Sweet Talkin' Guy

Daphne glanced at Andy. “She seemed so real…then nothing…”

“There’s hardly any light,” Andy said, searching the wall. “Easy to imagine things.” He flicked a switch. An overhead electric chandelier came to life, infusing the room with a bright glow. He looked around. The brass bed was big, and he didn’t know if he’d ever seen a chandelier in a bedroom, but everything else was sedate, tasteful. Didn’t smack of froufrou. A guy could breathe in this room, relax.

“Except I’m not one to imagine things,” Daphne murmured. “I pretty much call it as I see it.” She frowned. “You’re not going to smoke in here, are you?”

He held a pack of cigarettes he’d just extracted from his pullover pocket. “Uh, let me think about it.” He looked briefly up, then back down. “Yes.” He popped the filter-tip into his mouth.

“There’s a No Smoking sign downstairs.”

“Good place for it.” He struck a match and drew it to the tip of his cigarette. The scent of sulfur stung the air.

Daphne snatched the cigarette from his lips. “No.”

He shook out the match. “Hey, who invited whom to this room?”

“You want me to turn you in? Keep the room for myself?”

He gave a double take. “You can’t do that—”

“Watch me.”

He was watching all right. Watching that dare-me glint in her eyes. The imperial tilt of her chin.

The lady was a handful.

Fortunately, he knew how to handle handfuls.

“Sure,” he said, ambling over to the love seat—looks like he called that one. Hopefully, the aspirin was close by. “Go ahead and report me. I’ll say you broke in and tried to steal my room. After that little gimme-a-room-or-else routine you pulled at the front desk earlier, I have a feeling they’ll buy my story over yours in, oh, the space of a heartbeat?” He sat down and stretched out his legs.

She watched him through slitted eyes. “You wouldn’t say that.”

“You watch me.” He stroked his fingers over plush velvet. “I believe the cops call it breaking and entering. The news of your alleged crime would be on the Internet faster than a giga-minute. Reporters would be flocking here like adrenaline-crazed swallows to Capistrano.”

“Aren’t you taking this a bit too far? Adrenaline-crazed birds, good grief.” With a sanctimonious sigh, she lobbed the cigarette back to him. “Go ahead, die of lung cancer.”

“Cheery sort, aren’t you?” Eyeing a wicker trash can, he dunked the cig in one smooth toss. “But I’ll spare you the secondhand smoke. Believe it or not, I can be a gentleman.”