Exposed. Julie Leto

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СКАЧАТЬ best man, she wouldn’t back down. Couldn’t. The tide tugging her toward Max Forrester was more treacherous than the waves outside Alcatraz, and just as invigorating.

      “She told you that when you were a little boy, right? Well, you’re not a little boy anymore. Are you?”

      He struck the match, inflaming the head, emitting a burst of smoke and sulfur that tickled her nose. She listed closer to him like a boat following the command of the waves. Amid the wispy scent of fire, she caught wind of his cologne. A musky blend of spices and citrus flared her nostrils and rocked her equilibrium.

      He held the match toward her and she blinked, knowing she’d better get a hold of herself before she lit her Flaming Eros. She was already hot enough without adding third-degree burns.

      She skimmed her fingers beneath his, brushing his hand briefly as she took the match away. The warmth of his skin was soothing. The look in his eyes was not.

      She slid the glass back and skimmed the fire over the alcohol until the drink ignited in an impressive blue and orange flame. The bar erupted in applause and Stefano shouted last call. Ariana couldn’t wait around to watch Max drink her concoction. She immediately had orders for three more. After sliding a small plate from beneath the bar to help him extinguish the flame and instructing him to do so before the fire burned through the grenadine, she grabbed his half-empty beer and her bottle of ouzo and moved farther down the bar.

      She needed space. She’d probably only imagined the increase in her body heat the moment he’d stroked the match against the box, but she hadn’t imagined the look of utter fascination in his eyes. How long had it been since a man looked at her that way? Since she’d let a man look at her that way without extinguishing his interest with a sharp phrase or quip?

      Since her marriage? If she took the time, she could count it down to the minute. But she wouldn’t. For the life of her, she was going to make sure that her marriage and divorce would cease to be a milestone in her life. Tonight would be the turning point.

      She mixed the three flaming aperitifs, each more quickly than the last, letting the customer remove the match, but doing so much more silently and efficiently than she had with Max.

      Care to light my fire? she’d asked. Trouble was, he’d done that a hell of a long time ago without even trying—simply by coming into her tiny wharfside restaurant one evening, ordering his beer with cool politeness and leaving a big tip—and then disappearing into the night. But he’d come back, nearly every weeknight. Never saying more than a few words, but speaking to her nonetheless—in sidelong glances, clandestine stares. Perhaps saying things she wasn’t ready to hear.

      Until tonight.

      Little by little, the crowd thinned. The dining rooms were emptied, vacuumed and reset for the final breakfast crowd. Uncle Stefano stuffed the night’s receipts into a vinyl bag then disappeared in the office to secure them in the safe so Ari could tally them later. In couples and trios, the customers went home. Waiters called good-night after scooping their tips from their pockets and tossing their aprons into the laundry basket by the kitchen.

      But Max Forrester didn’t move.

      Ariana stuffed dirty glasses in the dishwasher, replaced all the bottles she’d used, stacked the mixers in the small refrigerator and wiped down the bar—all the while aware that Max hadn’t left. Charlie had, sometime when Ariana hadn’t noticed, and he’d done so without saying goodbye or thanking her for her help with his rehearsal dinner, which she thought odd but not surprising. The man was getting married in the morning. She was more than likely the last thing he had on his mind.

      But obviously she was of interest to Max. Never before had he stayed late. Why else but for her? She was flattered. Terrified. Excited. He’d never flirted with her in the past, never so much as attempted to strike up a conversation beyond the day’s specials. At the same time, he’d never been cold or dismissive. Just standoffish, controlled. As if he chose to ignore their mutual attraction just as she did.

      And yet, he’d lagged behind tonight. That had to mean something.

      Ariana poured ouzo into a short shot glass and downed the fiery liqueur in one gulp. The licorice-tasting essence of anise coated her mouth, burned her eyes and her throat, but she needed the fortification. If Max hadn’t left, it was, perhaps, because he’d read the subtle invitation in her eyes earlier, understood the hidden meaning in her question. Possibly she was about to be granted the wish she’d made while riding that cable car down Russian Hill, the bright moon shining just over the Bay Bridge, casting a hypnotic glow over the dark waters of San Francisco Bay.

      She wanted to have an affair. This week and this week only. With Max Forrester and Max Forrester only.

      She smoothed her damp cloth closer and closer to him at the bar. He didn’t turn toward her. He sat, staring straight ahead, his gaze lost in the rows of bottles behind the bar. His Flaming Eros had barely been touched.

      She glanced at the collection of whiskeys and bourbons and vodkas, wondering what held his attention so raptly.

      “Hey, Max? You all right?”

      Cautiously, she walked directly in his line of vision. There was a distinct pause before his eyes focused on her.

      “Yeah. I’m great.”

      He blinked once, then twice. She saw him sway on his bar stool.

      She shot forward and grabbed his hand. “No, you’re not.”

      She glanced down at his drink again. He’d sipped maybe a quarter of the concoction and though her mixture was potent, she’d never seen anyone get drunk on just one. Maybe a little silly, but not ready to pass out.

      “What did you drink tonight?”

      She remembered clearing away a half-empty beer, but she had no idea what he’d had before she returned from her appointment with the architect.

      She waited for him to answer and when he didn’t, she asked again.

      “What? Oh.” He glanced down at his drink. “You made me this.”

      “No, I mean before. At dinner?”

      He squinted as he thought. Remembering took more effort than it should have. He was drunk. Ariana rolled her eyes. Great. Just great! I finally decide to have an affair with a guy and he’s three sheets to the wind. She recalled the distinctly forgettable experience of making love to her husband when he’d had more than his share of tequila after a gig in the Castro. Not an experience she’d ever want to repeat.

      “Max, what did you drink at dinner?” she asked once more, losing her patience with the same speed as her attraction.

      “Tea,” he answered finally, nodding as the memory apparently became clearer and clearer. “We had tea.”

      “Long Island Iced Teas?”

      Ariana hated that drink. She’d seen more than her share of inexperienced drinkers get sloshed thanks to the innocent-sounding name. Too bad there wasn’t a drop of tea in the thing. Just vodka, gin, tequila, rum, Collins mix and an ounce of cola for color. “Great, just…”

      “No, iced tea. Unsweetened. With lemon.”

      As the truth of his claim registered, she stepped up on the lower shelf СКАЧАТЬ