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  Perfect for Charters’ last night. P.B. said he might stop by tonight, too, and Steve knew the only reason was Roxanne. P.B. had been taken by her, of course. The way he was taken by any beautiful—or even cute, or even conscious—woman who’d give him the time of day. What was surprising was Roxanne’s giving him that time.

  Steve exhaled slowly and started wiping down the end of the bar. Again.

  He certainly wasn’t one to claim he knew what women really wanted, but if P.B. was attractive to Roxanne, so be it. Best of luck to both of them. So what if she was high class and P.B. was low brow? What did it matter that he was love-’em-and-leave-’em and she was, from all appearances, hang-’em-high?

  The door opened and Steve looked up, hoping for a customer. If he had to spend any more time tonight with his own thoughts he’d lose his mind.

  On his way to work he’d put a letter in the mail to a publisher asking if they’d consider his book for publication. It wasn’t a blockbuster or anything—just the history of a man who’d lived in this building two hundred years ago—but it had been Steve’s passion for three years. He was almost finished with it, and it was time to make the ultimate move and market it.

  Now all he had to do was figure out how to forget he’d sent the query so he wouldn’t agonize every time his mailbox was empty.

  Sure enough, three thirty-something guys who’d obviously been doing some sort of athletic activity took seats at the end of the bar. Steve took a stack of napkins over and tossed three, one by one, onto the bar in front of them.

  “What can I get you guys?”

  The three ordered beers, then conversed quietly among themselves, obviously not looking for entertainment from their bartender. Steve got them their drinks and went back to polishing the bar.

  He looked at his watch. Five-twenty. It was going to be a long evening.

  At eight o’clock—after Steve had eaten a burger, a leftover salad and a cup of ice cream one of the busboys had gotten from Ben & Jerry’s, down the street—P.B. showed up. He strolled into the bar with his hair combed perfectly, his shoulders thrown back and his chest puffed out for all the world like an amorous pigeon on a city sidewalk. His bearing was so over-the-top cop that he might as well have been wearing his badge and gun belt.

  He greeted Steve with an upraised hand as his eyes scanned the near-empty restaurant. The three athletes had left, to be replaced by two women nursing martinis and a burly-looking bearded man putting away gin and tonics at an alarming rate.

  So he was inordinately glad to see P.B., if for no other reason than that P.B. usually revved up the conversation.

  Steve smiled as he noted P.B.’s roaming eyes. “You can relax, Romeo. Roxanne’s not here yet.”

  P.B. shook his head and sat on a bar stool. “Who? Oh, no. I was just checking the place out. Looks different empty.” He smoothed a hand along one side of his hair, confirming its perfection. “Smells a little like stale beer, too.”

  “Last night got pretty wild. I don’t think any of the busboys got around to mopping the floor, and they weren’t too happy this afternoon either. What can I get you?”

  P.B. looked at the taps. “Uh, Sam Adams.” He paused a fraction of a second then lay his forearms on the bar and leaned forward. “Got a question for you, Steve.”

  Steve opened the Samuel Adams tap. “Shoot.”

  “What’s this girl really like, huh? This Roxanne.” P.B. looked so earnest Steve actually felt a little sorry for him. “And what the hell kind of name is that, anyway? ‘Roxanne’? Rocks-Ann. Rock-Sand.”

  Steve chuckled. “It’s French, Pretty Boy. Like the woman in Cyrano? You know that story?”

  “Cyrano?”

  “Yeah. You know, the guy with the big nose who’s in love with the beautiful Roxanne, but it’s his better-looking friend she really wants?” He slid P.B. the beer.

  P.B. looked confused.

  “Steve Martin made a movie of it a few years ago. He was the fireman with the big nose?”

  P.B.’s brows shot up. “The one with Daryl Hannah?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Oh yeah. And she looked good in that movie, too. She doesn’t always, you know.”

  Steve shrugged. “Blondes aren’t my thing. Anyway, that was the Cyrano story, essentially.”

  P.B. nodded. “Uh-huh. Okay. But do you know if this Roxanne’s got a boyfriend? She’s not dating that little twerp from last night, I hope.”

