GABE SOUTHERLAND TOOK A LONG pull on his beer and slid his phone into his jacket pocket with the ease of someone used to getting what he wanted. His men would be there in the morning to meet his cousin and build a strategy for dealing with the unwanted attention he’d garnered. It wasn’t a surprise his cousin picked up a stalker. Blake had been named sexiest entrepreneur four years in a row and before his marriage to Samantha, most eligible bachelor. The Southerland men had made a sport out of teasing him at every family function for years.

The surprise was the sheepish way Blake explained the situation to him—almost as if he had something to hide, which didn’t make any sense. With the exception of his own father, Gabe had never seen a man more committed to his wife than Blake. He took after his brothers that way. All of Gabe’s cousins had fallen hard and fast for the women in their lives. Poor bastards.

He had absolutely no intention of following in their footsteps. Not anytime soon at least, he thought, his gaze wandering back to the bar. Samantha and Blake had a previous commitment, which meant he was on his own for the night. For now. When she brought him his beer, the bartender’s expression made it clear he didn’t have to end the night alone. She had a gorgeous mane of blonde hair and a way of filling out a faded pair of Levi’s that caught his attention from the start. He could easily kill a couple of hours with her and the fact that he was only in town for a couple of weeks on business created a natural limit for romantic expectations.

Except the sexy bartender seemed to have disappeared. The only person at the bar was a woman wearing a suit tailored to within an inch of its life. It fit her petite frame like a glove and he’d bet money—a lot of money—it cost more than his first car. Everything about her felt expensive. She wore her dark hair in one of those smooth, angular cuts that screamed high maintenance. It shone a glossy black and when she tipped her head, he could see she’d colored the ends a deep purple.

As if she sensed him watching her, she shifted on the barstool and glanced over in his direction. Her head was too big for her body and her eyes were too big for her head. Like dark pools in her heart-shaped face. She was like a cross between Keira Knightley and one of those manga comic book characters, but without the enormous breasts. And for reasons he couldn’t begin to explain, he found himself wondering about her story. She looked as out of place in the comfortable small-town bar as a soufflé at a church picnic.

He loved women who took care of themselves. Hell, he worked out every day for more than just his job and spent a little more time and a little more product than was strictly manly, making sure his collar-length hair fell in an artfully disheveled wave over his forehead. But that’s because years of experience taught him women loved brushing it out of his eyes, and he loved women. A little primping was fine—good even—but he’d never had the patience for high maintenance. From the looks of her, the woman at the bar would require a lot of attention.

If he was smart, he’d turn away, wait for the bartender to come back from wherever she’d gone and turn on the charm until she got off for the night. Or if that didn’t work, he could go home alone and try again the next night. All he had to do was turn his attention away. Just look away. But once their eyes met, it was as if the woman with the out-of-proportion head had some kind of lock on him. Like one of those Star Trek tractor beams, and all he could think about was what it would be like to mess up her perfect hair. Maybe smudge her lipstick with his mouth.

Which was crazy because she definitely wasn’t his type. The amenable bartender—Amber, she said her name was—she was his type. She was warm and sun-kissed, nothing like the cut-crystal woman sitting at the bar.

He didn’t get a chance to decide. The woman at the bar smiled at him, barely a curve of her perfectly glossed red lips, and turned back to the tablet in front of her. Honestly, what kind of person took work to a bar? Except maybe it wasn’t work. Maybe she was reading something. She probably read those psychology and management books with the single word titles like Breathe and Think, the ones that talked about maximizing potential and limiting beliefs. If he got a chance to look over her shoulder, he could find out. Of course, then he’d probably have to talk to her. He didn’t need to know that badly.

Using more effort than it should have required, he pulled his attention away from the woman and back to his beer. He kept one eye on the doorway so he wouldn’t miss the sexy bartender’s reappearance and pulled his phone back out of his jacket pocket. Ignoring for a moment that he was working in a bar, he thumbed open the file with Emerson’s preliminary numbers from the job in Greece. Southerland Security would bring in a small fortune for protecting the pop star and his pregnant girlfriend. Add in the white sand beaches and bikini-clad women, and it became the perfect assignment. Of course, Gabe knew without asking his brother wouldn’t take advantage of the beaches or the women.

