from the show, just to snag a peek at her. The perfect curves of her hips sway and twist, as she makes her way toward the back entrance. I’ve seen a number of perfect bodies over the years, and hers is nothing special, yet I can’t take my eyes off her as I watch from the window of my office. Long, lazy curls bounce over her slim shoulders. Pale, slender legs that haven’t seen the sun in a long time saunter with an air of grace, like those of an unwitting gazelle innocently loping through a field of predators.
I have a sense for trouble. Can spot it a mile away. And this girl is chock to the brim with it, practically leaking from her eyeballs, which makes her the one person I shouldn’t have invited back to this club.
The lack of accent tells me she isn’t from around here, but more than that, the girl looked me dead in the eye when she issued that last warning, before waltzing out of my office, and my dick practically unzipped itself to go after her. Was a bold move for someone not carrying a weapon. One that, had she been a man, might’ve ended in blood.
The moment she disappears through the doorway, I stare down at the blade in my hand.
Not many girls carry a knife so grisly, and I’m curious to know why this one does. Protection? From what? What does a girl from the north fear in a place this far south?
For most, the scar along her jaw is hardly noticeable, particularly in the dim forgiving lights of this place, but it stuck out to me like black ink on a stark, white page. Someone put that scar there. Maybe the same person from whom she’s running.
It’s a dangerous game, playing with her this way. Inviting her back here, when the eyes that watch me will surely take notice of such an exotic beauty like her.
Something about her intrigues me, though. Stronger than the instincts warning me to leave it alone, return the knife, and back away. Forget I even laid eyes on her.
I twist the gaudy knife, noting the carved wolves etched into the ivory hilt. Who is this strange woman? Where is she staying on this island, and more importantly, for how long?
I tug the phone from my pocket and dial Brie’s number. The phone is for work purposes only, given to her when she took the job, and to be on her at all times during her shift, so when Miranda answers, a twinge of irritation flares at the sound of her voice.
“Where’s Brie?”
“She had to drive Marcelle and her son home.”
During working hours? What the hell does she think this is--a fucking cab service?
“And you’re fielding calls for her?”
“She … um ... asked me to watch the floor for her.”
“Except, I’m not paying you a manager’s salary to watch anything, am I?”
“No, Sir, Mr. Bergeron.”
“Have her report to my office when she returns.”
“I will, Mr. Bergeron. I’m very sorry.”
I’m not particularly fond of being bullshitted. Finding out Marcelle brought her son here, after claiming to be sick, was bad enough, but having Brie skip out to drive her home, without saying a word, is a double smack of insolence that I won’t tolerate.
Her only saving grace will be her telling me what I want to know about the girl with the knife.
It’s a half hour before Brie returns, her head lowered as before.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bergeron. Marcelle is … if I can speak frankly, she’s been a pain in my ass lately.”
I’m already bored with the conversation about Marcelle and anxious to move onto something more interesting. Something that’s been occupying my thoughts for most of the evening now.
Exhaling a sigh, I pour a glass of whiskey into two glasses, add an ice cube to each, and pass one off to her. After a few seconds of deliberation, she glances up at me and back to the glass, before leaning forward to accept the proffered drink.
“What do you know about the girl who came in here earlier?”
“What girl?”
“The one looking after Marcelle’s boy.”
“See, that’s what’s messed up. I don’t know anything about her. Never seen her ‘round here before. And my sister just left her son with her. I swear, she ain’t been herself in a few months.” The conversation is about to come to an abrupt halt, with all the talk about things I don’t particularly care about, until she says, “But …”