A Will and a Way (3 page)

As if he lived to prove her right, he looked up at her from under a thick fringe of dark eyelashes. “Why don’t you try again?”

“Dermot Mulroney,” she whispered.

That lazy grin stretched out once again, but this time he chuckled. “No, I’m Will Tarrant.”

He raised a questioning eyebrow as he took in the cold weather gear she’d piled on the stool beside her, and offered his hand. She sat frozen, her hands curled around the edge of the bar. He lifted the other in mock dismay. But she’d had people using that reach for the sky look on her since she was no bigger than a niblet. He was going to have to work on conveying disapproval with a little more oomph if he wanted to compete at her level.

“It’s always a pleasure to meet a fellow fan,” he said, his voice filled with so much sincerity it coaxed a startled laugh from her. “Tell me, have you been studying Mr. Mulroney long?”

At that, she returned his supercilious stare, determined to show this brazen Yankee exactly how it was done. “No. But I assume you’re very familiar with his repertoire.”

Sober as a judge, he looked her dead in the eye. “I bless the day that great man was born.”

Helpless to resist such unabashed shamelessness, she pried her hand from the bar and let him take it. “I’m Betty Asher.”

“Betty?” He blinked and reared back but didn’t let go of her hand. “Are you kidding me? Your name is Betty?”

Confused by his extraordinary reaction to what she’d always considered the most ordinary of names, she attempted to extricate her hand. “Yes, my name is Betty.”

He grasped her fingers before she could slip away. “I’m sorry. It’s just…perfect.”

Intense dark eyes searched hers, then roamed the rest of her face as if he were cataloging every last detail about her. She squirmed a bit, feeling guilty for probing gazes she’d sent his way earlier in the evening. Guilty, and more than a little nervous. Which was bad because when she got nervous she tended to babble, and the babbling…well, it wasn’t attractive. And she wanted Will Tarrant to find her attractive. And if there was one skill Betty Jean Stallings Asher had learned at the foot of the master, it was making herself attractive to men.

“I’m afraid you caught me. I have indeed long been an admirer of Mr. Mulroney’s body…of work.” She spoke the last after a pause so packed with implication it made the word pregnant seem impotent. Then she punctuated it with the little eyelash flutter she’d learned in her bassinet. If this man wanted to flirt, he’d better bring his A-game. “Tell me, which parts do you find most compelling?”

“Parts of you?”

“I thought we were talking about Dermot Mulroney,” she taunted.

“I’d rather talk about you, Betty Asher.”

Something in the way he said her name made her shiver. Or maybe it was simply the fact that Mother Nature seemed to have a deep and abiding grudge against the new city she’d misguidedly decided to call home. Rolling her shoulders to chase the ripple away, she turned to gather her belongings. “I’m afraid that topic isn’t all that interesting.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong.” He set his glass on the bar and placed a gentle hand on her arm, not restraining her, but making his reluctance to see her go breathtakingly clear. “You’re the woman I’ve been waiting for all my life.”

For once in his life, Will wasn’t just feeding out some line trying to get a woman to bite. He should have been muttering complaints about gin joints and her walking into them, but he couldn’t. He was so damn happy to see her when she walked through the door that he’d been completely poleaxed for about five minutes. And now he was torn between joy and absolute terror. Because, holy hell, her name was Betty. If that wasn’t a sign that they were meant to be, he didn’t know what was.

“Stay. Please.” He caught the tremor in her hand as she shook out her scarf. “I think this might turn out to be the most important night of my life.”

“You must lead a very boring life, Mr. Tarrant.”

“Not in the least.” He let his hand fall away. “I’ve made it my life’s work to avoid anything remotely resembling boring.”

“Then you’d better cut a wide path around me.”

“On the contrary. I’m fascinated.”

He flashed the grin he used to get out of detention back in high school. She wobbled as she tugged her hat down over her head with a little more force than was strictly necessary. He took the opportunity to touch her again. Damn. Yes, she was real. And warm. All woman. A total Betty.

“I can’t imagine what you’d find so interesting.”

“Everything.” He must have struck the right tone because she stopped fidgeting with her hat and looked up at him, her blue eyes wide. “For example…” He swooped down to pick up the glove that had fallen to the floor unnoticed, then offered it to her with a flourish. “You do know that it’s spring, don’t you?”

“Spring? Where?”

