“It’s all custom. Fixtures. Woodwork. Don’t you love those built-ins over there? And what about that stained glass sky light. Look at that fireplace, Bree. Looks like red rock stone. Fabulous. Four bedrooms and baths. A spa downstairs. Indoor pool. A guest casita outside…
“One mil, eight hundred thousand.” Bree uttered her prediction while Ginger continued to spout the home’s assets.
“Actually, we got it for a steal at one-point-two.”
Both women turned. Bree gasped at the sight of the man standing immediately behind them, leaning into the bar. The color of his sparkling eyes rivaled the most clear blue turquoise she’d ever seen. His chiseled features forced her to catch a breath. It was difficult to immediately discern whether he was Anglo or Native…probably bi-racial. His complexion was much darker than hers; his semi-short, light brown hair, deliciously unkempt.
What a beautiful man.
And there was something slightly familiar about him.
Looking anywhere but straight into his face, Bree acted nonchalant. “You’re right. That price was a steal.”
“We know.”
The man pushed away from the bar and held out a hand to Bree. “Carson Graham. And you are?”
“The hired help.”
Ginger poked her elbow in her side, and Bree jumped. She took Carson’s hand and shook it. “I’m Bree, and she’s Ginger.”
Carson snickered. “Bree?”
“Yeah. Like the cheese.”
The right corner of his mouth stayed in smile-mode.
“And she’s Ginger, like the cookie.”
Carson laughed out loud.
The bartender set the last of her drinks on her tray. Squeezing between Carson and Ginger, she smiled back and said, “And I have drinks to deliver. Nice to meet you.”
Her fumbling fingers grasped the tray and in that second, she realized she was trembling. Not since she’d broken up with Sam a couple of months ago, had she realized how much she missed being close to a man.
She loved men.
Men.
Plural.
And that was the trouble. The men she dated always seemed to want some sort of commitment. It was difficult for her to settle. And sooner or later, bored and unsatisfied, she strayed…
Carson stopped her with a hand to her forearm. She rested the tray against the bar and once more, peered into his eyes. “Have we met?” he queried.
Confused, unsure why he seemed so familiar, she shook her head. “Um, earlier tonight? No.”
Cocking his head to one side, he narrowed his gaze and studied her. “No. Prior to tonight. I never forget a face.” He wriggled his fingers, as if he was itching to touch her. “Or a profile.” Then he did just that, touched her. Reaching out, he grazed a soft, fingertip stroke across her cheekbone and then traced the outline of her jaw, as if he were rendering a line drawing of her face. An unexpected shiver crannied through her and sped toward her center. His touch had instantly aroused her and it came from out of nowhere. “I’m an artist,” he continued, “and I never forget a contour…”
Bree huffed out a quick breath, trying to quell the short pants that wanted to escape her mouth. “I’m not sure, Carson. I-”
Someone bumped into her from behind, pushing her closer into him. He steadied her against his chest-which did absolutely nothing to quell her arousal, but served to completely stimulate it. She inhaled, deep, and took in the sharp spice of his aftershave, and nearly melted.
Her face was in his neck. “I should deliver those drinks,” she whispered.
Steadying her in front of him, Carson stared deep into her eyes, then lifted the tray and put it in her hands. “Go deliver your drinks, Ms. Santa. I’m not going anywhere.”
She hesitated, and did a slow turn, as Carson’s hands dropped to her hips and his fingertips grazed the hem of her skirt.
And the cheeks of her ass.
The action sent her sex into a decadent pucker of desire.
It was another hour before things slowed down enough to where Bree could catch her breath and a couple of sideways glances at Carson. Each time their eyes met, a little thrill raced through her. It was approaching midnight, the appointed time of the charity auction, and the remaining crowd of about forty people were either settling into sofas and overstuffed chairs, drinks in hand, or milling about aimlessly chatting with one another.
Carson Graham, at the moment, was no where to be found.
She snickered to herself. Graham. Like the cracker.
“What’s so funny?”
Ted the bartender busied himself cleaning up behind the bar. “Just thought of something,” she told him. “No big deal. Hey, you need some help?”
“Yeah.” He was loading some dirty glasses into a plastic carrier. “Mind taking some of these back to the kitchen? I need to start a dishwasher load. Somehow I became bartender and chief bottle washer once the weather turned nasty.”
“Sure.” Bree joined him behind the bar. Much of the hired help had been dismissed an hour or so earlier. She and Ginger had decided to stay on, confident ‘ol Ginny would get them back down the mountain.
Ginger moved in, slid an arm around Ted’s waist, smiled, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Bree raised a brow. Obviously, there was another reason Ginger wanted to stick around.
“What time do you think we can get out of here,” she asked, adding glasses to Bree’s plastic bin. “I am so ready to go.” She kicked off a red Mary Jane and reached down to rub a foot. “What about you, Bree?”
At the moment, Bree was conflicted about leaving sooner rather than later. She scanned the room again. No Carson. She shrugged. “I’m with you, Ginger. I leave when you leave.”
“Ted needs a ride,” Ginger returned.
“Okay by me.” She hefted the bin of glasses, wondering just what kind of ride Ted would get later tonight. She watched as he palmed Ginger’s butt through her dress. “I’ll get these started.” Behind her, she heard a tinkling of glasses and a female voice raise over the crowd, attempting to gain attention. She continued on into the kitchen.
With an oomph, she hoisted the container onto the counter and bent to open the dishwasher. Good. Clean dishes. One by one she emptied the glasses and small plates and stacked them on the counter. Every once in a while she stretched to work the kinks out of her back.
Oh boy, was she ever tired.
Had he been on his game tonight, Jake would have been out in the great room, peering up at Grace Walker, the chair of the committee raising money for the homeless shelter downtown off Central, smiling and clapping his hands as she announced the merits of each item up for auction.
Of course, he wasn’t on his game, and he didn’t give a rat’s ass what useless trinkets were up for grabs tonight. The whole notion was silly, anyway. Each of those items was already sold to their owners, the bidding having taken place prior to the party. It was all show, and he wondered why they were even going through the motions since the press didn’t show up for the party, anyway, due to the weather.
At best, he felt disconnected to the entire ordeal, but his body sure as hell jerked to attention as soon as he stepped through the back entrance to the kitchen.
His heart pounded in his throat. Thank God there was no one else in the room with whom he had to speak. He wasn’t sure he could. All he could do, however, was stand and stare.
The obvious item that caught his attention was the skimpy red Santa dress trimmed in white fur-and the woman wearing it. The boots, why yes, those were quite the thing, as well. Sleek and sexy and screaming “come fuck me” at the top of their lungs. The long mane of almost jet black hair that swung over her shoulder was the piece of the picture that made his chest clutch in addled surprise. The bronzed and dewy skin of her long legs made him think of only one thing-a perfect passage to the nectar of the gods. Her thighs gave way to a luscious round derrière that peeked out from beneath that fur-lined skirt each time she bent to pull out a dish or put one in.