This guy’s got to be in his forties at least. Old enough to know better than to look at me like that. Old enough that I should know better than to like it.
I can practically taste the mystery rolling off him in waves.
I’ve had my share of admirers, sure. Being a singer in a jazz club, you get used to the attention. But I’ve never been one to mix business with pleasure. Music has always been enough—that and staying inconspicuous, staying safe, staying one step ahead of whoever might still be looking for Sara Mitchell.
But this man... he’s different. His gaze holds mine as I continue to sing, and I feel exposed, as if he can see past the stage persona I’ve carefully crafted. As if he can see through Saylor Mitchell straight to the frightened girl who chose her new name in a Greyhound bathroom stall with shaking hands.
I hold his stare as I continue to sing, my voice growing huskier with each verse. My fingers trail along the microphone stand suggestively. I’m performing for the whole room, but in this moment, it’s just for him.
As the song reaches its climax, I descend from the stage, weaving between tables like I do every night. The patrons reach out, trying to touch me, but I dodge their grasping hands with practiced ease. I’m heading straight for my mysterious observer.
I reach his table just as the final notes fade away. Up close, I can see the glint in his dark eyes, the slight curl of his lips that hints at cruelty. The lines edging his thick lashes that confirm what the suit suggested—he’s got at least twenty years on me.
I should care. I don’t.
I smile, a simple gesture that feels more genuine than any I’ve given in this club before. Then I turn and make my way back to the stage, my heart racing as I feel the intensity of his stare following my every move.
I return to the stage and finish my set, but my mind is elsewhere. As I belt out the final notes of my last song, I steal a glance in his direction. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t taken his focus off my face for a second.
The applause washes over me as I take my bow, but it’s all background noise. There’s a hum in my ear. The same hum I felt that night, minutes before they slit my father’s throat. The one that says danger is coming.
But this time, I don’t run.
After my final song, I head to the bar, deliberately passing close to his table. My throat is dry from singing, but that’s not the only reason I need a drink.
His gaze burns into me. I’m a match and he ignites the flame.
“Whiskey, neat,” I tell the bartender, my body buzzing from my performance and—
“Make that two,” a deep voice says from behind me. The sound is low and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. The voice of someone who’s lived long enough to know exactly what he wants.
I turn, coming face to face with the stranger. Up close, his eyes are even more mesmerizing—dark and cavernous. There’s a scar running underneath his right eye that makes me wonder what stories his body could tell. Yes, he’s older than me, but in the sexy mmmm... daddy way.
My father would have chased him off with a shotgun if he knew his little Sara was having the kind of dirty thoughts I’m having now.
I raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of my lips. It’s a façade, I know it, I just hope he doesn’t. “Buying a lady a drink? How quaint.”
He chuckles, but it doesn’t lighten the darkness and shadows that engulf him. “I assure you, there’s nothing quaint about my intentions.”
The bartender slides our drinks across the counter. I pick mine up, swirling the amber liquid before taking a sip. The whiskey burns pleasantly as it slides down my throat.
“And what exactly are your intentions?” I ask, my voice a purr. I don’t even sound like me, but my body and mind seem to be takingover, and I’ve lost all sense of control. Saylor is in charge now. Sara would have already run.
He leans in close, his breath hot against my ear. “To unravel you. To see what’s beneath the perfectly polished exterior.” His hand slides to the small of my back, pulling me closer. The heat of his touch sears through the thin fabric of my dress.
Who in the hell says things like this?
I should walk away. I should end the night now. I should...
I pull back slightly, meeting his gaze. My body constricts, but I try to remain cool and collected. I’ve played this game before, but something about this man tells me the stakes are higher. Ican already tell he’s three steps ahead of me, and I find it slightly infuriating.
“Bold of you to assume there’s anything beneath the surface. Iamperfect. Always polished,” I counter, taking another sip of whiskey to aid in the courage I need to continue this banter. The scald in my throat matches the fire igniting in my veins.
His laugh is dark, almost menacing.
“Oh, I think we both know that’s not true. I saw you up there, singing. I know there are flaws—delicious imperfections.”
“And what makes you think you’re the one who gets to unravel them?” I ask.
