Okay, maybe they aren’t, but I can’t really rationalize that. Because I feel their eyes again. A pair or maybe two.
And they’re watching me. Closely. Intently. As if they can rip open my façade and peek inside the shell I’ve surrounded myself with.
“Macallan, neat.”
My fingers tighten around the martini, then I empty half of it in one go. That deep, low voice with the calm undertone is the reason I feel the watchful eyes. I can sense it deep in my heart that’s never steered me wrong.
Is it one of the bodyguards I overlooked in my plan? No, that’s not possible. They think I’m sick and sleeping in my room so no one will disturb me until the morning.
Using my hair as a curtain, I tilt my head to the side to get a better look. I try not to be obvious about it, try to pretend my legs aren’t shaking and my flight mode isn’t kicking me to move my butt and bolt out of here.
The man who’s sitting beside me has a presence as deep as his voice. There’s an unnerving quality to him, even though he’s just sitting there.
His physical appearance has something to do with it. He’s handsome, shockingly so. Unfairly so. Probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen—and that includes actors and super models. He has the type of physical perfection that makes you stop and stare.
As if that’s not enough, he’s tall, his legs look long even when sitting, and his shoulders are so broad that the jacket of his Armani suit molds to his developed muscles.
Muscles that could easily overpower me if he chooses to. I shouldn’t be thinking about that option. Hell, I should be apprehensive about it, considering all the men in my life, but I can’t overlook the fact that this particular man could and would overpower me in a heartbeat.
A sudden flush of heat coats my thighs and I have to clench them together to chase away the sensation. I need to focus on something else, anything but the liquid fire that I shouldn’t be feeling.
But I’m slammed with something worse.
His face.
It’s a force that hits you out of nowhere. There’s a hardness in it, a zing of electricity that’s about to electrocute whoever is near.
A volcano that’s on the verge of erupting.
I’ve never found male beauty to be dangerous, and that’s saying something considering who I am and whom I encounter on a daily basis.
But his is different. It’s not supposed to be dangerous, I realize. His beauty isn’t there to teach a lesson or bash someone’s head in. He’s wearing a designer suit and is drinking Macallan for God’s sake, which means he’s some sort of a businessman. His thick Swiss watch that’s strapped around his wrist must’ve cost a small fortune. It’s luxurious.
He is luxurious. And not in a dangerous way like all the men in my life.
Instead, it’s in a powerful, neat way. Like his whiskey. So why is there danger emanating from him?
His hair is light, but not as light as my platinum blonde that’s almost white. His is somewhat chestnut, somewhat sandy, and it’s styled, which showcases his forehead and killer cheekbones. He has a straight nose and a square jaw that gives him a sharp type of masculinity.
Then I find it.
The reason I associated him with the people from my life.
It’s his eyes.
They’re greenish with a golden ring, or maybe they’re hazel and the lack of light is making me see otherwise. Either way, those eyes are too intense for someone who should be nothing more than a businessman.
There’s a fire in them.
A lulling element that appears dormant but could combust at any second. A current that’s building in the background. A predator who’s watching from the sidelines, waiting for the right moment to strike.
And they’re staring right back at me.
Shit.
I quickly drag my gaze back to my martini and finish it off. When I spot Simon close by, I blurt, “Vodka, neat. Make it a double. Actually, a triple.”
The last part is whispered, as if I’m ashamed of my drinking habits. And maybe I am a little. I started the night with sophistication and martinis, but now, I just want my vodka, because something alien happened to me just now.
I made extended eye contact with a stranger. A stranger. What the fuck?
Maybe I need to run now.
Maybe I need to disappear without carrying out this stupid part of my plan.
What was I thinking anyway? Me, a one-night stand? I must’ve overestimated my abilities.
Simon flashes me a small smile before he goes to get me the drink. When he hands it to me, I finish half of it, then stare intently at the other half.
Mainly to stop myself from stealing peeks at the stranger next to me who’s leisurely sipping from his own drink. His movements are smooth, too smooth, like a lion who’s lounging on his throne while watching the peasants.
“You can watch. I don’t mind.”
British. The accent that’s spoken near my ear is sinfully British, and now, I’m about to choke on my spit because no one has ever been this close to me aside from my family.
No one.
But instead of bolting, I freeze. Or, more like, I’m frozen by the sudden attack. Logically, I realize this isn’t in fact an attack and that I’m exaggerating, but my brain doesn’t recognize that. It’s trapped in a static state and all I can do is slowly lift my head.
I’m not ready for how impossibly close he is, how those eyes are shining, more inwardly than outwardly. And why is he so close, again? Or maybe I’m imagining it because my heartbeat is throbbing in my throat. “Excuse me?”
“I said you can watch, beautiful. I’m better to look at than your drink.”
Arrogant. Okay. One point to deduct from the perfect score.
Though he really shouldn’t have called me beautiful with that illegal accent of his. It might have added a few more points that even I don’t approve of.
“I happen to love my vodka, but thanks for the offer.” I sound confident and in my element, when I am, in fact, shaken to the bones by his presence.
His infuriately attractive presence.
The bottom of my belly contracts in short intervals, and I’m going to bet it’s not due to the alcohol.
“Does that mean I have to compete with your drink?” There’s a unique quality to the way he speaks, a bit amused, a bit flirtatious, and so assertive, I hate him a little for it.
Why do some people get to play the social game so well while others, like me, can barely get words out?
“Why would you?”
“Why do you think? For your attention.” His voice drops at the end and so does my stomach. The sensation is so novel that I can’t fathom it.
My neck and cheeks heat and the butterfly pendant feels like lava on my skin. “You want my attention?”
“Amongst other things.”
“Like?”
He takes a sip of his whiskey, but his intense eyes haven’t left mine long after his Adam’s apple bobs with the swallow. I can’t help gulping the saliva gathered in my mouth as well, then taking a drink. Either the alcohol is loosening my nerves or there’s something wrong with me since I can’t stop staring at him.
At the way he seems confident in his own skin, unlike me, or the way he takes each action with a simmering control that I feel but can’t see.
After he’s finished, the British stranger places his elbow on the bar, which allows him to get close. So close that I smell his cologne. A mixture of lime, clean laundry and male musk. It’s not strong, but it’s as lulling as his presence, trapping me in the confinements of its walls.