“I do like a challenge,” Ethan said, allowing himself to turn his full attention to Natalia Vega. Something about the woman invited his interest, tempted him to live dangerously. With Ana Maria, he’d wanted to set her at ease, keep things light and comfortable. Everything about her had been soft and sweet and open. But with Natalia, Ethan wanted to slip past that stern expression and rev things up until she had to let her foot off the brake and let go of all that pent-up control. This wasn’t a woman who’d be felled with pretty words or casual compliments. Everything from the set of her jaw to the full pout of her lips said she recognized bullshit when she heard it and a player when she saw him.
Good. He’d been looking for someone shrewd. Someone who could divest him of the lies he wore.
He just hadn’t expected to want to divest her of everything from clothes to inhibitions in return.
“Excuse me?” Natalia’s eyes flashed and her lips thinned. Someone didn’t like to be teased or taunted.
Only made Ethan want to do it more.
“Your sister. She said you’d be a challenge.” He set his palms against the edge of the counter and beat back the ruthless, primal pleasure that coursed through him when Natalia’s gaze lingered on the flexing muscles of his forearm.
“I’m not interested in your cheap party tricks that wouldn’t work on the dumbest sorority girl—”
“On behalf of the girls at Penn, I’m insulted.”
Natalia continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “And I don’t care if you like a challenge—so long as you understand my sister isn’t one.”
“No?” Ethan asked, stepping back and wiping his hands on a fresh towel.
“No.”
“But does she agree with you?” he asked, pushing, if only to see how she’d react. No question, the sisters were close. But was that a source of strength or weakness where Natalia was concerned? Both, he’d wager. “Ana Maria is a grown woman. Perhaps she’s looking for a challenge of her own.”
“You have a high opinion of yourself, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Ethan,” he corrected, rinsing out the stainless-steel tumbler he’d used to make the martini. “Are you implying that I’m easy?”
Natalia raked him with a scathing glance that said she’d sized him up the moment they’d met—and was uniformly unimpressed. “In my experience, most men are. Particularly when there’s a beautiful woman involved.”
“Ouch.”
“You deny it?” she asked, her lips quirking up into a biting smile, even as her tone dared him to challenge her.
“That your sister is a beautiful, charming woman who could likely have her choice of men?” He wiped his hands on a fresh dish towel, then set it aside. “No. Not at all.”
“And what do you intend to do about that?”
“Nothing.”
Natalia scoffed.
“You don’t believe me?” he asked, oddly annoyed with the reality that she shouldn’t. He was, after all, lying to her about his name. And would continue to lie to her about that and just about anything else that served his best interests. It shouldn’t have bothered him—he’d known what he was signing up for—but it did.
“I don’t know you.”
“I’m afraid your charming lines and attractive smiles are wasted on me, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Ethan.” He didn’t like the way Sullivan slipped like snake oil from her full, tempting lips. “And that’s all right—I’m more than happy to be the recipient of yours. Tell me,” he said, leaning close over the wooden top that separated them, “what else of mine do you find attractive?”
Natalia rolled her eyes on a huff and pushed away from the bar. “Stay away from my sister and we won’t have any problems.” She turned to go, but Ethan caught her wrist before she could escape.
For a long moment, nothing happened. As if time and the universe were all on his side, Ethan held Natalia in the moment of first contact but experienced it in pieces that allowed him to commit each detail to memory.
Still, contained, neither fight nor flight kicked in, and Natalia allowed herself to linger in his grasp. The skin beneath Ethan’s fingers was warm and smooth and so tantalizingly soft. Were the circumstances different, were they alone, had a bar not separated them, were Natalia not a goddamn person of interest in a high-stakes investigation, Ethan might have pulled her close, crowded her in against his body, and waited. For her to breathe, to move, to fight or succumb.
Her choice. It would always be her choice. But fuck, he wanted her to make it. There was a fire there, banked but burning, just waiting for the right moment to combust.
As it was, he allowed himself to luxuriate in the way her muscles—firm and strong—bunched beneath his hand even as her pulse beat against his palm. When Natalia turned, stared first at where he’d had the audacity to restrain her, then lifted her gaze to his, Ethan was struck by the contradictions laced through her body and written across her face.
Anger and desire.
Scorn and interest.
Predator and prey.
A confusing, if potent, cocktail of contradictions that set Ethan’s heart racing and his body tightening.
One of the most basic battles waged across her face as she studied him. Stay or go. And as her expression smoothed over and her body relaxed, Ethan realized he’d been played. She’d baited him. Challenged and dismissed him. Then turned to walk away . . . except now it was clear she’d expected him to stop her. But he didn’t think she’d expected to want him to, or to react to his touch. Knowing desire had snared her as surely as it had him soothed his ego.
