Page 5 of Agency

His eyes widened in a mixture of pain and surprise, a heady cocktail of adrenaline that violently shoved away all his earlier Dutch courage, and he went up on tiptoes to lessen his elbow’s tension.

I didn’t even have to strain to force him up, either. Just flex. True, I’d have to do more than flex to break his arm like a twig… But not much more.

“I think you can feel how easily I can snap your arm right now,” I said, inches from his face, my voice so low and whispering he could probably more feel, than hear, my words. “Nod if I’m right.”

He nodded. Fervently.

“Good,” I said, my voice calm, collected. Cold. “Now, what are we going to do with our hands from now on when strangers are involved?”

“Keep them to myself?”

I nodded. “Look at that, you’re fucking learning. And what are we going to do with the money on the floor?”

“Pick it up?” he replied, his voice almost a whimper.

“Very good. Now, what do we say?”

He blinked in confusion.

I flexed slightly, reminding him of how fragile his elbow really was.

Eyes fluttering, he sucked in a sharp breath.

“I’m sorry?” he answered, wincing.

“Excellent.” I released him, and he visibly sagged with relief, his arm already retracting back to where he could cradle the strained limb against his torso. Favoring his other arm, he bent to retrieve the fifties he’d earlier slapped away, and I turned and headed for the bar.

“I hope everything’s okay,” the redhead, cool as a cucumber, said as I approached. Beside her, my martini sat on the bar, freshly made and just waiting for a certain someone to come along.

Not that I typically drank martinis, of course. But, I didn’t typically almost break other men’s arms in dive bars, either. About the only thing typical about this was sitting at the bar with a strange woman.

“Perfect,” I said, smiling a little as I took the stool next to her. Now that I was up close, I didn’t bother to hide the way my eyes swept down her form once more. “Almost as perfect as you.”

And, goddamn did she look even better up close. Wide hips, trim waist, shoulders that wouldn’t have looked out of place on any Greek sculpture. Eyes like twin beacons in the darkness of this shithole bar, beacons that I prayed could guide me to a safe port. The way she was practically poured into her black dress. And, now that I was right here…?

God, the fragrance of this mystery woman as I sat down next to her. Like an earthy incense, a rich amber that I’d once smelled in a Moroccan bazaar while trailing after some terrorist we needed to extraordinarily rendition. Her fragrance was the kind of scent that made me fight the urge to lean in close to the hollow of her throat, or to where her long, languid neck met her shoulder, just so I could take in more of the aroma wafting from her smooth, pale skin.

“You sure about that?” she asked, going for a cocktail pick spearing three green olives as her knee shifted and brushed against my thigh.

“About what?” I asked, already needing to be brought back from my perfume-induced memories.

“Your discussion being so perfect. Seemed awfully heated.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. I like it spicy.” I turned slightly, returned the pressure on her knee with my leg. “A little heat every now and again is nice.”

“I can tell.” She drew the olive-spear from her drink, paused with the pale-green garnishes centimeters from her red-painted lips. Bright, painfully blue eyes locked with mine, and I felt like she could gaze through me, gaze right back through all those years and to that Moroccan Bazaar.

“You do seem awfully capable,” she continued.

“Well, I’ve been around.”

“Haven’t we all?” She smiled, before closing even, white teeth over the flesh of the olive at the end. Biting down, she tore the brined fruit from the pick.

Taking a sip of my own drink and watching her, I thought to myself about how I’d never wanted to be an olive so badly in my life. I thought, too, about how I didn’t care where she’d been, or how around. Because, right then, she was there. And, already I knew she’d be more than I could handle.

“You haven’t told me your name yet,” I finally said as I took the glass from my lips. After the beer I’d been drinking, the salty, boozy beverage was certainly a change of pace.

“Sure you want it? Might preserve the mystery if you don’t ask.”