On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)(56)

Blake rocked from his heels to the balls of his feet. Jason was already spoken for tonight. Now would be the time to walk away, go get a hotel room, and spend the evening reminding himself what a goddamned idiot he was for thinking this was a good idea.

Right then, Jason glanced his way, and did a double take. His eyes widened.

Beside him, the john turned, and seemed to home right in on Blake. His lips pulled across his teeth, and his eyebrows lowered enough to dare Blake to even think about interrupting.

Turn around.

Walk away.

Let it go.

But he didn’t. God knew how many breaches of protocol this was, but now that he was here, now that he was this close to Jason, Blake couldn’t make himself turn around and leave. Not until after he’d said his piece.

So with his heart in his throat, he started toward the booth.

Jason fidgeted. The john rolled his eyes. His arm moved, and Blake gritted his teeth as he realized the man’s hand was on Jason’s leg. Probably gripping it possessively. Moving a bit higher, maybe, to remind Jason that his dance card was already full.

When Blake was nearly at the table, Jason’s eyes darted toward the john, then up to him again, brow pinching. “Um, what are—?”

“Could I speak to you for a moment?”

Before Jason could answer, the john cleared his throat. He pushed his shoulders back beneath a Versace jacket that likely cost him thousands. “I do apologize,” he said in a terse English accent, “but this is a table for two.”

“Only for a minute.” Blake swallowed. “I . . . It’s kind of—”

A large, looming presence appeared beside him. Blake turned, and the American security guard eyed him. To Jason, he asked, “Everything all right over here?”

Jason nodded. “Yeah. It’s fine.” They exchanged a look, sharing something in the telepathy that had no doubt developed between protector and protected, and then the security guard slipped into the shadows.

Jason glanced back and forth between Blake and the john. Leaving this booth now could cost him a lot of potential earnings for the evening, yet he hadn’t dismissed Blake. Was it just professionalism? British politeness? Or was he willing to hear Blake out?

The john slid a little closer to Jason, hand still in Jason’s lap beneath the table, and glared up at Blake. “I’m sorry, but I’ve come here too many times looking for this lad in particular to give up this chance. So if you don’t mind . . .” He shooed Blake away with his free hand.

“And I just flew five thousand goddamned miles,” Blake said through his teeth. He shifted his gaze to Jason. “Whatever he’s paying, I’ll double it.”

Jason straightened. “I—”

“Double,” the other man said. “And I’ll add—”

“Triple.” Blake kept his attention fixed on Jason.

“This is getting out of hand.” Jason patted the air. “Gentlemen, there’s no need to—”

The john dropped a set of keys on the table. Gleaming in the light from the overhead lamp was an Audi logo. Jason’s eyebrows rose.

The john grinned. “Shall we, then?”

“No.” Blake pushed his sleeve back and unsnapped the clasp on his watch. Jason held his breath. So did Blake as he slid the watch over his hand. Heart thumping and stomach twisting, he carefully laid the gold Rolex on the table beside the keys.

Jason’s lips parted. He stared at the watch.

“It’s yours,” Blake whispered.

The john eyed the current bids. “Take the car and the money, and if you make it two nights, I’ll throw in—”

“I’ll give you my name.”

Jason’s head snapped toward Blake. “What?”

Blake swallowed. “I’ll give . . . I’ll give you my name.”

The john cleared his throat. “Well, I believe this negotiation has turned a bit rich for my blood.” He snatched the keys off the table, stood, and left.

Jason pursed his lips, watching his conquest for the night walk away. Then he met Blake’s gaze, his expression a mix of irritation, confusion, and . . . a dozen emotions Blake couldn’t quite read.

Breaking eye contact, Jason exhaled sharply. “We’re not doing this here.” Without waiting for a response, he picked up the watch, slid out of the booth, and started for the door.

And Blake followed him outside.





They went out the back, stepping into the alleyway where several expensive cars were parked beneath dim streetlights. A few drivers waited, leaning against car doors or propping newspapers up on steering wheels. Blake didn’t know if they gave him and Jason a second look, because he didn’t give them one. His focus was right where it had been for way too long—on the blond, leather-clad man he’d flown way too many hours to see.

Jason faced him, his expression unreadable. “What’s going on?”

“I . . .” Every explanation made sense in his head, but fell apart before it reached his tongue. There was no way he could tell him why he was here, what was going on, what he needed to say, without sounding crazy.

Because apparently I am crazy.

Jason’s features hardened. “Please tell me we’re not about to have the conversation I think we’re about to have.”