Speaking of which, he pulled out his phone and checked his messages. He wasn’t on call tonight, but when he’d signed out earlier in the evening they’d admitted a couple of patients, and as the senior emergency medical resident at Maui Memorial, he tended to get the questions if any arose.
While he cleared out his in-box, the bartender ambled over with his beer. He also handed him a folded cocktail napkin. Nick raised the pint glass to his lips and unfolde
d the napkin.
Tempting, but it’s going to take more than a cocky grin to close the deal. Buy me a drink, and we’ll see.
His pulse kicked up, and a hot bolt of energy pulsed through his body. He looked up and signaled the bartender.
Game on.
Chapter Two
Arden raised her pen from her doodle of the bar hottie’s profile on her napkin, and did her best to play it cool when she sensed the bartender approach. When he placed the drink in front of her, however, all coolness fled.
The ridiculously large fishbowl of a glass overflowed with fruit spears and umbrellas. A rainbow of glow sticks erupted from an electric-blue daiquiri of some sort. A curly red straw completed the tacky assault of rum, pineapple, and God knew what else.
She laughed—it couldn’t be helped—but managed not to look at him. A guy like him, with his hands, and his mouth, and his cocksure smile? He had it too easy. She wasn’t going to be difficult, but she was going to enjoy having him make an effort. She closed her lips around the straw. Going slow for maximum effect, she sucked the frosty concoction into her mouth…and nearly gagged. A liberal pour of pineapple juice didn’t fully disguise the eighty-proof essence of the drink. She swallowed and coughed.
A warm, steady hand ran over her back, offering comfort. “Is it too much?”
She shook her head and swallowed again before finding her voice. “Uh-uh. I asked for a drink. This is a drink. I think I’m impressed.” Then she looked at him. Amused eyes stared back at her.
“I aimed to impress you.”
That half smile dared her to stick around and see what other impressive things he had in store for her. Parts of her that felt like they’d been stress-paralyzed for months fluttered to life and cried, Yes Arden, you are so going to let this guy screw your brains out tonight.
“Have I impressed you enough to tell me your name?”
Her name? A standard question, but answering immediately changed things, because Arden was a little too distinct, especially here, where the silver script scrolled across the cocktail napkins spelled out her last name—the same last name gracing the wall behind the reception desk and the discreet signage around the property. And she liked the dynamic between them right now too much to change it. She liked the appreciation glowing in his eyes and the uncomplicated invitation issued from every well-honed line of his body. She liked that the appreciation and invitation were based on nothing more complicated than a preference for brunettes, or the quickness of her smile, or how the sundress made the most of her cleavage. She didn’t know what exactly about her attracted him, but she knew what didn’t factor in at all—her name. He didn’t know it, and suddenly, she wanted to keep it that way. Just for tonight, why not be Jane Smith, or Mary Williams, or something equally generic?
Because you hate to lie? She did. She valued honesty. But blurting out the truth would be a surefire mood killer. Hey, if it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon not exchange names. No, the situation called for a more clever form of honesty—an honest lie. “My name is”—something racy might help—“Tatiana Svetlana.”
Both brows lifted again, but not in invitation this time. More like twin bullshit detectors. Still, his hand remained on her back, and his easy grin stayed in place. He wasn’t fazed. Good. She rolled the tension out of her shoulders and waited to see if he’d play along.
“Svetlana, huh?”
“Of the Siberian Svetlanas.”
“This explains your thick Siberian accent.”
His response, smooth and entertained, told her he didn’t mind playing. Not in the least. She almost high-fived him. “Da.” And that was pretty much the extent of her Russian. Babushka, Tolstoy, vodka. Self-consciousness pulled a laugh from somewhere below her lungs. “Um…davai?”
He leaned against the bar. “Okay, Czarina, we’ll play it your way. Who am I and where am I from?”
She immediately missed the feel of his hand along her back, but his stance invited her to inspect him, which she did, from the thick mass of hair that looked as if it had been swept back from his forehead by a careless hand, to the tips of his…goodness…they had to be at least size thirteen shoes.
Deliberately, she slowed her gaze for the return trip, taking in long legs in relaxed khakis. The pants rode trim hips, but didn’t disguise the bulge of powerful thighs.
And speaking of powerful, undisguised bulges. She took in the impressive one forming a ridge behind his fly. Those tiny wings of anticipation in her stomach migrated to points south of her navel. She forced her eyes to keep moving, studying the array of planes and angles beneath his shirt. One muscle-braided forearm angled toward her, close enough for her to see the dusting of sun-bleached hair against tanned skin.
She doubted he spent his days behind a desk. She’d grown up around executives—her father and brother being two of the most notable—and nothing about him struck her as corporate. He definitely spent time outdoors. She raised her eyes to his face. Definitely. Sun and sea had left their traces on him, but then again, this was Hawaii. Almost everybody looked outdoorsy after a week. Those hands, though. That touch, coupled with the careless hair and unshaven jaw, made her think artist, or musician. She could easily imagine his fingertips dancing with precision over the frets of a guitar or the keys of a piano. But he threw off this vibe of calm, rather than the mercurial temperament of an artist. Nothing rattled him. He thought on his feet and adjusted his approach based on the circumstances. Also, he had an ingrained confidence she recognized in her father and brother—men accustomed to riding out risks and solving problems. He hadn’t earned his in a boardroom, but he’d earned it somewhere. Granted, she based her opinion on five minutes of interaction, but something told her he could handle himself in a high-stakes situation. Soldier? Firefighter? Skydiving instructor?
She went with the best scenario she could come up with in under a minute. “You’re an astronaut. Your name is Luke Sky…um…” No. Not Luke Skywalker. “…rider.” You suck.
“My friends call me Rider for short?”
Thankfully, he didn’t suck. He had game. Plenty for both of them. She inclined her head. “Of course they do. You live on the International Space Station fifty-one weeks out of the year, but when you get that week of vacay, you come to Maui for some R&R.”