Page 130 of Things We Left Behind

Nolan nodded. “I’ll have one of our guys or gals pay Metzer’s family a visit and see if they remember him. Maybe Metzer told one of them something about the prick.”

“Do it.”

There was another burst of merriment, accompanied by a flash of blond. This one did have green eyes and glasses. Sloane Walton in bloody murder red was in the center of a circle of men vying for her attention. Every muscle in my body went rigid. The erection I’d almost willed away was back in full force.

“Of all the hotels in all the capitals,” Nolan muttered. “You want me to stick around and make sure you don’t need help disposing of a bunch of bodies?”

“No. Go away.”

“I’ll have Petula ready with bail money,” he said, putting his empty glass on the bar and tossing me a salute.

I was already on the move, the gravitational force of Sloane pulling me across the bar like it was an inevitable event.

Every step that brought me closer made me angrier, more frustrated. I didn’t want to want her, but I didn’t want anyone else wanting her either. Wading my way through her admirers set my teeth on edge. She was sitting on a bar stool in a dress and lipstick that arrested the attention of any red-­blooded male within a thirty-­foot radius.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded crisply.

She tilted her head back to look up at me as I loomed over her. Those red lips pinched into a disapproving frown. “Oh, no. Not today, Satan.”

“Can I buy you another drink?” the guy on her right asked, trying to reclaim her attention.

“No, you can’t. Go home,” I snapped.

Sloane bared her teeth at me before turning to the moron hoping to get lucky. “Don’t listen to him. He’s permanently insufferable,” she said, laying her hand on his sleeve.

Two of the younger men behind her were whispering. I heard my name mentioned.

Good. The sooner this flock of idiots realized who I was and that I didn’t want them anywhere near her, the better.

“Uh, it was nice to meet you, Sloane,” the blond one with too many teeth said, shooting me a nervous glance.

“Yeah, we have to…uh…” His friend in too-­tight Hugo Boss hooked a thumb toward the door.

“Go,” I snarled.

Most of the crowd scampered off like half-­terrified squirrels.

“What is your problem, Lucifer?” Sloane demanded.

“The answer is always you.”

She slid off her stool and marched up to me. “I have an idea. Why don’t you go fuck yourself and leave me alone with…what was your name again?” she asked, looking toward the man who obviously didn’t know any better.

“Porter,” he said with a thick Southern accent.

Porter. I rolled my eyes. He was too eager, too “aw shucks, ma’am.” And I hated the fact that he made Sloane smile.

“I’ll make you a deal, Porter. I’ll pay your bar tab—­includingthe drinks you’ve already bought my wife—­if you leave in the next ten seconds.”

“Y-­your wife?” he sputtered.

“I’m going to murder you with an olive skewer,” Sloane hissed.

Maybe I couldn’t make her smile, butIwas the one who made the color rise in those smooth cheeks.Iwas the one who started the emerald fire in her eyes.

Porter held up both palms and took a self-­preserving step back. “I’m so sorry, man. I had no idea.” His eyes darted back to the impressive cleavage on display above the square neckline of Sloane’s dress. “Uh, if it doesn’t work out, you go on and give me a call.”

The power of the woman’s draw was enough to override any instincts for self-­preservation. I knew the feeling.