On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [6]
The woman, unsurprisingly, squawked in unhappy surprise as several ounces of chilled liquor cascaded over the back of her head.
“What on God’s green earth?” the woman sputtered, the words thick and smoky with the cadence of the South. Her brown ringlets dripped with Simon’s cocktail.
Devon got a brief glimpse of bright green eyes and round, pink cheeks before she turned on Simon, hands on curvy hips, sneaker-clad toe tapping.
“Do you mind?” Simon snarled. “We were in the middle of a private discussion.”
Even viewing her face in partial profile, Devon was impressed by the expression of affronted shock that came over it. Holy shit, Devon thought, Simon better run.
A fizzy feeling of intoxication better than anything he’d ever found at the bottom of a bottle was still coursing through Devon’s veins. He was riding high on life, grooving on the idea of having his life back, not being indentured to the producers and DPs and makeup artists, and oh, yes, publicists required by the show, for three months of glorious hiatus while the producers set the next season. He was nearly perfectly happy right now to sit back and watch the bonus surprise floor show.
“I most certainly do mind,” the woman informed Simon with icy civility. “Maybe you didn’t notice, sir, but you just doused me with your drink.”
Vibrating with anger, Simon looked around and pointed to a stack of cocktail napkins halfway down the bar. “There. You’re closer to them than I am. Now, Dev, as I was saying . . .”
The woman interrupted Simon once more by tapping him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me,” she said to Devon. “I hate to interrupt, but I need to speak with your friend here.”
Simon glared at him in an angry appeal for help, but Devon spread his hands wide and said, “How can I deny such a polite request?”
The woman turned those glowing green eyes on Devon for the first time. One white, long-fingered hand swept the dark brown curls off her forehead and revealed a fresh-scrubbed, pink-cheeked face. The face wasn’t so much beautiful as it was interesting. Her chin was too pointed, her dark brows a touch too heavy for her face, and her skin was too pale, making her brilliant green eyes appear almost startling. This woman spent zero time at the spa getting buffed, plucked, and tanned. She looked nothing like the perfect, sophisticated women he usually dated, models and socialites and actresses. But there was something compelling about her, some mysterious allure in her sweet, wide-eyed gaze that kept Devon’s attention.
Even when he knew, instinctively and immediately, that she was way too nice for him.
“Thank you,” she said in that husky voice that somehow carried over all the combined chatter and hubbub of the crowded bar. “You’ve restored my faith in Yankee mothers—I was starting to think none of you boys up here had any home training whatsoever.”
Too nice, maybe, Devon amended silently, but she’s no fragile flower.
An opinion confirmed when she poked one stiff finger into Simon’s chest and faced him down like a scrappy terrier. “You, however, ought to be ashamed. What would your momma think if she saw you treating a woman this way? Hmm? Throwing a tantrum like a little baby and soaking my shirt, which is probably ruined now, and all you can do is point out some napkins? Which is about as useful as a pogo stick in quicksand.”
Simon smoothed back his sandy hair, tightened his tie, and tried for a charming smile. He fished out one of his embossed ecru business cards.
“Please feel free to send the dry cleaning bill to my secretary.”
“No, thank you, that won’t be necessary,” she said with a disdainful sniff.
“Then what do you want?”
The woman gave Simon a look that bordered on pitying. “Merciful heavens, you really don’t know, do you? An apology.”
Devon leaned one elbow on the bar, getting a certain amount of perverse pleasure out of watching the slippery bastard wriggle.
Finally, through white lips and gritted teeth, Simon gathered enough of his customary sangfroid