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Marissa, the bartender, snapped the ticket out of my fingertips and dumped a glassful of ice into a tumbler.

“Come here often?” Rebecca muttered next to me.

“Enough that Marissa knows I rarely drink but when I do it’s a vodka tonic, yes.”

Her lips pressed together and she looked away. The flush was gone from her cheeks and when Marisa slid my drink onto the bar in front of me, I handed her a hefty tip. “Thanks, Marissa.”

“No problem, sir.”

She turned with efficiency to fill the next glass and I twisted, smiling behind the tumbler when I caught sight of Rebecca’s pout.

“I’m surprised to see you here.”

“That’s because I’ve never been here.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of woman interested in this.”

“Really? What kind of woman do I seem to be then?” She shook her head. “Forget I asked. I don’t really care what kind of woman you think I am.”

I didn’t triple my father’s earnings on his company in four years by missing the tiny openings like she’d just given me.

“No? You don’t want to know what I think of you? What if I tell you anyway?” She opened her mouth, I presumed to argue with me, so I kept going without giving her a chance. I leaned forward, dropped my head and lowered my voice until I was speaking almost against her flesh. And Jesus, fuck. Her scent. Sweet and creamy, vanilla but something else, too. Intoxicating. “You don’t want to know how often I’ve considered bending you over my desk and spanking you?”