Page 97 of Hunted

Olfaction.

Targeting sound, sight, and smell in tandem was usually enough to draw them in, under the guise that any further knowledge-seeking was their own idea and of their own volition. At least, in theory. I’d never tested it out in the field before.

I motioned to the bartender for another drink. While I waited, knowing my mark was watching, I crossed one sun-kissed leg over the other in a move that had the slit in my skirt falling open, exposing the bare expanse of my right thigh. I made no move to pick up the fabric, though, just curled my fingers around the flute stem of another mocking dose of champagne and tipped it back, too.

Might as well be a little inebriated before this next part.

I felt his eyes track the movement with predatory focus, confirming as much in my periphery. We were swiftly heading into Phase Two, and my heartbeat picked up, anxious at the knowledge of what was to come.

Since finding out about the hastiness of my first mission, Mercy, Ida, and I had undergone a crash course in Swallow training. And that training dictated we do three things on any given mission: lure, song, silence.

Lure them in, get them to sing, then—well, it didn’t take a genius to work out Phase Three.

It just so happened that sitting at a bar drinking champagne was a textbook execution of Phase One: Lure.

“Ensnare their senses, Sinclair,” Marie had drummed in. Yes—the very same Marie who took a sick sort of pleasure in stripping every errant hair from my body in as painful a way as possible. That Marie was also, somehow, the seduction instructor—though she was about as appealing as a barbed-wire anal plug. But she drilled routine into us so well in a single day that it was now second nature to glide through a semi-crowded hotel lounge at 9:02 p.m., be seated at the bar by 9:03, pretend to be waiting for someone who doesn’t show for the next twenty minutes, then ask for a drink and have it in hand by 9:25—all while angling my best side to my keen-eyed mark, who rose to his feet, buttoned his suit jacket, left his companions watching curiously, and perched on the conveniently empty stool beside me by 9:28.

Twenty-six minutes. That was all it took to complete Phase One.

Henry Lewis had taken the bait—hook, line, and sinker.

“Who was he?” fish boy asked, opening the conversation dancefloor with a leading question. “The poor chump who screwed his chances with you?”

I peered at him over the rim of my glass, taking another long sip before I replied. His eyes tracked every movement, homing in on the sweep of my tongue across my red-painted lip as it chased the errant drop of wine left behind.

“Who said anything about there being another poor chump?” I answered his question with a question, earning a quick scolding from the handler in my ear when I uttered the next part, raising my glass in a sarcastic salute. “There’s one already seated beside me.”

“Adelaide!”

But Lewis, living up to the mantle of the man I’d pegged him to be, curled his lips in a smooth grin and lifted his glass to clink against mine. “Touché, sweetheart.”

I barely concealed the stomach-churning disgust at his casual use of the term of endearment.

I bet he calls all the ladies sweetheart so he doesn’t have to bother remembering any of their names.

“I admire a woman with sharp wit”—he leaned in, reeking of cigar smoke and whisky—“and sharper words. My friends do, too. Would you care to join us? Maybe use that tongue of yours to put one or two of them in their place?”

He eyed me with all masculine ego and suave pride, picked up the fresh tumbler of whisky the bartender had wordlessly placed in front of him, and rose smoothly—waiting.

“Why not all three?” I murmured back.

“And that’s a go,” Van remarked, his tone emotionless and unaffected. And somehow that stung more than if he had been affected by the situation.

Brushing off the pang of hurt, I stood—more steady than I felt—and took Lewis’ proffered arm. He led me over to his lecherous circle of friends, eyeing me like I was a lamb being led to the proverbial slaughter.

Silly men—didn’t they know they were the lambs and I was the slaughter?

Lewis dropped into his previously vacated leather armchair, the one placed with its back to a wall so that he could keep watch over the whole room—and no one could sneak up on him from behind.

Clever man. But unfortunately, cleverness would only get him so far, since the real danger was staring him right in the eye.

Lewis, having no doubt already realised there were only four seats in this corner and five asses to fill them, smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes, though they did gleam for an entirely different reason. He leaned back, resting both arms on the armrests like a king on a throne—but not before patting his left leg in audacious invitation. Expecting me to sit like some obedient pup.

I’m no fucking dog, but I will bite.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stand,” I murmured, popping a hip and tossing my immaculate Hollywood waves over one shoulder—thank you, Gina.

“Look out, Boss, we got ourselves a live one,” one of his companions leered, extending his arms and grabby fingers out like he was about to wrench me down onto his own lap.