Four Dukes And A Devil Part 7

Inhaling deeply-go with guts, go with guts-Gray headed for the door just as a large man in a small tank top pushed out of the bar and belched into the balmy evening air.

"Oh, excuse me," Gray said automatically, as if she'd interrupted a private moment.

The man grunted as she took the weight of the door from him. He gave her a look as if he meant to turn around and follow her back in, but she scooted past him into the bar.

"No problem," he slurred belatedly, as the door shut in his face.

The place was dark and undistinguished. Chrome stools with black vinyl seats surrounded a horseshoe bar, around which tables lined the dark-paneled walls. On the far side was a tiny dance floor with, incongruously, a dartboard on one side. Gray had a moment of imagining the mishaps that could occur if the two activities went on simultaneously, then reminded herself that she was not the Safety Inspector or anyone else who needed to care about such things.

She made her way to the bar and sat gingerly on one of the stools, half-hoping the enormous sumo wrestler behind the bar wouldn't notice her.

He did.

He sauntered over, pushed a c.o.c.ktail napkin in front of her, and asked, "What can I get for yah?"

She licked her lips. "Um. Could I, uh, get a gla.s.s of wine?" Her voice rose at the end as if expecting the man to scoff at anything other than an order of beer, or maybe a piratesized shot of rum.

"Sure. What kind?" He looked at her pa.s.sively.

She smiled in return. Of course they had wine. She was being ridiculous. Every place had wine. "Oh, let's see. Maybe a chardonnay-or wait, a Pinot Grigio, I think." She smiled again. "If you've got it?"

He chewed for a second on what she hoped was a piece of gum, studied her, then said, "What kind, white or red?"

Gray flushed from head to foot, wished she could flee, then said in a small voice, "White, please."

He leaned toward her, music bouncing all around them. "Did you say 'white'?"

She nodded and glanced around so self-consciously she didn't actually see anyone as much as hope to make them look away from her.

The man took a gla.s.s down from a rack overhead and filled it from a tap with a white handle. Next to it was a tap with a red handle. And below the taps Gray was sure were two large boxes of something labeled WINE WINE.

He deposited the full gla.s.s in front of her, and asked, "Want to start a tab?"

Still frozen with embarra.s.sment, Gray could not imagine fis.h.i.+ng into her purse for money at that moment. "Uh, sure."

He nodded and moved to the register.

Gray exhaled a long, slow breath.

Across the bar, Sam Gregory eyed the young woman with great curiosity. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in this bar. Which was saying nothing. But she might also be the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in Wellfleet. Or in Ma.s.sachusetts. h.e.l.l, maybe anywhere.

In the light from the neon Budweiser sign over the bar, her skin glowed like a white sand beach in moonlight. Her wide eyes shone like sea gla.s.s under elegantly lean brows. Add to that her thick wavy hair and ballerina bearing, and he was turning into a poet trying to justify why he couldn't take his eyes off her.

Then there was that demure little smile with the upraised lashes she'd given Roy. Roy, who'd thought she'd ordered "some Grecian formula" when she'd said "Pinot Grigio."

He chuckled to himself. She was a fish out of water, all right. Though not as out of water as she had been that morning.

For unless he missed his bet, he was certain this was his Schwinn-riding Lady G.o.diva. And he'd be a fool not to come to her aid now that he'd been given a second chance.

The question was, how did you go about mentioning to a woman you'd never met that you had her clothes?

Gray sipped her wine fast, eyes darting around the bar, trying to pick out who wouldn't scare her to death if they came over to talk. Or who, if it came to it, she might consider going to talk to herself. She hadn't really considered what to do once she'd braved the door, and was wondering if perhaps throwing out one's entire personality was really the route to take to become someone new.

But really, didn't she owe it to her commitment to change to give it everything she had? Surely riding naked through town on a bicycle had been the start of something momentous.

Then again, it might have been enough for one day.

