Footloose. Leanne Banks

“One-hundred-fifty-one proof punch. And the cocktail napkin? Is that a new amendment to the Constitution you’re writing? Looks pretty serious.”

      He watched in surprise and delight as pink color flooded her cheeks. A blush. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a female over the age of seventeen blush.

      “Well, one side is a list of birthday gifts I need to get in the mail to my niece and nephew because I won’t be home for their birthdays.”

      “And the other side?”

      “It’s a, uh, different to-do list,” she said and took a gulp of her drink. “I recently had a big change of direction in my life, and so I’m making a list.”

      “Sounds like a good idea,” he said. “Is drinking your first hurricane on the list?”

      She hesitated, then her lips slowly stretched into a smile. “I guess it was on my mental list.”

      “You should put it on your written list, too,” he said. “Because then you can check it off. And every time you check something off, it gives you a sense of accomplishment. Yeah,” he added at her curious look. “I make lists, too. Down here the list includes watching as many sunsets as possible and missing the sunrises because I had such a good time the night before. Increasing my repertoire of memorized Jimmy Buffet lyrics and setting a new personal record for how many minutes I keep a Corona in my hand during a twenty-four-hour period.”

      Her smile broadened. “I’m not sure I can put all of that on my list because I’m not on vacation.”

      “You’re working here?”

      She nodded. “I work for Bellagio, the designer shoe company, and I’m down here on temporary assignment as an assistant to Lillian Bellagio. She’s the widow of one of the founders of the company.”

      The mention of Bellagio made his heart rate pick up. The name always had. How ironic that she worked there. And how…opportune. “Sounds like a cupcake assignment,” he said.

      “Yes and no. Mrs. Bellagio is perceived as challenging and sometimes demanding. That’s why they sent me. Before I became a full-time employee of Bellagio, I was a temp in almost every department. They always sent me to take care of the crisis du jour.”

      “So I bet you know a lot about the inner workings of Bellagio.”

      She shrugged and took another long sip of her hurricane. Jack noticed she was nearing the bottom of the glass. He gestured toward the bartender to bring her another and tapped his bottle of Corona.

      “If you decided to go with Bellagio full-time, you must like ’em,” he said.

      She nodded. “I like the people there. They really pursued me. It’s a relief to know that even if my personal life is in the toilet, I can still perform professionally.”

      “Personal life in the toilet,” he echoed. “Is that the reason for the list?”

      She looked self-conscious. “I guess.”

      “What do you have on there?”

      She pulled the napkin protectively to her. “It’s under construction.”

      “Come on. Give me a few hints. Maybe I could help.”

      She shot him a wary glance and took a sip of her fresh drink. “Please don’t take this the wrong way. It was nice of you to get me a drink, but I don’t know anything about you.”

      “And you’re afraid I’m going to ply you with alcohol and have my wicked way with you.”

      Her cheeks bloomed with color again. “I didn’t say that.”

      “Amelia, do you want to know the truth?”

      She nodded.

      “I’m bored. You looked more interesting than anyone else here.”

      She glanced around, then met his gaze again. “There are some very pretty girls here.”

      “Yep, but they don’t look interesting. You look pretty and interesting.”

      She hesitated, clearly still uncertain.

      “Listen, you’re in the Keys. It’s okay to have some fun.”

      She gave a big sigh and he could hear tension being released like air poured out of a flat tire. “I want to get a different car,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “I want to travel. I want to start an IRA. I want to get a different haircut, maybe change my hair color, buy some different clothes.”

      “Everything’s gotta be different? What kind of car do you have?”

      “A Honda.”

      “What’s wrong with it?”

      “My ex-fiancé picked it out.”

      “Oh,” Jack said and kicked himself for not figuring that out earlier. She was recovering from a breakup. The classic signs were there—stiff drink, halter dress, distrust of the opposite sex. “A Honda’s not a bad car.”

      “I know. It gets great gas mileage, doesn’t break down frequently, has good resale value.”

      “Too practical for you? Are you more of a practical woman or do you like to take chances?”

      She sighed again and frowned. “Up until now, I’ve been very practical.”

      She didn’t sound happy with the revelation.

      “That’s Van Morrison playing,” he said. “Wanna dance?”

      She looked startled at his invitation, then hesitant, then a little defiant. “Yes, I would, thank you.”

      He led her onto the sand that served as a dance floor and coaxed her into the rhythm of the song. She stumbled a couple of times, laughing at herself. The breathless sound tugged at something inside him. Her breasts brushed against his chest and he felt his blood sink to his groin.

      Getting her into bed would be a piece of cake. She was vulnerable and he had Irish charm on his side. Another hurricane and a couple of slow dances were all it would take.

      Jack was a shark by trade, but he didn’t make a habit of taking advantage of wide-eyed, broken-hearted amateurs. Yet while she was innocent, she also seemed determined to get into the water. And with her knowledge of Bellagio, she could be useful. That, he couldn’t resist exploiting. But her vulnerability was something else. So he would be careful with her, but he would get what he could from her.

      After a couple more dances and half a hurricane, she loosened her tongue. At his gentle prodding, she gave him a new snapshot of the players, major and minor, at Bellagio, the corporate culture and the general attitude and mood of the employees. Tucking the information in the back of his brain for future use, he checked out what she’d scribbled on the napkin. “This list needs some work,” he said.

      She reached for the napkin, but he held it away from her. “That’s supposed to be just for me.”

      “Don’t worry. I’m just an anonymous guy you met at a tiki bar. I’ll be the ghostwriter. If you really want to make some changes, then you need to climb further out on the limb.”

      “Changes such as?”

      “I’ll start you off small. Swimming in the nude,” he said, taking her pen and writing it down.

      Her eyes widened. “I don’t think—”

      “It’s not as drastic as sex on the beach, but we can add that one if you—”

      “No, and—”

      “What about driving a convertible with the top down? Have you ever driven one?”

      “No.”

      “Good thing to do at least once. Sky diving?”

      “Absolutely not.”

      And