A bark of bitter laughter escaped her. The harsh contrast between that laugh and the wholesome sweetness that surrounded her like a fluffy pink cloud made his heart flip. The thought that there might be a bit of an edge to this sweet Betty was almost too much for him to bear.

Wetting his lips, he tried to swallow the knot in his throat, but his voice still came out in a rasp. “I saw it on the calendar. It was right there in black and white.”

She shot him a murderous glare, snatched her glove from his grasp, and began to wriggle her fingers into it. “Then someone had best tell Mother Nature, because I haven’t felt my toes in more than ten days.”

He stared straight into her eyes. “I’d be happy to feel them for you.”

She laughed. “No. Thank you,” she added as an afterthought. The amusement in her eyes warred with the incredulity in her tone. “I appreciate the offer.”

Will smiled back at her full stop. He’d spent years—no, decades—honing his skills. He knew when he was getting somewhere with a woman. She didn’t want to go. Not really. She just wanted to be convinced it was okay to be tempted to stay.

“Damn.” He served up a playful leer and a side of incorrigible. “Anything else you want felt?”

“You’re very kind, but I don’t think so.”

He stepped closer, crowding her a little. “I’m not kind at all, and maybe you’re thinking too much.”

But she didn’t blush and look away, his Betty. No, she stood toe-to-toe with him and stared him straight in the eye. “I’ve had two glasses of wine, and I’m not thinking clearly.”

“Good. I love it when a beautiful woman stops thinking clearly. Improves my chances.”

She smirked. “I doubt your chances need…enhancements.”

He took her hand and began pulling the soft knit glove off finger-by-finger. “It’s cold out there and warm in here.” Her unresisting hand landed in his palm. It felt good. Damn good. “Stay a little while longer, Betty Asher. You’re the prettiest thing to happen to The Pump in forty years.”

“The Pump?”

“That’s what the locals call it.” His eyes locked on hers, he brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Tell me, Betty Asher, are you a local?”

She blinked and jerked her hand away. “I am now.”

With brisk, business-like precision, she removed the other glove and made a point of looking around the darkened barroom as she tucked the pair into the pocket of her ugly coat. “You’ve been hanging out in this bar for forty years? I didn’t know barflies lived so long.”

He had to laugh. Pretty, smart, and sharp. A lethal combination indeed. “Well, you might have noticed that the whole place is pretty well-preserved.” He nodded to the neon lights and backlit signs decorating the paneled walls. “Marty keeps me under a highball glass during the day. Dontcha, Marty?”

The bearded bartender didn’t even glance up from the glass he was drying. “What answer you lookin’ for here?”

“A yes will do.”

Marty bobbed his balding head. “Yep. Sure do.”

“Thank you.” Will turned up the wattage on his smile and gestured to the stool she’d abandoned. “I grew up around the corner. Marty’s sister Mary Jean used to babysit me.”

When Betty slid onto the stool, he snatched the cap from her head and tucked it into the over-sized pocket in her parka. She didn’t shy away. And he didn’t embarrass himself by crawling into her lap and curling up like a cat, even though the casual intimacy of the gesture unleashed a mushroom cloud of hope in his chest.

Fate. Hope. Betty.

This was too good to be true.

She gave him a shy smile as she unwound the scarf. “I bet you needed lots of minding.”

“Oh, I did. Poor Mary Jean retired at seventeen, never to babysit again.” He snagged the leg of the stool beside hers with his foot and dragged it a few inches closer. “Give the lady some of the wine you keep for Sister Laurent, Marty,” he called to the bartender. “And toss that boxed crap you keep trying to pass off. I’ve got socks older than that.”

“Socks!”

Will jumped, startled by her outburst, but she just beamed up at him.

“That’s what the wine tasted like. Kerosene, with notes of dirt and a hint of sweat socks.” Her eyes sparkled with delight.

He couldn’t have looked away if his corneas depended on it. “You drink kerosene often?”

“Only when I’ve had a really trying day,” she replied primly. She smiled her thanks when Marty slid a glass of blood-red wine in front of her.

“Another?” the bartender asked Will.

He eyed the finger of scotch in his glass speculatively, then gave his head a brisk shake. “I’m good for now. Thanks.”

The moment the bartender’s back was turned, Betty lifted the glass to her nose and gave a tentative sniff.

