Last Chance Beauty Queen (11 page)

This earned her a glare from Dottie Cox, the proprietor and chief bartender. Dottie was pushing sixty hard, but didn’t look a day over forty-five, at least not in the dim neon glow that passed for light in the establishment.
Tonight, Dottie wore a watermelon pink western shirt with green fringe along its yoke and down its arms. Her ears were adorned with a pair of dangly watermelon earrings.

Dottie leaned on the bar, earrings swaying. “Rocky, since when are you drinking vodka martinis?”

“Since right now.” Caroline was painfully aware of Hugh standing right on the other side of Roy. Hugh was watching every move while nodding at Roy like he was actually listening to the fishing story.

Hugh was drinking something whiskey colored in a glass without ice. It looked like a manly and sophisticated drink. No long-necked Buds for him, even if he did look like a regular guy in that T-shirt and jeans.

“I’m not sure I have any olives,” Dottie said.

“No olives? In a bar?”

Dottie shrugged, her fringes swaying. “I know. It’s pitiful. But ain’t no one ever comes in here and orders martinis.”

“I used to drink appletinis.”

“That’s not a true martini. That’s a sweet excuse of a girly drink.” Dottie smiled like a sage.

“Do you have vodka and vermouth?” Caroline asked.

Dottie didn’t answer the question. She continued in a sagacious voice. “Course if you wanted an appletini, I could get it for you. I have a whole batch of apple vodka and schnapps that I laid in just for when you come to town.”

Dottie reached out at that point in her oration and patted Caroline’s hand. “Rocky, sugar, I know youth is a time for experimentation with alcohol. But don’t you think it’s time to settle down to one favorite drink? That
way I could stock the ingredients. To tell you the truth, honey, I’m having a hard time keeping up with your drink choices.”

“Experimenting? With alcohol? Really? Can I help?” Hugh’s voice was smooth and sophisticated. But this was not exactly what she expected an English aristocrat to say out loud in a honky-tonk. Heck, she didn’t expect an English aristocrat to ever set foot in a honky-tonk.

Dottie snorted a laugh. “Ain’t he cute? I could listen to him talk all day. And, honey, any man who comes into my place and orders a single malt scotch straight up is swoon worthy, if you ask me.”

“Right.” Caroline turned and nodded at Hugh. “Glad to see you’re getting on the right side of the locals.”

“So glad you approve. So, what are you experimenting with this evening?” he asked, launching one of his charming, boyish smiles—the one where his dimple came out. Darn him.

Dottie leaned in and batted her eyes. “She ordered a dirty vodka martini. I’m not sure I have any olives, though. If you want my opinion, the girl is just being uppity. A month ago, she came in here and ordered a Broken Down Golf Cart.”

“A what?”

Dottie nodded, and her earrings bounced happily. “It’s a shot made with Midori and almond liqueur. It’s disgustingly sweet, but on the other hand, a drink by that name might be just right for Caroline, given her family’s business. Know what I mean?”

Hugh had the audacity to nod in agreement. Then he sort of smirked in Caroline’s direction. “So vodka martinis are new for you, then?”

“I don’t think it’s your business.”

“No, it’s probably not. But you know I’m rather an expert in helping people find the alcoholic beverage that fits them. Sort of like your Miriam Randall only with booze, not soulmates.” He said this in a voice so loud it carried across the room.

The rednecks and good ol’ boys who were Dot’s regulars turned to watch the show. Even Caroline’s brother, Clay, who was up on stage tuning his fiddle turned and looked. Clay had one of those “watching out for little sister” expressions on his face. Thank goodness Hugh was semipolite, and Clay was averse to picking fights without good cause; otherwise Caroline might just find herself in the second fistfight in so many days.

“I would like a dirty vodka martini,
please
.”

“All right, honey, it’s your funeral. Let me go see if I can find some olives.” Dottie turned away and headed into the storage area behind the bar.

“Hey, you wanna trade places?” Roy said.

“Well, that would be quite nice, if you don’t mind,” Hugh replied.

“No problem. One day you and me have a date in my bass boat, you hear?” Roy picked up his long-necked Bud and moved down the bar. Caroline watched him go.

“Right-o, Roy. It’s a date.”

