“What do you have there, sweetheart?”
My spine snaps straight and my teeth clench. It takes every ounce of control I possess not to go claws-out alleycat mode as I slowly turn my head to face the man on my left.
Shoddy hair plugs. Dull brown eyes. Gray pinstripe suit.
God dammit, Mara wasn’t joking. I’m tempted to make a scene and spit in his face, but the unwanted attention that will bring won’t do me any favors. All it’ll do is ensure I walk out of here without the intel I need.
He doesn’t move his hand, even when I meet his eyes. Pig.
“Well?” he prompts, a challenge in his tone. His fingers flex ever so slightly and I try not to flinch. “What are they?”
“Honey glazed edamame balls,” I grit out through my teeth. “Would you like one?”
His eyes scan my body and a chill slithers up my spine.
“I’m interested in whatever you’re serving, honey.”
I take a subtle step back as I offer the tray, trying to escape his grip. His hand drops away but he moves with me and, before I know it, I’m backed up against the wall between the bar and the exit doors. I’m just over five feet tall — the fugly black flats on my feet aren’t doing me any favors — so while his girth is nearly wide enough to surpass his diminutive height, I still feel dwarfed by his presence. I hold the tray between us like a shield.
He takes a step closer. “What’s a girl like you doing working at an event like this, sweetheart? You’re much too pretty to be a waitress.”
I swallow and try not to lose my shit. I’ve eaten men like him for breakfast. If I weren’t determined to stay below the radar, he’d currently be on the ground cradling his family jewels.
“Dinner service is scheduled to start in just a few moments, sir.” My voice is colder than ice. “If you’d like a final appetizer before—”
“You must be an actress.” He cuts me off as his eyes scan me again from top to toe, like I’m wearing lingerie instead of one of the set costumes from the show Party Down. He leans a little closer. “Or a model, though you’re a tiny little thing, aren’t you? Too short for runways.”
My fingers curl around the edge of the tray. Screw it. He takes one more step toward me and he’ll find one of these lukewarm edamame balls shoved so far down his throat, he won’t be able to eat solid foods for a week.
“Sir, if you’d like an edamame ball—”
His mouth twitches into a lewd half-smile. “Ah, don’t be like that.” He presses so close, I can feel his breath against my face — sour and smelling strongly of bourbon. “Come on, sweetheart, give me a smile—”
Before he can get the words out, a body slams into his with the force of a linebacker performing a tackle. My back presses tight to the wall and my eyes widen as I watch the blur of pinstripe jostle sideways and stumble off balance. I’m almost positive the creep is about to be sent sprawling on his ass but, at the last moment, a large hand clamps onto his shoulder and steadies him with what seems like very little effort.
“Whoa, there, Sanders.” An amused male voice rumbles from my left. “Watch your step.”
My eyes dart to the man who’s just interrupted Pinstripe’s lechery, and I feel the air constrict in my lungs as I take in his features.
It’s an undeniably attractive face….
And, worse, one I recognize.
Parker West.
2
The Mission
We’ve never met in person, of course, but I’d know him anywhere. His picture appears several times a month in the society pages, always with some bimbo or another hanging on his arm like Spanish moss — decorative, but ultimately lacking in substance and purpose. Funnily enough, Parker doesn’t seem to mind that his wafer-thin dates’ weights are higher than their IQ points.
He’s a notorious womanizer. Which should bother me.
I know it should bother me.
But…
Damn.
A bolt of electricity shoots straight between my legs as I take him in. He’s sex and sin in a tanned, muscular package, and that’s just the start of it.
He towers over me — at least six two, maybe taller. Again — damn. I’ve always had a thing for tall boys. His nose is straight, aristocratic, the type of feature that speaks to a long line of good genes. His light brown hair is sun-streaked with gold, as if he spends more time outside than in, and slightly tousled, as though running a comb through it for a formal dinner party was simply too much effort. I instantly want to slide my fingers into the thick waves, to messy it further.
Oh, boy.
His whole look — from his tailored Hugo Boss suit to his crisp black tie to his messy-on-purpose hair to his half-hooded bedroom eyes — works on an elemental level. Judging by the way he carries himself, he’s fully aware of it, too.
Zoe, you hate pretty boys, I remind myself. Remember?
For some reason, it’s hard to hold onto that thought as I look directly into his hazel-gold eyes, which are currently fixed on my face with an alarming amount of curiosity in their depths. He’s staring at me like I’m a question he wants very much to answer.
I gulp.