Finding Love's Wings (5 page)

After finishing my hair and makeup, I head downstairs toward the bar. I pass first through the little casino. It contains a few blackjack tables, roulette, poker, and a good handful of slot machines. It surprises me that it's so empty. I smile. The privacy of this island is really showing its colors tonight.
 

But as I reach the far side of the room and begin to enter the bar, I quickly realize that this is where most of the crowd seems to be tonight. I pass by the muscular blond man I saw yesterday in the hall. He is standing in a corner, overlooking the bar. Maybe he's hotel security.
 

The room is huge, consisting of several high top tables, booths, a dance floor, and a stage that’s in the process of being set up for a band. The sign next to the stage says, "Country Junkies Live, Friday June 8
th
at 10 p.m." In front of the stage is a huge wooden dance floor. Pink's "Bad Influence" is playing over the sound system.
There are all manner of people in here, from suits and cocktail dresses to jeans and t-shirts. You name it, it’s in this bar. It’s easy to separate the locals from the tourists. I chuckle to myself, knowing that I am obviously a tourist, but I feel separate from them. I don't see any other women with black and blue hair who are tattooed and pierced like I am.

Heads turn in my direction as I walk up to the bar. I notice a pretty big group of men and women dressed in suits. Banker types. Wow, nice company to work for if you have conferences on a private island. I finally walk up to the bartender, who eyes my shoulders and smiles. Apparently he appreciates tattoos, because he asks for my drink order in a voice that I'm pretty sure is meant to be seductive. Strange, I've never noticed a reaction like his before.

PART FIVE

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"It's her," I breath. My muse, my sign – she's walking into the bar.
 

I’m pretty sure I’ve stopped breathing. She gracefully makes a beeline for the bar, despite the five-inch heels she’s wearing. My guess is that, without them, she’s a full foot shorter than I am.
She has on a very short teal dress that fastens at the back of the neck, under her ponytail.

When she walks her ponytail doesn't move; her posture is nearly perfect. She has an air of authority about her. She is not going to let her height and small frame fool people, and she commands the attention of every man in the bar as she starts speaking with the bartender.
 

The bartender starts to grab a bottle from the well, but she stops him and appears to ask for something else. I watch intently as he turns and grabs a bottle from one of the shelves behind him. Ah, she knows her alcohol. The bottle is filled with a clear liquid, so I'm guessing it's a vodka, but I can't tell for sure.
 

A group of men gather behind her as the bartender hands her a drink. It's a Cosmo. Of course it's a Cosmo. She seems too loose for a stuffed-shirt-type drink like a martini.
 

I notice that her wings are more visible tonight, and below them there is something on her lower back trying to peek out from the top of her skirt. Or maybe it's just a trick of the light.
 

She takes a few sips and starts to turn around, sans drink. I watch as her head bobs up and down to the music that's playing. As she places her elbows onto the bar the song ends and Scott Stapp's "Great Divide" starts to play.
 

My shoulders slump. "All right, Mum, I get it," I mutter under my breath. It couldn't have been a clearer sign if a spotlight suddenly shone on this beautiful woman.
 

I take in the head-to-toe image of her. Her skin is pale and in stark contrast to the black of her hair, which is jet black with electric blue streaks running through it. Her makeup is bold: fire engine red lipstick, soft eye colors with bold mascara and eyeliner. Her features are soft, but she has well-defined cheek and jaw bones. Her bangs are short and cut straight across, curled into her eyes slightly. She reminds me of a pinup model from the thirties or forties.
 

She has a strong hourglass figure with wider shoulders and hips but a small waist. She is well-endowed in the chest. This has my attention for a multitude of reasons, one being that she knows how to accent her best feature, and two, I can see her nipples under her halter top. It was clear from looking at the back of her dress – or rather the lack of one – that she's not wearing a bra. But now I see that her nipples are rock hard. And there's something...is that...?
 

"Holy fuck, her nipples are pierced." My breathing spikes. Then my eyes finally slide down the contours of her stomach. Her hips are curvy and soft. Her legs are sheathed in sheer black, lace top thigh highs that are peeking out under her skirt. Her legs are sleek and toned.
 

