She leaned in, her eyes narrowing. “I need to know where he isnow.”
Markos returned her stare, his jaw tightening. “Why?”
She paused for a fraction of a second before she responded. “He’s—It’s important.”
A chill slid over his skin.
He opened his mouth—half a second from asking—when motion flared in the corner of his eye.
“Sir!” Two of his men appeared, their eyes locked on the woman beside him. Confusion twisted their features as they paused, uncertain. “We’re so sorry—we didn’t see her enter.”
“It’s—” Markos began before the words died on his lips.
The woman had lifted her hand. A confident gesture. Almost regal. And he watched with growing alarm as both men stopped, wavered, then—without a word—turned in unison and drifted like sleepwalkers to the empty booth beside them.
Markos twisted in his seat, stunned, as the two highly trained guards collapsed onto the bench seat before they rested their heads on the table like children put down for a nap.
His eyes snapped back to the woman.
Her hand lowered, but her gaze remained locked on him, sharp as a blade and twice as cold.
“Where is Nikos?” she asked, her voice low, urgent.
Markos stared, his pulse beginning to pound.
This was no normal woman.
He sat forward slightly, his hands on the table—not threatening, but not retreating either.
“Who are you?” he asked tightly. “And what the hell did you just do to my men?”
“I need to find him.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t have time for this,” she snapped impatiently.
Her nostrils flared as she wrapped slender fingers around his wrist with surprising force.
A jolt of electricity shot straight up his arm.
Markos jerked, but she held firm. Not forcefully, just… unwavering.
His gaze dropped to her hand. Her fingers were wrapped around his arm like she was holding onto a live wire. Then his eyes rose slowly to her face.
And for a moment… he couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
She was beautiful. Nothing like the twins or the other polished socialites who cluttered his world. There was something more exotic about her. There was a raw, almost ethereal, appeal to her.
Loose black curls framed her face, one tendril curling under her jaw. Her almond-shaped eyes were darker, focused, and glittered with something deeper than anger.
Fear. Maybe grief. Definitelyregret.
Her nose was pert, a faint dusting of freckles dancing across the bridge. Her lips were soft, pink, and parted as if she was about to speak—but didn’t.
He sat frozen. Staring.
