Page 3 of Every Silent Lie

By my fourth, I still haven’t read the papers. Not that I need to—the words are imprinted on my brain, every last one of them. On a sigh, I hold up my glass and study the last inch in the bottom, wondering if I should have a fifth. Undoubtedly not. And yet I tap the bar anyway. One more before I start the slow walk home, take a long shower, and spend hours trying to get to sleep. Maybe I’ll have two more martinis. It’s the only thing that helps with my eternal insomnia.

Nothing else. Not sleeping pills, not therapy.

Only alcohol.

As I contemplate that, I notice the sitcom playing on the telly in the bar. Good God. Is that a best of from Fawlty Towers? I sit up straighter, focused, remembering watching the reruns with Dad. It was his absolute favourite. I watch as Basil and Manuel heave a dead guest out of a huge basket. “Oh shit. I remember this scene.” And then I chuckle as they enter a room where another guest is blowing up a naked inflatable woman doll. English humour at its best.

When was the last time I laughed like that?

I smile and knock back the last of my fourth martini as something appears in my side vision, in between the stool by me and the next one. A man. The man I watched settle at the back table over an hour ago. He’s removed his suit jacket, and my eyes travel up his shirt, his neck, across his dark stubble, until I’m looking straight into his eyes. Grey eyes. Lazy, grey eyes that shimmer a little under the hazy glow of the lights hanging over the bar. “Do you need a pen?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve been looking at that paperwork for over an hour, so I wondered in maybe you needed a pen.”

I chuckle. God, that’s twice tonight. “Cute. I haven’t heard that one before.” He’s original too. This man has a lot going for him. But then I come to my senses. I do not want to flirt. Not tonight. “I don’t need a pen.”

His nod is slow and thoughtful as he accepts a short fat glass of clear liquid from the barman. “What about a date?”

I look at the empty seat next to me, the martini before it still waiting to be drank. Drops of condensation slide down the glass to the paper coaster beneath it. The drink is purposeless . . . just like this stranger’s question. “I don’t need a date.”

He rests a forearm on the bar, leaning on it, and faces me. His eyes are something else. Glittery but cold, still slightly narrowed. Thinking deeply. About me? Trying to figure me out? Please don’t bother, handsome stranger. I’m not worth the effort.

His lips are full, slightly parted. Raising his glass to them, as if he knows my focus is glued there, he sips, and my gaze follows, watching as he licks his bottom lip, waiting for me to answer.

“You’re very handsome,” I say out of nowhere, definitely making him pause a beat.

“Thank you.” He points to the martini that’s still untouched in front of the stool next me. “So whose is this if you don’t need a date?”

“Mine.”

His frown is quite stunning, a delicate fan of lines springing from the corners of his eyes. “Yours?”

“It’s a deterrent. Stops unwanted men joining me and trying to talk me into bed.” If they’re wanted, I’ll drink the martini. I expect a smile from him, but there’s no hint of amusement.

“Is that a common problem? Random men in hotel bars trying to talk you into bed?”

I point to the martini. “It was before the deterrent. It seems you’re immune to my tactics.” And I’m apparently not immune to this guy’s looks, which are creeping into the realms of stunning. I look down at my empty martini glass. I’ve had too many.

“Wondering if you’ve had too many?”

I’m unable to hide my surprise when my head snaps back up. “Maybe.”

“You haven’t.” A slow sip of his drink. “I’d say you’ve had just enough.” And with that, he pushes off the bar and wanders back to his table, and I turn on my stool to follow him, my eyes greedy. Wide shoulders. A perfect arse. Long legs. Thick thighs.

I breathe out and return to face the bar, catching the barman’s raised brow before he quickly lowers it. “It’s nothing,” I assure him, taking the deterrent martini and knocking it back. “And now I’ve definitely had too much to drink.” I slip down off my stool and hand my card over, letting him charge it while I get my coat on and pack my things into my bag. “Thank you.” I slide a ten-pound tip across the bar and head out, stopping at the guy’s table. He didn’t pursue me. Didn’t ask me to a room. And that strangely intrigues me. Little does, normally. “It was nice to meet you.”

“We didn’t really meet.” He stands, every tall inch of him rising deliberately and slowly from his chair.

“Camryn.” I offer my hand, and he takes it, holding it lightly as he shakes. His persona may be cool, but his touch is fire, and the heat works its way through my body, all the way to between my legs. It makes me stand up straighter, the warmth generating a pulse deep in my belly.

“Dec,” he murmurs, his eyes on my mouth, surely noticing that I’ve had to part my lips to subtly pull in some air.

“That’s a pretty lame shake for a businessman, Dec.”

I can tell he’s amused, though his mouth doesn’t show it, only his eyes. “You want me to shake your hand like I’d shake the hand of the man I’m about to screw over?”

“Yes.”