"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.
It's smart. I wish she was this careful online. I wish she was more careful.
But there's only so much I can do.
"Or you can stop by my office. Eight to eight, all week." I offer my hand.
This time, she shakes with a weak grip. "Sure. Thanks." She watches as I slide off the stool.
She watches me leave.
Then it's my turn to wait.
Chapter Six
Eve
Original Sin
Saturday, June 6th
Three a.m.
The question is still there. Am I brave or foolish? Am I cowardly or cautious?
Am I going to call Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?
It's like the guy walked off the set of Luther.
British accent. Tailored suit. Six-foot something frame.
Broad shoulders. Coffee eyes. The most intense stare in the history of the world.
A presence that exudes power.
That demands every ounce of my attention.
There are cute customers all the time. Famous ones even. That guy who's rumored to star in the next Tarantino movie—
He's a regular. Not that I see the appeal (of the actor or the director. The characters banter. They're criminals. It's a race to drop as many f-bombs as possible. Okay, maybe the guy I dated sophomore year ruined the whole thing for me. He still had that Pulp Fiction poster in his room when he brought his lab partner to his bed. And I… well, I wish I still had these concerns).
The point is. There are cute customers all the time.
Only there's nothing cute about Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. No boyish charm or youthful smile.
He's all man. Thirty-something. Designer suit. Dress shoes. Expensive watch.