IT WAS LATE when she sank onto the barstool. Still wearing her best dressed-to-kill sexy tuxedo dress, Trina Roberts had received immediate attention from the bartender.

"Hot night?" he said. "What'll you have?"

Hot didn't cover it. Train wreck didn't cover it. Nuclear explosion didn't cover it. "Mojito, please."

"Coming up," he said.

While she waited, she took a deep breath and glanced around the bar. The crowd had thinned out. Her gaze stopped on a man seated at the other end of the bar, his head bowed over a squat glass of amber-colored liquor.

His tux tie was unfastened along with the top buttons of his shirt. She knew that profile, the hard jawline, straight nose and dark hair uncharacteristically mussed over his forehead.

Walker Gordon.

Her heart clenched for him. He looked miserable, desolate, destroyed. She couldn't blame him. After all, he'd just been publicly dumped at the altar by Brooke Tarantino, the great-granddaughter of the founder of Bellagio Shoes. That was bad enough, but the dumping had been conducted on live television with millions of witnesses.

Trina had attended the wedding because she worked for Bellagio in PR. In fact, she'd worked with Walker, an advertising contractor that Bellagio had hired several years ago. From the beginning, she'd liked his combination of quick intelligence and sense of humor. And it didn't hurt that he had a great body and sexy eyes.

The bartender returned with her drink and she paid her tab, sipping the mojito and trying not to look at Walker. Her gaze, however, kept wandering toward him. She'd never seen him missing an ounce of confidence. He oozed solid assurance and even though she hadn't totally understood his relationship with Brooke Tarantino, he'd once revealed part of the attraction. Brooke was entirely too self- involved to ever want children. That suited him fine because he didn't want children, either. Being a father, he'd confessed, would be a surefire path to failure for him. He'd made a joke in that way that people did when they weren't completely joking, that he'd come from a long line of bad fathers and he was determined not to continue the trend.

His broad shoulders were folded forward. He leaned against the bar, his gaze vacant.

Pity mixed with anger. Why had Brooke done this? Especially this way. With a sigh, she picked up her mojito and wandered to the stool beside him.

He glanced at her and closed his eyes, but gave a nod of recognition.

"Sorry," Trina said. "Sucks to be you."

His mouth twitched slightly and he opened his eyes, taking a sip from his glass. "Can't disagree."

"I saw one reporter get you. Did anyone else —"

"I didn't move fast enough. Two more caught me before I left the church."

She winced. "Sorry."

"Can we talk about something else?" Trina nodded, another surge of sympathy sliding through her. "Sure," she said, searching her mind for a neutral topic. She took a few sips and swallowed the last of her mojito. "So, what's your favorite game show?"

"Jeopardy," he said taking a sip. "What about you?"

"Wheel of Fortune."

"You're a word person," he said.

"And you're a fact person," she said.

"Pretty much."

Silence fell between them. Trina felt the urge to fill it. "There was another old game show I liked. I only saw it in reruns. Name That Tune."

"Oh, yeah. I think I saw it a couple of times when I stayed home from school because I was sick." He tossed back the rest of his drink and lifted two fingers toward the bartender, indicating he wanted a refill for both of them. "What kind of music do you like?"

"A little of everything. Back then I liked whatever my mother hated," she said with a smile.

His lips tilted in a half smile. "Teenage rebel?"

"Some. I just couldn't do the Stepford debutante thing. I dug in my heels and made my mother crazy. What about you?"

"My father hogged all opportunities for rebellion. He left my mother and moved to the Cayman Islands, started a financial service and married a woman down there."

Trina winced. "That doesn't sound like fun for the wife and kid he left behind. Did you ever visit him?"

"Kids, plural. I visited him once." He paused. "I come from a long line of terrible fathers. There are just some men who shouldn't reproduce. I thought marrying Brooke was a good idea because she said she didn't want any children, and she was so focused on herself that I knew..." He broke off and took a long swallow from the drink the bartender had placed in front of him.

