Beyond Breathless. Kathleen O'Reilly
a swaying finger in the groom-to-be’s direction, some doofus in a brown shirt that Jeff had called Peter when they had first come in. Said victim was currently enjoying a lap dance from Trixie, Dixie, something “ixie.”
“Andrew, how old are you?”
“Thirty-three, no, thirty-six. Definitely thirty-six.”
His brother stared balefully. “And when’s the last time you got laid.”
Andrew didn’t hesitate to reply. “Eleven-seventeen a.m. On the Connecticut turnpike.”
And for once, Jeff Brooks, legendary media spin-master, had no words. Eventually his mouth closed, and Andrew’s glow only increased. “I don’t believe it. You can’t have sex while driving. I’ve tried. Doesn’t work.”
“Can in a limo.”
“A limo?”
“A Hummer,” murmured Andrew, pleased that for once, his exploits could be bandied about in locker-room talk.
“Nah. I don’t believe it. You’ve been reading Penthouse again, haven’t you?”
Andrew crossed his heart. “Swear. We both needed to get to Connecticut, the trains were shut down. I gave her a ride.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“A Hummer?” Jeff lifted his glass. “I have sold you short all these years. Damn, bro. What else have you been holding out on?”
“Lots,” lied Andrew, enjoying his moment in the spotlight.
“Who was she?”
“Can’t name names,” answered Andrew, though he might be drunk, he was a gentlemanly drunk.
“Model?” was Jeff’s first guess, because he couldn’t comprehend a woman off the runway.
“Wall Street.”
Jeff just shook his head, letting a dancer slip into his lap. “Give us a kiss,” he told her, and the redhead complied. When she had withdrawn her tongue from Jeff’s tonsils, Jeff’s fuzzy gaze returned to Andrew. “I don’t believe it.”
Andrew just shrugged.
“Was it good?”
“Five stars.”
“Five minutes,” scoffed Jeff.
“Try ninety, little brother.”
The dancer looked at Andrew with new and more appreciative eyes. Andrew flashed her a grin. Let her dream.
“You are lying your ass off.”
Andrew shrugged and lifted another shot glass. “Don’t care if you believe me or not,” he said, before sending the shooter down his throat. He put a fifty in the redhead’s G-string. He’d regret it in the morning, but right now he felt like a king. “Buy yourself a drink.”
She made a move to climb into his lap, but he waved her off. “Save it for the ones who really need it.”
She looked a little miffed, and then walked away.
“Why did you do that?”
“I just saved you a thousand bucks, Jeff.”
“Does it always have to be about money? I can take care of myself. I’m an adult.”
“Only according to the laws of the great state of New York.”
“You just don’t want to admit we don’t need you anymore.”
Andrew frowned, the alcoholic haze dimming some. The fleeting panic abated as he realized his brother wasn’t serious. “I paid for your rent,” he said to remind his little brother about the rules of order in the family hierarchy.
“Not in the last six years.”
Andrew frowned into his shot glass. “I paid for your college. Harvard. Stanford. Good places, not cheap. You could’ve picked a state school, but no…”
“I paid you back.”
But not the interest, thought Andrew to himself.
Jeff read his mind. “I’ll write you a check. What do you say, five percent interest fair? Hell, I’ll give you eight,” he offered quickly.
Andrew attempted to smile. “Keep it. Consider it a gift,” he said, not because he was overly generous, but because he couldn’t give up that last hold over his family.
“Tell me about the mystery woman.”
“Not much to say.”
“She’s a dog?”
Andrew’s head shot up. “Bite your tongue. Not flashy, but she’s got something. Sexy, but in an understated way.”
“Stacked?”
Andrew used his hands, thinking until he got Jamie’s size right.
Jeff slapped him on the back again, and Andrew held onto the bar to keep from toppling. His head was starting to spin, the hangover already starting, and who knew what sort of trouble his brother could get them into.
“We should leave,” Andrew said. “I’ll have to break out the credit cards if we stay much longer.”
“You, using a credit card? It’s one of the Four Signs of the Apocalypse. We definitely should leave.”
“Are you calling me cheap?”
“Did you send flowers to the mystery woman? Or perfume or lingerie?”
“She’s not the type.”
Actually, Jamie McNamara defied a type. Yeah, she was hard as nails, but when she got the “oh, shit” call, he’d watched her in action. Pushy, but not obnoxious. Resolved even after her butt had been wirelessly kicked from Connecticut to California and back. Still, she got over it. She had picked herself up, brushed herself off, and sashayed away, never missing a step. Hell, Andrew had employees that couldn’t do half that. No, she was one in a billion, and the sex had been one in a billion, too.
Maybe Jeff was on to something here.
Jeff looked at his brother through the empty shot glass. “Not the type? All women are the type.”
“Not this one.”
“You should at least send her something. An abacus.”
Andrew frowned.
“That’s a joke,” his brother said.
“What would you send her?” Andrew asked, because the more he thought about it, the more he realized his brother was right.
“Lingerie. Classy, but sexy. Not slutty. Women like it when you don’t think like a man. Classy is about as far as you can go and still be labeled sensitive.”
“No lingerie. Bad idea.”
“Chocolate. Or a spa treatment.”
A spa treatment? Andrew remembered the way Jamie kept rubbing her neck. A massage wouldn’t be a bad idea. His hands flexed, thinking of the bare, ivory shoulders, knotted with tension. He’d start with the neck, then work his way down…
“A professional,” Jeff interrupted.
Andrew locked his hands away. “I knew that.” If he gave her a gift, simply as a gesture to indicate his gratitude for…no, strike that. Gratitude was all wrong. “Thinking of you,” he murmured. “I need something that says ‘thinking of you.’”
Jeff shook his head. “Mistake, Andrew. I know the female mind. It’s a dangerous bear trap, jaws open wide, one wrong move and—BAM!” Jeff clapped his hands together. “You’re history, never to experience sex in a Hummer again.”
“Can