Page 7 of Darkness Bound (Night Prowler 5)
Jacqueline sent Hawk a long, stony look. Then she said to the waitress, “Tell the handsome gentleman it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a shot of tequila.” Still holding his gaze, she grabbed the shot and downed it in one swallow.
The animal inside him growled in pleasure.
Red wanted to play . . . and she hated herself for it. Nothing like a little ambivalence to spice things up.
He crooked a finger at her. Come here. Jacqueline responded by chuffing a short, derisive laugh. She handed the shot glass back to the waitress, folded her arms across her chest, and pretended to study the hideous oil painting of a gaucho on horseback that was hanging on the wall above her booth.
The waitress turned and looked at him uncertainly. He nodded, letting her know it was okay, then gave a small jerk of his chin to summon her. She was there in an instant, breathlessly waiting for him to speak.
When he didn’t, she stammered, “The um . . . the girl . . . the lady said to tell you that she . . . uh . . . it was going to . . .”
“I got the gist of it,” he reassured her, “but thank you.”
The waitress glanced over at Jacqueline, then the band, which had segued into another number. “You heard that? Her table’s all the way over—”
“I’m just good at reading body language.” He leaned forward, stroking a finger up her arm. “Send two more shots over to her table, will you, beautiful? And keep them coming. She’s my boss, and I royally screwed up on the job today. I’m trying to get her drunk so she doesn’t have the energy to fire me.”
Hawk sent the waitress a conspiratorial smile, which she melted under.
“Oh—your boss!” Relief flashed in her eyes, followed quickly by shy self-consciousness. Then he couldn’t see her eyes at all because she lowered her lashes as a bloom of color spread across her cheeks.
Hawk felt a sudden rush of pity for this sweet, overworked waitress, past her prime and ignored by the men here because of it. She was lovely in her own way, maternal and a little old-fashioned, not flashy and brittle-hard like most of the women in the bar. If he didn’t have a job to do, he’d take her to bed and give her something to remember.
He reached into his wallet and pulled out a stack of bills. Her eyes widened as he pressed it into her hand.
“No, please, that’s too much—”
“It’s not even a drop in the ocean of what you’re worth, beautiful, but it’s all the cash I have on me.” He stood, leaned in, and brushed his lips across her cheek. Cupping the back of her neck in one hand, he said into her ear, “You’re sexy as hell, and don’t ever let any jerk tell you otherwise.” He pulled back and stared down into her wide eyes. Her mouth fell open. He said, “Do you understand me?”
Speechless, she nodded.
“Say it.”
She said faintly, “I understand.”
His brows lifted. Face flaming, she added, “Sir.”
He nodded, said, “Good girl,” and left her standing in shock at the bar, a wad of cash in one hand, the other braced for support on the stool he’d just deserted.
Jack watched him approach with equal parts dread and fascination.
She’d never seen anyone so primal. So magnetic. Like some elemental force, his presence dimmed everything around him as if he drew all the life and color from the room and absorbed it, appearing more vivid, more real and substantial in contrast. He wasn’t pretty, over-groomed and polished like so many of the men she knew in New York who had massages and mani-pedis and three-hundred-dollar haircuts. He was masculine in the best sense of the word, rugged and beautiful in his raw, unapologetic maleness.
This stranger named Hawk was, simply, devastating.
Unfortunately, he knew it.
He made his way through the crowded, smoky bar, seemingly oblivious to the craned necks, stares, and whispers that followed in his wake. He moved like wind over water, with a grace and lightness that was startling in one so large, and gave the impression he might at any moment shirk the bounds of gravity altogether and float above the floor. Even the men were affected by him, puffing out their chests and raising their chins, posing and strutting like peacocks, trying to compete.
As if a single one could. The instant she thought it, their eyes met. Another of his slow, lazy smiles lit his face.
To her horror, a flood of heat and moisture throbbed between her legs.
The urge to run away became almost overwhelming, but she steeled herself against it, because there was no way she was going to allow him—or her own traitorous body—to intimidate her.
He slid into the booth, taking a seat across from her, and stretched his long legs out and crossed them at the ankle, resting them on her side. This effectively blocked her exit. They stared at one another for a long moment in silence, sizing each other up.
As the band shifted into another song, Jack asked without an ounce of warmth, “You following me?”
