ONE
I like me men tall, dark and handsome.
I don't mean six-foot-one in hiking boots.
I mean barefoot and six-foot-four.
And when I say dark, I don't mean brownish hair and a light tan.
I mean Goran Visnjic on ER—black-as-sin hair and swarthy skin.
And handsome? Well, that's all a matter of mood...
And Chloe was definitely in the mood after working day and night for three weeks on a humongous web site that she'd finally finished for a new kids' cereal.
So what the hell was she doing sitting across from this really smarmy-looking guy with a button-down collar and hair the shade of snail shells who had his elbows braced on the table to look taller? Was he even within shouting distance of her tried-and-true criteria for desirable men? No. Did he meet even one of her criteria? The answer to that was obvious. More to the point, hadn't she sworn that she would never, ever again fall for that line: You have to meet this friend of mine?
Particularly when the speaker was Tess, who everyone knew had absolutely no taste in men. Okay, to be fair, not Chloe's taste in men. Or possibly that of any female with normal vision.
But what made a bad decision even worse was that her be-nice-to-Tess obligation had inconveniently fallen on the day she'd finished her project.
This was not her idea of celebrating.
“Huh? Sure.” Chloe quickly smiled, not sure she'd heard what the annoying little man had said, but he was holding up her glass and pointing to the bar so she was probably on track. “Thanks,” she added with another smile, because her mother had insisted she not only learn but use good manners, and all those years of training kicked in independent of reason or alcohol consumption. Politeness aside, though, there was no way she was going to spend the rest of the night listening to this man's unending complaints about his work environment.
One more drink and she was outta here.
So when he returned with her drink—an umbrella drink that Chino's was famous for—she was really, really polite and smiley and sort of listened while he told her about his new turntable that cost three million dollars or something. But as soon as she'd sipped the last drop of mango-juiced alcohol, she uttered the lie that always saved her from any disagreeable obligation. “Thanks so much, but I have a project that has to be finished, so tomorrow's a workday for me.” Easing down from a bar stool that overlooked the night sky of downtown Minneapolis, she teetered briefly on her really adorable green-lizard strappy Jimmy Choos, smiled her last artificial smile and waved. “Say hi to Tess.”
“Tess didn't tell me you had pink hair.”
Her fake it's-been-nice smile froze on her face at his peevish tone. Her pink hair went with a damn nice face if she said so herself, along with her three-times-a-week-in-the-gym toned body—well, okay, ideally three times a week. And her pink hair sat atop a reasonably fine brain, certified by a couple degrees from reputable schools. “Pink hair's a problem?”
“I usually don't go out with up-towner types...”
Or anyone at all, she wanted to say, but damn those childhood lessons on civility were hard to break. “Well, then, everything worked out great,” she replied in her best fuck-you tone. Swiveling around on stiletto heels that clearly were made for such dramatic gestures, she walked away, half pissed, totally relieved and seriously on her way home because she suddenly felt wasted after three weeks of little sleep.
Five minutes later she was still waiting for the elevator outside the bar.
These were, without doubt, the slowest elevators in town, and if the best bar in town wasn't on the top floor of this building, she'd not be reduced to a state of frustration too many times a week for a serious working girl. Swearing softly, she jabbed the down button again.
While she waited, any number of pithy retorts for Mr. Dweeb had come to mind. Isn't that always the way? But—bottom line—did she really give a damn if he didn't like pink hair? Fuck no. Did she care about anything at all he liked? Same answer. Did she care if he lived or died? Well, it was only ostensibly a drink date or meeting or whatever that miserable encounter could be designated...life or death was probably extending the thought process into the surreal. Although, let's face it, Dweeb Man had to be damned near the last person in the world who could afford to be picky about a date. Unless a subset of women existed who were turned on by whiny men or lengthy descriptions of stereo equipment.
Finally...finally—the elevator. Thank God.
Seeing it was empty, she offered up a double thank-you to God, Buddha and her own personal goddess, who had curly red hair and was trés understanding of her foibles. She thanked all three because she was superstitious. She counted stairs way too much for her own good as well, but when you had a grandma like hers, it was inevitable. Genetic, even.
The doors began closing and she leaned back against the rosewood wall, relieved. She'd escaped; she was on her way home.
“Hey!! Hold the doors!!”
She almost didn't look up; she almost pretended she hadn't heard. But her mother had much to answer for, she resentfully thought, already lunging to catch the doors. Between her leaping and glancing up and fear of having her fingers crushed, it took her synapses an extra millisecond before the explosive wow registered in her brain.
The man sprinting toward her had black ruffled hair, increasingly ruffled by his headlong pace. His lean, broad-shouldered frame was well over six feet, even estimating it at a distance. And he was racing toward her on what could only be hand-sewn black custom-made shoes because she knew shoes like nobody knew shoes.
“Thanks,” he gasped, charging into the elevator. He immediately began punching the door-close icon.
Thank you she felt like saying, absorbing the full impact of his stark beauty. Definitely a ten, maybe even a twenty, certainly a damned fine representative of his gender.
The elevator doors finally started to slide shut. Blowing out an explosive breath, he turned to Chloe. “Thanks again.”
“Were the fiends of hell after you?” Okay, so she never talked to strangers in elevators; she never even looked at them if she could help it. But Jesus, anyone would make an exception for this very close approximation to Visnjic on ER.
“Yeah, absolutely.” He suddenly grinned. “Nice hair.”
Obviously he was not only a TV star but a man of impeccable taste. “Thanks.”
She would have said more, but the elevator abruptly came to a stop on the observation-deck level and a crowd of sightseers jammed in, separating them. The IMC Tower was a favorite date-night destination for too-young-to-drink teens. They all seemed to be from one incestuous social group, so the decibel levels were ear-shattering.
Thankfully, they emptied the elevator in a lemminglike rush at the ground floor.
Her ER fantasy smiled faintly and moved toward the door. “Thanks again. For saving me from the fiends of hell and all...”
“No problem. Anytime,” she said like some klutz, when in her fantasy world she would have said something incredibly clever and witty.
She watched him walk out and turn left.
Unfortunately, she was going the same way, and for an awkward moment she debated standing in the empty lobby until he was out of sight. Deciding that was juvenile for someone who owned her own company—albeit a very small one—or for anyone who perceived themselves as a modern, independent, take-charge kind of woman, she followed him—although she hung back, hoping he wouldn't notice.
Just because she read the books on assertiveness and empowerment didn't mean she practiced the art every tiny second of the day. Okay?
Additionally, she was experiencing that twinge of fear that reflexively comes from being alone in the vastness of an empty hallway...at night...in the city. With serial killers and rapists too much in the news, this was definitely a creepy venue. And regardless of the man's incredible good looks, he might just be a very handsome serial killer.
“Are you following me?”
Jolted from her musing, she glanced up to see him standing at the side doors, looking bemused—and drop-dead gorgeous.
Could serial killers be über-charming?
How much had she drunk that she was obsessing about serial killers?
“Or are you parked in the same loading zone?”
“My permit's legal.” If she was Catholic, she'd have to go to confession.
“I didn't say it wasn't. I just thought a woman with pink hair might be driving that silver Audi TT next to my car.”
“Tell me you're not a serial killer.” Christ, she must have had too much to drink.
“I was tempted tonight, but no.”
“The fiends of hell, right?”
He grimaced. “I probably would have lost the fight anyway.”
“So we both had an evening from hell. Mine didn't like pink hair.”
“Stupid man.”
“How did you know it was a man?”
“Pursed lips like that. I know that look.”
“Woman trouble?”
He grinned. “Not anymore.”
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