As I take her in, I watch one man after another approach her. And one after another, she is quickly and effectively shooting them down. She turns and orders another drink.
 

Now one of the banker-looking dudes who made a show at looking her up and down starts talking to her. She looks at him and smiles. The smile is like turning on a light bulb, bright and friendly. I grind my teeth together in irritation. The gentleman turns to the bartender and points to her glass.
 

"It's already full, you idiot," I hear myself say. Whoa, where did that come from?

The bartender is speaking to him and he turns toward her. His eyes are wide and she is visibly shaking with laughter at his reaction. Quickly he ducks his head and scampers off with his tail between his legs.
 

"What the bloody hell is that all about?" I mutter.

I'm completely baffled by this woman. What has these men turning away? "What is it about you?" I say quietly. I need to talk to her somehow. But how? I'm not sure I know how to approach a girl, especially one that has turned down just about every man in the bar. She has an air of confidence that I know can be intimidating to a man, but the last guy appeared to be buying her a drink. I need to figure out an opening line, or maybe buy her a drink. Maybe it's the price of the drink that is turning the men around. Though this hotel is not cheap, so you would think that most of this crowd would be able to afford her drink.

Just then, she turns to her left and catches me looking at her. A puzzled look crossed her features as she studies me. Then she smiles, wide and beautiful, raises her glass and tips her head in my direction.

I feel my cheeks heat at being caught and look down.
 

Luckily the waitress appears, bearing another drink. Thank God!

"Here you go," she says.
 

"Thanks."
 

"Can I get you anything else?" she asks.
 

A flash of inspiration, and I grin. "As a matter of fact, can you have the bartender make up a Diva Vodka Cosmopolitan for the lovely lady at the bar wearing the teal dress?" Her face falls. "Have it added to my room tab, please."

"Uh...yes, sir." She nods and stalks slowly toward the bar.
 

Shit, what if she comes over here to thank me? What the hell am I going to say to her? Uh, hi? No, that's stupid. I'm an actor, for God’s sake. Dammit, I can't talk to her.
 

Before the waitress even makes it to the bar, I scurry from my seat and head for the patio doors. Tyson is close behind me. If she’s interested, she'll come to me.
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I turn to Jessie, the bartender, whose name I learned while ordering my third Cosmo, and ask him, "Do you know who that man is, the one in the dark corner?" The man in the booth has eyebrow length dirty blond hair that’s falling over his big black sunglasses. He looks gorgeous of course and something about him is familiar, but I can’t grasp who or where.

"Not directly, no. This is the second night he's been here and he just sits in the corner and orders from the waitress, who is very obviously trying to get his attention and failing miserably." He laughs.
 

I smile in return and order another drink, but his attention is diverted to someone at the end of the bar.

"Hold that thought," he says, putting up a finger and walking over to the waitress at the end of the bar. The music changes to Adele's "Set Fire to the Rain" and I can only catch bits and pieces of the conversation between Jessie and the waitress.
 

"What do you mean he wants to buy her a drink?" I hear Jessie say.

"He asked me to tell you to make her a..." I don't catch the rest of what she says. I lean farther forward, trying to see if I can tell who they're talking about, but the waitress is looking straight at me. Oh great, someone else wants to buy me a drink they can’t afford. I roll my eyes.
 

The waitress leans further toward Jessie and says, "I think he can afford it. His tab is going to room eight." Jessie visibly stiffens at what she's said. It takes him a minute to recover, but he nods, turns, and starts to make a drink.

"Hey, Jessie, you got my drink coming?"
 

His smile is a little tight. "You could say that."

I cringe. What is this all about? Jessie's movements are careful. But as I watch him pour the vodka, I notice that it's not Absolut Crystal that he's pouring into the glass, but Diva Vodka, one of finest, though not well-known. One of the most expensive bottles of liquor on the market is flowing gracefully into a crystal martini glass.
 

"What are you doing?" I ask a little too harshly.

