Page 5 of Immortal Bastard

The heat in her belly faded as he continued to study her in a way that triggered an edge of uncertainty. His bright eyes hooded and shadowed as his condemning frown grew. Maybe she misread his interest.

She couldn’t recall ever finding a man so appealing that his opinion of her would carry so much weight. She didn’t like how much she wanted him to find her attractive. Since when was she desperate for other people’s approval?

“Your skin is…”

Great, another critic. She sighed and turned her attention back to the bar. If he wasn’t interested, why the hell did he interfere?

She sighed, irritated by her own desperate desire for a man’s approval. Shoving away her purely hormonal response to a good looking guy, she grabbed her phone. Okay, fine, he was a fucking god, but she didn’t like being attracted to someone who obviously disapproved of her. She spent enough time in her life being someone else’s regrettable circumstance.

She didn’t need judgement. She was just lonely and horny. There were way less complicated men around to help her remedy that.

Her drinks arrived just in time. Tossing a ten on the bar, she flung back the shot, swallowed the tart fiery liquid, and gave her Bettie Page-styled black hair a flip.

Time to move on.

Grabbing the pilsner of beer, she ignored Captain Yummy Pants and moved to find a new place to lurk. When he caught her wrist, the dark frothy beer sloshed and almost fell out of her hand.

Her glare narrowed on Mr. Mixed Message. Pretty or not, she wasn’t down for mind games. “Dude, did I give you the impression that you could touch me?”

He released her arm but the sensation of his firm grip remained. “I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

Her day had been too long to put in this sort of work. “It’s cool. I was leaving.”

He blocked her escape with his body, his broad shoulders sheltering her view. “Allow me to sit with you.”

The formality of his speech had to be the result of a language barrier. Was that German? He’d said he was originally from Portugal, but maybe he was an army brat who moved around a lot.

It didn’t matter anyway, since his initial interest now resonated like disdain. She was definitely attracted to him but also aware of the warning chill teasing up her spine.

Sometimes men wanted her but didn’t like her. Men often saw her as a Freudian rebellion that went against their mother’s version of the perfect woman. She could be that for them—she liked being the bad girl that unleashed a good boy’s fantasies—but not for a man like this. This guy was dangerous. The question was, how dangerous?

“What’s your deal?” she asked, point blank.

“You mistake my curiosity for criticism. I was merely taking in your beauty. Where I’m from, females don’t look like you.”

She frowned, unsure if she should be insulted. “And where is that?” His stilted English was decent enough that she believed he lived in America, just not from anywhere around here.

“I live somewhere very different from this city.”

Intrigue battled with warning bells. She wasn’t sure if he was giving who’s your daddy vibes or serial killer ones. When she fully met his mercurial stare, her heart slammed into an erratic tempo that jerked her whole system out of whack.

He held her eye contact and lifted a finger at the bar. The preoccupied bartender rushed over as if he was the most important customer there.

“What can I get you?”

Whoever he was, people obeyed his command without question. “Scotch,” he said, without taking his eyes off her.

Interesting.

He was very, ‘It was the butler in the study with the wrench’ sophisticated. Indisputable eloquence wrapped him in luxury, but his clothes were rather plain. Just black slacks and a button down, yet there was something seasoned about him. Classic. Monochromatic. Timeless. People eagerly obeyed him.

Was he a celebrity? Maybe the owner of the club? Everyone noticed him but no one had the balls to look directly at him. It was like he was used to hiding in plain sight. She needed more information.

“Soooo,” she said, swiveling on her stool. “You come here often?”

His stare dropped quickly to her breasts, almost dispassionately, as if he were disappointed, but determined all the same. The mixed signals were giving her whiplash. Was he interested or not?

He lowered to the stool, never taking his stare off of her. “You’re very interesting to me.”

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