if you’ve got it, please.’
‘For you, babe, anything.’ I flashed her a quick grin, surprised when she smiled back. Maybe all that dancing had loosened up her reservations? ‘Take a seat.’
But she didn’t. Instead, she strolled around the room, inspecting it. ‘What is this place?’
‘My hideout.’ I grabbed a bottle of mineral water out of the bar fridge, unscrewed the cap and poured it into a long glass, adding a sliver of lemon. ‘When hosting a bunch of selfish, spoiled brats in the VIP room, I need a place to escape, and this is it.’
‘It’s nice,’ she said, trailing her hand over the butter-soft black leather sofas, the small glass-topped desk in the corner, the display cabinet where I kept my awards. ‘These all yours?’
‘No, I mug every sportsman who comes in here and stash the loot in here,’ I deadpanned, handing her the drink.
‘Thanks.’ She took the glass and downed the mineral water in several gulps as I stared at the almost convulsive movement of her throat and desperately tried not to imagine her doing something similar to me.
When she finished, she handed me the glass with a sheepish smile. ‘I was parched.’
‘Want a top-up?’
‘Please.’ She turned back to the awards as I poured her another glass. ‘You’ve won a lot of stuff in the hospitality industry.’
‘Awards are ego-strokers.’ I handed her the glass, forcing myself to look away this time. I couldn’t be any harder if I tried, grateful that I’d installed a bathroom in here too so the minute I put her in a cab I could take a cold shower. ‘I prefer to see results in profit margins.’
She stilled, sadness creeping across her face. ‘My father used to say that a lot. Always about the profit margins.’
‘That’s what matters most to savvy businessmen. That and a healthy portfolio.’
She screwed up her nose and damned if it wasn’t the cutest thing I’d ever seen. ‘Is that what you’re all about? Because those tattoos speak more about rebelling against convention than caring about portfolios.’
‘What’s with you and my tats?’ I shrugged out of my jacket, flung it on a sofa and rolled up my sleeves. ‘Here. Look your fill. Then judge me some more.’
I had no idea where my outburst came from but I felt like a jackass the moment she blushed in mortification.
‘I didn’t mean to judge—I mean, I just haven’t seen tattoos up close and—’
‘And you still haven’t,’ I muttered, hating that she’d touched a sore spot without knowing it and I’d reacted accordingly.
My tats were more than art.
They defined me.
At a time in my life when I hadn’t been comfortable in my own skin, I took on a new one.
And having a woman like Abby judge me as just another deadhead rebel because of my tats really pissed me off.
‘This would be looking at them up close,’ I growled, trying to tamp down my anger and failing as I unbuttoned my shirt and shrugged it off. ‘Here. Take a good look. See if you can figure me out.’
I stood in front of her, hands on hips, defiant and oddly vulnerable. I shouldn’t care what she thought of me. After Remy was back on his feet, I’d be outta here and back on the road, heading to Bangkok or Ibiza or Munich, creating successful clubs that would define me more than my tats.
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