Men Like This. Roxanne Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ her into replying without thinking. “It’s a defensive maneuver. I’m not sure about you yet.”

      The answer seemed to please him because his smile returned. He appeared content with the silence hanging between them. Quinn tried to take another drink from her beer and realized she’d polished it off during the course of their conversation.

      The Irishman finally tore his bluish-green gaze from hers and motioned for the bartender. When Busty reached them, he ordered a whiskey for himself and a third beer for her.

      She didn’t protest.

      * * * *

      “All right, let’s have it.” Their next round of drinks was delivered, and Jack readied himself to learn a little more about the blonde conundrum sitting next to him.

      She sipped delicately from the beer bottle, having refused a glass, and blinked. “Have what?”

      Jack tipped his drink back. He was being forward, but she hadn’t told him to get lost. Even if she did, he intended to do no such thing. After being abandoned by his friend over an hour ago in favor of a petite brunette with an impressive pout, Jack resolved to get something good out of tonight. An interesting conversation with the peculiar woman sitting beside him seemed a promising step in the right direction.

      “I watched you have it out with your boyfriend along with everyone else here. I’m as curious as the next guy. Tell me about it.”

      She took her time considering her answer. Jack appreciated her poise. She wasn’t flirty—he’d guessed as much before approaching her—but emanated more sensuality than she probably realized. She was all long, graceful lines and steady gazes.

      Her chin came up right when it looked like she might give in. “Why would I tell you something personal like that? I don’t know you from Busty the Barkeep over there.”

      Had he stopped smiling since she opened her mouth? He laughed quietly. The blonde had time in her musings to nickname the bartender.

      What might his nickname be? Creep? Bothersome Foreigner?

      Better he didn’t ask. “By personal you mean the public row you had?” He knew he had her there. He stuck out his free hand. “Jack Decker. You can call me Jack.” He displayed his best high-wattage, toothpaste-ad smile. “Now you know me from Busty.”

      Finally! A smile broke through her painted lips to reveal the slightest dimple on her left cheek. With the faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose, she was cute as a damn button, yet possessed with the presence to fill a designer ball gown like she never wore anything else. She went from peculiar to downright intriguing.

      Doubtful green eyes like polished jade looked over his face. “Jack doesn’t sound very Irish.”

      He couldn’t believe it. She was teasing him. She had a sense of humor so dry he’d almost missed it. “Don’t tell me my mum. She’ll be crushed.”

      Her hand gripped his. “Quinn Buzzly.”

      “Quinn, eh? You sound more Irish than I do.”

      “My mother was French.”

      “Lovely to meet you, Ms. Buzzly. Now, will you tell me about your boyfriend?”

      Quinn—he couldn’t have imagined a better name for her—rolled her eyes with a dramatic flair. “Fine, but only so you’ll stop calling him my boyfriend.” She narrowed her eyes and pointed a long finger in his direction. “You’d make an interesting character. A charming, charismatic, persistent English Irishman.”

      He wasn’t given time to ask what she meant.

      “Richard is my agent. He brought me here with visions of champagne flutes and cozy corner booths dancing in his head.” Her expression fell into one of somber recollection. She stared at her thumbnail. “I reacted poorly.”

      Jack brought her attention back to him a flick of his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You reacted rather well, I say. I can name a woman or two who’d have his tumblers in a jar.”

      He didn’t get the laughter he’d expected.

      She didn’t appear convinced. “Maybe.”

      A fabulous display. Better than anything he’d seen on the telly in months. Such elegance and fire. Richard had gotten off easy. He deserved a black eye or bruised shin, if not both. “Richard’s gone. You’re still hanging around. I expected you to storm out of here like a… Well, like a storm. No booze at home?”

      “I’m living at a hotel, and you’re right—no minibar.”

      He wanted to know what ailed her but, even more, he wanted her to smile again. “That, my friend, is a new low. Only a man with no honor seduces a homeless woman.”

      Her laughter burst through the gathering tension. Quinn scanned his face again. Her bright green eyes searched for something he wasn’t sure he had, but hoped like hell he could produce.

      He drummed his fingers on the bar. “I have two questions for you now. Obviously, I can’t fathom where a homeless person finds such a fine tailor. I’d also like to ask your occupation since it necessitates an agent. I should point out he’s not a very good agent if you’re truly homeless. Then again, maybe you had loads of money and spent it on a dress, in which case you may want to consider hiring an accountant. Are you an actress?”

      Quinn’s smile stayed put. “Not an actress. Richard is a literary agent. One of the best, I might add, despite his flagrant behavior.”

      Jack cocked his head in surprise. “You’re a writer?” He’d imagined several occupations for Quinn—model, actress, corporate lawyer—but writer hadn’t made the list. He recalled her comment about the sort of character he’d make. A fiction writer, no less. “Anything I may have read?”

      Her face lit up like Christmas. “Only if you’re a Clementine Hazel fan.” She managed the announcement with an impressive mix of shyness and pride.

      It didn’t stop Jack from choking on the healthy slug of whiskey he’d just tossed back. He set his glass down with a thud and gaped at Quinn.

      No. Bloody. Way. “You’re Clementine Hazel?” He shook his head decisively. “Nah. For starters, you’re too young. She’s been around for ages.”

      She lifted one imperious brow in challenge to his doubt.

      Jack laughed. “Bloody hell! You’re serious? I’m sorry, it’s… Well, we’re in Hollywood, love. You… I assumed you were a writer in the same sense my grocery bagger yesterday was an artist.”

      She traded her raised brow for a genuine smile. “I’m definitely old enough. Ten years is not ages.”

      He shook his head again and used this perfectly legitimate excuse to ogle her without seeming a cad. “Unbelievable. Clementine Hazel. Well, this is nuts, isn’t it? No, not for you, I suppose, but for me. I didn’t expect to visit L.A. and actually meet someone famous. I was willing to settle for staking out LAX for a blurry photograph of a Kardashian on my mobile.”

      She smiled wide. СКАЧАТЬ