Page 94 of Tangled Roses
A man is tapping his fingers on the bar and appears at war with the world, his dark navy suit indicating he’s fresh from the office.
I sip my drink as I surreptitiously study his reflection in the mirror above the bar and note his angry glare as he stares at his phone, his strong jaw tense as he reads the message.
Unlike the bartender, he is all man, successful for sure due to the expensive watch on his wrist. His shirt is loose at the neck along with his tie and the dark smattering of hair on his chest causes me to shift on my seat.
He is just my type. Strong, powerful and angry. Just how I like them. Not that I have many opportunities to indulge my desires. My brothers have made certain of that. In Russia I am closely guarded, here I am not and with one night to make my dreams come true, I am wasting no time.
I watch his hand close around the glass and fantasize about those hands wrapped around me, pulling me close and kissing me hard and deep. I wonder what his chest would feel like against mine, and I sense the heat rising as I indulge my fantasy.
“Bad day?” I ask, my voice husky and edged in the confidence two vodka martinis give you.
He stills and then lifts his eyes to the mirror, catching mine in the reflection.
He takes a moment and then turns, staring directly into my eyes and then rakes his heady gaze the length of me.
“Every day is a bad day.” He says coolly and I shrug.
“Then you should search for another job.”
“Who says it’s my job?”
“A woman then.” Fuck, I sound like the bartender, who is now flashing sulky looks in my direction.
“Never a woman.”
He appears irritated and my heart sinks.
“A man then?”
I’m in America; I’m guessing that’s a possibility.
“No. Not in the way you’re thinking, but yes, a man.”
“Your boyfriend, brother, or a business associate?”
I raise my eyes and he lifts his whiskey to his lips and his eyes burn into mine.
“My brother.”
“What’s he done?”
“He is still breathing.” Is his angry response and I wince.
“Harsh.”
“You don’t know him.”
He turns and gestures to the now sulky bartender.
“Another whiskey and whatever the lady is drinking.”
Wow, three vodka martinis! I am living the dream and I reach into my purse and slide a fifty-dollar bill across the bar.
“I’m buying.”
This time he raises his eyes and as the bartender reaches for the bill, I say without breaking eye contact with my stranger, “Keep the change.”
The tension is thick between us and I’m not sure who moves closer, him or me, but I can feel the heat from his body as he says huskily, “How much do you charge?”