A stringy-haired woman in the corner nursed a brown drink in a short gla.s.s, but she looked gla.s.sy-eyed and despondent, and seemed already to be talking to someone despite the fact that no one was near. It seemed naive to think she might be wearing a Bluetooth when her shoes didn't match.

There were two men drinking and watching ESPN on the TV, but neither of them looked particularly friendly. In fact they both looked a little tough, with their thin hard faces and sinewy tattooed arms.

There was a guy playing a pinball game, and another playing video poker, and then there was the sumo-wrestler bartender, who had not indicated any sort of interest in a conversation with her beyond "red or white."

Finally, there was a tall thin guy in worn khaki shorts and a faded red tee s.h.i.+rt coming around the bar with a beer in his hand. A Budweiser, of course.

Where had he been? she wondered. She hadn't noticed him before, but then half the bar was so badly lit it was hard to see beyond the glare of the oversized TV hanging in the corner of the well where the liquor bottles were.

He was normal-looking, she thought, eyeing him covertly. Which was a good thing because it looked as if he were coming toward her.

Sure enough he sat down next to her, straddle-legged on the stool, facing her.

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this?" he asked pleasantly. His voice was low and had a husky quality to it that made the cheesy come-on seem more intimate than it would have otherwise.

Make up that line yourself? she wanted to ask, but that would have been rude. And despite the fact that Rachel would have said it, Gray smiled, and said, "Do you think this is a dump?" she wanted to ask, but that would have been rude. And despite the fact that Rachel would have said it, Gray smiled, and said, "Do you think this is a dump?"

His eyes, light-colored and sharp in a face that was otherwise friendly, made a slow loop around their surroundings and lit back on her. "I think it defines 'dump.' Don't you?"

People were awfully blunt here. Must be a northern thing, she guessed, and chalked it up as something else she needed to try. Bluntness.

"I suppose I do," she said, her tone emerging primly.

She picked up her winegla.s.s. The beverage was more like grape brine than wine, but for Gray it beat cheap beer.

"But it's fun. You know, kind of." She looked uncertainly around again. "Is it always so empty? I thought there'd be more people here."

"It's early." He placed his beer on the bar next to him. "This place doesn't really get going until after ten or so."

He didn't have the same hard edges as the rest of the patrons, and from what she could tell from their brief exchange, he seemed educated. She wondered if he was a tourist or a resident.

"So what are you doing here, if you think it's a dump?"

He grinned, and Gray was struck by the thought that he was nice-looking. Strange thing not to notice right off. The smile did it, though. Deep dimples and appealing crow's-feet made him distinctly handsome.

"I like dumps." He tilted his head. "But I don't think that's true of you. Which leaves only one conclusion."

She eyed him while sipping her wine again. "Which is?"

"You're slumming."

"Slumming?" Gray tried unsuccessfully to look surprised. It was exactly how she felt. Still, she didn't need to admit it to this guy. Something told her he'd hold it against her. Heck, everybody in the room would hold it against her, but she got the feeling this guy was testing her. And she'd never failed a test in her life.

He c.o.c.ked a grin at her. "Aren't you?"

"Are you judging me, Mr....?" She knew calling him "Mister" anything was ridiculous, but it was the closest she could come to his cheeky banter.

He laughed, and she thought again that he was nice-looking. In a Jekyll-Hyde kind of way. "Sam. My name is Sam. And I am being something of a jacka.s.s. I apologize. It's just that I've never seen a woman who looked like you in this place."

She looked at her drink, unwilling to be flattered, if that was indeed what he meant. It was hard to tell. "So you were judging me."

"Aren't you judging me? Aren't we all judging each other?" He flagged the bartender.

"Sounds like barroom philosophizing to me." She took another sip of her wine, which she was pleased to note had become almost palatable. It meant she could finish it and leave. She'd gotten out of her comfort zone, been gutsy for one full drink; maybe she could give herself a break and have a nice dinner at Aesop's Tables.

"Sometimes that's the only kind of philosophizing that makes sense," Sam said.

