Page 1 of To Catch A Rook

“Another, Ms. Lane?”

Jeremy, the head bartender of Quintessence and certainly the best martini mixer in all of Carlisle, stared back at me, his tawny eyes filled with a mixture of kindness and pity.

“No.”

My response was sharper than I’d intended. Twinges of regret pricked my senses, and I reconsidered my tone. It wasn’t Jeremy’s fault Kellan had stood me up. Again.

My blond, tattooed, on-again, off-again Viking was one of the best lays I’d ever had, but his work schedule made him incredibly unreliable, and I wasn’t the ‘doting wife’ type. A few meet-ups a year, but he still couldn’t show up with any regularity.

It was frustrating, but even more frustrating was to admit I’d been looking forward to this date all week. Kellan had crept under my skin like his own tattoo, and I was going to need that lasered off as soon as possible before it embedded any further.

“No,thank you, Jeremy.”

I forced a smile on my lips that wouldn’t meet my blue eyes and placed my credit card on the counter. “Just bill me for the martini, please.”

Jeremy waved a delicate hand dismissively, as if I wasn’t the wealthiest person who came through the doors.

“Your money is no good here, Miss Lane. You know that. Winter would have my job.”

I stifled an eye roll and picked my black AMEX back up from the polished mahogany bar-top. Winter Wallace, my exasperating best friend and part-owner of the club, was constantly ignoring the fact that I could buy all of her clubs and half of the buildings in this city, refusing to let me pay for anything all because I had gifted her a house one time.

Gifts didn’t come with required reciprocation. They weregifts.Even after six years, my money still wasn’t accepted here. Her stubbornness couldn’t match mine, however, and I’d found a way around it.

Guess that’s another contribution to little Noble’s trust fund.

I couldn’t contain the satisfied smirk that spread across my features; if her business wouldn’t take my money, her son surely would—when he turned twenty-one. That was twenty years away, so I had lots of time to turn martini payments into a small fortune.

I respected my best friend, but I enjoyed winning a little more. And I always won.

“Now, what’s that devious little grin about?”

A smooth, masculine tenor with a strong Irish lilt slid over me like a soothing blanket. The warm presence slid onto the bar stool to my left as an intoxicating mix of cedar trees and something sweet overtook my senses.

A witty comeback sat on the tip of my tongue, but I stopped short when the visage of dark auburn hair and twinkling sea-glass eyes stared back at me.

My assessing gaze took in his solid frame; strong shoulders and molded biceps outlined in a tight, brown leather jacket, a tapered waist and thick thighs perfectly stuffed into tight dark jeans, and a simple, silver Celtic cross pendant hung around his neck.

Attractive didn’t do him justice, but not in the traditional suit-men that made up my day to day. This man was a diamond in the rough; unpolished perfection.

And bold, if he thought hitting on me was a wise choice.

“Ahhh, the beautiful blonde is checking me out.” The mystery man grinned, showcasing perfectly straight teeth set in full, stubble-accented lips. “Jeremy, it’s myluckyday.”

He tipped an imaginary hat to the familiar bartender as a whiskey tumbler slid down the bar into his open palm.

So, a regular, then. Funny how I’d never seen him before. Not that I was here often enough to be classified as aregular, but I was on a first-name basis with most of the staff. That wasn’t unique to my businesses, though.

“I appreciate fine works of art,” I retorted smoothly, pausing to get off my stool. “I’d say you’re more of the Picasso variety, though.”

His booming laugh resonated deep in my bones. It was infectious; I couldn’t stop the twitch of my own lips at his sly smile.

“And Blondie’s got jokes. Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look the type.”

He took a long pull of his drink and wriggled a single eyebrow at me. I took it for the challenge it was and stood tall against the bar beside him.

It was rare that a man had the balls to talk to me from a cold call. The men I usually encountered were far too confident, thinking the size of their bank account was equivalent to the size of their dick. Or they had no confidence at all—sweaty, fumbling idiots, terrified to talk to me.

This guy already walked the line of indifferent and brazen, and I was intrigued to find I liked it.

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