One Night with Prince Charming (Aristocratic Grooms #2)(7)
Author: Anna DePalo

Hawk’s lips quirked. Tamara wasn’t one to stand on ceremony. Though she was the daughter of a British viscount, she’d been raised mostly in the United States and had the decidedly democratic tendencies of the bohemian jewelry designer she was.

She’d also obviously sailed in like a mother hen to rescue Pia.

“Not at all,” Hawk murmured to Tamara’s retreating back.

He watched the two women cross the lawn.

When Pia turned back briefly to glance at him, he returned her gaze solemnly.

He’d gleaned a lot from their conversation. He’d guessed correctly—as evidenced by her momentary distress just now—that Pia’s wedding business needed help in the wake of Belinda’s wedding. The fact that Pia’s firm had managed to survive for more than two years said something, however.

Pia obviously had talent, and she’d nurtured it since their one night together.

With that thought, as he turned back to the house, Hawk realized that a conversation with his sister, a prospective bride, was in order.

Three

As she and Tamara walked toward the pavilion, Pia noticed her friend glance at her.

“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” Tamara remarked, and then paused at Pia’s continued silence. “On second thought, perhaps I hope I did.”

As Tamara suddenly stopped to speak with one of the staff who hailed her, Pia stood nearby and soon found herself lost in thought about the night that she and Hawk had first met.

The beat of the music could be felt in the bar stools, on the tables and along the walls. In fact, everything vibrated. It was loud and packed, bodies brushing past each other in the confines of the tavern.

A bar wasn’t her preferred scene, Pia thought, but she’d come here with a coworker from the event-planning business she worked for in order to rub shoulders with bright young things and their beaus.

People who liked a party—and needed event organizers—usually attended parties prodigiously. And it had almost been a job directive from her boss to be social after work hours, making connections and trying to bring in business.

Except Pia’s interest wasn’t in anniversary parties or coming-of-age celebrations.

Instead, she liked weddings.

Someday, she promised herself, her dream of having her own wedding planning business would become a reality.

In the meantime, she shouldered her way past other patrons and reached the bar. But at her height, she could barely see above those sitting at the bar stools, let alone signal the bartender.

A man next to her gestured to the bartender and called out an order for a martini.

She glanced up at him and, a second later, sucked in a breath as he looked down at her with an easygoing grin.

“Drink?” he offered.

He was one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen. He was tall, certainly over six feet, his sandy hair slightly tousled, and his hazel eyes, flecked with interesting bits of gold and green, dancing. His nose was less than perfect—had it been broken once?—but that added to his magnetism. His grin revealed a dimple to the right of his mouth.

Most importantly, he was looking at her with warm, lazy interest.

He was the closest thing to her fantasy man as she’d ever seen—not that she’d ever admit to anyone that, at twenty-four, she’d had a fantasy lover and no other kind.

Pia parted her lips—please, please let me sound sophisticated. “Cosmopolitan, thank you.”

He gave the briefest nod of acknowledgment, and then looked away to signal the bartender and order her drink. Within seconds, he effortlessly accomplished what to her had been blocked by multiple obstacles.

When he looked back at her, he was smiling again.

“Are you?” he asked, his low and smooth voice inviting intimacy.

She stalled. “Am I…?”

His eyes crinkled. “Are you a Cosmo girl?”

She pretended to consider the question for a moment. “It depends. Are you a pickup artist?”

He laughed, his expression saying he was respectful of her parry even as his interest sharpened. “I don’t suppose you’d give a hint as to what the right answer is supposed to be?”

Pia played along. “Do you need a hint? Doesn’t charm get you the answer you want?”

His accent wasn’t easy to pinpoint—he appeared to be from here, there and anywhere—but she thought she detected a faint British enunciation.

“Hmm, it depends,” he mused, rubbing his chin and showing his dimple again. “Are you here with anyone?”

She knew he meant a man—a date. “I’m here with a coworker, but I seem to have lost track of Cornelia in the crowd.”

He looked momentarily intent and seductive beneath his easygoing veneer, but then his casual appeal took over again. “Great, then I can be as charming as I’m able. Let’s start with names. No woman as lovely and enchanting as you can be called anything but—?”

He quirked a brow.

She couldn’t help smiling. “Pia Lumley.”

“Pia,” he repeated.

The sound of her name falling from his chiseled lips sent shivers chasing over her skin. He’d called her lovely and enchanting. Her fantasy man had a voice, and it was dreamy.

“James Fielding,” he volunteered.

Just then, the bartender leaned in their direction and slid two drinks across the bar between seated patrons.

James handed the cosmopolitan to her, and then picked up his martini.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass against hers.

She took a small sip of her drink. It was stronger than her usual party libation—a light beer or a fruity beach drink was more her style—but then again, she’d wanted to appear sophisticated.

She suspected that James was used to chic women. And she’d grown used to projecting a polished and stylish image when trying to drum up business for work. Potential clients expected it—people didn’t want an inexperienced girl from small-town Pennsylvania running their six-figure party.

After sipping from his drink, James nodded at a couple departing from a corner table near them. “Would you like to sit?”

“Thank you,” she said, and then turned and slid into a padded booth seat.

As she watched James sit down to her left, a little thrill went through her. So he meant to continue their conversation and further their acquaintance? She was happy she’d held his interest.

She hadn’t had many men hit on her. She didn’t think she was bad-looking, but she was short and more understated than bold, and therefore easily overlooked. She was cute, rather than one to inspire lust or overwhelming passion.