tucked into the corner was just right, looking at him with wide eyes a shade darker than the amber beer bottle she slowly lowered to the table. She wore barely a hint of makeup, so Ian could see her creamy complexion deepen with a flush as they held eye contact for one heartbeat past casual.
“Beer’s a good choice in a place like this,” he said, rattling the ice in his rocks glass. “The scotch is watered-down piss.”
Surprise flickered in her eyes. Because of the curse word, or had the pisswater been enough to bring out his accent? After all these years, he should know better than to slip and give away his British birth.
“What was that beer called again?” he asked.
“It was…a joke,” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear her over the bar ruckus.
“Can I get you something else, then?”
“No, thanks. I’m…fine.”
“You sure are.”
The other three reacted instantly.
“We need to hit the ladies’ room,” one of the women said, sliding out to make room for him. “Coming, Zoe?”
The blonde scooted out, too. “We’ll refresh the drinks.” She turned to the redhead and gave a look with all the subtlety of a baseball bat. “Coming, Lacey?”
“Oh yeah.” She nodded and gave an equally transparent raised eyebrow to the woman in the corner. “Hold the booth for us, Tessa. I’m sure we’ll be a good long while.”
Ian nodded his gratitude. “We’ll guard it with our lives.” He slid right into the vacated seat next to his doe-eyed target, trapping her in the corner and getting a whiff of something flowery and clean. “Tessa. Pretty. Short for something?”
Finally, she slid him a sideways look, long lashes tapering into the kind of distrustful gaze he’d been eliciting for a few years. If the tattoos, gym time, or total disregard for a haircut didn’t scare them, the bike parked out front usually did.
“Just Tessa,” she said as her friends disappeared into the bar, leaving laughter and chatter in their wake.
“Just Tessa,” he repeated. Not to be funny, but because he’d want to remember the name tomorrow morning when he was rooting around the floor of her flat looking for his jeans. Apartment, dickhead, not flat.
“I’m John, by the way.”
She hinted at a smile. “Hello, John Bytheway.”
Cute. “John Brown.”
“That sounds fake.”
Because it is. “So tell me something about yourself, Tessa, other than the fact that you like”—he turned the beer bottle and read the label—“Belgian White Wheat Ale.” Bloody Americans would buy anything they thought was from Europe.
“Blue Moon’s my favorite…” She inched back. “Blue Moon,” she said softly, her whole face lighting up in a way that took her from good-looking to gorgeous in the space of a second. “Maybe that’s what Aunt Pasha meant.”
“Who’s Aunt Pasha?”
Her eyes twinkled with a secret. “A late, great fortune-teller.”
He inched closer, letting his thigh press against hers and earning another sweet blush. “Did she see trouble in her crystal ball?”
“She saw…something.”
“Whatever she saw, I hope it happens tonight.” He gave her a slow once-over, enjoying a spark of electricity crackling between them as he admired her toned arms, freckle-dusted skin, and the alluring slope of small but appealing breasts under a simple white T-shirt. This one wasn’t trying too hard to get attention, and he liked that. It reminded him of—
Don’t go there.
“Are you staying in Mimosa Key?” she asked.
“At the moment.” For the past month, since he had to tear-ass out of Singapore, he’d ridden around the state of Florida, finally finding his way over a bridge to this suitably out-of-the-way island. He’d checked in to the first motel he’d found and headed straight out the door for his numbing agents of choice: cheap scotch and a willing woman. He’d found one, and, with a little luck, was looking at the other. “You?”
“I live at the resort up the road in Barefoot Bay.”
“You live on a resort?”
“I run the gardens.”
That explained the sun-kissed skin and shapely shoulders.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“I don’t run anything,” he admitted. “I just run.”
“From what?” She gave him a curious look and he cursed himself again. What was wrong with him tonight? The scotch mustn’t be watered down enough.
Instead of answering, he stretched his hand around the back of the booth, letting his fingers graze her shoulder, getting a quick rise of chill bumps on her arm in response.
“You’re pretty,” he said, happy to note that this time his standard but woefully uncreative line was actually accurate. She was very pretty, in a simple, sweet, genuine way. Another thing