The Bartender's Secret (Masterson, Texas Book 1) Read online

  Her perfect man is hiding an imperfect past

  When street smart meets book smart...

  Connor McClaine notices Delphinia Ray the first time she walks into his bar. Quiet, sheltered, educated, the shy Shakespeare professor is way out of his league. But “whoever loved that loved not at first sight?” The rough-edged bar owner tries to push her away, convinced she can’t handle the harsh truth about his past. Sweet Delphinia, however, has gotten under his skin, daring him to face his demons and defy what he believes is his fate.

  Their eyes met. He did a little double-take, as if he were surprised to see her. As if he recognized her.

  She jolted back behind the partition.

  He couldn’t have recognized her. Delphinia had never met him before. He was not the kind of man to whom one would forget being introduced. She’d never seen him from afar, either. A Greek god with a scar on one eyebrow and a tattoo on one arm could not walk around the campus unnoticed.

  But had he seen her before? She’d been reading by a window earlier. Perhaps he’d noticed her. Her cheeks felt warm at the thought.

  Romeo and Juliet continued their scene. Delphinia let it restore some order to her mind. She knew the lines, the play, the students. She knew herself and her role in life. She was who she was, the brainy girl who loved books. She wasn’t the kind to catch a passionate man’s attention, not like Juliet. She wasn’t anything like the alluring heroine in her paperback novel.

  She cleared her throat. She sat up straighter...and peeked around the partition.

  He was still looking at her. That handsome face, that strong physique, all that calm confidence was zeroed in on her.

  He’d noticed her.

  MASTERSON, TEXAS:

  Where you come to learn about love!

  Dear Reader,

  “Opposites attract” is a truism we’ve all heard. But in a romantic relationship, what if only one of the two people knew they were opposites? That’s the reality for the couple in this book. Our heroine believes she is madly in love with a man who is just like her. Most important, they are both book lovers. When they’re together, the physical chemistry is mutual, too—and hard to resist!

  The hero, however, is certain they are polar opposites. She’s got a PhD in English; he never graduated from high school. She’s the fourth generation of a family whose history is full of college presidents; he hasn’t seen his mother since he was a teenager. Most important, she is a respected professor at the university, and he is a convicted felon. He’s served his time, but the record will stay with him for life.

  So, which person has the correct perception? Is the heroine right, and they are perfect for each other? Or is the hero correct that if he loves her, then he won’t burden her with a man whose past always comes back to drag him down?

  You’ll have to read the book for the answer, but I can give you a big hint: the author sincerely believes that true love conquers all.

  I’d love to hear what you think. You can find me on Facebook easily, or you can contact me through my website, www.carocarson.com. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Cheers,

  Caro Carson

  The Bartender’s Secret

  Caro Carson

  Despite a no-nonsense background as a West Point graduate, army officer and Fortune 100 sales executive, Caro Carson has always treasured the happily-ever-after of a good romance novel. As a RITA® Award–winning Harlequin author, Caro is delighted to be living her own happily-ever-after with her husband and two children in Florida, a location that has saved the coaster-loving theme-park fanatic a fortune on plane tickets.

  Books by Caro Carson

  Harlequin Special Edition

  American Heroes

  The Lieutenants’ Online Love

  The Captains’ Vegas Vows

  The Majors’ Holiday Hideaway

  The Colonels’ Texas Promise

  Texas Rescue

  Not Just a Cowboy

  A Texas Rescue Christmas

  Following Doctor’s Orders

  Her Texas Rescue Doctor

  A Cowboy’s Wish Upon a Star

  How to Train a Cowboy

  Montana Mavericks:

  What Happened at the Wedding?

  The Maverick’s Holiday Masquerade

  The Doctors MacDowell

  Doctor, Soldier, Daddy

  The Doctor’s Former Fiancée

  The Bachelor Doctor’s Bride

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  This book about an English professor must be dedicated to the teachers and professors who brightened my school years with their love of books. Thank you, Mrs. Feintuch and Mrs. Hughes, for introducing me to Romeo and Juliet and Othello in high school. I could not have written this book without you! And to my professors at West Point, especially Colonel Freeman, Colonel Stromberg and Colonel Hoy, thank you for every great book that opened a new window to the world beyond our rockbound highland home.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Excerpt from Fortune’s Texas Surprise by Stella Bagwell

  Chapter One

  The first time he saw her, she was reading a book.

  Connor McClaine’s customers often read books in his pub. The Tipsy Musketeer was located roughly twenty yards from the edge of Masterson University’s campus, so it wasn’t unusual to serve a hand-drawn Guinness to a student who was studying Socrates or sociology.

  This reader was...different.

  In the quiet of the Tuesday afternoon lull, Connor took his time polishing the pub’s antique brass taps as the woman turned another page. There was an intriguing grace to the motion of her index finger, a simple touch of light pressure on the paper, a slide to the left to reveal two more pages full of black type.