He stills. "Making your drink. What does it look like?"

Then comes the Grand Marnier Quintessence. "Holy hell! I didn't ask for this!" I protest.
 

"Don't worry, you're not paying for it."

"What are you talking about, I'm not paying—" But then it dawns on me. I purse my lips and Jessie notices my discomfort.

"I'm just doing what I'm told to do. Don't shoot the messenger. Please." His smile is sweet, genuine.

"I won't, but my little eighty-five dollar glass just turned into what exactly?"
 

"Calm down, it's coming from the man in the booth you were just asking me about. He asked Marisa to place an order for a Cosmo with the top, top shelf we have. Which happens to be precisely what I'm doing. Just be glad that our cranberry and lime juice is made fresh in our kitchen, because anything less would be doing this drink a great injustice."
 

He smiles, widely this time, showing two small dimples that I hadn't noticed before. The dimples give him a cute, innocent appearance, making him quite a bit cuter than he was about three minutes ago. He really is attractive: shirtless, wearing tastefully torn jeans and black boots. His hair is jet black and his skin tone is a beautiful caramel color.
 

I blush deep red and can feel the heat spread over my entire body as I start to think inappropriate thoughts about Jessie. I’m growing uncomfortable because I'm thinking about Jessie while Mr. Mysterious in the corner has just bought me a really expensive drink. If Jessie has noticed my discomfort, he doesn't comment.
 

The waitress returns with some fresh raspberries. Jessie adds them to my drink and hands it to me. "Bloody hell! How exactly am I supposed to drink this? It seems like a damn waste."

"Well, you raise the glass to your slightly-open mouth, then tip the glass until some liquid pours onto your tongue." He grins at his own sarcasm. I scowl. Chuckling at me, he continues, "Why don't you start by taking the glass over to his booth, sitting that sexy ass down, and talk to the damn man?"

I feel the blood drain from my face. "Are you serious?"

"It seems like the logical thing to do, given that he just bought you a four hundred and fifty dollar drink."

"Oh, fucking wonderful. Can you at least tell me his name?" I ask.

"Not really. I'm not supposed to reveal the names of other guests. But I can tell you that he's staying in the penthouse."

"That was supposed to be my room," I mutter.

He laughs again. "Well, now you know why you don't have it. He checked in Wednesday night with no check-out date and has spent a good deal of time down here since then." Obviously seeing something in my dumbstruck expression causes him to change his mind about releasing the guest’s name. "He's registered as Mr. Rubble."

"As in Barney Rubble? As in the Flintstones?" I bust out laughing. Great, he is either a rich, obnoxious billionaire whose name would be easily recognized or a well-known celebrity.
 

Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, it hits me. No wonder I thought I recognized him. Of course!

"Oh man, Jessie, do you know who he is? Full on, no cartoon names included?"
 

"Of course I do, I don't live in a wet paper bag."

I mouthed his name to Jessie, who just winked in reply.

Holy bloody fuck. Fucking hell. This cannot be happening. Tristan Michaels has just bought me a four hundred and fifty dollar drink. Not only is he the hottest actor in Hollywood, but he's my fantasy obsession. A man who has occupied many of my thoughts and fantasies, especially the last few days. Hell, I was fantasizing about him in a boardroom not forty-eight hours ago and his PR rep caught me doing it! Lest we forget that he's Trinity’s – and no doubt Bold's – biggest client. Tristan damn Michaels is sitting in a booth not a hundred feet from me. In a dark corner. Wearing sunglasses. No doubt in an attempt to thwart people from recognizing him. Which probably means he doesn’t want me to recognize him. Which probably means I should try to play it cool.

I nod toward Jessie, pick up my insanely expensive cocktail in a crystal glass, and paste a smile on my face, praying I don't look like an idiot.
 

As I turn around, I slowly raise my eyes to the booth.

It’s empty.

PART SIX

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My heart takes a dive. Just then, the waitress who had placed the order for my drink walks by. I reach out and lightly touch her shoulder. She pauses and turns toward me.