The Negotiator (Professionals, #7) - Jessica Gadziala Page 0,3

figure out if I had a weapon on me, or, in lieu of that, what was close-by that could be used as a weapon?

Nope.

No, I was not.

What was I thinking, then, you might be wondering.

If my hair was as messy as I thought, if my clothes were flattering enough, if my hangover was making me uglier?

Because, you know, those were important things to be wondering when I could potentially be in a life-or-death situation.

"I don't feel much like running, kopelia mou," he told me, his voice a shiver over suddenly very heated skin.

I knew that accent.

And I knew that term.

Kopelia mou.

My girl.

Greek.

He was Greek.

Suddenly, the images came flooding back. The beautiful water. The white cave houses. The blue accents.

Santorini.

We were off the coast of Santorini.

How the hell strong were the drugs that were given to me if we got all the way to Greece from New Jersey without me waking up?

Following that slightly panic-driven thought, and all the possible ramifications of being that out of it—was another realization.

He was letting me know that he was not intimidated. He wanted me to know that he was the scary one.

He was not going to run from me.

Not even with the threat of murder.

Guys like this were tricky.

Some of them responded well when you stepped up and went toe-to-toe with them. They respected your balls. And if you had the respect of men such as him, you were a hell of a lot safer than you would be if he thought you were beneath him.

On the other hand, and especially so in countries that still had very traditional male and female roles, you had a better chance of survival if you were soft and sweet and nonthreatening.

I'd needed to be both things to many different men in my line of work. And I played a damn good role.

Hell, sometimes I had a hard time figuring out where the real me and the facade started if I was on a job long enough.

This was a tricky one.

Being Greek, he probably liked soft and pretty. Beautiful women in sundresses walking the beaches.

But as a man in power who clearly wanted something from me, a strong front might also be very effective.

"Well, good," said, moving over toward the seating area, taking a position as far from him as I could get without looking like I was afraid of him. "Because I am too tired and dehydrated to chase you down anyway," I told him, deciding to feel him out before I chose any particular personality trait to embody.

His arm rose in the air, snapping, grabbing the attention of the female crew member—young, pretty, perky, like all men seemed to have on their yachts.

I hated snappers.

As someone who once did a short stint waiting tables, where I learned quite quickly that people could be complete asshats, I felt my lip immediately curl when someone had the audacity to snap at service staff.

"The lady would like something to drink," he told the woman who moved over toward his side, but stayed silent, awaiting instructions.

Both their gazes went to me.

"Anything non-alcoholic. In a sealed bottle," I added pointedly.

To that, the man's lips curved up. Not a smile. A cocky smirk of sorts if it was anything.

"You think I'd drug you?" he asked, brow raising lazily.

"I think I woke up on a yacht off the coast of Santorini with cottonmouth, a sledgehammer in my brain, and no recollection of how I got here. I've been drugged. And you are here. What other conclusions should I have come to?"

Alright, so soft and sweet seemed out of my wheelhouse with how off-kilter I was feeling. Whether that was due to the drugs still working their way out of my system, or this man across from me, was anyone's guess.

"Allow me to clarify. I have never needed to drug a woman to get what I need from her," he told me, folding forward, resting his arms on his thighs, never breaking eye-contact.

Need.

Not want.

Need.

It was a small, yet profound distinction.

"Thank you," I told the woman who returned with a bottle of orange juice. I twisted off the lid, took a small sip instead of the long gulp I really wanted. "And what is it that you need from me?" I asked.

"Miller! You ravishing creature, you!" Fenway's voice called from behind me, all lightness and ease.

Which, as you can imagine, set my teeth on edge as he moved in beside me, dropping down, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, giving my whole body a playful