  “I don’t think so.” Steve took a bar towel from a heap that lay on the cold chest and started folding it. “But I don’t know what else to tell you, P.B. She only just popped up on Thursday.”

  “I know, but…” P.B. looked down at his fingers, splayed on the bar top. “You have talked to her. You have, you know, been around her a little.”

  Steve nodded, wondering what to tell him. P.B. sighed. “She is a hottie, though, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah. I suppose.” Steve bit the inside of his lip thoughtfully. If you didn’t know that inside, she’s as prickly as barbed wire.

  “Did she say anything about me? You know, after last night?”

  “P.B., I told you, I haven’t seen her. She hasn’t gotten here yet.” Steve took a moment to study his friend. “Look, what’s going on here? Are you really that worked up about this girl? She doesn’t seem all that different from the rest, if you ask me.”

  “Are you kidding? She’s like the ultimate babe.” P.B. ran a hand through his hair again, this time actually messing it up, which tweaked Steve’s concern. “But I know. It’s crazy to get worked up about her. It’s just, she’s just…there’s something about her. She’s hot, but it’s like…she’s really cool, you know?”

  “A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma?”

  P.B. considered this. “Yeah. Like that. She’s kind of irresistible.”

  Steve heaved a sigh of his own. “God help the man blinded by a challenge.”

  This wasn’t going to be nearly as fun as he’d thought. If his friend’s heart was involved, then Roxanne’s rejection would be hard to watch, as opposed to mildly enjoyable, just seeing P.B.’s colossal ego taken down a notch or two.

  “Look, P.B., I gotta tell you. I think she’s something of a hard-ass. And a woman like that, who looks like that, she can be…” He shrugged one shoulder. “She can be hard to get.”

  “Hard to get?” P.B. straightened on the stool. “Are you saying you don’t think I have a chance with her? Is that what you’re saying?” He looked genuinely surprised.

  Steve laughed. “Hell, I don’t know. Why? You think it’s not possible for you to be turned down?”

  P.B. took a swig of his beer, his expression suddenly shrewd. “I know what it is. You’ve got a thing for her too, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question. P.B. was far too smug for that.

  Steve scoffed. “Believe me, no.”

  P.B. slapped one palm on the bar in delight, laughing. “I love it! Hah! No need to deny it, old buddy. How could you not? It’s just a natural fact.” He took another swig of his beer, looking happier than he had since he’d walked through the door.

  Misery not only loved company, Steve thought, it looked for it in the most unlikely places. There was no way he was or ever would be interested in Roxanne Rayeaux.

  “Tell you what,” P.B. continued. “Let’s make this fun. I’ve got a hundred bucks says I’ll get her before you do. You ready to match that? Put your money where your mouth is?”

  Steve rolled his eyes and put up both hands. “No way. I don’t make bets like that. Especially when we both know it’s not my mouth we’re talking about.”

  “Damn right it’s not. You chicken?” P.B.’s grin regained its usual cockiness. “A month ago you told me you could get any woman you wanted, you just didn’t want anyone right now. So what is it really? Not so sure of your way with the ladies these days?”

  Steve already missed his lovesick friend of sixty seconds ago.

  “That’s not exactly what I said.�
�� Wasn’t anywhere close, actually, but he didn’t mind P.B. thinking he’d said it.

  “Come on, wuss. A hundred bucks to whoever gets her first.” P.B. pulled out his wallet, took out some bills and placed them on the counter. “Here.”

  “P.B., forget it. Put your money away. I’m not playing that game.”

  P.B. stopped and gave him an indulgent smile. “Okay, here’s what I’ll do. Make it fair. I’ll spot you some good words. Work on making you look good to her.”

  Steve’s ire blossomed. He dropped the towel he was folding and crossed his arms over his chest. “And why would you do that?”

  “Because…” P.B. held a hand out and moved it up and down to encompass Steve’s person. “Well, you know. The girls think you’re a nice guy and all, but I got the whole cop thing working for me. A real, upstanding profession. You know, stability. A future. Stuff like that. Chicks love that shit.” He smoothed a hand along his hair, straightening it back out.

