“No, I’m buying you a drink and if you’d let me, maybe more?” The insinuation of his offer is not lost on me.
“Just like that? You give me a hard time. I give you a hard time, then you want to buy me more?”
With a nod, he says, “Exactly like that.”
“I don’t even know your name, so more than a drink might be a bit presumptuous.”
He sticks his hand out. “Jack Dalton. I was named after my dad’s favorite writer and there are rumors,” he says, lowering his voice and looking around before his eyes land back on mine, “that we’re distantly related to the Dalton Gang. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Jack Dalton.” A warmth covers my cheeks and down over my chest when our hands touch. It’s ridiculous that at my age I still blush, but I do and I might be falling for his overly-confident act, something I would never do back in L.A. “So you’re an outlaw, huh?”
Dropping the smile, he looks away briefly, as if checking the surroundings for eavesdroppers. His expression lightens when he turns back. “I guess you could say that, but I prefer Jack.”
“Jack. I like Jack, but I think I’ll call you Dalton. Seems more fitting.”
Chuckling, he says, “I can handle that.” He takes a sip of his drink, then looks me over. “Holliday is a beautiful name.”
My heart starts to race from his sweet words and the sincerity in his eyes. “My mom was a little quirky. I think she heard it on a soap opera once or a Christmas special. My friends call me Holli. It’s more normal.”
“Normal sounds boring and there’s nothing boring about you.”
There’s still a barstool between us, but I find his charm enticing and lean a little closer. “Thanks. Guess Holli just seems easier.”
Taking a sip of my cocktail, the ice shifts. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. I feel him watching even when I’m not. The moment of silence between us is filled by the music changing, a new song starts playing and I listen, enjoying it. “I love this song. Have you heard it?”
His head tilts up and he listens for a second then shakes his head. “This band sucks.”
Running my fingertip over the lip of the glass, I say, “I think there are a million women who would argue otherwise.”
“Maybe more,” he adds, chuckling.
“Probably. The Resistance is very popular. You don’t like their music?”
He leans in, taking a quick peek around, then says, “I heard the lead singer is a total asshole.”
Intrigued, I whisper, “Really?”
Spreading his arms wide, he says, “Big ego.”
“Seems like that happens a lot when people get too rich and too famous too fast.”
“Yeah. I can see that.” He takes a couple of sips, then asks, “Would you like another drink?”
“I’m good. Thanks.” I shift, wondering if I should return to the party. But when I steal another glance, catching sight of his strong jaw and broad shoulders, I decide to stay a little longer. He’s much more interesting than anything that ballroom holds tonight anyway. “Are you working all night?” I ask.
“Some of it.”
When I slip off the stool, there’s a sudden panic in his eyes. I quickly reassure him… because I’m having too good of a time not to. “I’m going to use the ladies room.”
He nods, looking straight into my eyes. “You’re coming back?”
“Yeah.” Turning on my heel, I say, “I’m coming—” I’m grabbed, a loud gasp escaping me before I finish my sentence. My purse falls from my hands, landing on the barstool from the sudden commotion.
“I’ve been looking for you. You’re a tough girl to track down,” Drunky from the party slurs, the alcohol on his breath hitting me in the face as his hand tightens around my arm.
It all happens so fast, the commotion just a blur. One second I hear a barstool scrape loudly against the hardwood floor, the next Dalton is standing in front of me and the drunk has released my arm. Dalton warns, “Don’t touch her again.”
With his hands up in surrender, the guy says, “Back off, buddy. I didn’t mean to scare her. I was just happy I found her after searching the casino. So excuse me while I buy her a drink.” His eyes meet mine over Dalton’s shoulder and he adds, “Or we can get a nightcap in my room. I paid for the upgrade and the view is great.”
I see Dalton steal a glance my way when I answer, “No.”
“Just no?” the guy asks, astonished. “You’re not giving me a reason? I thought we were sharing something special in there.” His head bobs a little—losing his common sense to the booze. If he’s invited to this conference, he’s a successful businessman, but he can’t hold his liquor worth shit and he needs to learn some manners.