IT WAS LATE when she sank onto the barstool. Still wearing
her best dressed-to-kill sexy tuxedo dress, Trina Roberts
had received immediate attention from the bartender.
"Hot night?" he said. "What'll you have?"
Hot didn't cover it. Train wreck didn't cover it. Nuclear
explosion didn't cover it. "Mojito, please."
"Coming up," he said.
While she waited, she took a deep breath and glanced
around the bar. The crowd had thinned out. Her gaze
stopped on a man seated at the other end of the bar, his
head bowed over a squat glass of amber-colored liquor.
His tux tie was unfastened along with the top buttons of
his shirt. She knew that profile, the hard jawline,
straight nose and dark hair uncharacteristically mussed
over his forehead.
Walker Gordon.
Her heart clenched for him. He looked miserable, desolate,
destroyed. She couldn't blame him. After all, he'd just
been publicly dumped at the altar by Brooke Tarantino, the
great-granddaughter of the founder of Bellagio Shoes. That
was bad enough, but the dumping had been conducted on live
television with millions of witnesses.
Trina had attended the wedding because she worked for
Bellagio in PR. In fact, she'd worked with Walker, an
advertising contractor that Bellagio had hired several
years ago. From the beginning, she'd liked his combination
of quick intelligence and sense of humor. And it didn't
hurt that he had a great body and sexy eyes.
The bartender returned with her drink and she paid her
tab, sipping the mojito and trying not to look at Walker.
Her gaze, however, kept wandering toward him. She'd never
seen him missing an ounce of confidence. He oozed solid
assurance and even though she hadn't totally understood
his relationship with Brooke Tarantino, he'd once revealed
part of the attraction. Brooke was entirely too self-
involved to ever want children. That suited him fine
because he didn't want children, either. Being a father,
he'd confessed, would be a surefire path to failure for
him. He'd made a joke in that way that people did when
they weren't completely joking, that he'd come from a long
line of bad fathers and he was determined not to continue
the trend.
His broad shoulders were folded forward. He leaned against
the bar, his gaze vacant.
Pity mixed with anger. Why had Brooke done this?
Especially this way. With a sigh, she picked up her mojito
and wandered to the stool beside him.
He glanced at her and closed his eyes, but gave a nod of
recognition.
"Sorry," Trina said. "Sucks to be you."
His mouth twitched slightly and he opened his eyes, taking
a sip from his glass. "Can't disagree."
"I saw one reporter get you. Did anyone else โ"
"I didn't move fast enough. Two more caught me before I
left the church."
She winced. "Sorry."
"Can we talk about something else?" Trina nodded, another
surge of sympathy sliding through her. "Sure," she said,
searching her mind for a neutral topic. She took a few
sips and swallowed the last of her mojito. "So, what's
your favorite game show?"
"Jeopardy," he said taking a sip. "What about you?"
"Wheel of Fortune."
"You're a word person," he said.
"And you're a fact person," she said.
"Pretty much."
Silence fell between them. Trina felt the urge to fill
it. "There was another old game show I liked. I only saw
it in reruns. Name That Tune."
"Oh, yeah. I think I saw it a couple of times when I
stayed home from school because I was sick." He tossed
back the rest of his drink and lifted two fingers toward
the bartender, indicating he wanted a refill for both of
them. "What kind of music do you like?"
"A little of everything. Back then I liked whatever my
mother hated," she said with a smile.
His lips tilted in a half smile. "Teenage rebel?"
"Some. I just couldn't do the Stepford debutante thing. I
dug in my heels and made my mother crazy. What about you?"
"My father hogged all opportunities for rebellion. He left
my mother and moved to the Cayman Islands, started a
financial service and married a woman down there."
Trina winced. "That doesn't sound like fun for the wife
and kid he left behind. Did you ever visit him?"
"Kids, plural. I visited him once." He paused. "I come
from a long line of terrible fathers. There are just some
men who shouldn't reproduce. I thought marrying Brooke was
a good idea because she said she didn't want any children,
and she was so focused on herself that I knew..." He broke
off and took a long swallow from the drink the bartender
had placed in front of him.
