“Is it that bad?” She motions to the glass. “You can tell from there?”
I take a sip. It’s shit. All sugar. No quinine. A waste of good gin. “You’re right.”
“I’ll have to ask the boss if he’ll stock Fever Tree. Something tells me—”
“He’ll see the light? Realize he could attract every British businessman in the States?”
She laughs. “There’s a girl who does an Austin Powers inspired routine. Wears a bikini with the British flag—”
“The Union Jack?”
“Yeah. I’m sure it’s very offensive. Tossing aside your flag. Talking about shagging everyone. The groovy music is fun, but all night, guys ask do I make you randy, baby in that Austin Powers voice.”
“You’ve seen Austin Powers?”
“I hadn’t. Until that.”
“How did you like it?”
“Funny. But I think I missed the point. I’ve never seen a Bond movie.”
“Never?”
She shakes her head never. “Is that as offensive as Emma wearing the Union Jack?” She gives me a quick once-over. Sizing me up. Asking if I’m a good tipper. If she should waste her time talking to me. Or if I’ll leave a quid and complain the dancers aren’t attractive enough.
The women on stage are beautiful, yes. But they don’t appeal.
Not with Eve right here.
Fuck, she’s prettier than I imagined. Not because her face is perfectly symmetrical. Or because she’s the picture of conventional beauty.
It’s something about her. That tender heart wrapped in a fuck off package.
“Am I the expert on all things British?” I ask.
Her dark lips curl into a smile. “Tonic water. The flag. Bond… it’s a trend.” She motions to the glass. “Vodka or gin?”
I raise a brow really.
“The well is New Amsterdam. I’m guessing you prefer—”
“The Hendricks Reserve.” It’s the best bottle here.
She nods of course. Steps back to grab a bottle off the top shelf.
Fuck, she has dramatic hips. And that frock barely covers her arse. Her long legs are on display.
And those heeled combat boots—
I need her in those. And nothing else.
No, I need to get ahold of myself. I’m not here to get my rocks off. I’m here to—
God dammit, there’s no subtle way to broach the topic.
I’m Ian. I hear you’re a virgin. I’d like to be your first. Tell me what it will take.
She turns to the bar. Pours gin over ice. Passes the glass to me.
I pull my card from my wallet.
Again, my hand brushes her.
Again, my entire body buzzes.
I’m already losing control. I’m already losing interest in maintaining control.
“I’ve never been a Bond fan myself,” I say.
“No?” She looks me over again. Slowly. Like she’s trying to figure me out. “I… I guess I don’t get the appeal.”
“It’s a little close to home.”
“You’re a spy?”
“I was in intelligence.”
Her grey-green eyes go wide. “You’re messing with me.”
“No.” My gaze flits to the empty glass. “I’ll toast to it. What do you drink?”
“You’ll toast to… your honesty?”
“My freedom.”
“No longer a spy?”
I nod.
“Or is that what you want me to think?”
“Why? Are you harboring secrets?”
“Maybe.”
“An undercover government operative?”
“Would I tell you if I was?” She fills a glass with ice. Holds up the bottle. “I have a policy. I drink what you’re drinking.”
“You don’t have a preference?”
“I can’t tell you. It might give me away.”
“Smart.”
She laughs. Pours a generous shot. Returns the bottle to its shelf. “Were you really in intelligence?”
“Aren’t we toasting to that?” I hold up my glass.
She smiles as she holds up hers. “To your freedom.” She taps her glass against mine. Brings the drink to her lips. Takes a long sip.
Her cheeks flush. Her throat quivers with her swallow.
It fills my head with too many ideas.
“Cheers.” The gin fails to cool my temperature.
She sets her glass on the bar. Sinks into her heels. “Thank you—”
“Ian.”
“Eve.” She holds out her hand.
We shake.
Her gaze flits to a guy at the end of the bar. He’s waving his hand. “Duty calls.”
I nod. Watch her fix the guy a rum and Coke. She trades quips with the customer. Then she’s refilling beers and mixed drinks.
It’s a busy night. This isn’t the best time to broach the subject.
This isn’t the place.
But I need to move quickly.
I pull a business card from my wallet. Write my cell number on the back. Let her close my tab.
Trade her. A card for a card.
“I’m looking for someone like you.” That’s almost true. But it’s not enough to sell a second meeting as casual. “To bartend a private party.”
“Someone like me?” She motions to her short hair. The Latin quote on her forearm. An EKG on her wrist.
“Yes. A few hundred for a few hours. Plus tips. It’s an ongoing meeting. Once a month. It’s a poker game. Not strictly legal.”
She nods, buying into the story. Or at least pleased by an explanation for the extra pay.
“Call me if you’re interested. Or if you know someone who is.”
Her eyes flit to my card. The banter is gone. Replaced by apprehension.