  She fell still once more. Only her eyes moved as she devoured the fresh lines. Her hand didn’t waver as she held the book with its pages tilted toward the window. The Texas sunshine was constant, golden, steadily illuminating the deep brown of her hair, the dark wood of his pub’s floor. The ivory pages of her book reflected the light up to her throat, so the picture she made had the kind of otherworldly illumination one saw in paintings. She made a beautiful picture.

  Traditionally, Irish pubs were dark shelters from a harsher outside world, and the Tipsy Musketeer, despite being located in Central Texas, was as traditional as an Irish pub could be. For relief from the often desertlike heat, the Victorian-era building’s heavy shutters had kept out the sunlight for over 130 years. But its proprietor now was Connor McClaine, and he’d once been forced to live for precisely 180 days in a building with no windows, so the Tipsy Musketeer’s green shutters were now fastened open—permanently.

  Their shade was no long
er necessary. The building might be historic, but its air-conditioning units were modern and efficient. It had taken most of the past ten years, virtually his entire adult life, but Connor had brought this building to a place where he was assured there would always be windows and light and breathable air. He had everything he needed, as long as everything stayed as it was—his pub, his life, unchanging.

  The reading woman stayed just as she was. Unchanging. A work of art.

  Connor moved from the brass taps to the mahogany bar, polishing as he drank in the shades of whiskey in her hair. One hundred shades of brown—that was how many different colors Rembrandt had used to paint a woman’s hair. Connor had read that in an art history book he’d found on the wrong shelf of a prison library. He’d wanted to see a Rembrandt in real life ever since.

  Here she was.

  With one graceful fingertip, she turned the page, read another line.

  She laughed, a single squeak of surprise.

  Connor stopped in mid-stroke, startled that a work of art had made a sound. She continued coming to life, setting the book down, resting her elbow on the table, her chin on her hand. Her smile lingered over something she’d read, a humorous twist she’d hadn’t expected. Connor had a burning desire to know...

  To know...

  Not her, of course. He already knew women like her—educated, peaceful, lovely. Women who lived calm lives. Women who’d never been denied windows and daylight. Women who were out of his league, fortunately for them.

  He didn’t begrudge them their lovely lives. They’d done nothing to hurt him, after all, and the world would be a grim place if everyone had to come from the same darkness he had. There was only one common denominator between Connor and this woman: he could read whatever she read. He could share that one piece of a lovelier, lighter life.

  What was she reading?

  She was in his establishment. He could step out from behind the bar, walk over to that table and ask her if she needed anything. He’d see the book cover. He’d know something about her. If he read that same book later, he’d know a lot more about her. He’d try to guess exactly which page, which paragraph had made her laugh out loud.

  Her smile faded. With one finger, she pushed the book a few inches away from herself.

  Ah, he knew more about her already. He understood that feeling. A book could carry him away to another place, putting him in a different mood—a better place, a better mood. But always, the book would end, and life would resume. Depending on how bad life was at the moment, the return to reality could feel like a hangover, the price one paid for a brief escape. When books had let him escape a windowless prison, the hangover had been vicious.

  Connor turned away from the picture-perfect woman and pitched his polishing cloth in the laundry bin with last night’s bar towels. She was not a painting for him to analyze. She wasn’t here for his viewing pleasure. But her hair was whiskey and her throat was lovely, and he could ask her that most basic question of bartenders everywhere: What’s your pleasure?

  He wanted to know.

  He rested his forearms on the bar and waited, savoring the moment as he watched his living Rembrandt, imagining he understood how she felt. She’d glance his way any second now. What’s your pleasure?

  “Connor, save me.” A different woman stuck her head in his line of sight, a teenager who read books only when required to by her teachers. For the ten years he’d known her, Bridget Murphy had read only school assignments, and for ten years, Connor had been pushing her to do her schoolwork. She’d been nine when the previous owner, Mr. Murphy, had hired Connor, who’d been a miserable nineteen. Bridget had always gotten in the way when Connor had been learning the ropes, but she was the niece of Mr. Murphy. Connor had always figured she had more of a right to be at Murphy’s Tipsy Musketeer than he did. In any case, Connor would never say a bad word against a Murphy.

  “Just shoot me,” she said.

  “Tempting, but I can’t do both. Shoot you or save you? You have to decide.”

  Bridget plopped herself onto a barstool, the one directly between himself and the intriguing woman, blocking his view. That was Bridget. She would have made a perfect pest of a little sister, had Connor had a family. With a dramatic groan, she plunked her red head on the bar.

  He spoke to the top of her head. “A word of advice. When you turn twenty-one, two years from now, and you can legally drink, be sure to avoid cheap booze at wild college parties, or else you’ll get a hangover that feels exactly the way you’re feeling right now.”

