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I raise a surprised brow but do exactly that, lowering and kicking a foot up on to the footrest. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a problem.”
“And you came to me?”
“The American, The Brit, and The Enigma. You work together, right?”
I don’t entertain her observations. “What’s the problem, Elsa Dove? I’m kinda busy.” I need to speak to Otto and somehow get him to run the dead dude’s face through the system without raising too many questions that I don’t want to answer until I actually have some answers. I also need him to see what he can get out of the empty, smashed phone.
“I fired the guy who runs my club.”
I look at Mason. “Des Stanton,” he prompts around a small smile, looking at Elsa.
Ah, that’s right. I remember James mentioning him at some point after he’d got trigger-happy at the Pink Flamingo. “This isn’t your HR department, Ms. Dove.”
She clears her throat, and I can see it so very fucking clearly. How much she hates asking for help. “Des was inviting some unsavory characters into my establishment.” Like The Leprechaun—now dead, courtesy of James. “He had to go. It’s not the kind of crowd I want to attract.” She leans into me, and I instinctively move back. “If you know what I mean.” Her eyes drop to my lips. “I need to ensure they stay out of my club.”
“So you came to me?”
“I can make it very worth your while.”
“Can you now?” I look up and down her expensive body as she sips some wine, eyes burning into mine. She’s obviously a pro at getting what she wants.
“I have information you might welcome.”
My ears prick, and I feel Mason nearby, interested too. “About what?”
She stands. “Mind if I use the restroom?”
Oh? So she’s aiming for delayed gratification, is she? Extending my anticipation? I silently motion the way and watch her strut off in her heels, her efforts to hold my attention on her ass quite commendable. And successful. It’s a nice ass. “What are you thinking?” I ask Mason.
“I’m thinking she clearly has the hots for you, stud.” Mason places another inch of Scotch down and I laugh, nodding to Anya when she looks down the bar to me. Good job. Always check.
“And we have another one,” Mason muses, nodding toward the door.
“What?”
“When did we become a hangout for thirty-something designer, preened, businesswomen?” Mason asks.
I look back again, my neck beginning to feel achy. “Oh fuck,” I breathe, watching as Allison, smiling seductively, breezes through my club.
“Hey,” she sings, coming straight in for a kiss. I naturally freeze. There are a few things wrong right now. One, she said to call her. I haven’t. Two, I’ve not told her what club I own. Just a bar owner. Minimal information. So, she’s been doing a bit of digging.
“I thought I was calling you,” I say, stoic, as she puts herself on Elsa’s stool. She doesn’t notice the half-drunk glass of wine with red lipstick on the rim.
“Well, I was passing, so thought I’d drop in and catch you.”
“I didn’t tell you I was here,” I say. “Or where here is.”
Her cheeks fill with color. I can’t say I take any pleasure from calling her out. She’s an all right woman. All right in bed. There’s not much pillow talk, if any. And now—stupid me—because I’ve taken her back to the house, we’re serious?
Allison laughs. “Yeah, you did.”
“No,” I reply quickly, shaking my head. “I didn’t.”
I glance past Allison when Elsa Dove appears, looking as indignant as fuck. “Excuse me, that’s my seat.”
I inhale deeply, bracing myself, as Allison looks over her shoulder to Elsa. Both women look each other up and down, and both appear completely offended. “And you are?” Allison asks.
