Part Two

As soon as he’d gone, Siobhan hastily finished up her few lingering tasks and switched off the remainder of the lights. The only thing she’d left untouched was the highball glass with his wedding ring.  It didn’t feel right to dump it out, or to keep the ring.  If he didn’t come back for it, she’d leave it for him at the hotel desk when she returned to work in the morning.

In the employee locker room, she quickly surveyed her appearance, knowing that she didn’t have enough time to really do anything about it.  Her braid had begun to have that fly-away look, but her eyes were bright and the color in her cheeks was still high.  Smoothing her hands over her ‘uniform’, she decided that the black slacks and long-sleeved, scoop neck tee would suffice.  Spritzing some vanilla body spray on her throat and wrists, the only other concession she made in going from work to casual was to kick off the black sneakers that kept her feet comfortable all night, exchanging them for black ballerina flats.

A lot of petite women wore stiletto heels to compensate for their lack of stature, but Siobhan had given up being a slave to fashion years ago.  She didn’t need a five-inch pair of death spikes to level the playing field between her and anyone else.

Blowing out a breath, she gave herself a last once-over in the mirror before looking at her watch.  Eight minutes had passed.

She snatched up her purse and slid into the labyrinth of back hallways that, while intricate and convoluted, were as familiar as the back of her hand.  In no time, she was in the guest elevator, pressing the button for the thirty-second floor.

What am I doing?  He may be famous, but I know NOTHING about this man.  What kind of idiot goes to a strange man’s hotel room at three in the morning?

Without hesitation a second voice butted in on the conversation with herself. 

The kind who doesn’t want him suffering alone tonight.

And that was the truth.  This wasn’t some sex fantasy come to life.  If she got to his room and he was passed out cold, she wouldn’t have a moment’s remorse over the loss.  Her only – well, maybe PRIMARY was a better word– desire was to see the shadows chased from his eyes by whatever positive emotion had lived there before.  She assumed it was happiness, or at least contentment.  Either would be a perfectly acceptable substitute.   

The elevator slid open, putting an end to her attempted justification for being here.  In about thirty seconds she would knock on the door and know whether or not she was making a mistake.  Until then, she wasn’t second guessing herself any more.

A quiet knock heralded her arrival at the room number he’d provided, and the door swung inward almost instantly.  In those first seconds, before he could censor himself, the relief radiated from him like a beacon, erasing any lingering doubts she may have had.

Tonight was for him, and if she happened to make a beautiful memory in the process – so be it.

“Are you going to invite me in?” she asked with a smile.

His teeth flashed briefly as he stepped back to admit her into the dimly lit suite, shirt tails flapping in the breeze.  The few buttons that had been holding the black pinstriped dress shirt together had been freed, and Siobhan couldn’t help but admire the broad expanse of chest that was now more fully exposed.

“Forgive my manners.  I was stunned for a minute.”   He gently pushed the door, allowing it to fall closed with a muffled thump.

Hands on hips, she chastised him.  “You didn’t believe me.”

“It wasn’t that,” he denied, towering over her.  “I thought I dreamed you.  Kinda like a pink elephant?”

Her laughter tittered throughout the suite, sounding loud and raucous to her own ears.  “Sorry,” she murmured.  “I didn’t mean to be so loud, but you just called me an elephant – or a hallucination.”

“No, Whiskey, you’re definitely not an elephant.  More like a li’l pixie.”  His face split wide with a grin, and he tugged lightly on the braid that hung over her shoulder.  “I know… a leprechaun.”

She felt like a leprechaun standing next to him.  Even in his socked feet, he stood almost a good foot taller, placing her eyes directly even with the dark, flat nipples exposed by his open shirt.   

Discomfited, her eyes darted beyond him, further into the room, where an assortment of mini-bar bottles was scattered across the low sofa table.  None of them were what he’d been drinking downstairs, and only one was open, but he was evidently still seeking the promise of oblivion they offered.

A gentle finger tipped her chin upward toward his eyes, recapturing her attention.  “Will you share your pot of gold with me?”

The line was corny – borderline juvenile.  It was something that would be uttered with snickers among a group of boys in a high school locker room.  Any other time, any other place and Siobhan would firmly shut down the man who dared speak something so… ridiculous.

But not this man.  Not tonight.  The awkward little laugh that had followed it tugged at her, revealing that it had been a product of nerves, not school-boy seduction.

“You’re gonna have to work on your pick up lines when you start dating again.  That was bad,” she murmured kindly, placing her palm over the heavy metal cross lying against his sternum.