A little, at least.
“I promised you a drink,” he offered, when the moment stretched beyond what either of them could afford. “If nothing else, I’m a man of my word,” he said, the statement measured and poured in exacting increments. A declaration of truth he hadn’t intended to serve up quite so soon. And yet, it bothered him, the idea that Natalia might dismiss him. Might write him off as the ego he’d projected for most of the evening.
He dropped her wrist.
“Let me guess . . . Cosmo?” He quirked his lips as she rolled her eyes but fought a smile.
“I strike you as someone who indulges in froufrou cotton-candy drinks?”
Not even a little bit. “As you said, we don’t know each other.” He had her curiosity, if nothing else. Who was this woman? What drove her? There’d been little in the way of public record, though Parker had dug through an extensive array of databases. But it was almost as if, at seventeen, Natalia Vega had simply ceased to exist. It was one of the reasons the program had favored Ana Maria as the likely informant. There simply wasn’t much of anything to find where Natalia was concerned. All the information, impressive though it had been, concerned a teenager who’d disappeared from public record and public life for nearly a decade.
But Ethan knew better than anyone that little to find did not mean little to know. There were hidden depths to this woman, interesting layers he doubted many people bothered to see or explore. But then, Ethan had never been one to settle for the easy or obvious answer.
“I’m beginning to see why you left bartending for accounting,” she said, sliding onto a high-backed red leather stool and tucking her legs up under the bar. “Tell me, Mr. Sullivan, did you assume that a single drink and a charming smile would keep your tip jar full and your bed warm? Or are you just like every other accountant I’ve met—good with numbers but terrible with people?”
“So I’m either lazy or predictable? You’re doing wonders for my ego,” he said, reaching for two short bottom-heavy glasses even as he ran through a catalog of drinks. She could make fun all she wanted, but people were reflected in the choices they made. Even in simple ones, like the cocktails they favored. “And I’ve asked you repeatedly to call me Ethan.”
“Yes, you have.” Her eyes flashed amusement, and too late, Ethan realized he’d tipped his hand. He wanted her to use his name. To hear it fall from her lips. To taste it on her tongue. And now she knew it, too. Out of spite, or amusement, or simply because she enjoyed the power of having something he wanted, Natalia denied him.
And unless or until he could surprise or impress her, she was going to hold her ground.
Finally, a challenge.
“As I make it a point to avoid becoming both lazy and predictable, I’ll have to step up my game.” Ethan studied her, wondering how often Natalia indulged in anything fun or frivolous. “No Cosmos, which probably rules out lemon drops and appletinis.” No, nothing fun or flirty or with sugar lacing the rim. Nothing she’d have picked up in a college bar or on the arm of some trust-fund brat who thought money could buy taste.
He didn’t yet know what or who Natalia was, but everything she wasn’t became clearer by the second.
“Your deductive powers are truly astonishing.”
“Thank you.” He nodded and continued as if she wasn’t tossing insults as freely as he assigned physical training. Still baiting him, he concluded, mildly annoyed she’d so effectively caught his interest. Yes, he wanted to talk to her. And yes, he was interested in ways he hadn’t anticipated. But she didn’t have to be so damn aware of it. “I’d say a glass of wine, but we aren’t at dinner, and you don’t strike me as the sort to lounge in bubble baths with a buttery chardonnay and the latest book-club pick.”
“Too many large words?” she asked sweetly.
Of all the self-deprecating conclusions she could have jumped to, she’d gone straight to stupid. Insecurity or confidence? The latter, if he had to make a guess. Early school records had revealed Natalia Vega as both determined and intelligent. The sort of grades that reflected a dedicated student and a curious mind, rather than a God-given brilliance.
Ethan knew as well as anyone that talent was wasted without hard work, and if he had to choose one over the other, a strong work ethic won every single time.
“Only an exceptionally stupid man would presume beauty and brains to be mutually exclusive.” He laid the glasses on the bar and draped a napkin over the top of each.
“I thought we agreed my sister wasn’t a topic of interest where you’re concerned, Mr. Sullivan.” Her eyes went sharp and her tone flat, her hostility returning in a rush that stole something open and honest from her expression.
“I’m not talking about Ana Maria.”
The edge of surprise, there and gone in a second, snagged Natalia’s otherwise-composed expression. Ethan still saw it in the way her throat worked as she swallowed, in the way her shoulders came back and her chin tipped up. Almost immediately, she reined herself in, adjusted her appearance to something bland and unimpressed, and said, “Flattery. How predictable.”
