"Relax, dude." The arrogant jerk winked at Miss Prim. "I'll be on the dance floor if you change your mind." He slipped away into the crowd.
The woman smiled at Dane. "Thank you." She reached across the bar and tucked her hand into his reluctant grasp. "Marissa Vanderson."
Vanderson? He seemed to recall meeting the Vandersons at one of Lorraine's endless social engagements, but his memories of those days spent in elite circles were fuzzy.
The delicate bones of the woman's fingers pressed against his and her smooth, soft skin reminded him once again of her breeding. He dropped her hand. "Dane Sinclair."
"Delighted to meet you, Mr. Sinclair."
Dane couldn't see her eyes due to the glasses and lack of decent lighting, but her lips curved into another nice smile. She had a wonderful mouth. Whoa...what was he thinking?
"I'll fix you a drink—on the house."
He grabbed the bourbon, wishing he hadn't let Charlie talk him into working tonight. If his brother hadn't thrown in the courtside seats to next week's basketball game, he'd be sacked out on the couch watching a late night action flick instead of fixing a drink for Marissa Vanderson. He pushed the glass in front of her.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Perfect for you. It's called a Presbyterian." Dane tapped the rim. "Bourbon, soda, ginger ale."
She nodded then drank it down. Dane gaped at her. Forget delicate sips and raised pinkies. Did she just wipe her mouth with the back of her hand? Had he pegged her wrong? Lorraine would have died of thirst before exhibiting such crude behaviors.
"Another one, please."
He debated arguing the point, since she appeared to have little experience with real alcohol. Hell, she was an adult. She had a right to get walloped if she wanted. Still, he dosed the second with more ginger ale than bourbon, and watched as she did the same gulp-it-down-quick routine.
"Hit me again," she said with a silly grin. "That is the appropriate phrase, is it not?"
Dane couldn't help it. He grinned back. "Yeah, you got the language down. But don't you want to pace yourself?"
"Oh, no. It's very wild, isn't it?"
"I'd consider it tame compared to other things."
"Like what?"
Dane's brows rose as a feeling of unease snaked through him. Miss Society or not, the little darling did not belong in the Paradise Club. Why was she here? No. No. No way. He was done with rescuing princesses. So, he squashed his concerns. The woman was capable of making her own decisions. He shouldn't care what she did or where she went.
"Tell me about other wild things," she asked with the enthusiasm a student would quiz a teacher about a favorite subject. "And give me another Presbyterian."
He didn't bother adding the bourbon this time. He watched her fine-boned fingers with the manicured nails slip around the glass. She tossed down the drink, smacking her lips in satisfaction.
"How long until I'm—I'm—" She frowned, then heaved the biggest, ugliest, puke-orange purse he'd ever seen onto the bar. She opened it and pawed through the contents, her elbows poking into the people on either side of her. With a cry of triumph, she yanked a crinkled, ripped pink paper from the purse, then read it.
"Buzzed. Of course, I would prefer not to have the hangover, but I will suffer through such a thing if it means having the whole experience."
Her statement hit him like a bolt of lightning. She wanted to get drunk and have a hangover? She acted like doing such a thing was an amusement park ride she'd never been on.
She glanced at the list. "Would it be appropriate to have sex with each other? Later on, I mean. After the flirting."
Dane rubbed his earlobe. Surely he’d heard her question wrong. He leaned forward. "What did you say?"
She tucked the list
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