The woman in red. Trouble. A cliché, classic to be sure, but things don't become cliché unless there's some truth to them. He'd remember that later, after it was too late to untangle himself from the web she'd woven around him.
She strolled into his little corner restaurant, out of the dark, damp night. No, Donovan James thought, she didn't stroll, she sauntered. When a woman looked like her, it was impossible to do anything but saunter. She didn't seem to notice that conversation dropped off as she crossed the room, or that heads turned in her direction. At least, she didn't seem to notice. Donovan had a niggling suspicion that she knew precisely the effect that she was causing, and that she was enjoying it, even if she didn't show it.
She settled herself on the barstool directly in front of him, her dress blindingly red in the gloom of the room. She raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow, as black as the hair waving down past her shoulders. There was a smirk, a tiny one, in her pale gray eyes that matched the smirk twisting her undeniably sexual mouth. Donovan watched the words formed by those luscious lips.
"Whiskey. A double."
Donovan poured the amber liquid into a shot glass, trying to place her voice. It wasn't New Orleans anymore than his was, but it wasn't anywhere from the South, either. It was brisk, almost clipped, in a way that said big city--big Northern city. Not New York, not Boston, but someplace close. Someplace far from where she was now.
She locked those smirking eyes on his and knocked the whiskey back in one, sighing a little as she set the glass back down on the bar. "Another, if you don't mind."
Donovan poured another, then turned to deal with the regular who took a seat at the other end of the bar. It was a slow night, and instead of keeping his bartender on, he'd taken the shift himself. The days between Mardi Gras and Easter were touch and go, and while business and clientele were steady, it was never a bad idea to keep an eye on labor cost. Besides, his bartender had hinted that he had a hot date, and he was sympathetic enough to let the kid go.
When he moved back down the bar, he saw that she was staring at him. Not in a way that unnerved him, or even signified interest, just staring at him. Since he didn't think he was anything worth staring at, he found it more than a little strange. Sure, he'd been told he was attractive, with his shaggy brown hair, brown eyes, and long, lean build, but he'd looked in the mirror often enough to doubt it. Besides, he was usually told he was attractive while the speaker was under the influence of alcohol. It tended to negate any effect the compliment might have.
He didn't comment on the stare, but refilled the shot glass when she pushed it across the bar towards him. He filled the orders for the few tables in the restaurant, did some cleaning, worked on the schedules for the next week. When he made his way back around to her, she pushed the shot glass towards him once again. He sat the bottle on the counter next to it.
"I'll assume you're not driving."
She blinked at him once, then threw her head back with a throaty laugh that had heads turning in her direction again. Letting out one last sighing laugh, she ran her fingers through her hair, and sent him a look that had more fire in it than the whiskey. "Nobody drives in the Quarter."
"Touché." Donovan poured another shot, pushing it back towards her. Before he could release it, she wrapped her fingers over the glass, trapping his beneath them. A tiny smile, the kind that made strong men weak. "Kathaleena."
