Page 2 of Maneater (The Mavens #1)

TWO

JOSIE

Rather than go home, I go to Opal, a high-end bar and nightclub in downtown Hudson City, to brush up on my skills. Going to an expensive bar to sit there, flirt, and see what kind of free drinks I can get from stupid men is far more entertaining than sitting at home.

An hour later when I’m two glasses into the most expensive champagne the bar carries, courtesy of the older man sitting next to me, I know my skills are working.

He’s in the middle of explaining some golf game he had with some politician that’s supposed to impress me when his phone buzzes.

He looks at it quickly before setting it back face down with an apologetic grimace.

“I’ll be right back,” he sighs, tipping his chin to the phone whose screen he has diligently hid from view since I sat down. “Work.”

“Hurry back,” I say, a sexy purr in my words. “I need to hear how the rest of the story goes.” He gives me a wide grin in response before walking off, though with the way he took his jacket with him, I can almost guarantee he won’t be returning. I shift my body to fully face the bar once more.

“Wife or girlfriend?” Carrie, the bartender, asks once he’s out of earshot. She’s seen me play this game more times than I can count, seeing as how this bar is closest to my condo.

“Wife for sure.”

Carrie rolls her eyes and scoffs, wiping down the already pristine bar. “Gross.”

I shrug. “At least my drinks are on his tab.”

“Amen to that, my girl,” she says with a smile.

“You really don’t have to do that, you know,” a familiar deep voice says. It’s a good voice, the kind that rolls through you—a little dangerous like thunder in the distance, but bringing with it a warning of what’s to come.

When I turn, the lights behind him cast him in shadow, but I still know what—or rather, who—I’m dealing with.

The man who keeps bumping into me at bars and restaurants across Hudson City while I’m on jobs and who has started to make a game out of riling me up.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was stalking me or something, but fortunately, I’m a Maven, and I do know better.

If I had a stalker, Gabriel would be on it in a flash.

Rowan .

I’ve bumped into him a dozen times while on missions over the last year or so.

Once, he was having dinner at Coastal with a group of men while I was determining if a stockbroker was being truthful on his resume, and another time, he was sitting at the bar when I was investigating fraud at a high-end pub.

A good half dozen of those times, he’s come to the table for a while and made small talk with whoever I’m investigating, making me think he knows everyone in the upper crust of Hudson City.

With his perfectly tailored suits and expensive watches, I think it’s safe to assume he is part of the upper crust himself.

I’ve never wanted to know much more than his name, though, not with the way he always looks down his nose at me, with the way he always gives the tiniest barbs that stick a little too deep.

And with how my body responds to him in a way completely opposite to how my mind does, he could easily blow my cover on assignments .

“I’m sorry?” I ask, exasperation in my tone, though part of me is excited for the banter I know is impending.

He approaches, putting his hands on the back of the chair my company just vacated, before explaining. “Flirting with men to get your drinks paid for. You don’t have to do that.”

I give him an easy smile.

“I know,” I say with a tip of my head. “I can afford to buy my own drinks. It’s just more fun this way.”

The flicker in his eye—a mix of intrigue, heat, and irritation—is reminiscent of the time I had the unfortunate experience of almost having an entire dinner with him three months ago.

He happened upon me on a prearranged date with a man we were pretty sure was embezzling from his company.

My date invited him to stay for the meal, an offer Rowan accepted.

He spent the entire night glaring at me, only taking the time to speak directly to me when we were alone.

“He’s married, you know,” he had said, when Stephen, my date and target, stepped away to use the bathroom.

I was aware of that, a fact I had been documenting in my spare time and creating a file to send to his wife when we handed over the proof of embezzlement to our client.

A little pro bono work, if you will. Girls supporting girls and all that.

“I’m well aware,” I had said. He hadn’t been good at hiding it, so it was easy for a highly skilled private investigator like myself to pick up on the signs.

“I guess that fits my understanding of you,” Rowan had said.

I fought every instinct not to let my jaw go tight, not to snap at him, instead keeping my pristine mask on and giving him a soft, angelic smile.

“Oh?”

He took a slow sip of his drink, a satisfied smile spreading on his lips as he sat back in his chair.

“It’s just that every time I see you, you’re on a date with some new rich or powerful man.” He looked to the side to where Stephen had disappeared before returning his look to me, now tinged in pity I didn’t need or want. “It’s been that way since college.”

College, because the first time I met Rowan was in my junior year, when I was running an underground business of testing girls’ boyfriends to see if they were cheaters and would fall for my flirting.

Spoiler: so, so many did. At that point, I was targeting different frat boys and trust-fund babies almost every week, using my unique skills to help out my friends and friends of friends.

