“Gotcha.”

CHAPTER TWO

G OTCHA.

Ivy Rutherford’s gaze snapped up to the cowboy’s. Her throat was dry, her palms damp.

She could still feel the warmth of his breath against her skin, the single word triumphant. A challenge.

Oh, she was in so much trouble here.

Something passed between them. Something heated and tangible and, on her part, wholly unwanted. The music and sound of background conversation faded until it was nothing but a low hum. He edged closer and she breathed in his scent, something crisp and musky and undoubtedly expensive. Damn it. Damn it! She wanted him to touch her again. Wanted to do some touching of her own.

Gotcha, indeed.

Crap.

He needed to back up. He was close. Too close. Closer than was appropriate, especially for a waitress and a customer.

Way too close for her comfort.

Pride held her immobile. Forced her to stand her ground instead of stepping back the way she wanted and putting some much-needed distance between them.

“It’s cute that you think so,” she murmured, keeping her tone even. Her eyes steady on his. “But don’t be getting delusions of grandeur.”

If possible, his grin amped up another few degrees, all cocky and pleased with her response. She shouldn’t have found it so attractive.

“Aw, darlin’, you wound me.”

“I doubt that.”

He nodded, rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowing as if he was in deep thought. “How about, you can’t blame a man for having such delusions when faced with you?”

She had to fight to hide a smile. “Better.”

“I was going to say when faced with one of God’s greatest works, but that seemed like overkill.”

She pointedly eyed his hat. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who cares much for being subtle.”

A middle-aged man brushed past them, and the cowboy stepped aside to give him more room, a handy excuse in Ivy’s mind to shift closer to her. “You’re right. I prefer the direct approach.” He scanned her face, taking his time before meeting her eyes again. “Makes it that much easier to get what I want.”

There was a strange fluttering in her chest. It was clear enough what he wanted.

Her.

He wasn’t the first. Wouldn’t be the last. Men were simple creatures, after all. They saw a pretty face, a curvy body and wanted them. If a woman coddled them a bit, stroked their...ego...and gave their friends something to envy, even better. For that, they’d put in the time, the effort to chase a woman, to make her his.

Until the thrill of that chase waned and the next woman came along.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you you don’t always get what you want?” Ivy asked.

He laughed, low and long, as if that had been the most ridiculous question anyone had ever asked him.

Glad to know she could amuse him so.

“No,” he finally said when he’d contained his mirth. “My mother never told me that. No one has.”

“It’s like a dream come true,” she said drily. “Finally meeting a man brought up to believe that ordinary, mundane things such as failure and rejection are below him. Your mother didn’t do you any favors, did she? And since she didn’t, let me be the one to pass on this extremely valuable lesson. There comes a time in everyone’s life when there’s something they want, but it’s just out of their reach. That time has come for you.”

His grin sharpened. The gleam in his eyes turned downright predatory. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Dear Lord, he was right. She had been challenging him. Baiting him.

Flirting with him.

Okay, yes, she was attracted to him. She wasn’t dead, was she? And he was gorgeous—even with the cowboy hat. But she didn’t lose her head over things like a sharply planed face, wavy golden hair and a pair of broad shoulders all wrapped up in a perfectly tailored dark suit.

Men lost their heads over her.

She’d been twisting males around her little finger from the time she could talk, had learned at her mother’s knee how powerful a smile or glance could be. Yet, with this man, she felt unsure. Nervous that if she continued to play this dangerous game, she’d lose.

It was the way he watched her, she decided. As if he sensed the truth beneath her words. Could see what she so desperately needed to hide—her interest in him, how much she was enjoying him, his smile and humor, his confidence and looks.

You don’t always get what you want.

No, she certainly didn’t. That was life. One long journey of trying and trying and trying. Of mediocre triumphs and spectacular failures. She had no qualms about going after her goals, wasn’t afraid to fall on her face during a long, hard climb. But just because you wanted something, just because you busted your ass, kept your focus and worked hard every day didn’t mean you’d succeed.

Just because you wanted something didn’t mean it was good for you.

“Let me get you a drink,” the cowboy said, glancing around as if searching for a waitress—when one was right in front of him. “We can talk. Get to know each other better.”

“Yes, that sounds like a great idea. And I’m sure none of my coworkers, or my supervisor, will care if I sit down in the middle of my shift and toss back a few with a customer.”

He frowned. Scanned her from head to toe, as if suddenly remembering she should be getting him a drink. Not the other way around. “What time do you get done?”

“You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.” It was flattering. Knowing he was willing to work a bit to get her time and attention.

That she was seriously considering telling him she’d be done by midnight annoyed her to no end. She didn’t date customers, never hooked up with men she waited on. It set a bad precedence. Gave them the crazy idea that she’d serve them in bed, too.

An unsteady blonde in leather tottered over to them. Pressed against his side. “Darling,” she said, tugging at his elbow, “don’t flirt with the help. It’s unseemly.”

Ivy bit back a wince. Damned her cheeks for heating.

The help.

Well, if that didn’t put things into perspective, nothing would.

“Yes, darling,” Ivy said, mimicking the older woman’s slightly slurred, superior tone, “listen to your date. One must always remember one’s station in life.”

Ivy never forgot hers.

The blonde’s smile was none-too-sober and as fake as her boobs. “Aren’t you sweet?”

Ivy matched her toothy grin with one of her own. “Not particularly.”

“She’s not my date,” the cowboy said, keeping a hand on the woman’s upper arm. “She’s my mother.”

His tone was pure resignation with a bit of embarrassment thrown in for good measure. Ivy could relate. Her mother had never been able to grasp the concept of acting—or dressing—her age, either.

“I’ll have a dirty martini,” his mother told Ivy as she clung to her son’s arm—though Ivy guessed that had less to do with maternal love and more to do with her being three sheets to the wind. If she let go, she’d probably fall on her surgically modified, freakishly smooth face. Though that huge helmet of teased and sprayed hair might protect her from brain damage. “Three olives.”

“And damn the calories,” Ivy said under her breath, taking in the woman’s ultrathin frame. Looked as if those olives were tonight’s dinner.

She turned to the cowboy, was taken aback by his easy grin. Guess he’d heard her. She wanted to return his smile, but the help were to be seen, not heard. Ordered about, not engaged in small talk or flirtations. At least, not publicly.

She shook her head. She really needed to cut back on those reruns of Downton Abbey.

“And you, sir?”

His eyes narrowed on the sir, which, admittedly, she’d emphasized. No harm reminding them both why they were there. Who they were.

But she hated seeing that smile fade.