“Can’t have that,” Ethan agreed. This wasn’t the time or place to discuss the merits of Natalia’s beauty, though part of him wanted to. From the moment they’d met, she’d used the long stretch of her caramel-colored skin and endless, sloping curves to command his attention and challenge his focus. That it hadn’t been a calculated attempt at misdirection baffled him almost as much as it aroused him.
Whatever else she was, Natalia was not a woman who’d deny herself an advantage.
Again, the need to know her, to peel away the layers until she was utterly bare before him, struck hard and fast. Time to see how much of the picture he’d managed to put together.
“Club soda with a twist,” he announced, watching as Natalia sat a little straighter. “That’s your drink of choice.”
Her lips parted, and she sat back.
“Neither classy nor surprising. How boring of me,” she said, watching him for a reaction. He’d made a point of turning Ana Maria’s drink into a compliment; no doubt Natalia expected him to attempt the same with her. Tempting, but no. Surprising her was much more fun and far more revealing. She didn’t often let an expression slip that she hadn’t tried on a thousand times before, perfecting the lie until she wore it like a truth, but every time he got close, every time he acknowledged something she hid well or others dismissed, he caught the edge of something real and open and beautiful.
“Some would agree with you,” he said, rooting around behind the bar for the sugar cubes. When he found the tray, he plucked two Demerara squares the color of Natalia’s eyes and set them on top of the napkins.
“Tasteless,” Natalia agreed, drawing her index finger along the wood grain of the bar, then tracing a knot in a simple, arcing swipe that had Ethan swallowing hard. “Controlled. Invisible. Immune to a good time.”
“For someone who takes things at face value, yes.” He was still pulling the pieces together, still figuring out who and what the enigma before him was, but he was damn sure that even if she believed she was all those things, she was wrong. That she was hiding behind who she had to be, which made Ethan wonder who she wanted to be.
What had happened to her at seventeen? After her father’s death and her virtual disappearance? Who was she before, and who had she become?
“But not you?” Smug expectation looked good on her, but like everything else she wore, he was determined to strip it away.
“Not me,” he agreed, twisting the lid off the bitters and shaking out six or seven drops to soak each cube. “If I saw you, in that dress, in this place, surrounded by men in thousand-dollar suits with hundred-dollar haircuts, sipping on a club soda and lime, I’d be captivated.”
“By club soda?” She arched one thick, curving eyebrow.
“By the mystery of the woman drinking it. Because yes, it looks like a club soda with lime, but it could be a vodka tonic. Or a gin and tonic. A glance won’t tell you. You’ve got to get close . . .” He snatched away the napkins so the soaked sugar landed in the bottom of each glass. Leaning in, he said, “You’ve got to take your time, then steal a taste. A woman drinking a club soda and lime? She’s not easy. Not looking for a casual hookup or an anonymous encounter. She’s too purposeful, too driven for that. She’s work, and that scares men off.”
“But not you,” Natalia repeated, though this time her words were thick and slow and heavy. An unwitting seduction in place of her calculated flirtation. It drew him in just the same.
“I like a challenge, Natalia. A little mystery.” He pulled back, retrieved a muddler, and set to work pulverizing the sugar in quick, efficient motions. “You’re an overprotective sister, suspicious of others and cautious—so very cautious—but any man who thinks that’s the extent of who you are? He’s not paying attention.” Satisfied, Ethan poured two measures of whiskey, deftly dropping them into each glass. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Natalia Vega, and to a man like me, that might as well be foreplay.” He handed her a lemon and paring knife as he took an orange for himself. “Give me a hand here?”
She accepted both and settled in to remove the rind. “Yet you’re not making a club soda and lime,” she said, nodding to the glasses of whiskey on the bar.
“No, I’m not. But I’m hoping to tempt you, anyway.” He twisted the orange rinds, running the bright side along the rim of each glass, then garnished the edge with the twist he’d made.
“Your preferred drink?” she asked, her knife turning graceful arcs around the lemon she held.
“When I’m drinking, yes.” He pulled a tray of perfectly cubed ice from the fridge to his right and set three in each glass.
“You know, Mr. Sullivan, the thing about bartenders is that they’re full of lines and fancy drinks, and, the good ones, at least, are full of shit, too.”
Ethan pushed away from the bar but bit off a laugh. Feisty, this one. And direct when she wanted to be. “Am I?”
She lifted the glass he pushed toward her and took a sip, her eyes closing on a sigh he was almost certain had been manufactured to stroke his ego. She swallowed, set the glass down, then met his gaze head-on.
“This isn’t your drink any more than it’s mine,” she said, drawing her finger along the rim of the glass. “Oh, I’m sure you order it often enough. When you’re surrounded by men in thousand-dollar suits with hundred-dollar haircuts.” Her smile unfurled, wide and sharp and predatory. “A cultured, refined classic for a man pretending he’s both.”