  Not only did Steve know P.B.’s hair was one of his biggest vanities, it now appeared to be an emotional barometer of sorts as well.

  Steve swept the money up with one hand, folded it tight and tucked it into one of the many chinks in the brick wall behind the bar. Out of some of the other chinks around the mirror stuck such things as a Red-skins pennant, a lace garter and a stack of unused bar checks.

  “Great.” Steve pushed the bills far enough in that they weren’t visible without looking hard. “We’ll just put this up here as a reminder of what a stable, upstanding professional you are.”

  “Don’t forget about yours.” P.B. directed a finger from Steve to the wall.

  Steve laughed.

  Rita pulled up to the waitress station. “Two Fosters, drafts.” She plucked a swizzle stick from the glassful and stuck it in her mouth, chewing.

  “Besides,” P.B. added, settling back on his bar stool, “Roxanne seems to listen to me. I think she respects my air of authority.”

  Steve sputtered as he grabbed two pint glasses. “Yeah, right. That’s why she refused your offer to buy her a drink. I’ve never seen anybody step on so many land mines when talking to a woman without getting blown to smithereens.” He tipped a glass under the Fosters tap.

  “You see what I’m saying?” P.B. grinned. “She liked me.”

  Steve shook his head. “Listen, I don’t know why she didn’t blow you out of the water last night. Maybe she appreciated you taking care of those girls—”

  “Authority,” P.B. sang.

  “But in every other way I can guarantee you alienated her.” Steve stopped the tap and leaned forward. “Listen to me, whatever else Roxanne Rayeaux might be, she’s definitely an intelligent woman. And an intelligent woman likes to be treated as if she can tell sincerity from a load of crap. Tell you what, you want to bet so bad, I’ll bet you a million bucks right now she saw half of what you said last night as the thinly disguised chauvinism it was.”

  “You’re on.”

  “Good luck figuring out how to prove that,” Rita said.

  Steve finished filling the pints. “If you really want to date her, Pretty Boy, I suggest you start treating her as an equal, not some little lady who needs you to take care of things.”

  “See? That’s where you’re wrong.” P.B. sipped his beer, unperturbed by Steve’s diatribe. “That’s where you get into trouble with the women you date. Women like to be taken care of. Even the strong ones. Maybe the strong ones most of all, because nobody thinks to do it. So when a guy comes along and treats her like her problems are his problems they love it. Too much equality makes them feel insecure. And I’ll bet on that, too, my friend.”

  Steve glanced over at Rita, who was looking at P.B. with a penetrating, but surprisingly not hostile, gaze.

  “You don’t have anything to say to that, Rita?” Steve threw a hand out toward P.B. “You think women want guys like him to carry them over mud puddles and bring them flowers to solve their problems? Or do they want a real man who treats them like an equal? Like they’re strong and smart enough to handle their own problems?”

  Rita looked from Steve to P.B. and back again. “We want both.”

  Steve gaped at her. P.B. beamed.

  And Roxanne walked through the front door.

  “Speak of the devil.” Rita scooped up her tray of beers and moved back to the lone table in the dining room.

  The first thing Roxanne did was check out the kitchen, noting the mess left from the night before and resolving to fire both line cooks. Same with the busboy who was supposed to mop the floors last night. The place stank.

  She would keep whichever waiters wanted to stay, especially hoping that Rita would want to. Rita was rough around the edges but she kept up with the craziness last night and every single one of her tables was happy. Whereas George got a little too tangled up in the bar crowd to keep his from complaining.

  Not that any of last night’s tables were going to complain much. It was obvious from the first few minutes of observation that the staff had stocked the room with friends.

  In any case, George did a serviceable job and could probably be counted on to improve with training, though Steve might have better insight on that. She wondered if the bartender would be inclined to share his opinions on the staff with her, despite their rocky introduction and apparent disagreement. His experience with the others was a lot more valuable than her two-day evaluation.

  First, though, she had to see if Steve was interested in staying on.

