Roan (The Henchmen MC 17)

"Christ," I hissed, shooting to my feet, tearing across the floor, ripping open the door, then making my way down to the bar in the lobby, dropping down in a corner of it, demanding the bartender keep the bourbon coming, throwing each glass back with abandon, feeling a perverse sort of enjoyment in the burning of my esophagus.

"Not many people in bars count exits while drowning in a bottle," a female voice declared, making my head turn to find her sitting at the curve of the bar, arm rested on the lacquered surface, fingers teasing absentmindedly around the rim of what seemed to be white wine.

Tall, leggy, clad in a black dress that clung, but left a lot to the imagination, her startling gray gaze on me, her black hair over one shoulder, she was pretty, sure, but I couldn't seem to stop myself from noticing that there wasn't the lightness in her eyes like Mackenzie had, that there was no hesitant sweetness.

Normally, she'd have been my type. I liked confidence, women who knew what they had to offer, who wanted you to know that they knew what they brought to the table, so they were never afraid to eat alone.

But whereas I would usually already be moving a seat over, working toward a night in her sheets, I couldn't even seem to rustle up a small spark of attraction.

"Dunno what you're talking about."

"Did you see the guy with the cleft chin and red tie?"

"Blue." At her raised brow, I added, "The guy with the cleft chin's tie was blue."

To that, her lips curved up, pleased, satisfied with herself. "But you weren't familiarizing yourself with the exits."

"My only interest in the exits is the hopes that someone comes in with a grudge, and wants to go a few rounds."

"What kind of job are you on?" she asked.

Both with American accents, it made sense for her to think I was here on business. Especially staying at the hotel we were currently situated in.

"I'm in real estate."

To that, a low, sultry laugh escaped her lips. "Men like you don't own anything but the clothes on their back. I mean what kind of job you are on here. In Armenia. Where you are counting exits, noting every detail of the people around you, and drowning something in bourbon, of all things." Curiosity piqued, I gave her a harder look over the rim of my glass as she reached inside the small black clutch on the bar, pulling out a small mirrored compact.

To anyone else, she was just checking her makeup.

But to me?

No.

She was looking over her shoulder toward a table in a dark corner where a trio of men were situated.

One of whom was Armen Minasian.

"Who is your mark?" I heard myself asking, voice low as her unusual gaze cut to me, lips tipping up a bit.

"Afaf," she declared, shutting her compact with a snap.

"Syrian?" I asked, shooting the men one more gaze.

"Mmhmm. So are you here for the Russian or the Armenian?"

"Neither."

"You're a good liar," she decided, raising her glass to take a sip.

"Or I'm not lying."

"Please. You wouldn't be in Armenia, of all places, right now if it weren't for one of those over there."

"They're not my mark."

One of her well-manicured brows raised as she looked me over slowly, eyes x-rays, and I swore she could see the scratch marks on the back of my neck from Mack's fingers, could see the smudge of lipstick near my pelvic bone. When her gaze met mine again, her lips were parted in curiosity. "No way you're a honeytrap."

I wasn't so mad at myself - or drunk - that the words didn't pinch a bit. "Why not?"

She considered me again for a moment before putting her glass down with a light clink. "Because a honeytrap doesn't hit the bar over their job."

"I don't do Romeo games if I can help it."

"Why not? You're good looking. Wouldn't take much work to get them into bed, get them to trust you."

"Because I don't like them."

"Using people is our job..."

"Mikhail," I supplied to her unspoken question.

"Right," she said with an insider smile. "And I am Alice," she told me, reaching out her hand, slipping it into mine.

"So, what is your game? Doubt you have much luck with the Syrian looking as, ah..." I trailed off, not knowing the right word, not wanting to offend her with the wrong one.

"Indecent as I look?" she asked with a smile that said she didn't mind being called such.

"Pretty much," I agreed. She wasn't showing much skin by American standards, but Middle Eastern ones?

"Haven't you heard of me? Alice Avery," she told me with a slight hair flip. "International arms dealer."

"Nice cover," I decided. Playing at being an arms dealer gave you an in with all different kinds of lowlives.

"It's suited me for a while now. How long have you been on assignment?"