Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(46)

Then she begins walking away.

I reach out and seize her wrist with my free hand, faster than she expected, I think, and pull her back against me. I could hold her against me all night if I wanted to. “Where are you going?”

“You said you like watching me. So you can stand here and watch.” She slithers out of my grasp and carves a path through a group of bodies to an open area. She doesn’t care that she’s alone, as she begins to sway to the beat, in her own world. While I have no interest in dancing, watching her is more than enough to get my blood flowing, the pulse of the strobe lights that I normally hate making her simple movements more electric, more sexual.

I’m here to find incriminating evidence against Alliance, I remind myself. It’s so easy to forget that when I’m watching this creature, but I can’t let myself forget. I already expect Bentley’s call in the morning, and if I don’t have something to give him, those f*ckups are going to come in and wreck any chance I have with Ivy. When they don’t find the video in the house—because they won’t; I was thorough—what’s next? Will Bentley at some point decide that I’m not getting anywhere with Ivy and it’s their turn with her?

I don’t trust guys who are motivated by self-preservation. They’ll do anything to cover their asses. And I’m guessing in this case, “anything” could result in one of those low-key, coincidental deaths Bentley mentioned.

She’s lucky she has me here, then. Even though she has no clue.

I’m not the only one who’s interested in Ivy. A quick glance around this VIP area finds men and women alike sharing curious glances as she sways with perfect rhythm, her movements sleek yet graceful. There is something about this woman—a dangerous, unapproachable quality that I find alluring.

Two schmucks to my left elbow each other, each goading the other on. I wonder which poor sucker is going to make a move. It’s a meat market in here, and this crowd of late-twenties and up has come for one reason, and one reason only.

To get f*cked tonight, either by booze or bodies. Or both.

I’m not judging. As I watch her hips move, I know I’ll gladly take the latter.

I sense the waitress approach a second before her shouts catch my ear. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Jameson and Coke, and a straight Coke.” I never drink in these types of situations. It dulls the senses, which are already severely challenged in here.

“Anything else?” She bumps my biceps with her tray and she winks, her long eyelashes fluttering. I take quick inventory of what’s on offer—rows of cigars and cigarettes, which is amusing given you can’t smoke them in here; and a selection of Trojans in various varieties. I already know that I won’t need those if I go back to Ivy’s. She has a decent stash waiting. “Not for now. Thanks.”

The waitress disappears with a nod, and when she arrives moments later to deliver our order and settle up, Ivy magically reappears. “Thanks.” Her dark eyes settle on me as she sucks back her drink in a few gulps, leaving nothing but a pile of ice chips.

“Thirsty?”

“Very.” She eyes my glass. “What are you drinking?”

“Rum and Coke,” I lie, because I think she’s the type of woman to take my drink right out of my hand and devour it just to prove a point—that she can, and I’ll let her, because I want to f*ck her tonight, and she knows it.

And she’d be right.

But then she’d also know that I’m not drinking alcohol, even though I got her out under the guise that I was going to get drunk tonight.

Her face pinches up. “I hate rum.”

I know. That’s the beauty of doing my own recon. All those trivial, seemingly useless bits of information can come in handy. “Then I guess it’s a good thing this drink isn’t yours,” I say through a smile and a sip.

She hands me her empty glass and then struts back to her spot, the little game she’s playing with me becoming all the more obvious.

That’s fine. I’ll play, happily. As long as she doesn’t stoop to pitting me against any of these *s in here, because I don’t do well in those kinds of situations and, frankly, I’d be extremely disappointed in her.

Just in case, I do a quick scan of my “competition”—most of them Silicon Valley–type geeks, smart entrepreneurs who will probably make a ton of money and will use that to land themselves a hot wife.

The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly spike.

Someone’s watching me. I’m surprised my senses picked up on that, with all the distractions in here.

It’s not Ivy.

It’s not the horny cougars to my left.

It’s the guy to my right, whom I noticed standing on the other side earlier. He has shifted closer now. I keep sipping my drink, using the reflection in a mirror on a nearby wall to watch him alternate his attention between Ivy and me.

Wondering who I am, if we’re together, if she’s working for me maybe . . .

My gut says it’s all that and something else.

He’s military, even though there’s nothing about his outward appearance that would label him as that to an unsuspecting person. His dark cropped hair is gelled back, his black pants and black button-down and suit jacket stylish. Plenty of room to hide a piece under there, if he wanted to. Then again, my Beretta’s strapped to my ankle. It’s not hard to hide anything anywhere if you want.