It was enough to convince that elusive dimple to make another appearance, and she knew that she’d do anything to make it stay right there for the rest of the night.  It lent him a sweet, boyish charm that shaved years from his age.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had to pick a woman up, Whiskey.  Hell, I don’t know if I ever have.  They’ve always sorta chased me.”

“Well, I’ve never let a man pick me up, so it’s a first for both of us.”

“Then I’m grateful.”  His eyes fell downward and his uncertainty was palpable, hanging thickly in the air around them.  Richie’s hand dwarfed hers when he stacked them together on his chest, and he engrossed himself with the contrast for a distraction.  “So tiny.”

Siobhan cocked her head, dipping it to intrude upon his line of vision.  “Are you sure this is what you want?  My feelings won’t be hurt if you’ve changed your mind.” 

Smoldering eyes locked with hers, rocking her to the core with their heat.  “I want this more than I want my next breath,” he admitted.  “I’m just trying not to scare you.”

How the hell could anyone let him go?

That was not the line of thinking she should be indulging.  This was a few hours of escapism.  Nothing more.

“I’m not afraid,” she assured him, slipping her hand from under his to glide it slowly downward, bringing it to rest upon the thatch of hair that surrounded his navel.  “Tonight, if it’s in my power to grant it, anything you want is yours.”

He didn’t ask, he took, tasting of grain alcohol and pure testosterone when their tongues clashed.  The flavors flooded her senses, making her as drunk as he.  She’d never taste whiskey again without remembering the accompanying taste of him.  Dark and sensual, his flavor was almost exotic, and a whimper escaped as she struggled to draw a breath.

“You’re the sweetest tasting whiskey I’ve ever had in my mouth,” he murmured, the light dancing off the sheen of moisture shining on his lips.  She felt a faint pulling at her scalp when he touched her braid.  “Can I undo it?”

Nodding, she waited for him to fumble with the black elastic that tethered the strands together, careful not to pull her hair when he tugged it free.  Nimble fingers immediately inserted themselves into the firmly woven locks, moving steadily toward the crown until it was all free.  The rasp of his nails sent shivers down her spine when he fluffed out the waves with a sigh of appreciation, admiring the way it spilled down her back in a glorious coppery waterfall.

She echoed his sigh with her own.  When was the last time she’d had appreciative fingers running through her hair?  And he applied just the right amount of pressure to relieve the ache wrought by long hours of braided confinement.

“Gorgeous,” he admired.  “It’s a shame to bundle it all up.”

She really didn’t have much choice when she was behind the bar, but hated to distract him with the mundane reality of her profession.  It was much more pleasurable to explore his abdomen with open palms that were itching in anticipation.

Her hands had no more glided upward to brush his ribs, when he stepped back, capturing them in his grasp.  “Would you like a drink?”  Richie gestured toward the table by the couch.

He’s having second thoughts.

“No,” she declined thoughtfully.  “But if you want one, I’ll be happy to sit with you.”

A slight incline of his head preceded their short, wordless journey to the sofa and its inebriating offerings. 

Perching herself on the end cushion, she watched him fumble with the ice from his seat next to her, dropping a few of the cubes to the floor in their transition from ice bucket to glass.

“Here,” Siobhan offered with a smile, relieving him of the small metal tongs.  “Why don’t you let a trained professional handle that?”  Half a dozen cubes efficiently clinked into the small glass before him, and her hand hovered over the assortment of small bottles.  “What’s your pleasure, sir?”

“Whiskey.”

She didn’t take time to entertain herself with the notion that there may be dual meaning to his choice, merely cracking the seal on the bottle and efficiently transferring its contents to the glass. 

Richie accepted the drink from her with a nod of thanks, taking a short swallow before replacing it on the table.  “Why are you here?”

It was an odd question, only serving to highlight the befuddled state he must be stuck in.  Either that or he really was having second thoughts.

“Because you asked me.”

“You aren’t looking for some story to sell to the National Enquirer or Washington Post?”

Answering his question with a sincere, heartfelt response would only serve to more firmly entrench him in the reality he had been looking to escape.  A different tactic was in order.

“You think they’d pay for it?  ‘Drunk with Bad Lines Still Picks Up the Girl?’  Somehow I don’t think so,” she teased.  “Besides, it just makes me look like a slut, so your honor is safe with me.”

But he didn’t smile.  “I’m not drunk enough to believe you didn’t already know my name.”

“Maybe I did,” she confessed.  “But who you are has nothing to do with why I’m here.  Well, at least very little to do with it.  You didn’t want to be alone, and I understood that.  Period.  If that’s changed, then all you have to do is say the word and I’m on my way to a really comfortable bed in the suburbs.”