“I’ll go.” It was easier for her to do it since she could employ her feminine wiles—give the man a look, flash a little cleavage, lead him into a dark corner, and slide a steel blade between his ribs.
“No, you did the last two. I want this one.” He squeezed her hip, his breath against her neck. “I’ll have a smoke on the veranda and wait for him. Stay here in the crowd. Keep an eye out. Don’t fucking wander off.”
They were both armed. She wore a stiletto strapped to her garters on her inner thigh. He had multiple blades concealed beneath his suit, as well as two pistols.
The guns were for emergency. The last thing they needed was a showdown with the polizia.
“Do it quietly.” She narrowed her eyes then danced off into the fray.
The gunman wouldn’t engage her in a crowd. Vincent didn’t pay his employees enough for them to risk getting arrested. The last two had been run-of-the-mill street thugs, looking for quick money. They’d waited until she was alone, where there were no witnesses, before they attacked.
Sidling up to a group of laughing women, she danced with them while watching the man out of the corner of her eye. His gaze discreetly tracked Mike through the nightclub. He took a sip from his cocktail, watching over the rim of the glass long after Mike vanished beyond the doors of the veranda.
Mike was alone in a poorly lit area. An easy target. Why wasn’t the man going after him?
Maybe she and Mike hadn’t been marked after all. They’d changed disguises since Paris and London. Was she just being paranoid?
No, it was too coincidental. Of all the nightclubs in all the cities, why would this guy come to this one, if not for her and Mike?
People bounced and whirled around her, blocking and unblocking her view. Her heart rate quickened as she repositioned, trying to keep an eye on the threat while remaining inconspicuous.
In her periphery, he finished his drink and set it on the table. Then he stood.
She held her breath, her hips twitching, barely dancing.
He didn’t turn toward the veranda. Without looking in her direction, he prowled directly toward her.
Goddammit!
What was he going to do? Drag her off the dance floor? Shoot her in front of all these people?
Mike wasn’t here. She was alone among strangers. Maybe that was the only incentive this guy needed?
The din of clinking bottles, pouring liquor, shouting, chatter, laughter, drunken revelry—it all melded together and swirled around her as she held her position. Running would be the absolute worst thing to do. She needed the cover and protection of the crowd.
He wove around the dancers, never making eye contact with her. But he was undeniably headed for her. Twenty feet away. Fifteen.
She moved deeper into the crowd of writhing, sweaty bodies, shoulder to shoulder, bouncing in sync. Hands and hips, heat and breaths, men and women—strangers rubbed up against her and slid away, only to be replaced by another and another.
A friendly pair of arms came around her from behind, hugging her waist. A solid chest pressed against her back, bringing with it the scent of leather from the jacket he wore. Or maybe it was his skin? He was all around her, the flex of lean masculine muscle grinding intimately, brazenly, with her body.
Ten feet away, her pursuer paused, looking everywhere but at her. Then he veered off to the left, fading into the throng.
She relaxed against the stranger’s tall frame behind her, letting him guide her into a sensual dance. If she stayed with this guy long enough, maybe her pursuer would go after Mike.
Christ, the guy knew how to move his body. The rock of his pelvis controlled the pace of hers, and his hands wandered with bold, confident strokes down her hips, molding around the fronts of her thighs, and slipping aggressive fingers beneath the short hem of her dress.
Whoa! Down boy.
Rough breaths pushed past her lips, and her insides melted into lava. So erotic, his touch. So dominating. Possessive.
Dangerous.
She gripped his forearms, pushing them away, but they were too strong. Unmoving.
Familiar.
With a gasp, she tried to turn toward him.
He stopped her in the cage of his arms, tugging her in close and dragging his hard, whiskered jaw along her neck. “You’re a terrible dancer.”
That voice, the gravelly rumble, the dark, silken cadence.
Cole Hartman.
Her entire body went rigid, and her lungs went up in smoke.
“Don’t go stiff on me. Relax your hips.” His palms ran down the outsides of her thighs, charging her blood with seductive energy. “Your stalker is watching.”
Evidently, she had more than one stalker, and this one wanted far more than a quick paycheck.
His mission was personal.
As months of paranoia hardened into reality, Lydia’s heartbeat exploded, ramming against her chest.
She’d wronged Cole unforgivably. Of course, he would come after her. She should’ve trusted her instinct.