Emerson worked his ass off all the time. It would have made Gabe feel guilty if he was into that kind of thing. He knew he pulled his own weight—not as much as his brother: no one did as much as Emerson—but more than enough to earn his keep. Security wasn’t all body work anymore and Gabe was as skilled with cyber surveillance as anyone in the business. He had contacts, and he’d brought in half of the guys who worked for them.

Liam, who’d arrive in the morning, was a perfect case in point. While Gabe was screwing his way through college and grad school, his friend was doing two tours in the Marines in Afghanistan. He made it back whole—in body, at least—but with a skill set outside the normally marketable ones. Gabe hired him and five more of Liam’s friends, rounding out their team. Emerson might be the workhorse of the operation but Gabe was the guy who made the connections and put everyone at ease.

The bartender came through the doorway to the dining room, hips swinging like a hypnotist’s metronome and carrying a plate of what looked like plain chicken and steamed broccoli. Figures the lady with the too-polished purple hair would order bland, sauceless food. Definitely high maintenance.

Gabe started to shift his attention to the curvy blonde but not before he caught the other woman’s smile. A real smile, not the barely curved lip thing she’d offered him. It transformed her whole face. Hell, it transformed her. Her expression lit up, her too-big eyes suddenly the exact right size for her face. Her glossy red lips looked plump and welcoming, and he got a quick image of tugging her bottom lip between his teeth and catching her gasp with his mouth.

As if she could hear his thoughts, she glanced in his direction. But instead of the smile dying when she caught him watching her, she included him in her warmth. Suddenly, everything he thought he’d figured out about her seemed suspect. Directed at him, her smile felt genuine, and he caught himself leaning toward her. She caught him, too, because her smile widened, and she arched a brow, questioning. She tipped her head to the side, peering at him under the smooth curtain of her carefully styled hair.

If he wasn’t suddenly doubting his judgment, he would have assumed the move was flirtatious. As it was, the only thing he knew for sure was that despite his better judgment, he wanted to get to know the grilled chicken and plain broccoli woman better. A lot better.

Shaking his head at the mistake he was pretty sure he was about to make, he raised his bottle to call over the bartender. Dragging her bottom lip between her teeth, she wound her way across the empty room to his table. Two mistakes. He was making two mistakes. After what he was about to ask her to do, there was no way the sexy blonde would look at him with the same heat and anticipation. There was still time to stop himself. He didn’t have to guess about Amber. Even her name suited him. He knew they’d have fun together. All of the signs were there. But the steamed broccoli lady? She was a challenge—an unknown quantity—and he was by nature a curious man.

“What can I get you, darling?” she asked, thrusting out her hip and emphasizing her generous curves.

Amber was a bacon cheeseburger woman, not steamed broccoli, with hips a man could grab hold of and breasts he could lose time in. It wasn’t too late. He could still stop himself—stop this ridiculous plan before he burned bridges he hadn’t even had time to build.

“Could you get the woman at the bar another glass of whatever she’s drinking, please?”

Her face fell, but just for a moment. She was a professional and Gabe was passing through. He had no reason to think he’d ever meant more to her than the possibility of a good time, and she didn’t need him for that. She’d have dozens of men—smarter men than him—lining up for the job. Her expression showed she knew it. What had he done?

“Sure thing.” She turned and walked back to the bar, her hips absent the sway.

He ran a hand through his hair, not that he cared about the artfully tousled bit, more because he’d suddenly realized he was nervous. It was an emotion he hadn’t had much experience with, which made him seem like an arrogant ass even inside his own head. As he watched, Amber slid behind the bar and approached the other woman. They said something he couldn’t hear, and he saw the woman with the eyes he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be able to get out of his head stiffen in her seat. He waited for the look, the glance over her shoulder acknowledging him. He waited but she didn’t turn around. Instead, she shook her head no, putting her hand over her glass for emphasis.

The bartender smiled and leaned against the bar opposite the other woman, clearly sharing a moment of solidarity at his expense. He didn’t need to talk to the blonde to know what she was thinking. She telegraphed you poor dumb shit clearly.