She watched Roy slide into a seat and start talking to Avery Anderson. Just great. She wasn’t going to get any info out of Roy tonight, was she? Those two boys could talk fishing from sundown to sunup.

Hugh moved over a stool and immediately invaded her space. Not intentionally, of course, but just being near him was kind of unsettling.

“You know,” he said, “when I was a young man at university, I supplemented my living by serving as a part-time barman. There is a huge gulf between a sweet shot and a dirty vodka martini, although technically they both have vodka in them.”

“Well, I’m a woman of wide-ranging tastes.”

“Yes. I can see that.”

“Good. And for the record, I don’t let men select my drinks. I can think for myself.”

He shrugged. “I’m not selecting anything. I’m helping you explore. Now, tell me, do you like sour things or sweet things?”

“I like both.”

He grimaced. “I’m sure you do, but if you’re like most people, you like one just a little bit more than the other.”

“No.”

He seemed annoyed. A warm and intoxicating flush hit her blood. She liked fighting with him.

“Are you always like this?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“Afraid to make a choice?”

“I’m not afraid.” Caroline straightened her spine and set her shoulders as if to prove the point.

“No, of course not,” he said, his eyes twinkling in that superior manner of his. “I must have been mistaken then.”

Dottie returned. “Sorry, sugar, I can’t find any olives. Why don’t I get you a Budweiser?”

Like she was going to drink a Bud when his Lordship was over there sipping scotch and being superior about
his knowledge of mixology. Not bloody likely. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll have what he’s drinking.”

Dottie rolled her eyes. “You sure about that, sugar?”

“What do I have to do to order a drink in this place?”

Dottie nodded. “Okeydokey, we aim to please.” She turned and started pouring scotch.

“Might I inquire—have you ever been a scotch drinker before tonight?” Hugh asked.

Dottie put the drink in front of Caroline. She wasn’t about to admit anything to his Lordship or Dottie Cox so she picked up the glass and knocked it back like a tequila shot. She had tried tequila shots with Tulane once. They made her lips numb. And of course, she had ended that particular evening hung over a toilet bowl.

Never again.

But scotch was not tequila. And she was trying to make a point. So she dumped that liquor into the back of her throat and promptly choked on it. She ended up coughing like some little girl who didn’t know any better.

Across the room, she heard Clay’s brotherly voice of concern, “Little gal, are you all right?”

Hugh gave her a thwack between the shoulder blades, and Dottie replied to Clay, “Oh, I think she’s in capable hands. But someone needs to tell her that you don’t shoot single malt scotch.”

The men at the bar laughed.

And that, more or less, did it for Caroline.

She caught her breath, slid off the seat, and started toward the door without paying her bill. But Hugh followed her. He touched her arm and stopped her midstride. He didn’t need to grab her, or haul on her, or twist her arm like Bubba had done last night at the Pig Place.
Nope. He merely touched her and it was like some kind of electrical charge. She couldn’t move.

“Caroline,” he whispered into her ear. “Stop trying to be something you aren’t.”

She wanted to turn and spit in his eye. Not for insulting her, but for being so astute as to recognize the truth of her most recent behavior. She had seen him at the bar, looking debonair and aristocratic even in blue jeans, and she’d tried to prove she was some kind of sophisticated person.

But she wasn’t. She was a country girl. That’s what she saw every day in the mirror, and her business suits and professional haircuts could never hide that.

Shame crawled right through Caroline. She was acting like an idiot. She should get out of here, now, and remember to keep a lid on her libido whenever Hugh was around. “I should go,” she said as she turned back toward the door and took a step.

Hugh wasn’t about to let her go. He grabbed her by the arm in a move that was similar to what Bubba had done last night. But instead of pain, Hugh’s touch made electricity run right up her arm. “Come back to the bar. Let’s start over, shall we?” His voice made her insides quiver.

She sucked up her pride (and her sanity) and let him lead her back to the bar. He helped her up onto a stool, just like a real gentleman, and then he did the unthinkable in Dottie’s establishment.

He stepped behind the bar.

No one ever stepped behind Dottie’s bar, ever.

Dottie made to protest, but Hugh waggled his eyebrows and then pulled out his wallet. He produced a fifty-dollar bill and tucked it, with great
savoir-faire
, in the
V of Dottie’s western shirt. “I assure you, madam, I know my way around a bar.”