Trina couldn't help thinking about the huge differences
between Walker and Brooke. He'd probably always been
studious and responsible, levelheaded to a fault. Brooke,
on the other hand, was rebellious, daring and fun. She
supposed it hadn't hurt that she was beautiful and her
father was loaded.
What a night, she thought, feeling the mojito ease the
rough edges. She took a sip of the fresh drink the
bartender had placed in front of her.
"Not to dwell on the evening, but you missed some other
drama. One of the reality TV hosts did a live interview
with Jenny Prillaman about the degree she didn't get from
design school."
Walker tore his gaze from his glass and looked at
Trina. "Oh, no. You're kidding."
Trina shook her head and shuddered. "It just got worse
after that. She confessed that she didn't have a degree.
Alfredo Bellagio turned purple with rage and fired her on
the air."
Swearing, Walker raked his hand through his hair. "Oh,
what a mess. Poor kid."
"I felt sorry for her. She's nice. Very talented with or
without a degree." She glanced at her watch, wondering if
she should leave him to nurse his misery by himself. "I
should probably go home."
"Must be nice," he said. "I'm sure as hell not going back
to my condo. You can bet there will be reporters camped
outside. Even if I made it inside, the phone would be
ringing off the hook or friends would be pounding on the
door to check on me."
She made a face. "Yeah, that wouldn't be fun." She looked
at his shoulders hunched toward the bar. He usually stood
so straight, everything about him confident. Not tonight.
Another shot of pity stabbed at her.
"My apartment's right around the corner if you're willing
to take the couch," she impulsively offered.
He glanced up at her and looked at her, really looked at
her. She felt his gaze take in her face then skim over her
body and back up to her eyes. "You sure?"
Something in his greenish hazel eyes made her stomach take
a dip. She shook it off. It was probably just the second
mojito. "Yeah."
"Okay, I'll take you up on your kind invitation," he
said. "Let's just have one more for the road."
"I haven't finished my second," she said.
He took a long drink. "Swallow faster," he said and
motioned again for the bartender.
Two more mojitos later, she might have been fuzzy-headed,
but she had enough sense to let the bartender call a cab.
She supposed they could have walked, but her coordination
wasn't at peak level.
Neither was Walker's, but he helped her out of the
car. "You're really nice to let me have your sofa, Trina.
I always thought you were nice," he said, his voice
slurring slightly.
"Thanks, Walker. I always thought you were nice and very
intelligent," she said, feeling wobbly on her Bellagio
heels as they walked to the elevator.
"Which floor?" he asked.
"Six," she said, aiming for the right button and
missing. "Oops."
He chuckled. "Let me do it," he said, and he missed, too.
For some reason, that struck her as hilarious. They both
reached for the button and finally pushed number six. The
elevator, however, stopped on floors four and five due to
their misses. By the time they arrived at her door, she
and Walker couldn't stop laughing. She managed to find her
keys in her purse. He managed to take them from her hand
and eventually found the one for her door.
Trina tripped as she stepped inside, but Walker caught her
against him just before he closed the door. "Whoa," he
said. "No falling. You're not allowed to fall."
Grabbing his shoulders for balance, she took a deep breath
and caught a draft of his aftershave. "You smell really
good," she said. "Do I?" he asked and grinned. He ducked
his head into the crook of her shoulder and inhaled
noisily.
"You do, too."
"Thanks," she said, liking the way he felt against her.
She liked the way his hair looked when it was messed up,
not so smooth and perfect. And he had really sexy eyes and
one dimple. "Did you know that you have a dent right
here?" she asked, lifting her finger to the dimple that
added charm to his hard jaw.
"Yeah, I probably got it fighting with my brother or
sister," he said, his voice growing a stronger Southern
drawl.
"Where are you from?"
"All over the South," he said. "Lived in too many houses
and trailers to count. That's what happens when Dad
doesn't pay the bills."
She shook her head in sympathy, the movement blurring her
vision. "Before he died, my father spent a ton of money on
a court fight for his business principles."
"Ouch," Walker said. "Fighting for your principles in
court can be very expensive."
"Yeah," she said, and got distracted by his thigh pressed
against hers. She studied his eyes. "Did you know that
your eyes change colors?"
He shook his head. "No. I haven't looked at them much
lately."
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