He didn’t offer to come in.
She didn’t ask him to.
They both knew she needed to do this on her own.
She smiled at him and no matter what happened next in his life, he’d given her this moment and that smile and just those two things right there seemed the entire point of his life.
“I almost forgot, Glory... you’re going to need this.”
And he pressed the key to his handcuffs into her palm.
Wow.
Power almost has a scent, Glory thought. Because the air in the Misty Cat felt oddly like the air before a snowstorm. Portentous. Charged. Icy.
Her senses were so raw and alert she could almost sense the molecules inside that familiar space had shifted somehow to accommodate the sheer volume of Congdon’s legend and ego.
Two men were actually sitting there. They were as silent as if they’d never spoken a word in their lives. The blinds were slit and they were striped like prisoners in shadows and morning sunlight.
Congdon looked up at her. His eyes were the sort of cool, clear blue-gray of old flashbulbs.
If she’d held her hand near him, she was pretty sure she would have pulled it back dripping with icicles.
Her second impression was that Wyatt “King” Congdon was a surprisingly slight man for someone who possessed terrifying power. He was that Los Angeles sort of skinny, and his complexion so alight with health and tending, he radiated in the Misty Cat like a parking lamp. He hadn’t a visible line on his face and only a few visible hairs on his head.
Sitting with him was a very good-looking young Asian guy with the hippest haircut she’d ever seen.
They didn’t do any of the things men usually did: they didn’t lean farther back in their chairs to give themselves a full-length view of her, they didn’t shoot to their feet and fall over themselves to impress, their pupils didn’t flare to the size of quarters.
Pretty women with excellent racks were as common in their world as trees were in Hellcat Canyon, and came in as many varieties.
“I’m terribly sorry to keep you waiting.”
Her voice sounded strange in her own ears. Like she was hearing it through a pillow.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.Her pounding heart was sending blood to her ears, that was why. Rhythm. Everything about the body was a rhythm, she realized then. It was an oddly comforting thought.
“If I’d had a choice,” he said tersely. “I wouldn’t have, MissGreenleaf.”
He gave an illustrative tug.
He was handcuffed to the chair! Holy crap. That might be the hottest thing Eli had ever done.
Pushing the planter up against the Misty Cat door so they couldn’t get out was the second hottest.
Congdon’s voice was pleasant and even and scary as hell.
Boy, was he was pissed. So pissed he didn’t bother to introduce himself or the man sitting with him.
It could already be over, as far as she knew. Given the handcuffs and her tardiness. But she’d made bravado a way of life, and everything up until now had been a mere practice run for this moment.
“I won’t keep you waiting any longer, then.” She drew in a long breath.
And she turned away from them and slowly walked toward the stage. In her current condition, the few feet seemed to elongate as if she were standing before a funhouse mirror.
And she put a little bit more swing into her hips, just because.
She pivoted.