Page 41 of Mountain Struggle

Although Damien didn’t want to spend a second longer with that man, a night in the mountains could be dangerous for those not trained or equipped for it, even in the height of summer.

The colonel shook his head, his hand on the doorknob.

“He wasn’t happy, but he walked in the end.”

The smile was still on his face when Damien walked into Stella’s twenty minutes later. Stella’s was a small bar, its half-hidden entrance located up a steep slope. In a town devoted to feeding and watering high-net-worth visitors, this was one of the few bars frequented solely by the locals, something that was reflected in its prices as well.

Damien looked at his watch—Tess would probably be putting Jamie to bed just about now. Damien had come by car, so he’d allow himself one beer before going home to them.

He found his team sitting in a table in the corner. They were still wearing their uniforms. Drake sat closest to the wall, nursing an ice tea—Damien knew the man didn’t drink, though they’d never discussed the reason. Beside him, Kat was almost done with her beer. She might look slim, but that woman could drink any of them under the table—they joked about the Russian genes that must be hiding in her French family tree. On the opposite side, Jens and Gael were engaged in some intense discussion about the temperature beer should be served at.

Hiro was the only one who hadn’t shown. Damien would bet good money he’d made some excuse to go home with Bailey.

There was an empty seat on the end that Damien knew they’d reserved for him, though the bar wasn’t that busy tonight.

“You made it, jefe. How’s the billionaire doing?”

“He walked down by himself in the end,” Damien said quietly, trying not to gloat.

“And we all still have a job?” Drake asked. His gray eyes shone with amusement. The others had clearly gotten him up to speed on what happened. “I heard down the grapevine that the colonel visited your office tonight.”

“We still have a job,” Damien confirmed.

His team members clinked their glasses in a celebratory manner, dragging a smile out of Damien.

Damien walked up to the bar to get himself a drink. Stella’s was like a traditional pub that way—they expected you to order at the counter and pay for each drink before taking it with you.

There was a woman sitting alone at the bar. Damien didn’t pay her much attention until she turned to look at him.

I’ll be damned.

She was beautiful in an ethereal, almost unreal way. He would blame it on the alcohol, except he hadn’t even gotten his beer yet.

Her eyes were a soft caramel color, her face framed by the highest cheekbones, her lips bold and luscious, painted in the deepest red imaginable. But it was the symmetry of her proportions that was striking, and it wasn’t just her face—even sitting down, Damien could see she had a perfect hour-glass figure.

Fuck me.

He turned his attention back to the barman—he really wanted that drink—but could feel the woman staring at him.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, without looking at her.

“That’d be nice. White wine, please.” Her accent was pure Queen’s English.

“And a glass of white wine for the lady, John,” Damien said.

Damien turned back to look at the woman. She got off the stool and walked towards him. Since he wasn’t blind, this was his chance to confirm that her figure was, indeed, as fine as he’d presumed.

“I’m Lilibeth.”

“Damien Gray,” he said.

She nodded at his uniform jacket. “Are you and your friends police?”

He nodded, tapping the pads of his fingers lightly on the bar while he waited for his drink. When John finally came back, he carried a glass of wine, but there was still no sign of Damien’s beer.

“Cheers,” she said, raising her wine glass and sniffing at the contents delicately.

“Enjoy.”