Vendetta in Death (In Death 49)
He knew he looked his best, trim in black pants, a studded belt, a pale blue sweater that matched his eyes. He wore a sleek wrist unit that said wealthy to anyone with an eye for such things.
He could have paid for a top-level licensed companion—and had done so when time squeezed his choices. But he much preferred the hunt, and the score.
At the moment, he had his eye on a redhead with sinuous moves on the dance floor. A bit young for his usual pick, he admitted, and the hair—spiked and short—not as sophisticated.
But those moves.
Keeping her in sight, he began to circle the floor. He’d find an opening, and then—
Someone bumped him lightly from behind. He started to glance back, heard a throaty, “Excusez-moi.”
The voice, the faint French accent, that throaty purr had him turning completely.
He forgot the dancer with the sinuous moves.
“Pas de quoi.” He took the vision’s hand, brought it to his lips, and was rewarded with a sultry smile.
He kept the hand—she didn’t object. “Êtes-vous ici seule?”
“Ah, oui,” she said, with what he read as a clear invitation. “Et vous?”
He turned her hand over, brushed his lips lightly over the inside of her wrist. Spoke in English. “I hope not anymore.”
“You’re English. You speak French very well.”
“I hope you’ll allow me to buy you a drink, and we can speak in any language you like.”
She trailed her free hand down that glorious fall of hair, angled her head. “I would enjoy that.”
He thought: Score, as he led her away, through the crowd, around tables, past one of the many bars, and to his booth.
“I hope you don’t mind. I prefer a bit of privacy.”
Beyond the curtain waited the plush semicircle of black, generous with silver-edged pillows. She sat, crossed those excellent legs, reclined just a little. Just enough.
“I like the booths,” she told him. “The curtains where we can see out, but no one can see in. It’s …titillating, yes?”
“Yes indeed.” He settled beside her, gauged his timing. Not too fast, he decided. This green-eyed wonder knew the ropes, would expect some sophistication. “And what’s your pleasure?”
“I have many.”
He went hard, but only chuckled. “As have I. But to drink?”
“A vodka martini, very dry, two olives. I prefer Romanov Five.”
“As do I.”
“Ah, we have found our commonality.”
“The first of many.” He ordered from the comp menu, let his gaze travel over her, enjoyed the movement behind the filmy one-way curtain, the pulse of music. The titillation.
“I’m Nigel—”
She touched a finger to his lips. “First names only, ça va? Some mystery for us. Solange.”
“Solange,” he repeated. “And what brings you to New York?”
“If I told you, we would lose the mystery. Let me say then, perhaps this moment. I enjoy New York for its many pleasures, and its …” She seemed to hunt for the word. “Ah, yes, anonymity. And what do you enjoy, Nigel?”