Take Me Two Times Page 29
It was his job to find out, but he needed to hang back for a few. Let her get settled. Have a drink or two. He pegged her for the type who would walk into a pub like Reif’s and order, say, white wine. A little naive. A little out of touch with reality.
Twenty minutes later, McDougal shoved his hands into his pockets, crossed the street, and entered Reif’s. He sighted his quarry immediately: She was perched on one of the old, wooden, backless barstools, staring sightlessly into the dregs of a short glass of whiskey, rocks.
His opinion of her went up a notch—at least she hadn’t ordered a white Zinfandel. Of course, his opinion of her didn’t matter much—he’d get what he came for, regardless. He always did.
In all that black, Natalie looked as if she’d smell of sulfur or mothballs, but as she dug into her nylon messenger bag for a tissue, he caught a waft of fresh laundry detergent and a tinge of 4711, a cologne his sisters used to wear.
Over the bar hung a four-by-eight-foot mirror, which reflected among other things Natalie’s drawn, downcast face. Something was on the lady’s mind.
McDougal nodded at the bartender and mounted the stool next to hers. It was covered in cheap green vinyl and had seen better days, but the upside of worn was comfortable. It announced his presence by creaking under his solid 180 pounds, but Natalie didn’t look at him.
Didn’t matter. She would. Women always did, eventually—not that they always liked what they saw. Some of them summed him up as a player in one glance and dismissed him. Others focused on the bare fourth finger of his left hand. The fun ones started shoveling verbal shit at him immediately. Which type was she?
As Eric casually ordered a Guinness, he watched her in the mirror. Watched as her pointed little chin came up, as she pushed some hair out of her face and cut her eyes toward him, her lashes at half-mast.
Then came her first impression, the undercover evaluation of his six-foot-two frame, muscular forearms sprinkled with freckles and golden hair, his denim-clad legs. She took in the brown leather jacket and the reddish brown stubble on his chin; then the grin that widened as he watched her.
That was when she realized that he’d seen her inspecting him in the mirror. Her gaze flew to his in the reflected surface and froze. A slow blush crept up her neck—a blush so fierce, he could see it even in the dim light of Reif’s.
“Hi,” McDougal said, turning to face her with the full wattage of his grin.
She blinked, stared, then looked away as the blush intensified. She put a hand up to her neck as if to cool the skin off. “H-Hi.”
She was a babe in the woods—without mosquito repellent. He prepared to feast on her tender young naïveté.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” McDougal said, taking his grin down a few notches, from wolfish to disarming.
She seemed to have no adequate response to that.
“It’s very normal to check out the guy sitting next to you. He could be a vagrant, a pervert, or a serial killer.”
She laughed reluctantly at that, and it transformed her face from mildly pretty to dazzling. She’d gone from librarian to . . . to . . . Carla Bruni in half a second flat. It was McDougal’s turn to stare.
“So, which one are you?” she asked, evidently emboldened.
“Me? I’m just a tourist, sweetheart. The only cereal killing I do involves a bowl of raisin bran or cornflakes.”
That got a smile. “Where are you from?”
“Miami.”
“Florida,” she said, sounding wistful. “I’d love to be on a beach right now, not in the city.”
“You work here?”
Natalie nodded. “I’m a restoration artist.”
“A restoration artist,” McDougal repeated. “As in, they call you to touch up the Sistine Chapel?” He nodded at the bartender and pointed at her glass.
“Something like that. But I specialize in rugs and tapestries, not painting.” A wary expression crossed her face as the drink was set in front of her. “Um, I didn’t order—”
“It’s on me,” McDougal said.
“Oh, but—”
“What’s your name?”
She hesitated. “Natalie.”
“Natalie, it’s just a drink. Not a big deal. ’Kay?”
“Thank you,” she said after a long pause. She curled her small but competent hand around the glass. “Actually, you have no idea how much I need this.”
Yes, I do. First heist, honey? It always shreds your nerves. But all McDougal said was, “You’re welcome. I’m Eric.” And he proceeded to chat her up while she got lusciously tipsy on her second whiskey.
Really, he should be ashamed of himself.
Natalie Rosen’s eyes had gone just a little fuzzy, her gestures loose and her posture relaxed. She’d also gotten wittier. “So, you said you’re a tourist. Are you an accidental one?”
He smiled. “Nope. I do have a purpose. Are you an accidental barfly?”
“No.” She averted her gaze, then looked down into her whiskey and murmured, “I’m an accidental thief.”
“Do tell,” McDougal said, showing his teeth and signaling the bartender again. If he had his wicked way, she would soon to be a naked one.
About the Author
Karen Kendall is an award-winning author of contemporary romance who started writing at the age of four. An art history major with a concentration in twentieth-century art, Karen worked in museums and galleries before she was a published author. She lives with her husband in Florida. Please visit her Web site at www.karenkendall.com.