Free Surge: (#7 The Beat and The Pulse) by Amity Cross Page A

wonderful thing,” he said with a wink.
    “Is that her name? Lori?”
    He nodded. “She’s been workin’ the bar in there for three years, and I never once saw her. I never would’ve seen her if you hadn’t…”
    “Wow. I don’t know what to say about that.”
    “It didn’t work between us, but it doesn’t mean it won’t work between you and Dean.”
    I snorted. “He’s still hung up over Monica Miller. How can I compete with the pedestal he’s got her on?”
    “You know, I don’t understand that,” he said, knocking his shoulder against mine. “If you’re askin’ me, I think it’s habit more than anythin’.”
    I snorted and shifted away from him as the yellow taxi came into view at the end of the lane. He’d been nicer to me than I deserved.
    “I’m sorry,” I said again as I backed away.
    “Don’t worry about it,” he shouted after me. “You look after yourself, all right?”
    I waved him off, feeling a little better about my failed seduction but still a whole lot rejected, and got into the taxi. There was nothing else I could do.
    The chapter of my life labeled ‘Hamish McBride’ had finally been closed for good.

    * * *
    T he hotel bar was mostly empty when I pulled up a stool.
    The idea of going back to my room and watching late-night infomercials was out of the question, and drowning my sorrows was a way better idea. Drinking my body weight in vodka martinis was probably the best decision I’d made in the last three weeks.
    In here, I could sit in my own little world and forget about the embarrassment I’d caused myself. I’d wallow for tonight, and tomorrow I’d go get a lovely spa treatment of some sort and then I’d be clearheaded enough to work out what I was going to do when I inevitably came face to face with Dean. Once my head was back on my shoulders, I’d get the next flight back to Sydney and get on with it. Because that’s what professionals did, and I was a professional.
    I. Was. A. Professional. Said the woman with three empty martini glasses on her high score.
    “Well, well, well,” a gravelly voice rumbled beside me. “This is a surprise.”
    Glancing up, my gaze met Gabe O’Connell’s. My stomach did a flip, and I rolled my eyes. Just what I needed when I was already well on the way to being inebriated. I could always puke in his lap. It wasn’t my mouth, but at least it was warm and wet.
    “Great,” I drawled, reaching for my newest glass. Pressing it against my lips, I took a large sip, not caring if I slurped.
    “Boyfriend dump you or something?” he asked with a smirk.
    “Don’t you live here?” I asked, scowling at him with as much force as I could muster.
    “Yeah, I do,” he replied, sitting on the stool beside me.
    “So what are you doing at a hotel? Trawling for your next victim?”
    He laughed and gestured for the bartender to pour him a scotch. Turning to me, he said, “My apartment is being painted.”
    “I bet you say that to all your conquests,” I slurred, slumping over the bar. He seemed to be enjoying the train wreck.
    “The offer still stands, you know.”
    “Which one?”
    “Come work for me. I’ll make it worth your while, sweetheart.”
    “One,” I snapped, holding up my middle finger. “I’m not your sweetheart.”
    He raised an eyebrow. “I like you. A lot. What’s two?”
    “Two,” I went on, raising my pointer finger to join the middle one. “Not for all the money in the world.”
    “Fair enough,” he replied with a laugh. “I’m not withdrawing it, though.”
    “Harassment is a chargeable offence.”
    Raising his glass to his lips, he sipped at his scotch, one stormy eye fixed firmly on me. If I wasn’t mistaken, he was trying to see how far he could push and get away with it. Fighters were all the same with their offence-defense crap. They thought they could take it from the octagon right into the bedroom. I had news for Gabe O’Connell…
    “I’m going to challenge Lincoln Hayes for the title,”