Into the Mist (Falcon Mercenary Group #1)

Into the Mist (Falcon Mercenary Group #1)
Maya Banks


Chapter One

She had the look of a woman on a mission. Eli Chance recognized a sexual predator when he saw one. And damn if he didn’t want to be her next victim.

He watched from his perch at the bar as she waded through the mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor. Music boomed and swelled, bouncing off the walls and shaking the room. The tight techno beat wielded a frenetic energy, reflected in the wildly rotating laser lights.

The popular Singapore nightclub sheltered a wide variety of people and types, from the very young—too young to be in a nightclub—to the not much older orange-haired, pierced, tattooed throwbacks to the eighties. Mixed in were the deadbeats, those who dealt in prostitution rings, gun running and drug dealing.

And yet, he’d bet his last dollar his mystery woman fell into none of those categories.

She paused on the outer rim of the dance floor, her gaze searching the crowd beyond. Then her eyes settled on him. She moved forward again, her long, dark hair sliding like silk over her shoulders.

Eli raised one brow. Was she looking for him? He held her gaze before allowing his to drop meaningfully down her body. The thin piece of material posing as her shirt was nothing more than a square of satin held together by two strings. One circling her neck and the other tied around her back just below her br**sts.

And very nice br**sts they were.

She wore jeans tight enough that he guessed it hadn’t been an easy task to put them on, but he appreciated the effort, because he simply knew her ass would be to die for. And he would get a glimpse before the night was over.

He moved down her shapely legs until he got to her feet. Lord have mercy, she wore combat boots. Color me in lust.

“Like what you see?”

He lifted his gaze back to her face. She was a mere foot away from him now, and he leaned forward, wanting to see the color of her eyes. All the damn flashing lights in this joint were about to make his head bust wide open, not to mention they were interfering with his perusal of the woman he planned to take home for the night.

She stared back at him unflinchingly. She raised one eyebrow in question.

“Yeah, I like,” he drawled.

She moved past him to the bar, and he was forced to turn sideways on his barstool. He pulled his head back to let his gaze wander down her backside. The “shirt” she wore had no back. It bared a tantalizing expanse of her skin. And her ass… Oh yeah, he liked very much.

She wasn’t all soft woman and curves. She had a lean muscle tone that bespoke of a rigid fitness regimen. Nice. He bet he could bounce a quarter off her abdomen. But her br**sts and ass? Just perfect. Just the right amount of soft and swell. He listened as she gave her drink order to the bartender, puzzling over her accent. It wasn’t one he could place, and he was an expert at languages. At first, he’d thought it sounded Eastern European, but she had hints of other places mixed in. A little American, a little French and maybe even a little Hispanic. A regular mutt.

He leaned in closer, not wanting to shout over the bellowing music. “Where are you from?”

She cocked her head sideways, her green eyes glowing from the florescent tube of lighting that ran the length of the bar.

“I’m from lots of places.”

Vague heifer. Ah well, it didn’t really matter. It wasn’t as though he was marrying her.

The bartender slid a shot glass toward her, and she curled her hand around it, raising it and throwing it back in one gulp. Eli liked a woman who could hold her liquor. Unless being sober was an impediment to him getting her into bed.

She turned around, resting her elbows against the bar as she gazed out at the sea of gyrating bodies. Then she slid him a sideways glance from narrowed eyes.

“Want to dance?” she asked.

Eli leaned back on his stool and let his eyes glide suggestively over her. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we ditch the dancing and hit the bed? My bed.”

She turned more fully to him, staring coolly.

“I said dance, pretty boy. Not f**k.”

He trailed a finger down a strand of hair hanging over her shoulder. “I may be a lot of things, but pretty I ain’t. Let me take you to bed, and I’ll show you. You look like a woman who likes it rough.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression indecipherable. Then she laughed.

She pushed away from the bar and walked, if you could call that come-and-get-me strut walking, toward the dance floor. She hooked one finger over her shoulder in a come-hither motion, but she never once looked back at him.

Hell. He didn’t dance. Dancing was for f**king pussies, but if she wanted to do some dirty dancing moves on him while he stood there, he certainly wouldn’t tell her no.

He followed her onto the floor, dodging hands and hips the entire way. She stopped in the middle and turned to face him. Game on.

He stood, legs apart, his arms folded across his midsection. It was her move.

She closed the distance between them, her hips swaying and those delectable br**sts straining at the thin material covering them. As she reached her arms up to twine around his neck, he moved his hands up her taut belly to cup her br**sts.

She tensed, and then as if willing herself to relax, slowly melted into his embrace. The night got more interesting all the time.

He bent his head, sliding his hands around to her back. When his lips were close to her ear, he asked, “What’s your name, sugar?”