“Turning the tables, Miss Vega?”
“It’s only fair,” she said, lifting one exposed shoulder in a casual shrug.
“Then, by all means, proceed. I’m dying to know just what you’ve made of me.”
She slid from her stool, standing straight and tall, though she let her fingers curl around the glass he’d given her. “You’ll order an old-fashioned when the situation calls for it—in the company of people privileged enough to judge their peers by something so frivolous as the clothes they wear or the drink they order.”
Ethan kept his wince back, but only barely. She couldn’t know just how close that blow had landed, how many embassy parties he’d attended where those judgments had been passed around like party favors.
“You find a usefulness in the steps of creating the cocktail. It isn’t hard, but it looks impressive, and you’ve learned that with most people, looks are all that matters. But you don’t actually care for the routine. It’s there in the way you muddle the sugar with jerking, impatient motions. In the way that your citrus curl was just a short, thin scrape of orange peel. Perfunctory. Sufficient.”
She held up the perfect, endless spiral of lemon she’d cut at his behest, which he’d completely forgotten about. “Artistry isn’t important to you, which means you don’t hold any real affection for the drink itself.”
Ethan grinned, caught in the lie but not sorry for it. Every word from Natalia’s mouth was a damnation, but a revelation as well. He’d have to watch himself around her, because this one? This one was cut sharper than his combat knife.
“So if not this?” he asked, wondering what she’d decided.
“Something simple. No muss, no fuss. The only prep required is a handful of ice, and even that’s negotiable.” She smiled at him, a little patronizing, a lot wicked, and 100 percent aware of how she held his attention. “I certainly hope you’re not so . . . cursory in all aspects of your life.” She tapped her lips with her index finger when he scowled. He’d never had any complaints. “I suppose time will tell.”
“Are you hitting on me, Miss Vega?”
She smiled at him, the tilt of her mouth secretive and smug and a little bit condescending.
“I’m told accounting is a detail-oriented profession, Mr. Sullivan. One that requires intense focus and complete devotion to each and every detail. I certainly hope you’re up to the task.”
“I don’t do anything by halves,” he said, helpless to do much more than watch the way her mouth moved as she mocked him. “Rest assured, when I turn my attention to something, I take note of each and every detail. Study it. Catalog it. Commit it to memory.” She didn’t blush or sigh or even go tense and uncomfortable. But her bottom lip dropped ever so slightly, and her eyes went warm and molten and dark. It was Ethan’s turn to grin. “When I spread the ledgers, nothing—no matter how small or hidden or secret—goes overlooked. But please, feel free to provide a detailed review of my work.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, pulling away from him.
They’d played this round to a draw, it would seem. Disappointed, he watched as she withdrew into herself, dismissing her own attraction as easily as if it had meant nothing at all to her. It made him wonder what she was after. If it was satisfaction. Or pleasure. Or even just the sweet taste of victory over a man who’d challenged her. Ethan was confident enough in his assessment and in his gut reactions to believe that her interest and attraction had been real rather than manufactured. But he was also sure that it had caught her by surprise. She’d said all the right things, played him as if she’d known him for far longer than a cocktail party, and yet she hadn’t followed through.
Practiced and confident yet caught off guard and flustered. It was an odd combination with few easy answers or ready explanations.
“If you’re sure,” he said, wanting to leave the door open but unwilling to push when he couldn’t be sure what he was pushing her toward.
“As to your drink?” she said, the ghost of a smile returning to her lips as she picked up the thread of their previous conversation. “Imported scotch, I think, when you’re feeling indulgent or hosting close, personal friends. But when you’re on your own, when there’s no one to charm or influence or impress? Whiskey. American and neat.”
Ethan pulled a rough breath in through his nose and forced himself to remember where he was and who he was with. What had started as a game had suddenly turned on him. “Like I said. Only a foolish man believes beauty and brains are mutually exclusive.”
“Unlike you, I don’t care for a mystery, Mr. Sullivan. You’re an overconfident flirt and a man who thinks he’s smarter than his peers. But anyone who looks at you and believes the lie you present the world, well, then, she’s a fool with a reckless heart and thoughtless disposition.” She laced the edge of her lemon curl over the rim of his glass, letting it dangle there to mock him. “You’re not who you claim to be, Mr. Sullivan, and to a woman like me,” she said, catching his gaze, “that might as well be provocation.”
Shock seized him before he could rein it in, but she just smiled and stepped back from the bar.
“It would seem you could flay a man with more than your tongue, Miss Vega,” Ethan said, tracing the edge of the lemon and wondering just how much he’d enjoy being at the mercy of her mouth.
Natalia cast a long look over her shoulder. “And you’d do well to remember it, Mr. Sullivan.”