Inhumanly beautiful, I reminded myself.
“It’s perfectly fine to stare,” Ian told me. “That’s your job, look around and don’t miss a thing. It’s your first time here, staring is expected. It’s important that we do the expected. We do not want the management of this place to know who we are and what we’re looking for. If they even suspect there are leprechauns here and that our goal is to get them out . . . they are able to make leaving more of a challenge than we want.”
We were seated by a fairy, a female with wings as ethereal and sheer as the gown she wore. In contrast, the body clearly visible beneath . . . well, lush was the only word to describe it. The fairy might have been five foot tall, but height was difficult to judge with her hovering at least a foot from the floor, her pale and perfect face even with Ian’s. She smiled in a gleam of teeth set like tiny pearls against full lips of rich pink, her violet eyes taking in Ian like the long, tall drink of water that he was. I had to agree with her. My partner was one fine-looking man.
“Mr. Phillips, it is truly a pleasure to see you again.”
Then she turned those all-consuming eyes on me, and for a few pounding heartbeats, I forgot what team I batted for. And she was just the welcoming committee. Ian was right, this place was dangerous.
She showed us to a table with chairs that didn’t make me feel any more secure. They were low, leather-covered stools, more of a tuffet really, with no sides or back. Anyone or anything could sneak up on me from any direction. It would also spin in a complete circle, allowing me to watch anything going on anywhere in the club. It was then I noticed that there wasn’t really a stage to speak of, more like slightly raised platforms. Then it hit me—the place was like a freakin’ karaoke bar, but with sex instead of bad ’80s power ballads.
“All the world’s a stage,” Ian murmured, confirming my suspicions. “And all the men and women merely players.”
I wouldn’t have pegged him for a Shakespeare fan, but being impressed about it took a backseat to what I knew he meant. All of Bacchanalia was a stage, and anyone who walked in here was considered a player—and was fair game to be played or played with.
Like hell.
Any Miss or Mister Muffet—or in this place, they’d probably be called Mistress or Master Muffet—who even thought about taking me off my tuffet would pay dearly.
“What would be your pleasure this evening?” said a cool, silken voice from right behind me.
I squeaked and turned to find myself face to . . . whoa . . . with a blond god wearing a dazzling smile. That was all. The last thing I needed was more to drink, but my tongue was presently plastered to the roof of my mouth. Either that, or dry from it hanging to my knees. Blonds weren’t usually my type. I was more of a brunette kind of girl, my tastes leaning hot and heavy to the tall, dark, and slightly naughty side of fun. I didn’t know if it was the natural glow of his skin, or if he was actually shimmering.
“The lady will have a glass of white wine,” said Ian’s voice from behind me. I managed a series of mute little nods.
The waiter left as silently as he had appeared. It took every bit of control I had not to swivel around on my plush leather tuffet to see if he looked just as pretty walking away as he had standing still.
I frowned. My tuffet wouldn’t turn. Ian’s hand was on the leather seat next to my thigh, keeping me right where I was.
“Not. A. Leprechaun,” he told me.
I whistled. “You can say that again.”
“I’d rather not have to.”
I snapped out of it, embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”
“That’s okay. It’s understandable.” He didn’t sound happy about it. “Every creature working here was hired specifically for their abilities to bewitch and seduce humans.”
Once big, buff, and blond was out of sight, he was also out of mind. And a fog lifted.
I sat up ramrod straight, my skin suddenly cold and clammy with fear that I’d been swept under that easily—and that was just from the waitstaff—and that it could happen again at any time. Then I remembered what he’d ordered for me.
“Wait a minute; why did you order white wi—”
“Bacchanalia is known for their wines. And you won’t be drinking it.”
“Oh, if that’s the—” I stopped. “Wait, why won’t I be drinking?”
“Anything served here is—or could be—drugged.” Ian was speaking without moving his lips as his eyes gazed around the room with what appeared to anyone watching to be lazy appreciation. I hadn’t known Ian Byrne for more than a few hours and I knew I was seeing an act, and a very convincing one it was.
“I take it Mr. Phillips is doing a little window shopping?”
“He is.”
“Convincing.”
“It has to be.”
“Dark mages who can detect glamours?”
“And spies.”
“And don’t look kindly on either one.”