The Dare Collection June 2019. Rachael Stewart

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      I dimmed my smile a touch as he sauntered towards me.

      ‘What can I get you?’

      ‘Whiskey sour, please,’ I said, sliding more firmly onto my seat.

      He nodded. ‘Coming right up.’

      I sighed with relief when he moved away after a brief perusal.

      Male attention didn’t bother me. Hell, I enjoyed a bit of flirtation when the mood took me. But I preferred to be in control of the situation, always. What my mother called a flaw I saw as the cornerstone that would ensure I didn’t end up like her, dependent on the wrong men, depressed and resentful when they inevitably let her down. Because of her I’d learned early in life that total independence was my key to maintaining control.

      It was why I’d sworn to build on my grandparents’ hard work, why I intended to control my own fate, no matter what. Why I was here tonight, on the cusp of achieving my biggest win yet.

      My whiskey sour arrived at the same time as the tall stranger claimed my periphery. A deep compulsion pulled my gaze in his direction; he pulled back the bar stool farthest from me, and hitched one taut, muscled thigh onto it. Bemused, I watched the bartender fall over himself in a hurry to serve him as I wrapped my fingers around the ice-cold glass even as my temperature spiked to furnace-high at the sight of him.

      Dry-mouthed, I stared, a hungry tingling sparking inside my belly before nose-diving low and deep.

      Dear God, he was hot.

       Incandescent.

      The kind of hot you initially dismissed as impossible without elective surgery. Or as a trick of light. Or an expert make-up artist’s brush on a vain model.

      As I was busy checking him out, a chilled bottle was placed in front of him. He examined it for several seconds before twisting the cap off his sparkling water. Under the elegant half-moon lampshades hanging over the bar, his hair appeared black until closer examination showed the dark mahogany highlights. A slash of dark eyebrows were gathered in a thunderous frown but they didn’t stop me from noticing that he had the most insanely long eyelashes I’d ever seen on a man.

      He looked remote. Forbidding.

      As he poured the water into a glass, I shamelessly stole the seconds to further examine him. A superbly cut suit draped his body. Dark navy with thin pinstripes and, underneath it, a matching waistcoat and white shirt, finished off with a stylish tie, currently tugged loose, around a masculine neck that framed a square, rugged jaw sporting designer stubble, and a face so impossibly breathtaking, it was a struggle not to gape like a drooling fool.

      I sipped my cocktail, hoping the pleasant burn would calm the butterflies flailing in my belly. All it did was awaken impulses that had gone dormant in the hunt of fulfilling dreams.

      The bartender murmured something to him. The stranger shook his head and waved him away with a flick of an elegant hand.

      My gaze dropped to that hand. To delicious possibilities. To stepping further out of my comfort zone.

      I cleared my throat, even then unsure whether I sought to attract his attention or steady my own nerves.

      He tensed slightly, his movement slowing. It was the only indication that he’d noticed me. After a moment, he lifted his glass and gulped down half his water.

      The bartender sauntered over to me. ‘You want another?’ He nodded to my glass.

      I looked down, a little startled to see my almost empty glass. ‘Yes, thanks.’ He was back moments later with a fresh drink. On the wildest whim, I said, ‘A shot of your best whiskey for him too on my tab.’ I cocked my head at the stranger. He looked like a single-malt-savoured-slowly kind of guy.

      The bartender hesitated. ‘You sure about that?’ he asked in a low, concerned voice.

      I wavered for the tiniest fraction. ‘Of course, I’m sure.’

      Trepidation and...yes, anticipation scrambled through me as the bartender reached for the bottle from the top shelf, poured a shot and set it in front of the stranger.

      He stared at the expensive amber-coloured drink as if it were poison. As if it were his worst enemy and he were moments away from pummelling it into oblivion with his bare fist. After an eternity, long after the bartender had gestured at me and taken a step back, that sexy head swung my way and I was caught in the headlights of his mesmerising stare.

      Sharp hazel eyes widened as if, despite sensing me a moment ago, he was surprised by my presence. For one indecent moment, something hot and filthy and carnal twisted in that gaze, firing up the blaze in my belly, conjuring a fleeting burst of feminine satisfaction.

      Far from the look he’d given the glass, he stared at me as if he wanted to devour me, stark hunger I’d never glimpsed before stealing over his face for several blistering seconds.

      Right before his jaw clenched tight. ‘Thanks but no, thanks. I don’t pick up women in bars,’ he said.

      Momentarily dumbfounded, I couldn’t speak. Not when I was confronted by further potent scrutiny from his unique, piercing hazel eyes and the cut-glass English accent that sent a pulse of heat straight to my clit.

      I relocated my tongue. Assembled enough composure to swivel to face him. ‘Great. Neither do I.’

      My comeback triggered a twisted smile. Only to disappear seconds later beneath the quiet carnage of whatever was eating him up. I should’ve left him alone then. Should’ve listened to instincts I’d trusted above all else thus far. Ones that warned that tangling with this man would be extremely thrilling, but also deadly.

      But he was rising from his seat, nudging the glass of whiskey along the counter as he sauntered towards me. Two stools away, he stopped. Stared with a blatant heated interest I felt to the tips of my toes.

      ‘I also don’t accept drinks from strangers.’ His second delivery wasn’t drenched in ice but it was still cool enough to draw a shiver.

      For the first time in a long time, I ploughed ahead despite the warnings to retreat. Despite wondering how on earth my mother went back for more of this kind of treatment when the tops of my ears were already burning from one rejection. ‘Now I think you’re just trying to hurt my feelings.’

      One lean shoulder rose and fell. ‘You’ll get over it, I’m sure,’ he said.

      His gaze lingered, dropped to my crossed legs, then back up, pausing for longer than was polite on my cleavage, then up to rest on my lips.

      The pulse between my legs throbbed harder, my breath fracturing the longer he stared.

      Maybe it was his inability to look away, despite his words, that bolstered my confidence. Or maybe I was making excuses.

      But for whatever reason I wanted to draw him out of the funk eating him up. I was in a celebratory mood and wanted someone to celebrate with. And he intrigued me. A lot. Enough for me to slide off my stool and venture closer, accepting that my motives weren’t wholly altruistic.

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