“May I buy you a drink?” I purred in my best sexy voice when I reached him.
Clint turned his head and gave me the once over. His smouldering gaze assessed and dismissed me in seconds. “I prefer blondes.”
Of course you do. With jet black hair, gray eyes and a skin tone hinting of a biracial background, I’d look ridiculous as a blonde. Wrong colouring. A lesser woman would’ve been discouraged by Clint’s lack of enthusiasm, but not me. I wanted this over. Pushing my lips out into a pout, I played with a strand of my hair. “I’ll cure you of your blonde addiction.”
Gorgeous shoulders shook as he chuckled. “Glenfiddich,” he said. “Neat.”
Good choice. Thankful my so-called-charm worked, I nodded at the hovering bartender and held up two fingers. “I’m Andy.”
Clint grunted in response. I took a gamble approaching him, but after spending the last hour across the bar trying to lure him to me, I had to accept my attempts at body posturing and hair flipping had failed to capture his attention.
The bartender placed the whiskeys on the bar and I stepped over to slip him some cash and grab the drinks. When I eased passed the guards, the urge to hip check the ones standing in my way rose up. It would be so easy. Their norm scents swirled around me, bolstering my confidence that this would be a simple hit. It better be. Tonight was my deadline. No one missed an SRD deadline.
I sidled over and gave Clint his drink. He dipped his chin and clinked my glass.
“Boys night out?” I nodded at the guards. They surrounded me and Clint, rigid and stiff, moving only their eyes to track the flitting patrons of the club. They failed miserably at looking casual.
Clint appraised my cleavage before answering. “You could say that.”
“Are you from around here?” Small talk was not my thing. No need or desire to get to know my targets. The less I knew the better. I hoped Clint would take the bait quickly and ask me to go upstairs to his room.
Clint’s eyes narrowed. Crap. Did he glimpse my motives? He swallowed the amber fluid slowly. “Are you?” he asked.
“It’s my sister’s wedding this weekend.” The whiskey burned down my throat as I sipped it.
His eyebrows rose and he looked around. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be obnoxiously drunk trying to stuff dollar bills down some man’s thong?”
I smiled. “Strippers are tomorrow. Tonight, the bridal party is tying bows around useless gifts most guests will throw away.”
“And you’re missing out on that?”
“It’s not my thing.”
“Tying bows?”
“The whole wedding thing.” I looked at him through my lashes and dropped my voice. “It’s not what I want.”
He hesitated. His gaze took another look at my breasts and then he leaned in. “And what do you want?”
“I thought that would be obvious.” My attention dropped to the area below his belt and lingered. Guys always liked it when they thought I checked out their package.
Clint reached out slowly and brushed a finger down my cheek, trailing it along my jawline and then the side of my neck. All the while his gaze focused on my face. Like he could look inside my head, find one of those colourful cubes, and solve it. Despite his handsome features and strong stature, my skin wanted to crawl away from his touch. I sucked the nausea down. I had an act to follow and this guy would be dead soon.
“Such beautiful skin,” he murmured. His finger slipped down my chest until it reached the top of my dress. He followed the neckline, making a path to my cleavage. “Flawless.” He hooked his finger into the dip between my breasts and tugged on the cloth.
I stepped closer and angled my face up. “It bruises easily.” My voice came out ragged and breathy, as intended. Should’ve been an actress.
Clint’s face darkened and his mouth slowly lengthened into a lascivious smile. I’d seen the bruised flesh of the blonde bimbos he preferred. His needs were not a secret.
“Did you have something in mind?” he asked. Taking both our drinks away, he placed them on a nearby table. His hands slid to my waist, anchoring me in front of him.
I leaned up and nipped his jaw, close to his ear. “I’m done talking.”
His chest rumbled. He looked over my shoulder to the guards. “I’ll be upstairs,” he said.
“Maybe you should wait for Wick,” one of the guards replied, his voice a deep monotone.
I frowned into Clint’s chest. This Wick didn’t sound like someone I wanted to wait for. Cupping Clint’s groin, I whispered, “I don’t want to wait.”
Clint chuckled. “Three’s a crowd,” he said to the guard. “I’ll be upstairs.” He took my arm and led me to the elevator.