Page 60 of Red Fury
Maybe it’s a human thing. Maybe their women find it attractive.
I don’t!
“What’s a beautiful woman like you doing alone in a place like this?” he asks.
I have to work not to roll my eyes.
Surely, he can do better than that? Then again, I’m sure human females fall over themselves for a male like this. He is a good specimen, for a human. He probably doesn’t have to work hard to pick someone up.
I take another sip of my drink, using the moment to study his face. He’s handsome, I’ll give him that. The kind of masculine good looks that belong on magazine covers. Several women in the crowd are staring at him with obvious interest.
“I’m meeting friends,” I lie smoothly. Although it isn’t a complete lie.
“Would you mind if I kept you company while you wait?” He gestures toward my drink. He clicks his fingers at the barman, who nods.
What the hell was that?
I lift my cocktail in a mock toast. “Thank you for this, but I’d prefer to wait alone.”
That’s when I look up and see them. I spot Webb’s familiar profile. Thompson is beside him, and even from this distance, I can make out Fury’s huge form.
They are on what appears to be an upper level and they’re seated at a prime table with an excellent view of the main floor.
The man beside me follows my gaze, a knowing smile spreading across his face. “That’s the VIP section.”
I do a quick scan of the area and realize that it’s only accessible by a private elevator.
I nod, noting the pair of massive bouncers flanking the elevator entrance. Getting up there is going to be a problem.
“Who gets admitted to that section?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “Looks like it might be fun.” I give a shrug.
His smile widens, and something about his eyes seems to shift, becoming lighter somehow. “It’s by invitation only.”
“Oh…interesting. And how does one get such an invitation?”
Arghhhhh!
How the hell did they get so lucky?
I was hoping to observe them without giving my presence away. But…I need to get closer in order to do that.
He runs his hand over his lightly stubbled jaw. “The owner of the club needs to invite them up. It’s the only way.” He gives a one-shouldered shrug.
I take another sip of my drink, my mind racing.
“Crap,” I mutter, more to myself.
He chuckles, a rich sound that somehow makes me more nervous than I already am. “You’re in luck, though.”
I give him a skeptical look, expecting some cheesy pickup line about how he knows people or can pull strings.
“Why is that?” I frown.
He extends his hand toward me, and when he speaks, I catch the barest hint of an accent I hadn’t noticed before.
“Because I’m Roman Kozlov, and I own this club. If you tell me your name and agree to a drink, I might just extend an invitation.” He smiles.
Just then, the barman puts down a crystal tumbler with what looks like a double shot of whisky inside it. “There you go, Mr. Kozlov, sir.”