  After tonight, Charters would be closed and on Monday the decorators would begin the transformation. Over the next two weeks the waitstaff she chose would be trained.

  “So Steve,” Roxanne said, moving through the swinging doors from the kitchen to the bar. “Are you interested in working for Chez Soi?”

  Steve turned to her and cocked his head. “Why, Ms. Rayeaux, are you offering me a job? Even despite my professed hatred for all things French?”

  Roxanne slid onto the empty bar stool next to P.B. “Are you turning the job down?”

  She was pretty sure he wasn’t. She didn’t know him well but she could already spot the look in his eye when he was teasing. Kind of a cross between devilment and laughter, even when he wasn’t smiling.

  “Well now…” Steve scratched his chin. “What are the terms? Are you giving me a raise?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “So I’ll stay?”

  She smiled. “You’ll stay. We both know you’ll stay, Steve, so let’s not waste time taunting each other. Terms are the same as you have now. But you’ll be making more money, nonetheless. Which you probably already know.”

  “If the restaurant succeeds.”

  She inclined her head. “It will.”

  “You’re pretty confident.”

  She crossed her legs. “I have to be.” She glanced to her right and smiled. “How are you tonight, P.B.?”

  “I’m just great.” He leaned one arm across the back of her bar seat and gave her a significant look. “Now.”

  Roxanne looked back at Steve, laughter welling in the back of her throat. “See? If I can make P.B. happy by just sitting down, surely I can make my restaurant a success.”

  One side of Steve’s mouth kicked up wryly. “Yeah. P.B.’s a pretty tough sell.”

  Roxanne glanced at P.B. to see how he took that. He just grinned.

  Steve studied her a moment. “I knew you were going to offer me the job.”

  She leaned back, determined to humor Steve. They were a little like oil and water, but it was important to get along, so she wouldn’t let him get to her. Besides, most of the time he was just playing with her. She thought. “And how did you know that?”

  He smiled. “Because you own the building. You fire me and I can’t pay my rent. You could kick me out but that would mean more expenses. Easier to keep me on, I figure, than upset the whole equilibrium. Plus, I’m good at my job.”

  She smiled and tipped her head. “You are good at your job. Tho
ugh you could be better. And, besides, I knew you would take me up on it.”

  “You did, huh? How?”

  Because you’re a career bartender, she thought. And career bartenders get stuck in their jobs just like every other kind of lifer.

  She knew his type all right. Handsome, charming and going nowhere.

  Right now it was fun, like playing. He could socialize, get dates, make good money, without having to challenge himself at all. But before long he’d start looking a little haggard. He’d cease being able to handle the long hours, or the after-work drinking, the way he could when he was younger, and he would feel fed up with the routine. But by then he’d have nowhere else to go. He’d have squandered his most productive years in a dead-end job and he’d be stuck in it for the rest of his life. Because who would hire a guy, who should be twenty years into a career, who’d done nothing but bartend?

  Yes, she’d seen it before and she knew all the signs.

  She couldn’t even count the number of bartenders, waiters and waitresses she’d known who still considered the job temporary—just a stepping stone to their real career, whatever that might be—despite being on the job for a decade.

  “I knew you’d want to stay, because you’re a creature of habit, Steve Serrano.” She kept her tone light and her lips smiling. “And creatures of habit hate to move. At any rate, I know you’ll be good at the job I’m offering, even though your experience here is somewhat…” she let her eyes scan the bar…“unrelated.”

  Steve scoffed and looked at P.B. “What’d I tell you? Hard-ass.”

  “Did you just call me a hard-ass?” This pleased Roxanne inordinately.

  “I did. And what makes you think I’ll work out at Shaaay Swahhh?” He exaggerated the French accent and extended his arms with a short bow.

  “First, because of that bottle of wine you left me the other day. It’s good wine. And it’s French.”

  Steve straightened, chuckling. “In vino veritas.”

  Latin. Roxanne raised her brows. “And second, because I suspect you are a chameleon who will fit into any atmosphere. All the best bartenders are.”

  “So Steve-arino brought you some wine, huh?” P.B. said, obviously tired of being left out of the conversation.