He judged me back then, too, though I’ll admit, it probably did look strange that I was always out with some other guy.

“And?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re a gold digger. Always trying to lure some poor schmuck into falling into your trap.”

I sat on that assumption for a moment, deciding that it was an okay one, one that would be far safer than the truth, and shrugged.

“Sure,” I said, unwilling to give in to whatever trap he was so obviously setting for me. He raised an eyebrow.

“Sure?”

“You can think whatever you want about me,” I said, leaning back with my wine glass in hand, gently swirling the liquid like I had not a care in the world.

His jaw was tight as he looked over me, and I did my own personal thorough onceover to ensure every muscle in my body remained loose and unaffected.

“So, you’re a gold digger?” he pressed.

I shrugged one shoulder before taking a small sip of the expensive wine. I was on a job, which meant this glass had to last me all night, though with the man sitting across from me I could use the whole fucking bottle.

“I don’t owe you an explanation for what I am or am not doing.”

“You’re not going to deny it?”

“Again, I owe you nothing. Not an explanation, not a denial. Nothing. You’re clearly very intrigued by me and my happenings, since this is what?

The third time you’ve found a reason to talk to someone I was having dinner with?

” His jaw tightened, proving I had hit a nerve.

“And, really, I can’t blame you—I have a mirror, after all.

But just because you so desperately wish you were the one wining and dining me doesn’t mean you have to be a dick to me. ”

He opened his mouth to argue, probably to lie and tell me he wasn’t into me, but then Stephen returned, and his mouth shut.

He only stayed a few minutes after our talk, but it didn’t deter him from stopping by anytime he happened to be at the same place as me, chatting with my date and, if not taunting and prodding at me subtly, then completely ignoring me.

This, though, has never happened.

He’s never bumped into me and started a conversation when I was off the clock.

I’m startled when he pulls the chair next to me out and sits down, though I don’t bother to argue and tell him that it’s taken. If I’m being honest, I’m…intrigued by him.

“Seems a little insincere, doesn’t it? A pretty woman flirting with a man she has no interest in just to get a free drink and have some fun at his expense?”

I shake my head.

“If you’re trying to make me feel bad about conning him out of two hundred bucks, you’ve got the wrong woman, babe.

I don’t feel bad for a man who is clearly married and hitting on women at a bar.

And I definitely don’t let random assholes like you make me feel bad about any decisions I make in my life. ”

I can feel rather than see his gaze burning into me, and then I hear his laugh.

It’s even better than his voice, warming me like a shot on an empty stomach.

At the sound, I can’t help but turn fully to look at him.

The light shifts as he also moves to look at me, and I’m reminded once again that despite his horrific attitude, the man is hot.

He has a sharp jaw that I imagine is typically well groomed but now sports a thin layer of a five o’clock shadow, and thick, dark eyebrows that show off hazel eyes with thick lashes.

His dark brown hair is longer on top and neatly combed back like always, and like always, I feel the undeniable urge to muss it up.

He’s in what I assume is his daily work uniform of slacks and a button-up, the sleeves of which are rolled up to his elbows to reveal tanned, toned arms, a thin dusting of dark hair, and the very edge of a tattoo.

“You know, I think in an alternate universe, we could be friends. You with all that sass, absolutely no filter, and?—”

I cut him off before he can continue. “And you with your dry personality and clear obsession with me?”

He smiles again, and this time it’s more genuine, with all his straight white teeth and full lips.

“Yeah, something like that.” He looks me over, top to toe—or at least what he can see from where I’m sitting—and that smile goes lazy in a way I feel through my whole body.

I could convince myself it’s the two glasses of champagne, but I know in my gut it’s just him .

“How about a truce?” he asks, and I raise an eyebrow.

“A truce?”

“Yeah. We play nice for the length of a drink. But next time I see you out with some man twice your age, I’ll still stop by and attempt to irritate you.”

“I thought you were stopping by to say hello to colleagues and the like?” He turns to me a bit, just enough so the lights of the dimly lit bar hit his smile, and I jolt when heat runs through me.

Oh, god, this man is dangerous. Not because he clearly is an ass or is making assumptions about me, but because that smile could be absolutely catastrophic if used correctly.

“Watching you get pissed while I’m there is a nice perk.”

“I don’t get pissed,” I say quickly.

“Then nervous, maybe?” he asks, assessing, and I don’t like it.

Still, I deflect, my lips tipping a bit with a cocky smile that is more facade than anything, and give him a slight shake of my head.

“I definitely don’t get nervous.”

He holds my gaze for what feels like a long stretch of time, though I know it’s just seconds before he decides to let that one go.

“Clean slate,” he responds, putting out a hand to me. “Hi. Nice to meet you. I’m Rowan.”