Ian’s single nod was barely detectable.
The glass tables were softly lit from beneath, providing just enough illumination to find your drink. Our drinks had been served and I hadn’t seen anyone approach, and if our Adonis waiter was any indication of Bacchanalia’s waitstaff—and the bounty presently on view everywhere in the club told me that he was—I would have noticed.
“Magic?” I asked Ian.
He nodded. “Pixies. Tiny and fast.”
The table’s soft glow sent shimmers of gold up through the delicate stem of the glass and into the wine. Pretty. And highly tempting. I remembered Ian’s warning and slid my hands under my thighs, to keep them from reaching for anything gold and shiny—either a possibly drugged drink or a definitely intoxicating waiter.
I resumed scanning the club for leprechauns. “If they’re here, how do we get them out?” I asked Ian, trying not to move my lips. “Do you have a plan?”
Being SPI’s top agent meant you didn’t walk into a goblin den without a plan, but being the control freak that I was, I wanted to know precisely what that plan was—and how it involved me.
When Ian didn’t respond, I turned toward him and was hit with my partner’s heated gaze.
My hand suddenly took on a life of its own and lowered my sunglasses. “Is the mostly naked hostess behind me?” I whispered.
“No.” With that, Ian reached over and hauled me right off my tuffet, across his lap, and kissed me like he was diving for lost treasure.
I saw twinkly lights that didn’t have a damned thing to do with the star-strewn ceiling. Realizing I’d forgotten to breathe, I panicked and inhaled all the air in a ten-table radius through my nose.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“We’re being watched,” Ian held me tight, keeping me right where I was. “And listened to,” he breathed against the curve of my ear.
If it’d been anyone else, I’d think he was taking advantage of the situation to get some on-the-job action. Ian must have been doing it to preserve his cover.
His lips were at my throat. “The mics have been turned on in our table.”
Microphones in the tables? My karaoke analogy was closer than I’d thought.
Though the mic wasn’t all that had just had its switch flipped. I’d just developed tingles in all of my favorite places. Apparently being borderline molested by a gorgeous, dangerously hot, monster-hunting secret agent was a huge turn-on for me. Who knew?
“We’re being spied on?” I breathed against his earlobe, and felt him shiver in response. One point for me.
“A guest—or more than one—has apparently asked the management if you’re available.” His lips skimmed the side of my neck, up and down with maddening slowness. “They’re trying to find out. I’m making it clear that you’re with me. My job is to protect you. I’m doing my job.”
And a damned fine job he was doing.
Air must have been in short supply again. I was starting to pant. “Protection? So that’s what the kids are calling it now.”
“As long as it’s obvious you’re with me, you’re safe. That innocent librarian look of yours is attracting the wrong kind of attention. It’s almost as hot to these people as a schoolgirl costume.”
I was hot? I pulled back as much as I could, which with Ian’s arms locked around me was about an inch.
“It’s a challenge to every man in here.” Ian’s hand was sliding up my thigh, his breath hot against the hollow of my throat. “Like waving a red flag in front of a herd of bulls.”
Ian Byrne was making me crazy. His lips and hands were doing more to short-circuit my brain than a baker’s dozen of naked male fairies could hope to do on their best night. Either the man was one hell of an actor, or maybe he didn’t mind being my partner as much as I thought.
My hormones didn’t care one way or another; they stood up and cheered for the Peeping Tom who was spying on our table, whoever or whatever it was, and encouraged him to keep up the good work.
God, I loved my new job.
“Can you see them?” Ian murmured, his lips kissing their way south from my throat toward the first button on my blouse—a button that suddenly wasn’t buttoned anymore.
“Uh . . . the bulls?”
Ian’s mouth was making a run for the border and the hill country beyond. “Leprechauns.”
If my brain and other places weren’t sizzling like bacon in a skillet, I’d be able to tell him.
Ian’s attention went to the bar. He swore. And worse, he stopped.
“What?”
He disengaged himself from me. “I’ll be right back. Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“I need to talk to our contact.”
“I’m going with you.”
“He’s undercover, so am I, and you’re not.” He indicated Mike, Steve, and Elana’s table and tuffets near ours. “Go. Stay. I’ll be right back.”
I grabbed my purse and scurried on over. “Psst, Elana.”
“What?”
“Go to the bathroom with me.”
“What?”