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Behind us, soft lighting floods the stairway. Shiny shoes appear, and seconds later, the suited man they belong to comes into view. He has a stack of files tucked under his arm and makes a beeline for the arrogant asshole beside me. I watch in the bar mirror as he mutters something in his ear, slides the folders in front of him, and waits. A curt nod from my former mark seems to be his permission to leave.
So, he’s a businessman. An important one at that, judging by the amount of paperwork piled up in front of him on a Thursday evening, and the fact that he’s spent at least two-hundred dollars on liquor. He opens the first file, scans the document, and draws a pen from his breast pocket.
For some reason, the way he drags his thumb over the tip of his tongue before turning the page makes my blood half a degree hotter.
Christ. My heart may be stone cold, but I’m still a woman, I guess. I clear my throat in an attempt to regain semblance and notice his shoulders tighten.
He meets my eyes in the mirrored wall, as if he knew exactly where to find them.
“How much?”
“I—what?”
“How much?” he repeats calmly. My blank stare makes a muscle clench in his jawline. “For you to go away. How much do I have to pay you?”
There’s that annoyance again, gnawing at my chest. This time, I’m not just pissed at his dismissal, but at myself, too. Grifting is the only thing I’m good at.
I’m a little bit of talent and a whole lot of luck. Hell, I used to say I could swindle a man blindfolded. Probably handcuffed, too. And yet…
And yet, since the moment I stepped up to this bar, I’ve been out-of-sorts. Maybe I’m still shook-up from what happened in Atlantic City. Or maybe it’s because my mark is good-looking and reeks of indifference.
But so what? I’ve dealt with worse. This is my last ever grift, and I’ll be damned if I go out with a choke and a whimper.
With a quiet sigh, the man tugs out a money clip, snaps off a few bills, and tosses them between us on the bar.
“That’ll cover the drink you choked on.” He goes back to his document. I watch his pen scrawl a long, complicated signature with perfect precision.
“Plus VAT?”
He pauses, fighting the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Maybe it’s the shadows and lack of sleep playing tricks on me, but I swear I see a pair of dimples. Without looking up, he tugs out another hundred and tosses it onto the pile.
I stare down at Franklin’s judgmental gaze and swallow. “Plus tip?”
This time, the man’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing. Instead, he pulls out another bill and slams it against the bar. The dull thud is louder than I was expecting, and it echoes behind my rib cage.
Silence. It’s peppered with sultry jazz and the sound of a pen scratching paper.
“You’re still here,” he eventually muses. “Why is that?” He casts one folder aside and opens another. There’s that thumb lick again, and I have no idea why it makes my vision jolt like that.
I swallow the lump wedged in my windpipe, slide off the stool, and close the distance between us, coming to a stop in the tiny gap between him and the bar. The cold surface kisses my bare back as I press against it, a stark contrast to the heat radiating off his body.
He stills. Nostrils flaring, he reluctantly matches my stare with one of his own. Any trace of humor is long gone. Now, it’s a calm green sea, and I can’t shake the uneasy feeling there’s a strong, dangerous current running underneath its surface.
I wonder how many women he’s tricked into diving in.
“I don’t want your money,” I say, trying—and failing—to match his indifference. His narrowed gaze drops to my hand, following it as I slide it across the bar’s surface toward his wrist. “I want your watch.”
My fingertip brushes over the leather strap, and a spark of excitement ignites in my lower stomach.
Against all odds, we’ve reached Act Two: The Proposition.
“You want my watch,” he repeats sardonically, as if saying my own words back to me will make me realize how stupid they sound. But I don’t relent. Sure, I could take the few hundred-dollar bills on the bar, pay off my tab and run, but where is the fun in that? I set my eyes on that Breitling before I saw who it belonged to, and I’m not leaving without it.
Time to double down.
As I turn to face his left hand resting on the bar, the fabric of his jacket grazes against my bare shoulder, making my skin crackle like static. I force myself to ignore it, honing in on his watch.
Jesus. Heat creeps up my neck and floods my face. His hand looks even bigger up close. Wide wrist, smooth, tan skin, and a sprinkle of dark hair poking out from underneath the watch strap. Thick fingers grip his pen so tightly that, briefly, I wonder if his cool, unbothered demeanor is an act, and he’s actually planning on sticking that Mont Blanc in my neck.
