front of her, and graced her with one of the smiles his mother used to warn would get him into trouble. “Don’t tell me you came out tonight looking like that just to stand here all alone.”
The woman’s head swiveled toward him in surprise. Her cheeks grew pink. “What?”
Mack winked. “Ah, there she is. What’re you drinking?”
She looked at her empty glass. “Just water. I-I’m here with my husband,” she blurted.
“Well, where is he? And why isn’t he up here getting you a new water?”
She looked over her shoulder. “He’s with his coworkers.”
“He do this a lot?”
“Do what?”
“Take you out and then abandon you to hang out with his friends?”
She shrugged. That was a yes. What a fucking idiot. Men didn’t deserve the gift of women.
Mack picked up her glass. “It’s on the house. What can I get you?”
She shook her head. “I’m the designated driver.”
So not only did Mr. Asshole ignore his wife, he’d only dragged her along so he could drink to the point of unsafe driving. Nice. “Fair enough,” Mack said, filling a glass of water for her. “But I bet I can guess your favorite drink.”
A perfectly groomed eyebrow arched over suddenly interested eyes. “I doubt that.”
Mack studied her from the tips of her hair—balayage highlights, expensive—to her earrings—diamond studs. Then to the clutch purse next to her hands. Kate Spade. Top shelf, classy.
Classic.
“Manhattan?”
Her mouth fell open again with a startled laugh. “How did you know that?”
Mack shrugged. “It’s a gift.”
“That’s a weird gift to have.”
“Not in my job.” He looked at the table of men. “So point out which one is your husband.”
The woman’s face fell. “He’s the one standing up.”
Mack studied him. Closely cropped hair. Short-trimmed beard. Professional type. College educated and arrogant. “Let me guess,” Mack said, crossing his arms. “Works in finance?”
The woman laughed again. “Impressive.”
“What’re they drinking?”
She rolled her eyes. “He used to just like Budweiser, but now he’s into that IPA stuff. I can’t stand it.”
He winked. “Budweiser it is.”
Mack filled a pitcher, flagged down one of the waiters, and scribbled a note on a napkin for the tray.
Compliments of Braden Mack. Pay attention to your wife, asshole, or get the fuck out of my club.
His task accomplished, Mack returned to the other end of the bar, where Liv stood next to Sonia.
“And that,” he said, arms spread wide. “Is how it’s done.”
Liv sighed heavily and looked at Sonia. “How long have you worked with him?”
“Ten years.”
“And you haven’t killed him yet?”
Sonia rested her chin in her hands and grinned. “This is going to be so fucking fun.”
Mack might have agreed if Liv’s face hadn’t suddenly turned ashen. He stepped closer. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s here.”
Mack spun on his heel and followed the direction of her stare.
Royce. Mack reached behind him on instinct and wrapped his hand around Liv’s wrist.
“He knows we talked to Jessica,” she said.
“How the hell would he know that?”
“Maybe she told him. You heard what she said when she left.”
Mack’s fingers tightened on her wrist. “Go back to my office.”
She yanked out of his hold. “What? No fucking way.”
“Liv, please. Let me handle this. He hasn’t seen you yet.”
He wasn’t sure what convinced her, but Liv did what he asked. Rage turned his vision red as he watched Royce weave through the crowd, greeting fans with peace signs and high fives. He paused to snap a selfie with two women and then let each woman kiss his cheeks.
Mack tapped into his deepest willpower reserves to keep from launching into a full-fledged sprint and knocking the bastard’s ass to the ground. Instead, he slowly walked to the center of the bar, hands flexed into tight fists at his sides.
Royce approached with his TV-show smile. “Mack. Just the man I came to see.” He turned back to apologize to a couple of women who wanted a photo. “Sorry, ladies. Business calls.”
Right. Business. This unexpected visit had all the hallmarks of old-fashioned mob intimidation.
Royce reached across the bar. Their handshake was about as friendly as a pair of boxers squaring off before a fight.
Mack met Royce’s unnecessarily tight squeeze with equal pressure. “What brings you by?”
Royce dodged the question and leaned an elbow on the bar. He cast his gaze in a wide, judgmental circle. “Quite a place you’ve got here.”
“First time in?”
“Never had the pleasure before.” He dragged out the word pleasure just enough to convey the opposite. His gaze lingered on the dance floor, where a sea of cowboy hats bobbed and swayed in unison to a classic Brad