“No. Not at all,” he finally managed to say, grateful that his voice didn’t sound as rough as it had felt coming out.
“Oh, fantastic.” She hopped up onto the formerly empty stool beside his and turned to smile at him. Waves of dark hair framed her face, a study in stark contrast against the white of her button-up shirt and the cream of her skin, and her eyes were wide and brown behind the frames of her glasses.
Mark made himself stop staring at the red-painted curves of her lips before she could notice and point out that he definitely wasn’t looking her in the eye. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Her head tipped slightly to the side, eyebrows drawing inward so that a tiny crease appeared between them. Mark felt like she was studying him, and wondered if she was going to say no. But in the end, the corners of her lips curled upward, and she gave a little shrug. “If you like.”
He lifted a hand to signal the bartender. “Whatever the lady would like to drink,” Mark told the man when he was within earshot.
“Grey Goose martini,” she said in a voice that was a little low for a woman’s, with a breathy edge that wasn’t doing his developing problem any favors. Maybe it as an affectation to match the ‘40s waves of her hair and the neat business attire, but even if it was he was enjoying it. Quite a lot. “Dirty.”
“A fan of the classics,” Mark commented as the bartender stepped away to mix the drink.
“As I see you are.”
He lifted his glass to her. “Nothing beats a good scotch.”
She smiled a little wider, teasing, and looked up at him from under the long, dark fan of her lashes. “Except a dirty martini.”
She had a tiny gap between her two front teeth, and damn he wanted to kiss her.
A shift in the corner of his eye caught his gaze, and it strayed downward as she crossed one long, slim leg over the other. He noticed with a new flicker of want that she was wearing stockings. They looked good on her. He was fairly certain that a burlap sack would look good on her, but was also equally certain that nothing would look even better, and would have really liked to test that last part of the theory.
“Here you are, ma’am,” the bartender said off to the side, setting a martini glass down in front of the woman.
She thanked him, and picked it up for a sip.
“I’m Mark,” Mark offered when she’d set it down again. “Reid.”
“Mark Reid. Not by any chance related to Alex Reid?”
“He’s my brother, actually.”
“Lucky you.”
Mark wasn’t so sure that was always the case. He was lucky to have Alex, and especially lucky after all the trouble they’d had in their younger years that he had a relationship with his brother at all, but there were times he thought he really wouldn’t mind having a slightly less famous sibling. The year before the twins were born had been proof of just how crazy life in the spotlight could be. “He’s a good man. I’m proud to be his brother.”
She laughed. “Ooh. Good answer.” Reaching out, she offered one slim hand for him to shake. “I’m Camille Lacroix.”
“Camille.” Mark took the hand and shook it. Her grasp was surprisingly firm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, Mark Reid.” She smiled, and sipped her drink. Set it aside. “Tell me, what does a man like you do?”
“I own a country club.” Bit of a stretch at the moment, but it was going to happen.
“A country club? Do you enjoy it?”
He leaned a little further onto his elbow. “It’s different than I thought it would be, but it’s good, you know? It keeps me engaged, and I like having a place I can call mine.”
“You like being in charge, then?”
Mark laughed. “Not quite as much as my brother does, but I guess you could say that. It’s probably genetic.” He took a sip from his glass. “And you?”
“Oh, you know. Flit about the country in the convertible, spending my father’s money. When I’m not in school spending my father’s money.”
“And where is school?”
“I’m getting my Masters in Art History and Archaeology at Columbia.”