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Ava put me in her black dress, short even on me though she’s much taller. She lined my eyes with dark kohl, insisted I wear my hair down, wild and curly. It’ll drive him wild, she’d said.
Damian’s twenty-eight years old, a fan of the Denver Broncos to the point of holding season tickets, is trained in martial arts, and plays rugby. Tall, dark, and handsome, typical of the brothers that hail from the Greek bloodlines that run through the family.
Damian’s breathtaking photo couldn’t prepare me for getting sucked into those striking green eyes in person.
Heat radiates off my body from having had his massive, rock-hard frame rubbing up against me, knowing what kinds of things men like him like to do to women like me in the bedroom. I should leave the club, follow him. See if I can get him to show me any further interest.
And if he does, how far will I go in the name of research?
Time to cool off. I need fresh air. I follow him, going out the door he exited. I step out onto the street. It’s a crowded Saturday night, despite the cold. The streets are packed. I feel as if I’m scanning the sidewalk in vain.
The cold pierces my thin dress, almost persuading me to turn back, but a bit of determination comes with the frosty feeling, and I make my way further into the crowd.
There!
I danced one song with the man and I could spot the back of that gorgeous head of short dark hair anywhere. Right now, he’s running one of his big, strong hands along the back of his neck and I’m watching so closely I can almost feel that hand back on my waist, the music thrumming through my veins.
I’m a terrible dancer but I don’t care, I love to move. Dancing with him and Ava, I felt as close to sexy as I ever will. I’ll ask him for another dance, start some awkward flirting, ask some innocent questions, and see if I can get some info.
Or a date.
Mike’s instructions repeat in my mind. Caution. Discretion. Stick together. These men are dangerous. I know what I must do. I stride across the sidewalk, ignoring the cold. I try to look seductive with every step I take in case he turns around.
I’m about a foot from him.
I stop.
How do I get him to turn around and face me? Hand on his shoulder? Say, hey, stranger? A classic Ava movie but too bold for Lindy. I rally up my inner-Ava, raising my voice so he’ll hear me over the din of the city.
Without touching him, I call, “Hey, you. How about another dance?”
As I’m speaking, a phone rings. It’s his; he pulls it from his pocket, bringing it to his ear. He’s either not heard me or is ignoring me.
His back is still to me as he takes the call.
“Hey. Yeah. I can talk,” he says, worry in his tone.
He’s not heard me. Deep in his conversation, he starts to walk away. He’s a fast walker, those muscular legs taking impossibly long strides.
He’s getting away.
My coat and Ava are back at Gotcha’s. No need to rush the mission, Mike would say. Stay safe and stay in pairs.
I should go back to the club.
But the target is now almost out of sight.
Do I go back?
And risk losing him?
Once he’s behind the gray stone walls of the brownstone buildings where the family houses their business, and dips into that black gate that leads to the Village, who knows when he’ll come out again.
Something in me snaps.
I have something to prove. To myself, to Patrick. That I’m a real investigative journalist.
I’m not going back.
