The woman knew he was watching her - Rogan Broderick was sure of it.
Rogan, perched on a stool with his forearm resting along the beer-stained counter, a whiskey glass in his hand, had seen her the moment she entered.
Dark-lashed ocean-green eyes clashed briefly with his as she looked about with the air of a cat entering a strange place and inspecting it for possibly hostile elements. Two plain gold clasps secured a sleek fall of shining brown hair, revealing a classically feminine face. An intriguing hint of strength about the jawline belied the tender, kissable curves of a luscious mouth.
Her shoulders were bare but for the narrow straps of a light, simple-seeming dress the same deep, mysterious green as her eyes. The thin fabric hung in symmetrically draped folds over nicely rounded breasts, skimmed her waist and hips, and moved tantalizingly about her thighs. A perfect beauty and a city girl, he'd guess. She didn't seem to belong in the public bar of an old hotel on New Zealand's Northland coast.
A fish out of water. Or a mermaid.
No, not a mermaid. She had legs - the kind of legs other women would have killed for. Long, creamy and smooth, their fabulous shape emphasized by high-heeled sandals almost the exact color of the dress.
Giving her a friendly grin, he saw a slight widening of her eyes before the aloof green gaze roamed past him. She tucked her hand into her escort's arm as if for protection as they made for a corner table being abandoned by another couple.
He could hardly blame her, Rogan conceded, rubbing a knuckle over the three-day growth on his cheeks. Other men might look interesting and even glamorous unshaven, but he just looked unkempt and probably sinister. His thick, near-black hair was rust-colored on the haphazardly curling ends, overlong after weeks without seeing a barber, and the sea and sun of the Arabian Gulf had made it harsh and difficult to comb into submission.
He raised his glass to gulp a good shot of whiskey, not taking his eyes off the woman as her companion negotiated a passage through knots of tough, tanned fishermen, sunburned visiting yachties, and weathered locals in checked shirts and creased boots.
Sometimes holiday-makers from luxury yachts liked to hobnob with the regulars and soak up local color rather than patronize the classier lounge bar in the newer part of the building. These two didn't look like hobnobbers.
The man was slim, probably ten years older than Rogan's thirty-one, with neatly combed mid-brown hair and smooth untanned cheeks. He wore precision-pressed sand-colored slacks, and a black blazer over a toothpaste-white, roll-collared shirt.
Rogan's T-shirt, long since faded from red to an uneven pink, was rumpled, and his jeans, softened with wear and washing, conformed comfortably to his body. When he'd heard about the old man he had packed his kit in a hurry and barely made the first available flight. Clothes had been the last thing on his mind.
After collecting a room key he'd deferred the long hot shower he planned, in favor of a bracing drink. One whiskey, he'd promised himself, then he'd go upstairs and make himself respectable. Or at least as respectable as he was ever likely to look.
Instead he found himself ordering another drink to give him an excuse to ogle a woman, his blood stirring when she leaned forward to speak over the noise of the bar to the man opposite her, revealing the upper slopes of her breasts, the velvet shadow between them. When a waiter approached the table she looked up and smiled. Rogan shifted on his bar stool. That smile would have brought a stone statue to life.
He made the second drink last until after she and her companion had been served with white wine. Her right hand closed around the stem of the glass while her left one rested on the table. Both were bare of rings.
Didn't mean a thing - she could be in a relationship. Rogan turned his attention to the man, who did sport a gleam of gold on the middle finger of a hand that obviously had scant acquaintance with manual labour. He looked like an accountant or a lawyer. Reminded of his brother and why he was here, Rogan tossed off the remains of his drink, not wanting to think about the reason he'd flown home. Easier to occupy his mind fantasizing about a pretty woman.
He placed the glass on the counter and the barman inquired, "Same again?"
"No. Thanks." His gaze returning to the woman, Rogan got off the stool and hoisted the bulging pack at his feet up to his shoulder.
The movement must have caught her eye. She looked up and a faint rose color entered her cheeks. She blinked the deep-sea eyes and turned away to stare into her wine, a curve of burnished hair falling across her cheek. Her escort looked up too, his glance taking in Rogan's disreputable appearance before returning to his companion. He said something and the woman shook her head, then lifted the glass to her lips.
The man looked at Rogan again, warning him off with an ice-blue stare. Rogan slanted him a resigned grin and raised a hand in a half salute as he ambled to the door.
* * *
Granger was on time as always. Rogan, showered and shaved and in fresh jeans and a gray T-shirt, found him in the lobby, beside a large Christmas tree decorated with tinsel, colored gewgaws and, in defiance of the New Zealand summer, cotton-wool snowflakes.
The two men gripped hands and Rogan reached out to slap his brother's shoulder, noting signs of strain about eyes the same vivid aquamarine as his own. "You're looking pretty flash," he said, nodding at the suit and discreet silk tie.
Granger allowed himself a tight smile, his eyes glinting. "I don't suppose you even own a suit. I brought along a spare you can borrow. You'll be a pall-bearer, won't you?"
"Uh-huh." It was the least he could for the old man. "You haven't put him in a suit, have you?" At a guess, their father had never worn one in his life.
Granger shook his head. "He'd have died all over again."
Rogan's laughter cracked in the middle. He clamped his teeth shut and there was a small, awkward silence. Then he said, "Let's eat."
* * *
Camille Hartley saw two tall, dark-haired men, strikingly good-looking and bearing an unmistakable family resemblance, enter the dining room. It was a moment before she recognized the casually dressed one as the man who had stared at her earlier in the bar.
The piratical beard shadow was gone, revealing clear-cut bone structure and a stubborn jaw, and he'd ruthlessly combed back the unruly mane of his hair, its obstinate waves dampened and glossy under the artificial lights. She had a momentary picture of him standing in the shower, water sleeking his hair and cascading over his sun-browned body. A very good body - his clothes did little to hide the broad shoulders and chest, narrow hips, powerful legs. He looked superbly fit and strong - a man who did something physical for a living.
As if he'd felt her stare, his head turned. She saw an oddly bleak look in the blinding turquoise-blue eyes, and then it vanished, replaced by a gleam of interest, a hint of bold inquiry.
She wrenched her gaze away, directing her attention to what James Drummond was saying. James, from their first meeting yesterday, had shown a rare respect for her mind, and a real though circumspect desire to get to know her more than superficially. Already they had established a tentative rapport. Yet still she was disconcertingly conscious of the other man, needing to breathe carefully, her heart beating faster and sending the blood to warm her cheeks.
Irritated, she inwardly shook herself. She wasn't in the habit of mentally undressing strange men, and had outgrown blushing years ago.
He was hardly the first male to stare at her, although few were so frank about it. Aware that the gods had been generous to her, she had learned to be chary of men who were less interested in her personality than in flaunting her as some sort of trophy. She'd guess that the unsettling stranger, with his unabashed gaze and knowing grin, was the love-'em-and-leave-'em type, a genus she kept well clear of.
From Dangerous Waters by Laurey Bright
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