Her head snaps up. “No, ma’am.”
She’s all professional polish. Neat uniform, tasteful makeup, blond hair twisted into a chignon, though some strands have escaped. Her makeup, or what’s left of it, is tastefully done, giving her that girl-next-door look.
“I wasn’t flirting,” she blurts. “I swear.”
Anger tightens in my gut. Why is the first instinct always to blame ourselves?
“Who was it?” I press.
Both girls hesitate.
“The man who put his hands on you,” I clarify. “I need to know.”
It takes a minute of coaxing, but finally the blonde describes him—a creep holding court at the bar. I don’t hesitate.
Yes, I’m late getting back to Mr. Edmond. Yes, this is probably dumb. But letting this slide isn’t an option.
It doesn’t take me long to find the man the server described. White tuxedo. Smug grin. Half perched on a barstool, pawing at a woman in a red cocktail dress and flashing his watch like it’s some kind of mating call.
“You like what you see?”
Ew. I step up, flashing my brightest smile and thrusting my hand in his face. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Cybil Langford.”
His gaze bounces off Red Dress and lands on me. I don’t miss the relief that washes over her face before she slips away. He doesn’t seem as grateful for my interruption.
“Gee, that’s a nice watch.” I squint at it. “Is it a Casio?”
He looks genuinely scandalized. “Baby, it’s a Rolex.”
Baby.Kill me now.
“Wow. I bet it cost a lot.” I run my manicured nails lightly along his wrist. “Mind if I take a closer look?”
He grins. Then yelps when I twist his thumb back at a painful angle—a useful move my uncle taught me when I started dating. “Wh-what are you doing?” he stammers.
“Shh.” I lean in, sweet as poison. “We don’t want to make a scene.”
Around us, the crowd begins singing loudly with a familiar song. Perfect cover. He tries to squirm, but with the bar at his back, he’s stuck.
“Listen, John Revolta, when a woman tells you to back off,” I hiss, “you do it.” I push harder, until I feel the joint shift. Fear finally flares in his eyes. “Got it?” I whisper.
He nods, sweating. I start to release him—when he lurches and clamps onto my wrist, yanking me closer. “Who do you think you are?” he spits.
I smile, all teeth. “I already told you. Cybil Langford.”
He keeps my wrist low and tight, trying to make it look like an intimate conversation. Cute. Except now I’m thinking about how best to break his nose without splattering blood on my dress—
“Cybil.”
The deep voice behind me freezes us both.
Sebastian Edmond steps into view, cool and lethal. His presence causes the man to drop my wrist like it burns. Irritation flares in my chest that it’s Sebastian who scares the man, but he probably saved me from an assault charge.
“Mr. Edmond,” he croaks.
Sebastian doesn’t bother acknowledging the greeting. He signals to security with a flick of two fingers.
As security closes in, I rub my wrist. “I didn’t need your help.”