He could admit as far as pickups went, sending a woman a drink fell on the lame side of the scale. He normally had a much stronger game, but something about the woman with the purple hair made him misjudge everything he thought he knew. She unsettled him. It was part of the attraction—had to be because she sure as hell wasn’t his type.

With his plans so completely derailed, he didn’t know what to do. He’d never really found himself in this kind of situation before. He didn’t want to look like he was running away. It was bad enough to get shot down in a bar. If he left with his tail between his legs, he couldn’t come back again. He’d have to find somewhere else to drink, and in the town where Blake built his factory, there were few options.

Ignoring for the moment the way the women were huddled together conspiratorially, he went back to looking at his phone, pretending to pay attention to Emerson’s spreadsheet. After a few minutes, he actually got caught up in the schedules and plans, and his mind circled around the best way to attack his cousin’s job. He glanced up in time to see the woman who rejected his drink slip off the barstool and start for the door. When she caught him watching her, she shifted her trajectory and headed toward him.

He was trapped—snared like a rabbit by a hundred-and-twenty pound woman with too-big eyes and purple-tipped hair. He could look down, ignore her and hope she got the hint and left him alone, but he already felt like a loser. The last thing he wanted to do was give up more ground. Setting his phone on the table, he hit her with a smile he prayed looked casual and not like he was trying too hard. The drink offer had done more than enough of that.

She paused and then closed the distance between them. He was wrong. Her suit probably cost twice what he’d paid for his first car. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a layout for one of those glossy magazines featuring hip young urbanites and their multimillion-dollar lofts. In his khakis and button-down, he felt rumpled in comparison.

It wasn’t the money. His family had never been rich, but they’d always had more than enough. Southerland Security worked for some very wealthy clients, a few of whom could buy and sell small countries, and some of it had rubbed off on him. Money didn’t intimidate him—or interest him all that much beyond the fun it could buy. He watched the woman standing beside his table and tried to figure out what it was about her that caught and held his attention.

Manners and ego drove him to his feet with less grace than he’d hoped. There was no way he’d stay sitting while she hovered over him, looking perfect and polished. She tipped her head to the side, considering, and he felt a little like one of those moths he’d seen as a kid at the Museum of Natural History. The ones pinned to the foam core with the rest of their buddies. Her expression wasn’t condescending, more curious, and he relaxed a fraction.

“Thank you for the offer. The drink,” she said, her poise slipping for the first time since their eyes met.

Good. It salved his ego to think she might be as off-kilter as him.

“I’m not interested, but I didn’t want to be rude when you’d gone to the effort.” She wrinkled her nose, clearly showing what she thought about his effort, and the remnants of his pride withered and died. She started to turn away without waiting for his response, and for a moment he thought that would be the end of his interaction with the woman with the too-big head and too-purple hair.

He should be so lucky.

“I was wondering,” she said, turning back to face him. “Does it work? The buy a girl a drink pickup?” She pitched her voice lower and changed her cadence in a 1970s wild and crazy guys parody. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask. I’m too curious for my own good.”

She held her hands up in front of her, and he noticed the lack of jewelry on her slender, perfectly manicured fingers. He hated himself a little for it, but he noticed. Glancing over her shoulder, he caught the blonde bartender, chewing on a straw and watching them like she was trying not to laugh. It was going to take some serious effort to get his night back on track again.

“Not at all,” he said, widening his stance and deliberately relaxing his posture. “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea. I wasn’t trying to pick you up.” He said the words as if it was the craziest thing in the world, putting every ounce of charm he had into selling the idea. “You just looked uncomfortable. I felt bad.” They both knew it was a lie but if he could turn the tables on her, he could gather the bits of his shredded ego and move on.

“Right,” she said, arching an eyebrow in a way that telegraphed exactly what she thought of his feelings. “Thank you for that.” Her words and mannerisms were impeccably polite but the tone of her voice would have done Narnia’s Snow Queen proud.

Cutting his losses, he nodded, pasted an it was nothing smile on his face and watched gratefully as she walked out of the door and out of his life.