Free The Fate Of A Marlowe Girl (The Marlowe Girls) by Beth Fred Page B

Bien .” I ducked down to pull the power supply out and mumbled to myself, “My freaken sister is having an X-rated soiree in my room, because that's what a normal person does two weeks before they get married. Taxes are due in two weeks, and I have a hundred clients and a whole firm counting on me.” I plugged the charger into the outlet and came up with the computer end in my hand. He still looked at me. Wow. I had no idea he was paying attention. “Well, at least you don't speak English,” I mumbled. “ Bien ,” I said again louder.
    He laughed.
    The bartender looked at me. “ En qué puedo servirle ?”
    “Something strong.” Yeah right. Like you can drink something strong. “Margarita.”
    I opened my laptop and got back to reconciling files. 
    “ Señorita ?” the bartender said, putting the drink down beside me.
    “Thank you—uh— gracias .”
    I took a big drink of the margarita. It tasted like acid, but I forced myself to swallow. It burned going down. So much for that idea.
    It was quiet enough in the bar that I could think. Between thoughts of killing my sister, I managed to clear accounts or flag them for further review when I got to the office. But every time I looked up, it seemed like the guy beside me had his eyes fixed on me. Yeah, right. Guys like that don't check out girls like me.
    Most of the times I caught his glance, I blushed, so I tried to avoid seeing him. I glued my eyes to the computer screen. I heard him say something in Spanish to the waiter, and two minutes later, the waiter set another drink next to me.
    I looked at the waiter confused.
    “ Del señor ,” he said nodding his head toward the guy beside me.
    Oh. So I had some Romeo beside me who liked to booze up girls who didn’t know Spanish. I shot him a glare, and before I could return my eyes to my computer, he gave me half a grin.
    “Most girls say thank you, but it's okay. I don't speak English anyhow.”
    “Uhh—sorry. About the English thing, I mean. And thank you, but no thank you.”
    He shrugged. “Hey, everyone has a bad day. Actually, I find it amusing when you try to speak Spanish. In fact, please don't.” He laughed. “You can relax. It's not alcohol. You don't seem to be having a good time with that margarita, and it looked like you could use some help ordering.”
    Heat rushed under my cheeks, and I couldn't help but smile. “Okay.”
    “So, you have a bad girl sister?”
    “Oh, man.” I slapped my head into my hands. “You heard all that, too?” I sighed. “She's not that bad, just a little—well, way too wild.” Why was I telling him this? He was a complete stranger. “I should work.”
    I looked back to my screen, but he asked, “What are you working on?”
    “Taxes.”
    “Maybe we should have a late night business dinner on me. Then you could claim the trip as a deduction.”
    Now I faced him again. “Thank you for the drink, señor , but I don't leave bars with guys I don't know.”
    He laughed. “That's probably a good idea. My name is Lucas. My friends call me Luke. I know your sister is getting married, and she has strippers in your suite. You're more pissed off about it than most girls would be, so you probably don't approve of strippers or wild parties. I've done my share of partying, but I find both views kind of cute—not as cute as when you tried to take a swig of that margarita and almost gagged because you wouldn't spit it out. You're on vacation to the most beautiful city in the world, and you're doing taxes. I'm not sure I'm a complete stranger.”
    “Lucas, you seem to have been paying stalkerishly close attention to my offhand vent, but you don't know me or anything about me. You've pegged me wrong. I have nothing against strippers or partying. But I didn't anticipate paying for it. I do have something against guys trying to pick me up in a bar.”
    He laughed. “Miss, I'm not trying to pick you up. You look like you're having a bad day. I'm being friendly. You said