The Negotiator (Professionals 7)

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 jostle that only managed to make my stomach lurch, making me glad I hadn’t chugged the orange juice after all.

“Fenway,” I growled, shooting daggers at his stupidly good-looking face. His smile didn’t falter in the least.

“You always have slept late, but I finally went below deck to take a nap, you were asleep so long.”

“Gee, maybe that has something to do with the drugs in my system.”

Fenway, as was Fenway’s nature, completely ignored that. As a general rule, he avoided anything heavy or serious. It would almost be easy to accept him at face-value if you thought that was all there was, if he was just some rich kid who became a richer adult who had a head full of feathers and a liver full of top-shelf gin.

But Fenway was smart. Almost scary smart at times. And a hell of a lot more perceptive than he would ever let on. Likely out of fear that if you knew he had other sides to him, you would expect anything other than a good time from him.

“I see you are sharing your abundant charm with my good friend here,” he segued instead, giving the man a smile that was not returned.

I wasn’t sure this man knew how to smile. Surely, it would look out of place on his stern face.