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One
Cole
Nursing the subpar scotch I already regretted ordering, I watched my target attempt to ward off yet another sleazy would-be suitor from her spot at the bar. Not for the first time, I wondered what she was doing here of all places. This wasn’t a place meant for sweet, soft women. It was meant for hard men, cold men, the kind of men women like her crossed the street to avoid.
Men like me.
It was almost a shame she worked for Giorgio. Under different circumstances, I would have enjoyed keeping her tied to my bed for a few days, completely at my mercy, before we went our separate ways. Business trips were always more enjoyable with some… company.
She was a stunner with her dark hair cascading in a sleek waterfall over one shoulder, leaving the other bare courtesy of the short, strapless dress she’d poured her slight curves into. When she sipped her whiskey, the red she’d painted on her thick, full lips left a stain on the glass. An image of those lips wrapped around my cock, her huge emerald eyes staring up at me popped into my head, forcing me to shift uncomfortably in my chair. Tipping back the remainder of my drink, I left my table and headed for the bar, unapologetically pushing between her and her pursuer.
“Excusez-moi,” the man growled between clenched teeth.
“Vous êtes excusé,” I responded, dismissing him with a thoroughly American comeback I wasn’t sure he’d understand.
But apparently my sarcastic “You are excused” translated to French just fine, though he didn’t seem to appreciate my wit. Standing, he let loose a string of words I couldn’t quite catch with my limited grasp of his native tongue, but the challenge in his body language was enough. Bring it on, bastard. It had been a while since I’d been in a bar brawl, but I hadn’t been raised to back down from a fight. If it hadn’t been for the woman behind me, he’d already be kissing the filthy hardwood floor.
“That’s the extent of my French, my friend,” I lied. I could speak and understand a bit more, but he wasn’t worth the time or energy I’d have to put into translating.
The bartender sauntered over, a hard glint in his eyes as he tossed out a few words that agitated the man further. Apparently deciding he’d had enough, he slammed his glass on the bar before storming out, still muttering what I assumed were curses strong enough to make a sailor blush. Turning back to my target, I flashed a smile and slid onto the recently vacated stool beside her.
“Thank you.” Her voice was deeper than I’d expected, and her accent gave the flawless English a rounder, more guttural sound than one might hear from a native speaker.
“You’re welcome.” Lifting my tumbler, I nodded at the bartender for a refill before turning back to her. “He didn’t seem to be getting the picture.”
“Most of them do not,” she confirmed in a dry tone tinged with the resigned amusement of a woman who had experienced more than her fair share of unwanted advances.
With the refilled glass hovering near my lips, I studied her profile over the rim as she lifted her own tumbler with steady hands. She didn’t seem the least bit flustered by the confrontation. Perhaps I’d underestimated the little maid.
Deciding to push my luck, I took a slow sip of my scotch and let my gaze roam over the bare skin of her shoulder, the curve of her neck. It wasn’t entirely an act to show interest when all I could focus on was what she might look like under that damn dress. “I can’t say I blame him.”
Finally turning on the stool to face me, she crossed one leg over the other and took another drink, her green eyes boldly meeting mine. “Is that so?”
Oh, yeah. I’d definitely underestimated this one. A familiar thrill pumped through my veins and sizzled across my skin. “Yeah.” I let the corner of my lip lift in a smirk. “That’s so.”
“Hmmm.” She mirrored my expression and added a bold sweep of her gaze down to my shoes and back up. “American, yes?”
“That obvious, huh?”
“Between the accent and the arrogance, oui.”
If the insult hadn’t been delivered with a teasing smile that made my cock ache, I might have been offended. “How about you? Are you local?” I asked, shifting on my stool in hopes of relieving some of the pressure.
“Yes. Unfortunately, I have not spent too much time outside of France.” A sullen look crossed her face for a moment before she masked it with another smile. “It is not easy to travel on a maid’s salary.”
“A maid?” Show interest, draw them in, get them talking about themselves. Lessons I’d learned from my family on how to get the information I needed from a mark.
“Excusez-moi,” she said, her voice as strained as the apologetic smile she sent my way. She turned, too quickly, spilling her drink with her elbow. Eyes wide and a little wild, she jumped off the stool as the drink splashed over the side of the bar, landing on her dress. “Oh no! My apologies.”
“No problem.” Moving cautiously so I wouldn’t spook her even further, I slid off my own stool before the sticky liquid hit my clothing as well.
Another apologetic smile. “I need to go clean up. I am very sorry; I am not usually so clumsy.”
“Not a problem. Go get cleaned up, I’ll be here.”
The barkeep hurried over with a towel to sop up the mess, catching her attention long enough for me to gently slide the small purse from her shoulder as she hurried toward the bathrooms. The clingy material of her dress lovingly hugged an ass made for worshiping.
It really was a shame I’d have to kill her when the job was done.