“It’s an Australian Shiraz,” Will informed her. She didn’t bother hiding her surprise, so he countered with a placid stare. “Taste it. It’s good. No socks added.”

She did as he prompted then turned to him with a sheepish smile. “It is good, but I really shouldn’t drink it. I had a glass at home before I came out.”

He propped an elbow on the bar and slid her a sidelong glance as he reclaimed his own glass. “Ah, that explains the dastardly second glass. Tell me did Marty’s wine taste like clean socks or dirty?”

“For my own peace of mind, I’m going to say clean.”

There was something about her voice that drew him in. She was southern, that much was obvious and all too arousing. Sweet as honey, but smoky as aged bourbon. “And what happens if you drink a third glass?”

“Things that can only be spoken of in hushed tones,” she replied, matching his tone of mock severity.

He nodded as he digested that tidbit of information, took a sip of scotch, then turned to face her. “Drink up. I promise to keep my voice low.”

Betty unzipped her parka and reached for the stem of the glass. The wine danced along the sides of the bowl as she swirled. Beneath the bar, her knee brushed his. “Will Sister Laurent mind that I’m drinking her wine?”

“I may have to bang some erasers at recess, but no, I don’t think so.” He gave her a wry smile. “Sister Laurent prides herself on being the soul of Christian charity.”

“Ah, pride.” She cleared her throat, tucked her chin to her chest and locked her gaze on the far-less-dangerous third glass of wine. “Isn’t that one of the deadliest sins?”

“I imagine, like the rest of us, the good sister has racked up a few others,” he said, tossing off his favorite nun’s eternal soul with a shrug. “She never shares her pretzel bowl, so that’s both greed and gluttony. I’ve always suspected her of coveting Sister Magdalene’s onyx rosary, even though she complains that the beads click too loud.”

He leaned in closer, but she stared straight ahead. He wanted to swirl his tongue along the curve of her neck, feel her pulse skip and jump in her throat, suck her ear lobe between his lips and bite. Ever so gently.

She shivered and he gave in to temptation. He brushed the barest of kisses across her ear, and her spine lost a gratifying bit of starch. “I know she’s guilty of lust, too.”

Betty stiffened, but not in revulsion. If anything, she leaned in closer, her breathing soft and shallow. “She is?”

“Sister Laurent only drinks Australian wine.”

He caught the scent of scotch on his own breath and prayed it didn’t offend her. She braced a hand on his knee. Not too high, but close enough to kick things up to DEFCON five in terms of arousal. He gave her ear another nuzzle then retreated to his stool before he was tempted to take things a step too far.

She blinked and gave her head a slight shake, but her hand didn’t move. “I don’t understand what lust has to do with wine.”

“Don’t you?” He spoke the question in undertone.

She answered by giving his thigh a gentle squeeze then took her hand away.

Heaving a sigh, he closed his eyes, hoping a slight change in topic might help him downshift. “Have you ever read
The Thorn Birds
?”

Her lashes fluttered and her brow beetled. Will was sure he’d never found befuddlement as sexy on any other woman.

“
The Thorn Birds
? Yes.”

“Then you know about the priest,” he said, adding a shudder to his smirk to emphasize his point.

“The priest?”

He gave her a pointed look. “The naughty priest.”

“Oh.
That
priest.”

“Yes, that priest.” He gestured to a two-top just under a backlit Heineken sign. “Most nights, Sister Laurent sits right there, drinks Australian wine, and reads the most battered paperback copy of
The Thorn Birds
never to grace the St. Sebastian school library.”

She let her confusion go in a slow hiss. “I see.”

And she did see. He could see that she saw. Her eyes darkened and she hummed softly. He sat up a little straighter, wondering if she was thinking about committing at least a few deadly sins herself. He just hoped to God she’d commit them with him. Needing to stake a claim, he planted a big, warm palm on her leg and turned her to face him.

“So we’ve covered pride, greed, gluttony, lust, and envy, though I think I have her beat in that department. The rosary beads are nice, but…” he gave Betty’s knee a gentle squeeze then cast a glance around the barroom. “Nope. I’ve definitely got envy in the bag.”

She cocked her head. “How so?”

“Sweetheart, there isn’t a man in here not eating his heart out over the fact that you were looking at me and not at them,” he growled. “And I’m just Catholic enough to confess I like it. I like that they’re watching me talk to you and wishing they were me. I like it a lot.”