Keir O'connell's Mistress. Sandra Marton
pressed the call button again and made a mental note to have Maintenance check the elevators. There were only two cars in this bank and they got heavy use from employees. One, at least, should have been moving.
Now, by a twist of fate, he was free of the responsibility of the Song. Thanks to another twist, maybe he’d found what he’d been looking for, even if all he knew about wine was how to drink it.
Better not to think like that. Whatever he knew or didn’t know about grapes and wine, he was glad he’d bought Deer Run, glad he was finally getting on with his life. He felt as if it had been on hold for years, not just the six he’d spent working for his mother but the years he’d spent taking university courses that bored him.
He’d never let himself think about that while he was in school or even afterward, but during the trip east, the car eating up the miles, he’d felt something pushing for acknowledgment inside him, as if what had gone on in that garden had only been the first step toward acceptance of the truth.
He was restless.
He’d always been restless, though he’d fought against it. He’d kept it hidden like a dirty secret, even from his family.
“My strong, dependable boy,” his mother had told him once. “You’re just like my Ruarch.”
Dependable? His father? Ruarch O’Connell had been a gambler, shifting them all from place to place on the turn of a card and never giving a damn for a plan that stretched further than tomorrow.
The last thing he wanted was to be like his father. Keir believed in laying things out so you knew what was coming next. And he’d never so much as fed a coin into a slot machine in his entire life.
So, why was he gambling now?
He tightened his jaw and pressed the call button again.
Investing in a property wasn’t gambling. It was logical. Reasonable. As reasonable as knowing, knowing, dammit, a woman wanted you and then letting her pretend she didn’t…
He cursed under his breath, pounded a fist on the call button and glared at the light panel above the door.
What he needed was a shower, a quick nap and a meal. Then he’d have his head together. That was why he was going to his suite the back way, so he didn’t run into the duchess or any of his brothers or sisters, who were probably at the Song by now.
He certainly wasn’t going the back way to avoid seeing Cassie.
Funny, how he’d never much noticed her until that night in the garden. She was an employee. He probably wouldn’t have known her name if she hadn’t been Dawn’s friend—and the duchess had taken an interest in Dawn.
Hello, Cassie.
Goodbye, Cassie.
That had been the extent of his involvement with her. He didn’t even know how long she’d been working at the Song, just that she was there, serving free drinks in the casino, dressed in what he thought of as the casino uniform. A short black skirt topped by a low-cut blouse. Black fishnet stockings. High heels. Vegas was a town where scantily dressed women were the status quo. Why would he have noticed?
But she hadn’t looked like that in Texas. Maybe that was the reason he’d become aware of her. Okay, maybe he had noticed her once or twice before. Even in a town like this, where beautiful women were a dime a dozen, Cassie’s looks were special.
She’d gone into the night with him, let him touch her and kiss her, and then she’d said “no.” Why? She’d been as turned-on as he, as eager for what should have come next…
Keir’s mouth tightened.
Maybe she’d expected him to ignore that breathless little “no.” Maybe she’d expected him to offer her something to sweeten the deal. Whatever the reason, it was a damned good thing she’d decided to stop him. He’d been lucky to get out in time.
What was it his brother Sean had once said about men and hot-looking women? Maybe it was Cullen who’d said it. Not that it mattered. The message was what counted.
Men suffered from ZTS. Zipper Think Syndrome, meaning when it came to sex, guys thought with their zippers instead of their heads.
Keir grinned. Yeah, that was it. The old ZTS theory.
The light above the elevator was moving at last. Twelve. Ten. Eight. Six. Two. Keir gave a relieved sigh as the car announced its arrival with a soft ping.
Okay. One problem solved. For all he cared, the doors could slide open, the Berk babe could be standing there with nothing on but her skin and it wouldn’t mean a damn.
Except, that wasn’t quite the scene. Cassie was inside the elevator, all right, wearing that little skirt, the clingy top, the high-heeled shoes…
Correction. She had only one shoe on. She was bent over the other one, which seemed to be stuck to the floor, her cute little bottom pointed straight at him. Either she was too busy to know she had an audience or she just didn’t care.
And he was having trouble remembering that he was too old to be led astray by ZTS.
Man, he’d been on the road too long.
Keir cleared his throat and donned what he figured was his best Chief of Ops polite smile.
“Hello, Cassie.”
She jolted upright and swiveled toward him, the look on her face going quickly from surprise to recognition to displeasure.
“You!”
She filled the word with loathing. Well, he could hardly blame her. Her memories of the last time they’d met probably were no better than his. Be pleasant, he told himself. After all, he owed the lady an apology.
“Yeah, that’s right. Me.” Keir nodded at the shoe. “Having a problem?”
“No,” she snapped, “I always stand around like this, with one shoe on and one shoe—”
The car began to move. She hadn’t expected it and she jerked back.
“Careful!”
Keir grabbed for her but Cassie flung out a hand and caught the railing.
“Don’t touch me!”
So much for being polite. “No problem. You want to break your neck, be my guest.”
“I’m doing just fine on my own.”
“Oh, yeah. I can see that.” He watched, arms folded, as she tried to pull the shoe free again. “Stop being foolish, Berk. Let me help—or would you rather I put in a call to Maintenance and have them send up a work crew?”
“What? Those idiots? They’re the ones who left this damned piece of wood here in the first place.” She leaned down again. “I’ll fix it myself.”
Maybe. But he couldn’t promise what he’d do if she kept bending over like that.
“Not on my time,” he said sharply, “and not in my elevator. Dammit, why argue over something so simple?”
“Go ahead, then. Who am I to argue with the man in charge?”
“‘Thank you’ might be a more gracious response.” Keir squatted down, yanked the shoe free and rose to his feet. “Here. Next time you decide to wear stilts—”
The car shuddered to a halt. Cassie yelped, stumbled, and Keir caught her in his arms.
She caught her breath. So did he. She was pressed tightly against him, her back against his chest, her bottom against his groin. Don’t move, he thought, God, don’t move…
The doors swooshed open. Keir heard a sound. A snicker? No. A snort of laughter. He swung around, taking Cassie with him, and saw two very interested, all-too-familiar faces.
Cassie gave a little moan of despair. “Your brothers?” she whispered.