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“Hi.”
I swallowed. The lime and soda had done nothing for the dryness of my mouth. I could still manage to smile, though. “Hi.”
“What’s your name?” He had a thick, cockney accent that his singing voice only hinted at, and a habit of rolling on the heels of his black lace-up boots.
“Lara Stanford. What about you?” He was beautiful, but he didn’t intimidate me. Chalk another one up to the champagne, liquid courage at its finest.
“Alex Cartwright.” He reached out a hand and I took it, failing to stifle my laughter. There was something so formal about the way he introduced himself that was in complete contrast to the way he looked, and the way he’d stalked about on stage. “Pleased to meet you.”
His eyes flickered, his gaze lowering to take in my legs, the way my short dress was almost stuck to my skin with perspiration. I didn’t even want to know how bad my hair looked.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” he said.
“I haven’t been here before. It’s outside of my hunting grounds.”
“You hunt?”
“Only on a Friday night.” I grinned again, and he smiled back. I really liked the way his lips pulled back into his dimples. It lit up his face, made him look cheeky and dirty at the same time.
“What do you do the rest of the week?”
“I’m a good girl. I go to bed early.”
“Alone?”
My heart sped at that question. It was loaded, obviously, but the way he put it out there so soon seemed genu
ine.
“Alone with my thoughts.”
“Alone with your thoughts,” he repeated, slowly nodding his head. “You use your right or your left hand for that?”
I coughed out a laugh. Dirty boy. “You seem very interested in my bedroom habits, Mr Cartwright. There are some things a girl likes to keep secret.”
“I bet you use your left hand,” he carried on, as if I hadn't spoken. His voice lowered, so I had to step forward to hear him.
The next time he spoke I felt his breath tickling at my ear. “I'd pay good money to see you alone with your thoughts.”
There was silence for a moment, then the drummer joined us, giving Alex a high five. I was kind of relieved, because my mind had gone completely blank. I couldn't think of a single snarky reply.
“Who's this?” The drummer looked at me through his sandy fringe. Strands were stuck to his forehead, dark with perspiration.
“Her name's Lara,” Alex said, gesturing the barman over and ordering another beer for his friend. “Can I buy you a drink, sweetheart?”
I nodded and held up my glass. “Vodka and soda please.”
“Lara as in Dr Zhivago?” The drummer asked. “I'm Stuart, by the way.” He reached out and offered me his hand.
“My mum was an Omar Sharif nut,” I explained. “It could have been worse, if I was a boy it would have been Yuri.”
“Like the astronaut? Cool.” Stuart took his beer and leaned on the counter beside him. “I wish I was called Yuri.”
Alex cleared his throat, giving Stuart a pointed look. Realisation slowly dawned on Stuart's face, staining his cheeks pink and turning his voice to a stutter. “Err, anyway, I'd best go and... see how the drum kit is. Nice to meet you, Lara. Beautiful name, by the way.”
I felt strangely gratified at that. As if having a beautiful name was an accomplishment. “Thank you.”
When I turned back to Alex, he was propped against the bar, a beer glass in his hand, head angled to the side. There was a curious expression on his face, as if he couldn't quite work out what I was. His eyes were narrow, dark.
