Here is just a taste of the adventure to come:
Nicholas couldn’t believe how easy that had been. Glad to be out of the crowded, noisy loft, he let his senses take in the city at night. He’d grown up just across the river in Jersey, but he’d never felt at home here. Never felt at home anywhere, really. Florida suited for now, with its warm temperatures and slower pace. Of course, considering the events of the last three weeks, he’d likely have to relocate.
Hell, he’d probably be so completely bankrupt in the next month that he wouldn’t even have a pot to piss in, let alone a window to throw it out of. Relocating wouldn’t be a problem.
But first, he damn well intended to get some of his own back.
“Is something wrong?”
Nick swallowed his bitterness and took a deep breath. The very last thing he wanted to do was spew his nasty mood onto Twyla. Doing that would end things before they even got started, and he really wanted them to get started.
“Naw. Some of my business didn’t go the way I’d hoped. I know better than to let it get to me, and it’s no way important enough to disrupt our evening together.”
Nick relaxed when they got to the pub. There weren’t many people inside. A quick check of his watch showed him it was ten-thirty, early by New York standards. He reached for Twyla’s hand and then led her over to a secluded booth in the back corner. Rather than crowd in next to her, he sat across from her and tried not to think what she’d taste like.
“What will you have, darlin’?” he asked the question easily, enough of a drawl on the last word that, as he hoped, she smiled.
“A Harp, please.”
“The same,” he told the waitress, then focused on the woman across from him. “You like British beer?”
“I do, on occasion. Coming to an Irish pub, it seems a shame not to indulge.”
“I agree.” He sat back while the waitress delivered their bottles of beer.
“So how many generations back would take you across the pond?” she asked.
“Two of my great-grand fathers were born in Ireland and emigrated. My grandfather had quite the brogue. My father, none at all. What about you?” He liked the way she so delicately poured her beer into the glass, though he bet she really preferred to swig right from the bottle.
“I’ve no idea of my roots, really. So I guess you could say I’m from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.”
Something about her smile really got to him. When they’d shaken hands earlier, there’d been a nice little jolt of raw sexuality between them. That, he figured, had everything to do with her and nothing to do with him at all.
He could feel himself sliding, relaxing, and responding to Twyla’s charm, and that would never do. He needed to remember his plan. Twyla seemed appealing and charming and could oh-so-easily slip under his skin. He understood now how she’d earned the nickname, The Enchantress. Enchanting people ranked as her greatest skill. Well, her second greatest. Twyla’s greatest ability lay in an even more interesting venue, more to the point of his being there, of his having crashed a party just so he could meet her.
Twyla Harper might be a beautiful, desirable woman, but she was also something more.
She was a thief.
Since many of the wonderful SirenBookStrand authors are introducing themselves, I thought, I'd do the join in, so here goes. My nom de plume is Dee Dawning and I write contemporary mainstream and erotic romance, sometime with a paranormal element.
