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“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.
Heis 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. Astranger. What the fuck?
Maybe I need to run now.
