Page 6 of Ruthless Touch

Soon, Daddy. Very, very soon.

I exhale a slow breath and sip on more of my black plum tonic.

It’s surreal being in the middle of a crowded club and being the only person on my own. Groups of friends rush up to the bar counter to place their drink orders, flush-faced and breathless from excitement. Strangers grind together on the dance floor, the seductive beat putting them under a trance.

My gaze combs the crowds and spots locals and tourists alike downing shots and cheering to the weekend.

Every so often a guy wanders up to flirt, then gets the hint I’m not interested when I barely give him a second glance.

They probably assume I’m some lonely woman coming out to meet people and make friends. I don’t give a damn either way.

It’s none of my business what other people think of me. It’s their right to judge me, just like it’s my right to ignore them and remain unbothered.

Also a reason why I’m not most people’s favorite person—an aloof, unapologetic woman who does what she wants and doesn’t seek approval naturally ruffles some feathers.

I’m casual studying the other patrons in the purple-tinted club, making mental notes of who comes and goes, subtly watching the entrance.

Two men walk in shoulder to shoulder and pause to do the same.

They stand back and take inventory of the club, likely scoping the place out for attractive women.

I take a gentle sip from the plum tonic and use the straw to mix the fruity chunks in the glass. My expression is neutral, my posture relaxed. I’m demure and mysterious, the only woman seated alone at the bar counter.

But I don’t let them know I saw them first—I let my gaze wander some more like I don’t feel their heavy stares.

The one on the left elbows the other, his lips moving. It’s dim in the club, and the neon-purple haze damn sure doesn’t help, but I can read his lips anyway.

She must be new to the area. She’s a tourist.

More like… she’s dangerous.

The corner of my lip quirks. I take another sip from my plum tonic, deciding at that moment to go ahead and throw them a curveball.

My gaze travels over to his, finally looking right at him.

Most people find prolonged eye contact uncomfortable, especially if it’s with a stranger. But I’m not most people. I openly stare at him the way he’s so brazenly watched me, though his instincts are spot on.

Iamdangerous.

My lashes flutter, and the come-hither smirk on my face renders them both speechless. I count the seconds in my head, casually placing my lips on the straw and taking a tiny sip.

Then I look away. I tear my gaze from his and pretend I’ve moved onto other things.

Other people.

Other men.

It takes exactly sixteen seconds for my magic to work. Seventeen seconds later, I see one of them out the corner of my eye.

He’s weaving his way through the crowded club, forging a path to me.

I wait until he’s about five feet away before chancing another glance.

The friend has come over. He swaggers toward me with a broad grin on his face and the kind of brash confidence you’d have if you owned the whole club.

It’s no surprise—you’d have to be confident and a little delusional to wear a lime-green windbreaker and army cargo pants with high-top sneakers and a cross dangling from your left ear.

Not who I hoped for, but I keep my cool anyway, innocently sipping from my tonic.