cassie was no quitter. Except when given no other choice.
She lifted her glass and clinked it against his, before putting it to her lips and chugging the contents down in one swallow.
There. As easy as taking medici—
Liquid fire consumed her throat, her abdomen suddenly spasming as the fumes sought escape. She forced her eyes to remain on his as he downed his own drink, somehow managing to suppress the cough building in her chest. Letting out a quick gust of air that she hoped would ease the pain, she thunked her glass down on the bar. Just like in the movies.
“Another?” Ron held up a half-empty bottle.
One corner of the stranger’s mouth curved as he continued to watch her, setting his own glass down with a mere whisper of sound. He knew, damn him. Knew that she was a lightweight as far as the drinking game went. Not that she would even try to outdo him. His last drink upped his total to four. She would be passed out on the polished surface of the bar before she got to three.
So she changed tack. “I’ll have a margarita this time around.”
Mad Ron was known around Miami for making the best in the area. And it was a drink she could sip—slowly—rather than slug.
“Rafe? What’ll you have?”
“I’ll have coffee. Black.”
What?
“Coming right up.”
Damn. She couldn’t even get a stranger to drink with her on this sorry-ass evening. But she did know the stranger’s name now. Not that it mattered.
She swiveled her barstool a little to the right to face him. “Too much for you?”
“I’ll let you know a little bit later.”
The air caught in her lungs.
Was he talking about the drinks? Her own head felt a little woozy, but she was pretty sure it had nothing to do with what she’d just drunk and everything to do with the man sitting beside her.
Well, why the hell not? Her fiancé had played the cheating game, why shouldn’t she?
Was it still considered cheating if the engagement was over?
It didn’t matter. She could consider this the denouement of that failed relationship.
Ron slid a glass toward her. The huge bowl was precariously perched on top of a glass stem, the lime expertly stabbed onto the salted rim.
Oh, my. She’d forgotten how ginormous these things were. Ron must have seen her indecision because he set Rafe’s coffee in front of him and cocked a brow at her. “Everything okay?”
“I think I’ve changed my mind. Could I have a coffee as well?”
“Sure thing, chica.” Ron gave her a wink, picked up her glass and called out to his customers. “Anyone want a margarita? On the house.”
Within seconds her drink had found a new home, and she had a steaming café con leche in its place. “Thanks.” Maybe the splash of milk would help cool the whiskey that was still sending flames darting through her stomach. Or was that warm licking sensation caused by something else entirely?
“So,” the stranger said, taking a drink of his coffee, “thanks to Ron, you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
And she didn’t want him to. Her thoughts whipped through a couple of sharp responses, rejecting each one. She was never going to see him again, so what did it matter what name she gave him?
“Bonnie.” She crossed her fingers beneath the bar, hoping her dearest friend would forgive her for pulling her name out of the hat.
Rafe took another sip, regarding her with inscrutable eyes. “You don’t look like a Bonnie.”
“No?” She swallowed hard. “What do I look like?”
“Like a beautiful woman who just got out of a painful relationship.”
Shock wheeled through her system. “Excuse me?”
How could he have known that? Or was it just some kind of pickup line?
His fingers moved to her left hand, which was lying flat on the bar, and slid up her ring finger, rubbing across the base of it. “The ring just came off. I saw you drop it in your purse right before you came over here. Unless you’re just looking for a good time. And you don’t seem like that kind of girl.”
This time she wasn’t going to lie. “I’m not. So what are you in here for?” She motioned toward the empty glasses. “Or do you simply get hammered every night?”
“Oh.” His thumb rubbed across her finger again, sending more heat shooting through her veins. “I am not hammered. Not by a long shot.”
The bartender knew his name, though, so he was a regular. She came in with friends from time to time, but not often enough for Ron to actually know her by name. Thank goodness. Otherwise he might just tell this man what it was. And she didn’t want that.
“Four whiskeys is a lot to drink at one time.”
“Maybe. But I’ve celebrated this day at Ron’s for the last eighteen years or so. I think I know my limit.”
Okay, she had no idea how to respond to that, since his voice hinted that the date didn’t hold good memories. Especially not if he spent the night getting drunk every year.
Death of a spouse? A child? Divorce?
Each option went through her head, but there was no way she could voice any of them aloud. The doctor in her came to the surface, however, and she couldn’t help but ask. “You don’t normally drive yourself home, do you?”
“No. I spend the night at a hotel just around the corner.”
She blinked. There was something about the way he said those words...
Oh.
“You’re not alone when you go there.”
“No.”
She glanced at the coffee mug in front of him. Why had he suddenly stopped drinking?
Maybe for the same reason she’d found her way to