just fine.” He took a sip of his water. “I want you to stay with me.”
“I don’t do relationship-”
“Sorry, I rather mean I’d like you to work for me.”
“Listen, I don’t need a pimp. I’m doing just fine. What I need is the item we talked about earlier, no other shit necessary.”
Smith raised an eyebrow and leaned back from the table, his hands slipping into his lap. “You think I’m a pimp?”
“You don’t look like one, but yeah, probably.”
“I can assure you, I am not a pimp. I’ve never had any interest in the skin trade.” He glanced around, his eyes moving over the few other patrons in the café. “Tell me, where’s the waitress right now? Don’t look.”
“Chatting up the cook through the window,” Camille answered quickly, keeping her gaze locked on him.
“And how many other diners are in here with us?”
She had to think back to what she’d seen, counting in her head. “Five.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
The edge of his mouth ticked up again, but he suppressed it with a drink of water. “So, you’re observant.”
“Have to be in my line of work.”
“Hmm,” he made a sound under his breath. “Do you enjoy what you do?”
The question struck a chord inside her, plucking at the things deep under her skin that she tried to ignore. Her hands balled into fists unbidden under the table. “Does that matter?”
“To me.”
“No.”
“Then why do it?”
“I have to eat, don’t I?” As if her words had summoned it, the food appeared from the smiling waitress. Plates sliding across the shiny table in front of them.
“Need anything else?” she asked.
“No, this will be fine. Thank you.” Smith nodded at her and the thirty-something brunette headed back behind the counter to continue her flirtation. He gestured at the plate in front of her. “Food will not be an issue anymore, if you choose it.”
The French bread piled high with sliced roast beef, nestled in a bed of fries, taunted her. The cup of au jus was just a garnish to the temptation he’d planted in front of her so carefully. “What exactly are you offering? You want me for yourself?”
“Not in the way you think. Eat.” He gestured at her plate before he picked up his own sandwich and took a bite.
With a grudging glance, and another twist of the ache in her empty belly, she dipped her sandwich and then bit into it. The crunch of the bread was music in her ears, and her growling stomach echoed it. Before she knew it, she’d devoured half the sandwich and most of the fries. Just as she was about to grab the second half of the sandwich she noticed his odd expression. “What?” she asked defensively.
“Nothing. Go on, eat.”
Camille rolled her eyes and took another bite, the burst of flavor on her tongue actually registering beyond the joy of real, warm food. This was good, delicious, and it made the man across from her way too tempting to trust.
Hell, he hadn’t even asked for a hand job in the car.
“So, C, are you interested in doing something different?”
“Such as?” She spoke through a mouthful of food, and he seemed vaguely amused.
“I want to teach you some things. See if you have an aptitude for them.”
“A what?” she asked, the word way above her head.
“I want to see if you’re able to learn the things I want to teach.”
She swallowed, setting the last bit of the sandwich back on the plate, ignoring the small pile of napkins he’d set on the table, opting to use her hand instead. “Depends on what kind of shit you want to teach.”
“More of what we tried earlier tonight. A lot more.” Smith tilted his head a little, evaluating her reaction, and she tried her best to stay still, to not give away the frisson of excitement that had rushed through her.
He wanted to teach her to shoot? To do more than shoot?
“Okay.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. If you’ll teach me to do it like you do, I’m in.”
He laughed low, swirling the ice in his
“I don’t do relationship-”
“Sorry, I rather mean I’d like you to work for me.”
“Listen, I don’t need a pimp. I’m doing just fine. What I need is the item we talked about earlier, no other shit necessary.”
Smith raised an eyebrow and leaned back from the table, his hands slipping into his lap. “You think I’m a pimp?”
“You don’t look like one, but yeah, probably.”
“I can assure you, I am not a pimp. I’ve never had any interest in the skin trade.” He glanced around, his eyes moving over the few other patrons in the café. “Tell me, where’s the waitress right now? Don’t look.”
“Chatting up the cook through the window,” Camille answered quickly, keeping her gaze locked on him.
“And how many other diners are in here with us?”
She had to think back to what she’d seen, counting in her head. “Five.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
The edge of his mouth ticked up again, but he suppressed it with a drink of water. “So, you’re observant.”
“Have to be in my line of work.”
“Hmm,” he made a sound under his breath. “Do you enjoy what you do?”
The question struck a chord inside her, plucking at the things deep under her skin that she tried to ignore. Her hands balled into fists unbidden under the table. “Does that matter?”
“To me.”
“No.”
“Then why do it?”
“I have to eat, don’t I?” As if her words had summoned it, the food appeared from the smiling waitress. Plates sliding across the shiny table in front of them.
“Need anything else?” she asked.
“No, this will be fine. Thank you.” Smith nodded at her and the thirty-something brunette headed back behind the counter to continue her flirtation. He gestured at the plate in front of her. “Food will not be an issue anymore, if you choose it.”
The French bread piled high with sliced roast beef, nestled in a bed of fries, taunted her. The cup of au jus was just a garnish to the temptation he’d planted in front of her so carefully. “What exactly are you offering? You want me for yourself?”
“Not in the way you think. Eat.” He gestured at her plate before he picked up his own sandwich and took a bite.
With a grudging glance, and another twist of the ache in her empty belly, she dipped her sandwich and then bit into it. The crunch of the bread was music in her ears, and her growling stomach echoed it. Before she knew it, she’d devoured half the sandwich and most of the fries. Just as she was about to grab the second half of the sandwich she noticed his odd expression. “What?” she asked defensively.
“Nothing. Go on, eat.”
Camille rolled her eyes and took another bite, the burst of flavor on her tongue actually registering beyond the joy of real, warm food. This was good, delicious, and it made the man across from her way too tempting to trust.
Hell, he hadn’t even asked for a hand job in the car.
“So, C, are you interested in doing something different?”
“Such as?” She spoke through a mouthful of food, and he seemed vaguely amused.
“I want to teach you some things. See if you have an aptitude for them.”
“A what?” she asked, the word way above her head.
“I want to see if you’re able to learn the things I want to teach.”
She swallowed, setting the last bit of the sandwich back on the plate, ignoring the small pile of napkins he’d set on the table, opting to use her hand instead. “Depends on what kind of shit you want to teach.”
“More of what we tried earlier tonight. A lot more.” Smith tilted his head a little, evaluating her reaction, and she tried her best to stay still, to not give away the frisson of excitement that had rushed through her.
He wanted to teach her to shoot? To do more than shoot?
“Okay.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. If you’ll teach me to do it like you do, I’m in.”
He laughed low, swirling the ice in his
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