Page 1 of His Deadly Lies

1

MIA

There are plenty of places for a woman to hide a weapon in a skin-tight, low-cut dress. If she’s dedicated enough.

It always surprises me how many men don’t realize this simple fact.

The dress might leave little to the imagination, but that means nothing if she’s packing with intent.

“What do you say, baby?” The man sidles closer to me, his dark eyes lit with an inner fire that means one thing. He thinks he’s going to get some pussy tonight. “How about you and I go back to my yacht, and I’ll show you all the secret places?” He leans in closer, inches away from sliding his nose along my cheekbones, his hand creeping closer to my inner thigh.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. His yacht is a lie.

Everything about the picture he presents is a fucking fallacy.

Around us, the rest of the room is gilded in gold. Even the plants have been specially picked out to accentuate the lush fabrics, the ludicrously expensive decor. The chandeliers overhead are kept low, the light just enough to see the drink in front of you and your partner’s features without noticing the glaringly obvious details.

Like the weak chin.

Or the plugs along his hairline to match.

The man who grabbed the stool at my side is a guest I’ve never seen before, and he blows right past the line of propriety and respect and lands in my personal bubble as if he has a right to be there. “We can drink champagne and enjoy the night,” he cajoles. “Together.”

Two more lies.

Well, the second part won't be a lie. He’ll enjoy the night, surely, if I agree to leave with him.

I stare him down, expression neutral, even though I’m on high alert. Hyper-vigilant and doing my best to keep my hand from itching toward the dagger stashed on my person.

The champagne he offers would no doubt be stale, though, if he even has a bottle stashed away in whatever place he’s planning to take me. Plus, his micropenis barely shows an outline from where we sit on the barstool at my uncle’s club. He’s got it on full display, regardless.

Who gave this guy an invitation to the Vanguard? Who let him through the door?

My nerves are fucking shot and too raw for me to be bored or amused by the way he’s attempting to pick me up. If anything, I’ve shot straight past bored and amused into disgruntled and a little apprehensive.

Manners keep me from outright looking around the room for any reason to excuse myself.

But no.

Word hasn’t come in that the shipment has arrived. Without confirmation, I’m not allowed to leave and go home. I have to physically put eyes on the drugs for my father before the evening comes to an end.

I force a smile for the man in front of me and gain a little bit of distance by lifting my martini glass to my face and taking a long sip.

Waiting for the delivery means sitting at the bar and listening to these men with their stories, men who want to hit on me while I pretend I’m here to enjoy the atmosphere.

A yawn burns the back of my throat.

“I’ve seen yachts, and I’ve had good champagne,” I tell the leech, keeping my smile pinned in place. “I’ll pass. It’s a no from me.”

He presses closer yet before taking a chance, reaching out and twining one of my purposely loose curls around his fingers.

“Come on, Mia,” he coos. And suddenly, we’re on a first-name basis. Because he heard the bartender call me that.

Note to self: staff meeting.

“Say yes. Let’s play. You’ll have fun.”

One more move, one finger where it doesn’t belong, and I’ll take the cool steel strapped to my inner thigh, and I’ll show him how deadly serious I am when I say no.

---