Fairchild intuited that she was now expected to taste it. She knocked it back in one, and felt the warmth of the alcohol pervading her system, easing some of the tension she’d been feeling.
As for the taste, it tasted like… wine.
Why wasshethe one who had to make a decision about this? Dutton was the culinary expert of the bunch. Fairchild glanced across the table at the soft-spoken Merc, and he gave her a subtle nod.
“Very nice,” she said, aiming for an authoritative tone. “It’ll do.”
The waitress filled her glass, then sauntered around the table filling each of the males’ glasses in turn. The woman made a big production of leaning over to show off her ample chest, and Fairchild felt a twinge of jealousy, but the emotion was short-lived. Something else had caught her attention.
A large entourage was making its way across the restaurant, winding in and out between the tables and the stages with their writhing performers. Fairchild noticed the guards first. Half a dozen of them. Big, suited men like the ones she had seen outside the hotel earlier. She didn’t need Dutton’s specs to know they were packing heat beneath the jackets.
Then she saw the man at the center.
He looked exactly like the pics in his dossier. Same tanned skin. Same immaculate coif of black hair. Same contemptuous sneer. He was a full head shorter than the guards who surrounded him, yet there was an aura of authority about him that left no question as to who was in charge.
Slayn. Victor Slayn.
Fairchild’s heart strained inside her like a dog on a chain. It took every bit of self-restraint she could muster to keep from leaping out of her seat and rushing the bastard. His guards looked tough, and well-trained, but if she played it right, she could maneuver past them and break Slayn’s neck before they had a chance to gun her down.
A foot touched her own beneath the table. It was Reece. When she looked at him, she caught the message in his eyes.Easy, Fairchild. Not here. Not now.
He was right, of course. If she attacked now, it would put her whole team in danger. She didn’t particularly care about losing her own life, but it would be a breach of mercenary honor to endanger her teammates as well.
Besides, what had Dane taught her? Never pull the trigger til you’ve got a clean shot. She would wait until Slayn’s death was a certainty. Then, like a lioness, she would make her move.
Fairchild took a sip of her wine and carefully shifted her attention to the final member of Slayn’s little retinue—a hard, stone-faced woman with short, platinum-blonde hair. She was taller than most of Slayn’s male guards, and her muscular frame was wrapped in a tight, black bodyglove. Whether she was there for pleasure or protection, Fairchild couldn’t say, but she had a feeling it was both.
After all, she’d been told Slayn had a type.
Slayn took a seat at his reserved table. The blonde sat beside him. The other men sat too, but they were obviously not there to enjoy themselves. Their eyes were continually scanning the restaurant around them. Fairchild was careful not to meet their gazes, but she continued to watch from the corner of her eye.
Slayn called a waitress over and gestured to one of the female performers on a nearby stage. The waitress relayed the message, and the performer immediately stopped what she was doing. She leapt down from the stage and went directly to Slayn’s table. She did not, however, take a seat. Instead, she crawled under the tablecloth. A moment later, a pleasant smile spread across Slayn’s face. The big blonde stroked his shoulder and watched his lap with apparent enjoyment.
Well then.
Fairchild took another sip of wine.
A movement from the other side suddenly grabbed her attention. Someone was approaching her table. A man, smalland slight, in a somewhat disheveled tuxedo. He didn’t look like much of a threat, but that didn’t mean anything. Fairchild played it cool, but on the inside, she was ready to move at a moment’s notice. She could sense that her three teammates were doing the same.
The man propped himself against the table and smiled. “Evening,” he said, his breath boozy enough to singe her eyelashes. He seemed not even to notice the three big men she was sitting with.
“Good evening to you too,” Fairchild replied, keeping her tone cool but not icy.
“I saw you sitting over here,” the man said, “and I just had to come say hello. You’re the most delicious-looking morsel I’ve ever seen.”
Fairchild was surprised he could see anything at all, considering how unfocused his eyes seemed to be.
She noticed Reece starting to tense. Now it was her turn to send him a silent message. A soft brush of her foot against his shin.Chill.
He chilled. Slightly.
“Thank you,” she said to the stranger, smiling just enough to be polite without leading him on. Unfortunately, he was in no state to pick up on such nuances. His grin widened.
“Perhaps after you’ve finished your meal, you’d like to join me up in my suite.” He swept his gaze around the table, acknowledging the men for the first time. “Your, ah,friendsare more than welcome to come and watch.”
Fairchild managed to keep her disgust off her face. At least she thought she did. Even Reece and Dutton managed to keep their tempers under control.
The problem, as usual, was Nash.
