Page 85 of Nothing to Fear

Sweet, tart, she just didn’t want it to taste horrible. “Sure.”

“A buttery nipple.” Gideon scanned the balcony. “Two waters and a bottle of local beer.”

The woman gave a smile and left.

“That’s a drink?” Such an odd name.

“I think you’ll like it.” His stormy-blue eyes worked the room. “Sorry we couldn’t sit on the balcony. Lines of sight too restricted. I need to see everyone coming in and want a solid wall at my six. We’re good in this part of the restaurant. No cameras. Steer clear of the bar and the registers in the back by the restrooms.”

She swallowed the dry lump of irritation swelling in her throat and tapped her fingers against her leg.

The drinks arrived. The waiter set a tumbler in front of her containing four ounces of a milky, light brown liquid, and they ordered.

With a deep breath, she took a sip. Sweet. Strong. Decadent.

Willow licked her lips and drained the glass.

* * *

Gideon surveilled their surroundings, taking another swig from the one beer he’d been nursing. No way of knowing how many hitmen were after Willow or where they’d turn up next.

They’d avoided CCTV and were most likely safe for the night at the hotel, but he couldn’t stop his vigilant perusal or shut off the need to be ready any more than a bird could refuse to fly.

Two cooks never left the kitchen, churning out plates of food onto the stainless-steel counter for the waitstaff in a well-choreographed rhythm. The chatty bartender was slow at pouring drinks but attentive to customers. Four men strolled in and camped out at the bar. None were packing, and there were no slight bulges of concealed knives. His gaze fell to their shoes, a dead giveaway of a potential threat.

Loafers equaled tourists or locals looking for fun.

His attention boomeranged back to Willow. She didn’t force conversation, but her proximity was a distraction. He was struggling to keep focused on sweeping for suspicious activity. His skin was too tight, nervous energy pulsed in his veins, and his fingers ached. Not from anything gearing him on alert, but because he couldn’t wait to get her back to the room.

He watched her finish a second buttery nipple. She no longer played with her pearl necklace, tore paper napkins into tiny bits, or pinched the back of her hand—all coping mechanisms. And she’d taken the pen out of her hair, letting it drape her lovely shoulders.

The music switched to an upbeat remixed sound. She swayed to the beat, lounging in her chair. Hunger for his beautiful starling pumped through him. He couldn’t wait to get behind closed doors with her and enjoy the solace of being in her arms.

Tomorrow would come soon enough. Once they found the mole and her life was restored, he’d let her go. He wanted a shot at…something—hell, everything with her—but what he desired and what they both needed were far from the same.

As for romance, those sweet gestures women went gaga for made him gag. He didn’t do flowers, brunch with parents, throw on a suit to go to church, plan surprise vacations, dance around like a rhythm-challenged idiot, or dip into candlelit baths. Not him. Not ever. And he was far better at giving I’m-sorry-I-fucked-up gifts than one for a birthday or anniversary.

Who was he kidding?

Given enough time, he’d screw things up with Willow. And if by some miracle he didn’t botch it, she’d weaken him. Look at them, sitting out in the open because he didn’t have the strength to deny her, when they should be upstairs, lying low.

He did better on his own, and she’d be better off without him.

The waiter returned and removed their plates. “Can I get you two anything else?”

Willow perked in her seat, face flushed. “Another buttery nipple.”

“No. She’s had enough.” Gideon shook his head, emphasizing his point, and the waiter scuttled away.

Her stubborn chin lifted, hazel eyes flaring.

Shit. He emergency tapped religion like a heathen, praying she wouldn’t fight him.

“I want another drink.”

“You’ve had enough, babe.”

“When you want to touch me, it’s starling, but when you want to boss me around, it’s babe?”