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He lifted an eyebrow, looked at the bottle on the bar. “That’s hardly good tequila.”
Maggie reached out, lifted the bottle, poured herself another shot and downed it. It burned. He was right, it was terrible. “Tastes good to me,” she said, just to be contrary. The tequila swirled through her veins, the room spinning slowly around her. No more booze. Any more and she’d really regret it in the morning. Still, right now, she seemed to have achieved the perfect level of inebriation, the one where her earlier misery had subsided and had been replaced with a hot, hot anger that was far more enjoyable.
She scowled at Alex. He smiled at her. She was starting to hate that smile. Pity, when it made him even more gorgeous. But that was the devil for you. Pretty enough to distract you from his dastardly deeds. And apparently perpetually good-tempered.
Infuriatingly unannoyable. She wanted to sock him just to see if she could get a reaction other than good humor out of him. Something real. Something to indicate he might be human in any way. But drunk as she was, she’d probably miss and fall on her ass. She had no desire to have Alex Winters helping her up off the floor with his casual politeness. She scribbled her signature on the slip the bartender presented and slid down off the stool. Alex hadn’t picked up his fifties.
For some reason that was annoying as well. No one tipped a hundred bucks for one drink. Except if they were stupidly rich. Or a pretentious ass. Alex Winters was an ass but he didn’t strike her as pretentious. Which meant he was the former.
Maggie knew money, of course. Her father owned a baseball team; they weren’t exactly struggling for cash. But her father had inherited his money from a father who’d built a business from the ground up, a business he’d worked in as well. He’d raised her to have a healthy respect for the value of that money and what they could achieve with it … and not only for themselves. Her mom—before she’d died—had taught the same lessons. Appreciate what you had but still work hard and be thankful.
But there was money and there was money, and Alex Winters was in a whole other league. The new generation of bazillionaires. He’d probably earned thousands of dollars in various ways while they’d been standing here in the bar.
She gritted her teeth. She didn’t care if Alex wanted to throw away his fortune. In fact, she might pray for that very thing. It would be one way of making sure he gave up his grip on the Saints.
“Are you ready to go?” Alex asked.
“I already told you, I’m not going home with you.”
“And I told you that wasn’t acceptable.” His face was still pleasant but there was an edge to the words. A tone that expected to be obeyed.
Too bad. She was in no mood to obey anyone. “I don’t care what you find acceptable.”
“I know. But I do.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do you seriously think you’re going to get me to walk out of this bar with you?”
He shrugged. “I know you’re coming with me. You can walk or I can carry you, your choice.”
“Carry me?” She heard her voice go up half an octave. “Try that and you’ll?—”
Alex regarded her steadily. “I’ll what? You’re not short but you’re hardly a giant. I’m taller than you. I’m a lot heavier than you. You’re pretty drunk. Unless you’re a secret ninja, I’m pretty sure I’ve got this.”
Maggie tried to talk, but she couldn’t quite make her mouth connect with her brain because she was too busy trying to convince herself that yep, he really just had said that. “You—you—” She gave up, turned back to the bartender. “Call me a cab.”
“Don’t.” Alex’s voice came from behind her, the command even clearer. The bartender froze again. Maggie glared at him—wimp—and started to reach into her purse for her phone.
“Carry it is, then,” Alex said from behind her, and before she knew what was happening, his arms came around her and somehow lifted her around and up and over his shoulder. The sudden change in position made the tequila swirl in her blood and the room spun even harder. She swallowed hard, not entirely sure she wasn’t going to throw up. Alex’s back was broad and warm as she rested her head for a moment and his arm was reassuringly strong around her legs. God. It was the perfect humiliating end to the worst day of her life. She wanted to keep fighting, to make him put her the hell down, but suddenly all the fight drained out of her and all she wanted was to be home. And if letting the devil take her there was the fastest way to achieve that, then so be it.
She closed her eyes and let Alex carry her out of the bar, ignoring the chorus of wolf whistles and applause that followed them as they went.
Maggie was not feeling even remotely human when the intercom buzzed the next morning. She clutched her coffee mug and groaned, wondering who on earth could possibly be bugging her at the ungodly hour of … She glanced up at the clock on the wall. Damn. Ten already. So really, not that ungodly. That was only the way her head felt.
Tequila.
The devil’s drink.
The thought reminded her of Alex Winters and the taxi and she clutched her mug harder and dropped her head down on the bench. The door buzzed again.
Deciding that answering it would be the quickest way to make the confounded racket stop, she moved very carefully over to the door, picked up the phone, and said, “Yes,” while she leaned her forehead against the mercifully cool wall and closed her eyes.
“Ms. Jameson, there’s a package for you. Would you like me to bring it up?” Dev, who’d been the doorman in the building forever, as far as Maggie knew, sounded, as always, cheerful.
“Package?”
“A box, Ms. Jameson. About as big as a shoe box.”
Shoes? She hadn’t ordered any shoes, had she? Last night’s tequila binge had been the pass-out-at-the-end kind, not the max-out-the-credit-card-on-inappropriate-footwear kind.
