“I think the plan is working,” Camila said when the manager approached their table with two bottles of wine and six glasses.
“Compliments of Señor Rojas.” The man began uncorking one of the two bottles.
Mya was on her second song now, and her performance was stellar. Thank God for her drama skills. But now Sydney had to get into the undercover groove herself. She wasn’t a fan of drinking on an op, but what choice did they all have right now? Jorge had sent them wine, and if they refused, their plan would quickly fall apart.
“Tell him gracias,” Sydney replied with a nod to the manager while accepting the glass. She took a small sip of the red, and it was smooth in her mouth. A hint of cherry, which no longer triggered her. She and cherries were good again. She was pretty sure she had Beckett to thank for that. He’d managed to free her mind of any lingering emotional strings still connected to Alice’s betrayal.
“Easy there,” Gray remarked when Oliver polished off half his glass in two large gulps. “You nervous or something?”
Oliver jerked a thumb toward the stage where the band played. “Mya’s up there, and I’m supposed to be her guy, right? And now there’s a room full of men staring at her like they want to eat her up. I may have to play fisticuffs soon.”
Camila chuckled, the noise barely audible over the music. “Fight, you mean? Defend your manhood if anyone tries to go after your girl?”
“I mean, if I’m playing her boyfriend, shouldn’t I do that?” Oliver knocked back the rest of his wine like it was a tequila shot.
“Men,” Camila said under her breath. “We do want Mya to catch a certain man’s attention,” she reminded Oliver.
“But do we really?” Oliver grimaced and focused back on Mya. “I just have a bad fucking feeling,” he added too low for anyone aside from their table to hear.
And when Sydney looked past Beckett, finding Miguel focused on her again, her stomach squeezed. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Maybe I do too.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Beckett was two seconds away from killing a guy. Any damn guy. Every man. Every which fucking way. They all seemed to be closing in on him and Sydney on the dance floor. They’re going to try and steal her away. Take her from me.
“Something’s not right.” Beckett held Sydney tight to his body while they danced to the Spanish music now playing instead of the nineteen-twenties jazz.
After Mya had sung a few more songs, Jorge requested they all join his table, and a DJ took over at the snap of the billionaire’s fingers.
Now they were crowded on the dance floor playing their role as couples, but something was wrong. He couldn’t possibly be drunk. He’d barely finished a glass of the wine Jorge had sent over to their table.
“Tell me there aren’t really a ton of guys swarming us right now,” Beckett said as Sydney swiveled her hips, grinding against him to the sensual beat of the music.
“What guys?” The music was loud, but still, did she sound as “off” as he felt? Drowsy or loopy, maybe. Sydney peered left and right, gripping hold of his shoulders as though she might lose her balance. “No, there aren’t any guys. Well, not a beehive of them or whatever you were saying,” she slurred.
Sydney slur? “Something’s wrong,” he mumbled again, trying to make sense of the odd sensations flowing through his body.
He sure as hell shouldn’t be hallucinating from a glass of wine.
Beckett closed his eyes and shook his head, grateful to see the “swarm of men” were gone when he reopened them. No one was trying to get to Sydney and take her away. Instead, he spotted Gray and Camila dancing nearby. Camila appeared to be moving as erotically as Sydney, and he doubted she was acting.
Where are Oliver and Mya? He searched the dance floor without losing hold of Sydney and spotted Mya with one leg pinned to Oliver’s hip as he dipped her back and slowly dragged a palm down between her breasts. Damn.
When he forced his attention away from the dance area and over to the tables, he saw Jesse there, a reminder they were undercover. Jesse mouthed something to him, but he couldn’t read his lips. He was too fucked in the head to even know what was going on.
“Welllll, I feel fantastic,” Sydney declared, cupping the back of his neck and drawing his face back to hers. She wasn’t lust-drunk. The woman was drunk-drunk. “I want you to make love to me. Take me back in that hallway,” she murmured into his ear. “Hook my panties to the side and thrust your cock into me and slam me against the wall. Cuff me. Spank me. Fuck me,” she rasped. “Whatever you want, I want.”
Beckett’s knees buckled at her words, and his dick went hard. Or maybe it was already hard? He was so damn confused.
“Take me. Now,” she begged, then set her mouth to his and shimmied against him.
“Sweetheart,” he said, unsure where he was going with that line because he was growing lightheaded and dizzy again. Desire planted roots in his mind. It was taking control of his body. And he was tempted to take her into the hall and fuck the naughty from her. Make her behave. Be a good girl for him.
“Damn, you’re beautiful,” he overheard Gray telling Camila, which momentarily distracted him from taking his bad girl over his knee and putting his palm print on her ass as he drove into her hard like he’d done the other night. “Something’s not right,” he remembered, trying to focus. To switch from bedroom mode to sheriff mode. Regain his senses. All five. Or are there six? Shit, I’m losing it.
“There’s something wrong,” a deep voice announced nearby, and Beckett found Jorge at his nine o’clock, a cigar dangling from his lips like he was Tony Montana in Scarface.
Wasn’t Capone nicknamed Scarface? Half my brain is working, at least. “What’s wrong?” Beckett asked Jorge as Sydney continued dancing in his arms, grinding her pussy against his cock as if they had no clothing barrier between them.
“We’re at this club when we should all head to my place. That’s what is wrong,” Jorge shared once he removed the cigar from between his teeth. “We shall take the party there. More privacy if you get my drift.” He smiled, his gaze cutting to Sydney.
To my woman.
No.
You can’t have her.
He protectively held her against his body, ready to throw down and blow the plan . . . there’d been a plan, right? What was going on right now? Why was the room so upside down and sideways?
Jorge smiled, and he really did resemble a young Al Pacino. “I won’t touch her,” Jorge promised, not that his promise held any weight to Beckett. And then the prick leaned closer and whispered, “But I’d love to watch.”
Watch? Beckett closed his eyes when another weird, roiling sensation traveled up his spine and had him feeling so damn strange. “Watch what?”
“Baby.” Sydney’s voice had him opening his eyes, struggling to hang on. To not lose consciousness, which was what he’d swear was about to happen. “He wants to watch us make love.”
“Good girl.” Jorge’s comment had Beckett letting go of Sydney, his attention snapping to the man’s jaw he was about to break.
The desire to hit this fucker now trumped his desire to have sex.