Sin on the Run Read Free Page B

disliked her far more than he cared to admit—she was, after all, his grandmother. But her actions of late didn’t help her cause. Had she shown some sympathy toward his brother’s loss of an unborn child, Blake might have considered liking the old hag. Instead, she chose to harp on Blake. It was supposedly now his duty to produce the next heir to the title and family fortune. To hell with the fact that his brother was heartbroken and might not be able to have another child.
    He hadn’t been able to talk to Colin since he’d gotten the bad news. Interpol had kept Blake tied up in red tape, so a quick text was all he’d been able to manage. He checked his watch. He’d considered calling his twin a hundred times today. But between the time change and wedding obligations, he’d come up with excuses not to. What do you say to someone who just lost a child?
    Blake flagged down the bartender and asked for a Scotch. He swallowed it and requested another. Getting drunk was starting to sound good. Damn the old woman. Glancing down at his empty glass, he ordered another drink, and then another.
    â€œYou realize the bartender is free pouring? And your four shots come close to, oh . . . twelve ounces, give or take?”
    After downing his fourth drink, he turned his head to see who had disturbed his drowning of sorrows. Rhonda. She looked even freakier close up. Freaky was good. Hot. And damn, wouldn’t freaky freak out his grandmother. While he never tallied the ounces he’d consumed, he did realize if he’d said what had just ran through his mind out loud he’d sound drunk. Instead, he motioned the bartender over with a finger pointing to his empty class. He watched the man pour and concluded Rhonda was right.
    â€œAnd now you’re up to fifteen. I’d say that bartender likes you. Be careful,” she whispered, drawing closer. “He might try to take advantage of you. Then again”—she checked out the bartender—“he’s cute.”
    He crooked a finger at her, beckoning her forward.
    â€œHe’s no’ my type.” He didn’t drink that often anymore, but when he did there was no mistaking his Scottish brogue. Now he was out of practice and definitely feeling the effects.
    â€œOh? Who is?”
    Was she coming on to him? The idea intrigued him. “Dark,” he answered, his head beginning to swim. He’d actually dated more blondes than brunettes, but had never taken the time to consider which he preferred.
    â€œWhat, you like them evil?”
    What on earth was she going on about? “Noooo, dark.” However, he had nothing against a little evil. He licked his lips. Vixens could be worth the effort and the one standing in front of him was in a league all her own.
    She stared at him for such a long time he was beginning to wonder if she’d heard him. Then a slow smile curled her luscious mouth, her green eyes sparkling with naughty mischief. “You’re drunk,” she said in astonishment. “What kind of an Irishman are you? I thought you guys could hold your liquor?”
    â€œIrish!” he said, insulted. “I’m no’ Irish.” He placed a hand over his chest. “I’m Scottish. Born and bred.” He winced, not needing or wanting to be reminded of his breeding, or why he’d sat his ass at the bar in the first place.
    â€œScottish, Irish what’s the diff?” She shrugged. “But if it makes you feel better, either is super sexy.”
    She was coming on to him. Wasn’t she?
    The bartender came over to refill his glass, but Rhonda waved him away. “If he’s not your type,” she hooked an arm beneath his and lifted him to his feet, “then let’s find someone who is.”
    While perfectly happy to sit at the bar and keep drinking, he allowed himself to be dragged away. Better to have a beautiful woman on his arm than the floor under his