She picked up her purse to retrieve her wallet when the bartender placed another drink in front of her and one in front of Sam.

"Oh, I didn't order that," she protested.

"I know." The sumo wrestler pointed to Sam. "He did."

Sam picked up his beer and saluted her. "Cheers," he said. "Ms....?"

She gave him a brief, undecided look, then picked up the gla.s.s. What the heck, she thought. It beat going back to her haunted home. Besides, if she couldn't be gutsy with this brazen fellow, who could she be gusty with?

"My name is Gray," she said with a smile.

"Gray?" He started to chuckle.

She shot him a warning look that had no effect on him whatsoever. Oddly, this made her feel better about his teasing.

"I'd've pegged you for more of a Saffron. Maybe even a Magenta. But Gray?" He shook his head, smiling. "No way."

"It's a family name."

"The Crayola family?"

"My first name is Cynthia," she explained, trying to clarify-what? That she was not in fact a crayon? He was joking, joking, for pity's sake, and she was acting like the schoolmarm she was. for pity's sake, and she was acting like the schoolmarm she was.

"Ah." He nodded, picked up his beer, and took a long pull from it.

She was boring him. She was a humorless sn.o.b. He was thinking her name suited her perfectly.

"So what's a nice guy like you doing in a dump like this?" She straightened her shoulders and tried to look confident.

He smiled slyly, looking at her from the corners of his eyes. "Slumming. What else?"

She laughed-see? I get jokes-and her glance grazed him from tee s.h.i.+rt to sneakers. "You don't look like you are."

He burst out laughing, and she blushed. She hadn't meant to insult him, but of course she had. Lord, she couldn't play this game. She had no idea how to flirt. When she'd met Lawrence, she'd been set up by friends. At a wine tasting. At the National Gallery. All she'd had to do was talk coherently about the Impressionists, and that was easy.

"Touche, Gray. You're tougher than you look. So, are you here on vacation?"

"I'm summering here." She twisted her gla.s.s in the condensation on the bar. The bartender had forgone the formality of a c.o.c.ktail napkin with drink number two. "What about you?"

His smile curled ironically.

She shook her head, sighing. "What did I say this time?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you're looking rather...condescending again."

One long-fingered hand touched his own chest. "Me? Condescending? I promise you, Gray, I didn't mean to..." His words petered out, and he laughed at her skeptical look. "Oh okay. It was 'summering.' That word. n.o.body but debutantes and doctors' wives use seasons as verbs."

"And n.o.body but reverse sn.o.bs throw 'debutante' around as an insult." She socked away another gulp of wine and felt proud of herself. It was an awkward parry, but still. She wasn't taking any of this guy's guff. "Not to mention that you were wrong. I was neither a debutante nor am I a doctor's wife."

The look he gave her kicked up a surprising team of b.u.t.terflies in her stomach. Appreciation and amus.e.m.e.nt. It made her feel that not only was he looking at her, but he was really seeing seeing her. her.

"I'm very glad to hear that."

The words made her feel hot. She took a calming breath. "Okay, so, what does one typically do in a place like this?"

Sam gave her a conspiratorial smile. "I'll tell you what 'one' does," he said, "in a place like this."

She looked up quickly to find him laughing at her again, but this time it was overt, not smug. She chuckled.

"One does clams." He motioned for the bartender again.

"Clams? What do you mean?"

"I mean fried clams. The Den may not do much right in the way of food, but they have some of the best fried clams on the Cape. And the onion rings are first-rate." He put one foot up on the lower rail of her stool. "Besides, it is what one does here. Can I order you some?" She hesitated, and he took the opportunity to flag the bartender. "Two clam plates with onion rings. And put it on my tab."

Gray smiled. It was chivalrous, in a way. And because she didn't want to drink two gla.s.ses of wine on an empty stomach, she was grateful. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Don't want you leaving the Cape without trying all the delicacies."

"You're actually a nice guy, aren't you?" She looked at him quizzically.

He laughed. "Was there ever any doubt?"