Page 40 of Beyond the Temptation: Vol 2

“Tough customer?”

I shrug. “Nothing I can’t handle, and you’re evading.”

Once again, he ensnares me with a pair of arctic eyes and a battle of wills. But instead of knocking me off balance, the charged silence gives me a chance to assess him. He’s definitely older, late thirties or maybe early forties. The subtle graying blond hair and lines webbing from the corners of his eyes paint a picture of experience and haunting loss.

This guy has seen some shit.

He’s not conventionally attractive, a trait both refreshing and telling. Perfection is just a beautiful mask. It’s a man’s flaws that speak his truth. Take the jagged scar running from the inside of his right eyebrow and down the bridge of his nose, for instance.

There’s a lot of truth buried in that scar.

I don’t know what he looked like as a young man, but something tells me he’s aged like a barrel of whiskey, smooth and complex, with a long-lasting flavor. Lascivious images flood my mind at that thought, sending a rush of heat between my legs.

Disoriented, I blink, breaking our staredown.

“Are you all right?”

For the first time, there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. Unfortunately, when I glance up, all I find is the same stoic stare and razor-thin lips.

I nod toward the stage where a club favorite coils around the pole like a boa constrictor. “Enjoying yourself?”

“I am not here to watch strippers,” he clips as if I’ve offended him. His face gives nothing away. No expression. No smile. If I didn’t see the man take a breath, I’d wonder if he was even real. And those eyes—cold, blue, and empty.

Mechanical.

Frozen.

Looking away, I swipe the bottle and continue pouring. “You got a name, Iceman?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Mik.”

I trace my teeth with my tongue and push the shot glass toward him. “Have a drink with me, Mik.”

He stares at the shot glass, his arms folded tightly across his chest. “I do not drink anything that is not bottled or canned.”

“Any specific reason?”

“Only a fool would drink the open liquid someone has given him.”

I trace the rim of my shot glass. “Paranoid much?”

“No, experienced much.” His narrowed gaze is sharp enough to draw blood.

Whoever “Mik” is, he came here with an agenda.

“Suit yourself.” I sip my drink, letting my gaze fall heavy.

He sits back in his chair, stroking the blond stubble on his face. “Do the owners usually allow their servers to drink on the clock?”

“I’m not a server.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “A dancer?”

“You could say that.” I could say a lot of things. Doesn’t make them true.

“Then do you not have somewhere to be? A dance to perform? Men to entertain?”

“Do you always do that?”

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