  “Devil take ye and yer best dog,” she muttered into the burnished wood, in a fine approximation of her great-uncle’s Irish brogue. “If you’re so sure this is a hangover, you could make me one of your hangover cures.”

  With Bridget’s head out of his way, Connor could see the woman again. She was entirely back in this world now, tucking her book into a cloth book bag. Any second, she’d look at him.

  What’s your pleasure?

  “Pretty please?” Bridget popped her head up, blocking his view again.

  Connor came just that close to growling in annoyance.

  “What? What I’d do?”

  “Nothing.” Connor began making a hangover cure, glancing toward the woman in the window as he did. She’d stood and was heading toward the restrooms, book bag on her shoulder. Her chiffon skirt swished around her knees with each step. Connor scooped ice into a glass and watched as her hair turned from glowing mahogany to nearly ebony as she moved out of the sunlight.

  “Who was that?” Bridget asked.

  “Who?”

  “That woman whose butt you’re checking out instead of saving me.”

  Connor poured tomato juice into the glass and shrugged. “A customer. I’m not checking out her butt.” I’m checking out the swing of her hair.

  Bridget turned around to check out the now empty table. “Yeah?”

  And her legs.

  “Your customer doesn’t have a drink or anything.”

  “I haven’t asked her what she wants yet. She’s been reading.”

  Bridget rolled her eyes as only a college drama major could. “People can drink and read at the same time. You could’ve interrupted her. She might have appreciated it.”

  “She was reading intently, the way your professors want you to.” He added three dashes of Tabasco to the glass.

  “Intently? You were watching her read intently? That’s so weird.”

  And a fourth dash.

  “You were watching her walk away pretty intently, too.”

  “I said she was reading intently. I wasn’t watching her intently as she read. Syntax, Bridget. It matters.”

  “Syntax, Bridget,” she repeated, in an admittedly fine approximation of his patronizing tone. “You should be an English teacher, not a bar owner. You’d meet more women who read intently, instead of the kind that get drunk and try to jump your bones. How does a bookworm proposition you? ‘Hey, hottie. Let’s get naked and talk about literature.’ Does size matter when it comes to books?”

  Connor tossed Bridget a lemon wedge. “Suck on that.”

  “Hey—”

  “It’s good for you. Vitamin C.” He squeezed two more lemon wedges into the glass, gave it a stir, then slid it across the bar with just enough force that it stopped in front of Bridget.

  She glared at it. “You forgot the vodka.”

  “That’s for alcohol-induced hangovers. Since you’re underage, I know you weren’t drinking alcohol last night, so you don’t need it this afternoon.”

  “Uncle Murphy says you need the hair of the dog that bit you.”

  “I’m not losing my liquor license by serving vodka to a college sophomore. Drink your juice.”

  The woman who’d been reading walked back into the main pub area. She’d look his way any second now, maybe even stop at the bar to get a d
rink to carry back to her table.

  What’s your pl—

  “Hey, boss.” This time a young man stuck his head in Connor’s way, speaking with all the energy and volume of a college student who was not hungover. “Everyone’s on their way. A few texted they’d be late, but they’re still coming.”

  Kristopher Newell was a junior at Masterson and one of Connor’s bartenders. The state of Texas didn’t require bartenders to be twenty-one—employees could serve alcohol at eighteen, as long as they didn’t drink any—but Connor required it. Kristopher had bused tables for a full semester, an eternity for a college student, until he’d turned twenty-one and Connor had let him move behind the bar. Like Mr. Murphy before him, Connor appreciated good employees and took care of them. No revolving door here, even in a college town. Not until they graduated and moved on to the rest of their lives, diplomas in their hands.

  “How’d your test go?” Connor asked. Taking care of his employees meant being sure they had their priorities straight.

  Kristopher’s buoyancy dropped a notch. “Pretty well. Not as well as I’d hoped. But hey, if I ace this Shakespeare thing, it’ll balance out.”

  There was a small stage in one corner of the pub, used by countless musicians since before Connor had been born. This afternoon, it would be used by students to rehearse a theater course assignment. Connor had offered it up, because it was one way he could ensure Kristopher and Bridget actually practiced for their Shakespeare project. The pub was usually empty between the lunch crowd and happy hour on a Tuesday in March, anyway.

  But not this Tuesday. The woman by the window had come here to read. Maybe Miss Rembrandt had hoped the pub would be an oasis away from the students who thronged every other business on Athos Avenue. Generally, it was; the Tipsy Musketeer checked IDs. It was common knowledge around campus that this pub would serve the bread but not the beer to those under twenty-one, so the Musketeer drew an older clientele: the professors rather than the students, the coaches rather than the athletes, the university president rather than the fraternity president.