Page 26 of Mile High Heist

A low chuckle beside me interrupted my thoughts. Frowning, I glanced to my left. A bemused man in a dark green suit lifted his drink to me in salute. He was a sophisticated prick, his dark hair combed back, not a shadow of facial hair on his sharp face. I put him somewhere in his late thirties. His eyes were dark, almost black.

I faced forward, intent on ignoring him.

“Must be difficult having so many fans,” the man said, amused.

How long had this dude been watching me? Obviously long enough to have witnessed Martha practically give me a lap dance.

I rolled my neck and reached for my glass. “Somehow, I manage.”

I wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Apparently, I hid my feelings too fucking well, because no one got the hint.

When the bartender went to top up my glass, I stopped him with a harsh: “Whiskey. Good shit.”

I reached into my pocket for my counterfeit credit card. Preacher had put a limit on it, and I was petty enough to spend every dollar.

But just as I went to swipe it, a pale hand snapped out and swiped a thick black card across the machine.

“On me,” the man said, sliding into the stool beside me.

I shot him a suspicious look. “Don’t tell me you’re also a fan.”

“I could be,” he said, slipping the card back into his suit pocket. “If I was, what exactly would I be a fan of?”

Was this guy flirting with me?

Jesus, I couldn’t catch a fucking break.

I wasn’t into dudes. Hard nope.

Except, well, maybe there was one dude, but he could hardly be considered a normal dude. He was something else. A whole league of his own.

“My restraint,” I said, bringing the glass to my lips and taking a huge gulp. “I’d say that’s pretty impressive right now.”

The burn scorched down my throat and settled in my chest. Just the way I liked it.

The man smiled. When he reached for his drink, I noticed the hint of ink on his wrist, hidden beneath his cuff. I did a double take. He didn’t strike me as the sort to hit up the local tattoo parlor.

Catching my eye, he chuckled. There was something unsettling about it.

“Ask me why I’m laughing,” he said, resting his elbow on the bar and facing me.

“Because I’m such a riot?” My fingers tightened around my glass.

His eyes flicked down, catching it.

“Restraint,” he mused. “I would’ve assumed it was the opposite. What is that famous American idiom? Shoot first, ask questions later?”

I didn’t bother masking my disbelief. Was this guy for real?

“You a lawyer?” I asked him. He sure as shit had the arrogance of one.

“Are you?” he asked mildly, like he didn’t care either way.

“Sure.”

He nodded with another slow creeping smile. His eyes never strayed from my face. It reminded me of Madoc, who saw everything, who knew me better than I knew myself.

I hated being so exposed.