Her face pinches up. “I hate rum.”
I know. That’s the beauty of doing my own recon. All those trivial, seemingly useless bits of information can come in handy. “Then I guess it’s a good thing this drink isn’t yours,” I say through a smile and a sip.
She hands me her empty glass and then struts back to her spot, the little game she’s playing with me becoming all the more obvious.
That’s fine. I’ll play, happily. As long as she doesn’t stoop to pitting me against any of these assholes in here, because I don’t do well in those kinds of situations and, frankly, I’d be extremely disappointed in her.
Just in case, I do a quick scan of my “competition”—most of them Silicon Valley–type geeks, smart entrepreneurs who will probably make a ton of money and will use that to land themselves a hot wife.
The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly spike.
Someone’s watching me. I’m surprised my senses picked up on that, with all the distractions in here.
It’s not Ivy.
It’s not the horny cougars to my left.
It’s the guy to my right, whom I noticed standing on the other side earlier. He has shifted closer now. I keep sipping my drink, using the reflection in a mirror on a nearby wall to watch him alternate his attention between Ivy and me.
Wondering who I am, if we’re together, if she’s working for me maybe . . .
My gut says it’s all that and something else.
He’s military, even though there’s nothing about his outward appearance that would label him as that to an unsuspecting person. His dark cropped hair is gelled back, his black pants and black button-down and suit jacket stylish. Plenty of room to hide a piece under there, if he wanted to. Then again, my Beretta’s strapped to my ankle. It’s not hard to hide anything anywhere if you want.
But I know he’s military because of the way he moves, how he blends into the background.
And his shiny black boots. Even in the poor lighting, the gleam from the polish is impossible to miss, and it triggers something that Ivy said. Something that could be a complete coincidence, and yet I can’t ignore. Listening to my gut has saved my ass more times than I can count.
I continue my covert appraisal of the guy through four more painful songs, while Ivy dances and pretends to ignore me. Aside from the occasional typing into his phone, he does nothing but watch both of us. And the more he does that, the more I know this isn’t just someone looking to pick up a hot chick for the night.
This has to be one of Bentley’s Alliance guys.
Why the fuck is he here?
He has a drink in hand, so he’ll need to use the restroom soon. He’s a guy, it’s inevitable. Hell, I already need to piss, too. I could follow him in, corner him, get him to talk. It’ll be loud and crowded in . . .
“What’s going on with you?”
I start, surprised. At some point, I stopped watching Ivy completely and she snuck up on me. No one should be able to sneak up on me. This is why I hate clubs. I’m not at my best in here.
I push aside thoughts of the guy for now and focus on her, on the thin sheen of sweat that makes her cheeks glow and the swell of her breasts—pushed up in a top made to look like a corset—glisten. “Nothing. Why?”
“You looked like a fucking statue just now. It was weird.”
“I’m sorry. Something distracted me. I’m fine.” But I’m not fine, because that guy is still there watching, and I’ve reached my sanity maximum of strobe lights and head-splitting music.
She follows my gaze, though she’s not noticing the mirrors, with the reflection of him. She’s zeroing in on two college blondes with shorts that barely cover their asses, and her eyes narrow.
“That’s not what distracted me,” I scold.
“How do you even know what—”
I loop my arm around her tiny waist and pull her into my good side, holding her tight. “Can we please get out of here?”