Dottie batted her false eyelashes. “Honey, I have a feeling you know your way around more than that.”

Hugh inclined his head, and Caroline could actually imagine him in one of those Masterpiece Theater productions where everyone is always bowing and curtseying.

“So,” he said, leaning on the inner edge of the bar, “since you’ve started the evening with whiskey, we’ll need to stay there.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s never a good idea to drink different kinds of alcohol in one go. Didn’t your brothers teach you that?”

She glanced over her shoulder to where Clay and the rest of the Wild Horses were fixing to start their first set of the evening. Clay was, mercifully, not paying attention to her right at the moment.

She let go of a big sigh. “No. My brothers tried to keep me from learning about alcohol and anything else that was even remotely interesting. Southern brothers are brought up to protect their sisters that way. Of course, they are not above teaching their friends’ sisters all the important things. Most of the naughty things I learned came from Dash Randall.”

Hugh’s eyes widened a bit. “So you and Dash were…”

She shook her head. “No. Nothing like that. But Dash got around and taught a lot of girls a lot of stuff. And the girls passed on what they learned. I avoided Dash like the plague when I was younger. He was one of my brothers’
friends, and that made him automatically gross and annoying.”

She glanced over her shoulder again. This time Clay was watching her out of his silver eyes.

Hugh followed her gaze. “I gather that bloke over there tuning his violin is another one of the aforementioned brothers? He looks rather like your father.”

She nodded. “Yeah, he’s the big one. You’ve already met Stone.”

“Right, I have. He’s the one who frightens me the most. So I promise to be on my best behavior.”

She snickered but didn’t otherwise comment that, compared to the average good ol’ boy in Allenberg County, Hugh was always on his best behavior, even when he was punching Bubba in the mouth.

“It’s time to find the right alcoholic beverage for you,” Hugh said. “But since you refuse to tell me if you like sweet more than sour, I’ll have to use my imagination.” He turned and pulled down an old-fashioned glass, then he grabbed a bottle of blended whiskey, which he proceeded to toss into the air so that it flipped over, spout down. He caught it as it tumbled, like a juggler, without spilling a drop, until he poured a shot’s worth into the glass. Then he tossed the bottle up and behind him before he pirouetted and caught the bottle in its flight and returned it to its place. He repeated the entire move, adding a few additional embellishments, with a slightly dusty bottle of Drambui.

By the time he tossed some ice in the glass and placed the glass on his bent elbow, Dottie’s mouth had sagged open, while half the patrons were watching in utter fascination. He levered his elbow up—tossing the drink, ice
cubes and all, up in the air. He caught the drink on its way down, not sloshing a single drop as he placed it, with a flourish, in front of Caroline.

The men at the bar clapped.

“Honey, if you ever decide you need a job, I’m sure I could find a place for you,” Dottie said to him.

Hugh bowed to one and all, then scooted around the bar and took a seat beside Caroline, retrieving his own scotch. He raised it in salute. “To the novice drinkers we all were at one time.”

Roy Burdett lifted his long-neck Bud and said, “Hear, hear.”

Caroline picked up the cocktail. “I’m not a novice drinker.”

Hugh’s lips quivered. “All right, then here’s to the journeyman drinkers we’ve all become.”

“Hear, hear.” Roy lifted his Bud again.

“What is this?” Caroline asked before she brought the glass to her lips.

“That, my dear, is a Rusty Nail, the classic cocktail of the rich and famous.”

“Really?”

“It was popular in the 1960s in Hollywood.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because I was a barman near a university and studied mixology rather seriously at one time. Believe me, I have helped many a novice drinker discover their inner drunk. Go on then, try it.”

She sipped. It was strong. And not sweet. It burned on the way down and made her body flush.

“Hmmm,” he said, studying her closely. “By that wrinkle in your nose, I’m thinking that the Rusty Nail
is not exactly the right fit. We’ll have to explore other options.”

“Now?”

“Oh, no, you have to finish the Rusty Nail first.” He smiled and sipped his drink.

She sipped hers as the band began their first set, which made talking a lot more difficult. So they sat and listened to Clay play fiddle while Caroline finished her Rusty Nail. Then Hugh made her a whiskey sour, which she liked a little better, but it still made her mouth pucker.