Page 2 of His Deadly Lies

“I’m not going home with you.” I show him teeth. “End of discussion.”

I raise a perfectly manicured hand to let the bartender know I'm ready for my second martini. If I have to be here, then I’m sure as hell going to enjoy another drink while I wait. It all goes on Uncle Henry’s tab anyway.

Rather, he wipes my own tab clean at the end of the night.

Nothing like family.

Where the hell is the shipment?

How much time do I have to waste before my father is satisfied?

Like you have anything better to do?

The small, cruel voice in my head is still my own, and it’s right.

“Who said anything about going home?” the man says. His fingers twitch, switching from my leg to trace my bare arm. “We’re going to my yacht. Have you ever fucked on open water? It’s fantastic.”

Okay, I’ve had enough.

Lifting my leg, his attention drops to the creamy length of thigh showing from the slit in my black dress. He’s distracted enough that I can reach for the holster and slide the blade free, bringing the tip to his balls in his next breath without him noticing.

The dots have not connected for him yet.

They sure do when I dig the tip into the soft meat of those danglers, and his eyes go wide.

“Whoa, whoa! Psycho b-bitch,” he stammers, suddenly scared shitless. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“No means no.” I say it slowly for his benefit, and my smile warms. “Repeat it for me.”

He’s silent for a moment before I dig the knife deeper yet, and he lets out a strangled groan of pain. “N-no means no.”

“Very good,” I coo.

Appearances are everything for people in my position. But so is self-defense. I’d be a piss-poor heir if I let scum like this guy manipulate and maneuver me.

“Besides, the grime underneath your fingernails is too thick for you to be wealthy. It’s a clear indication you don’t take the time to care for yourself.” My eyes drop to his hands. “You may work for your boss on his yacht, but the champagne you claim to have would not be yours. It would be his. Or it would be old. Not nearly what it would take to woo me.” I purposely lower my gaze to his crotch and angle the knife into his sac until he gasps. “And I hardly think the few inches you’re packing will do anything for me other than make me angry. And I’m already pissed off.”

Losing my cool won’t do any good. It will lead to a verbal tongue-lashing in the privacy of Papa’s office and a harsh, potentially even painful reminder not to pull these kinds of stunts. Definitely not where people can see me.

Appearances are everything.

And there’s no escape.

I slice the knife down toward his taint for spite, and tears prick the corners of his eyes. Shit, I haven’t even cut through fabric yet. Why is he crying?

“Don’t hit on another fucking woman on your way out, or I’ll know,” I tell him in an undertone. “Trust me.”

The man is so surprised by the knife pull and the near castration that he falls backward off the bar stool. All eyes in the room turn in his direction at the noise, the disruption, and the already hushed conversation drops to a silence where the scurrying of a mouse is as loud as a gunshot.

“You’re a fucking psycho!” He lands that one departing shot before he scrambles to his feet and sprints toward the front door.

Heartbeats later, the bartender drops a perfectly made martini in a chilled glass in front of me. “That’s the second one this month, Miss Balestra,” the woman says from behind the bar. “I’m not sure why the scumbags are attracted to you or how you manage to put them in their place so quickly, but man. It’s fascinating to watch.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” I tilt back the martini and take a sip.

Yes. Perfection. Shit, she’s good. This is almost enough for me to forgive her for the first name slip earlier.

“I don’t know how you weed them out so fast. It’s a gift.”

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