I’m trying to convince myself that maybe the target’s a grade-A jerk who had it coming. That’ll make it easier, right?
To anyone here, I’m just another gal nursing a drink, either because my date’s a no-show or I’m unfashionably punctual.
But they don’t know about the pair of eyes tracking me from across the lounge. Deano, the Don Corleone wannabe. I feel his gaze like it’s licking my spine, sending horrific shivers up and down.
Tick tock.
I can’t hear the diamond-encrusted clock on the wall, but I swear it’s ticking in sync with my pounding heartbeat. How many times have I snapped my head around to check it, then the door, then back at my drink? A zillion. I must look deranged.
That minute hand just keeps moving, relentless. Deano’s mark is late. Apparently, I have sixty minutes once he shows up. Deano seems to have a lot of misplaced faith in my powers of seduction. This entire plan is ludicrous.
I shift uncomfortably on my stool. The bartender catches my eye, lifting a brow. “Another round?”
“I’m good, thanks!” I chirp, taking another tiny sip.
He eyes me a bit too long, especially around the chest area. “Just holler if you change your mind . . .”
Oh, I will, right after I win the lottery. Or get out of prison.
Is anyone else here feeling this crushing weight? I’m surrounded by rich people, all fancy and carefree, clinking glasses to the sound of jazz. And here I am, drowning in anxiety, screaming like a banshee yet somehow producing no sound.
Tick tock. The guy’s a no-show. Thanks for nothing, clock.
That pesky strap slips off my shoulder and I fix it quickly. But not before some lecherous old man ogles me with a sleazy grin.
Jesus, is this our guy? Still no text from Deano.
A wardrobe malfunction witnessed by Grandpa Perv is the last thing I need. I sneak another peek back, praying I imagined it.
But nope—there he still is, eye-fucking me hard. A relic easily pushing seventy. Seriously? Men need to stop guzzling the lies about improving with age.
With equal parts horror and depraved fascination, I’m unable to look away as he locks eyes and fellates that olive in the most vulgar display imaginable.
Well, that’s an image seared into my brain forever.
I avert my gaze, trying to compose myself. I’m not sure if I want Olivesucker to be the guy.
Tick. Fucking. Tock.
To my right, a couple is deep in a heated debate about whether to buy or lease a beach house in the Hamptons. Must be nice to have those kinds of problems. I stifle an eye roll and sip my drink. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m an inverted snob.
From behind me, a girl half whispers, half squeals, “Oh my god, guess who just showed up? I knew he’d come.”
My heart skips, but I don’t dare turn around. Still no word from Deano.
“Are you serious?” her friend breathes. “Okay, here’s the plan—we’ll create a ‘spontaneous’ run-in where I fake trip and land face-first on his crotch as an icebreaker.”
Giggles dissolve behind me as I casually scope out the bar, my radar on full alert.
Fucking hell, it’s Connor Quinn across the bar. The youngest of those notorious Quinn brothers. Supposedly one of the richest men in the country, with so many hotels the Trade Commission is investigating monopoly practices.
Damn, what a face. I’m temporarily distracted from my horrific plan.
That jawline, rough with just the right amount of stubble; chiseled cheekbones and piercing blue eyes that could make even the toughest women swoon—check, check, check.
You just know he devours girls like me for breakfast, then wipes his mouth and goes back for seconds and thirds with a cocky smirk.
He prowls through like he owns the place. Which he does. Wearing faded jeans and a tight tee clinging to his muscular physique, he stands out from the tailored suits. Guess when you own the place you can break the rules.
