I walked toward her slowly. No hurry. No reason to rush something interesting. She looked up the second I reached her. Her eyes traveled over me.
Suit. Hands. Mask. Back up to my eyes. Then her own gaze narrowed suspiciously. Not impressed yet. Interesting.
I leaned against the bar beside her. Close enough to catch the scent of vanilla and red apples. Close enough to notice the tiny crease between her brows. "Bet I can guess what you're here for."
She turned toward me slowly. “Bet you can’t."
Attitude. I liked attitude. I tilted my head. "Bachelorette party."
Silence. Her eyes widened. "How did you know?"
I grinned beneath the mask. "You've got three overdressed friends running around acting feral, you're wearing white heels, and you aren’t supervised by a bunch of thugs. Last chance at freedom?"
She stared. I continued calmly. "Plus, you have that expression."
"What expression?" she questioned.
"The one that says please get me out of here, I don’t want to marry this guy and his blood money,” I smirked.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "So... Are you stalking me?"
I laughed. A real laugh. Not forced. Not polite. The sound surprised even me. Because for four years, after Angelo, I hadn't laughed much at all.
And somehow this little brunette I'd never seen before was standing in the middle of my club glaring at me like I personally offended her existence, and turning me on at the same time. God help her. Because I already wanted to know her name. And that never ended well.
“Nope,” I smirked. “Just really good at observing. And I can read you like a book.”
“Well,” she said. “Why don’t you go away and read someone else.”
I leaned against the bar beside her and watched annoyance take over her face. Jesus Christ. She looked offended by me. Not scared. Not flustered. Offended.
I was already having fun. Most women looked at me one of two ways. Interested or intimidated. Sometimes both. Usually both. This girl looked like she was trying to determine whether I deserved a drink thrown in my face. I wanted to see how long it would take.
The bartender appeared beside us. "Usual, boss?"
I lifted a hand without looking away from her. "Not tonight."
"You own this place?" she asked.
I turned toward her slowly. "Nope."
She stared. Then narrowed her eyes harder. "You absolutely own this place."
I smiled beneath the mask. Smart little thing. I looked her over again while pretending not to. Tiny black dress. White heels. Dark hair spilling over one bare shoulder. Pretty mouth currently twisted with suspicion.
And those eyes. Fuck. Those big eyes were dangerous. I looked back toward the shelves of liquor before I started staring like a psychopath. "I have a proposition."
"Men who say I have a proposition never have good intentions,” she said, eyeing me suspiciously.
"That feels judgmental.” I grinned.
"It feels accurate,” she shifted back.
I shifted toward her slightly. "One game."
"No."
I blinked. I was genuinely offended. "You didn't even ask what the game was."