Trina couldn't help thinking about the huge differences between Walker and Brooke. He'd probably always been studious and responsible, levelheaded to a fault. Brooke, on the other hand, was rebellious, daring and fun. She supposed it hadn't hurt that she was beautiful and her father was loaded.

What a night, she thought, feeling the mojito ease the rough edges. She took a sip of the fresh drink the bartender had placed in front of her.

"Not to dwell on the evening, but you missed some other drama. One of the reality TV hosts did a live interview with Jenny Prillaman about the degree she didn't get from design school."

Walker tore his gaze from his glass and looked at Trina. "Oh, no. You're kidding."

Trina shook her head and shuddered. "It just got worse after that. She confessed that she didn't have a degree. Alfredo Bellagio turned purple with rage and fired her on the air."

Swearing, Walker raked his hand through his hair. "Oh, what a mess. Poor kid."

"I felt sorry for her. She's nice. Very talented with or without a degree." She glanced at her watch, wondering if she should leave him to nurse his misery by himself. "I should probably go home."

"Must be nice," he said. "I'm sure as hell not going back to my condo. You can bet there will be reporters camped outside. Even if I made it inside, the phone would be ringing off the hook or friends would be pounding on the door to check on me."

She made a face. "Yeah, that wouldn't be fun." She looked at his shoulders hunched toward the bar. He usually stood so straight, everything about him confident. Not tonight. Another shot of pity stabbed at her.

"My apartment's right around the corner if you're willing to take the couch," she impulsively offered.

He glanced up at her and looked at her, really looked at her. She felt his gaze take in her face then skim over her body and back up to her eyes. "You sure?"

Something in his greenish hazel eyes made her stomach take a dip. She shook it off. It was probably just the second mojito. "Yeah."

"Okay, I'll take you up on your kind invitation," he said. "Let's just have one more for the road."

"I haven't finished my second," she said.

He took a long drink. "Swallow faster," he said and motioned again for the bartender.

Two more mojitos later, she might have been fuzzy-headed, but she had enough sense to let the bartender call a cab. She supposed they could have walked, but her coordination wasn't at peak level.

Neither was Walker's, but he helped her out of the car. "You're really nice to let me have your sofa, Trina. I always thought you were nice," he said, his voice slurring slightly.

"Thanks, Walker. I always thought you were nice and very intelligent," she said, feeling wobbly on her Bellagio heels as they walked to the elevator.

"Which floor?" he asked.

"Six," she said, aiming for the right button and missing. "Oops."

He chuckled. "Let me do it," he said, and he missed, too.

For some reason, that struck her as hilarious. They both reached for the button and finally pushed number six. The elevator, however, stopped on floors four and five due to their misses. By the time they arrived at her door, she and Walker couldn't stop laughing. She managed to find her keys in her purse. He managed to take them from her hand and eventually found the one for her door.

Trina tripped as she stepped inside, but Walker caught her against him just before he closed the door. "Whoa," he said. "No falling. You're not allowed to fall."

Grabbing his shoulders for balance, she took a deep breath and caught a draft of his aftershave. "You smell really good," she said. "Do I?" he asked and grinned. He ducked his head into the crook of her shoulder and inhaled noisily.

"You do, too."

"Thanks," she said, liking the way he felt against her. She liked the way his hair looked when it was messed up, not so smooth and perfect. And he had really sexy eyes and one dimple. "Did you know that you have a dent right here?" she asked, lifting her finger to the dimple that added charm to his hard jaw.

"Yeah, I probably got it fighting with my brother or sister," he said, his voice growing a stronger Southern drawl.

"Where are you from?"

"All over the South," he said. "Lived in too many houses and trailers to count. That's what happens when Dad doesn't pay the bills."

She shook her head in sympathy, the movement blurring her vision. "Before he died, my father spent a ton of money on a court fight for his business principles."

"Ouch," Walker said. "Fighting for your principles in court can be very expensive."

"Yeah," she said, and got distracted by his thigh pressed against hers. She studied his eyes. "Did you know that your eyes change colors?"

He shook his head. "No. I haven't looked at them much lately."