Claimed by the Sicilian Tycoon (2 page)

“From
the gentleman over there,” the bartender, a damn good-looking guy in his very
early twenties, said.

Lyra
raised an eyebrow, and gave the bartender her most sultry smile. “Which one?”

He
pointed across the room to one of the dining tables grouped around a number of
leather chairs. Old leather, and old money, Lyra thought as she eyed the man
who’d sent her the drink. He was dressed in a suit that screamed six months’
rent, his shoes were polished to a shine, and he had the
Financial Times
laid out in front of him. He was also blond, blue
eyed, and almost as good looking as the bartender. For a moment, Lyra considered
the situation, but almost immediately shook her head. She wasn’t here for Mr.
Rich and blond. He wasn’t her mark.

“Tell
him thanks but no thanks.”

The
bartender, who Lyra noted—thanks to the little gold tag on his waistcoat—was
called Mitch, grinned, and shook his head. “The guy’s a regular here. Hardly
ever orders a woman a drink.”

“And?”

“He’s
a member of the House of Lords.”

“Is
this supposed to impress me?”

 
Mitch’s smile widened. “Just filling you in on
all the facts.”

“I’m
not interested, so tell him no.”

Mitch
shrugged, removed the glass, and wandered over to the man in question. House of
Lords? Lyra smirked as she took a sip of her own water. He’d likely be pissed
at her rejection. Moneyed men always expected people to jump the moment they
said so. It pleased her in a very small way to leave him hanging.

“I
don’t think he was too happy, or particularly undeterred.”

Lyra
smiled at Mitch and nodded to her glass. “Just fill that up with more water.”

He
did as she asked, before placing the glass back down in front of her, and
giving her a long, considering look. “He’s the third guy to offer you a drink.
One after the other you tell them no, and that’s just the ones who have dared
approach.”

“What’s
your point?”

“You’re
not married.”

“You
know that how?”

“You’re
not wearing a ring.”

Lyra
shrugged. “Lots of women don’t wear rings anymore. I could have it on a chain
around my neck, or I could have left it at home.”

“But
all married women wear their ring at some point, and your finger has no
indentation.”

“Ah.”

“Plus
you’re obviously out to impress someone.”

She
laughed and crossed her legs, smirking inwardly as she imagined Mr. Moneyed
Blond, and all the other men who’d offered her drinks, watching and wishing.
They were always wishing. It amused her to let them, would have done so even if
she wasn’t here on a very specific mission, for a very specific man.

“Gosh,
Mitch,” she sighed, unable to resist flirting a little with him. “I am all agog
to hear how you worked that one out.”

He
grinned, clearly not taking offence at her snarky words. “The outfit.”

“What
of it?”

“It
screams pick up.”

“In
what way?”

Mitch
grabbed a glass and a rag in the very typical bartender action. The rag was
pristine white, and the glass was already sparkling, but he rubbed inside of it
as he lounged against the taps and smiled at her. “The dress is just short
enough to show some leg but not so short that it makes you look like a slut.
The cleavage? Again, just a hint but not too much, and those heels.” He shook
his head. “God knows how you can even walk in them.”

“Perhaps
I always dress like this?”

“Nope.
I’ve tended this bar since I started my undergrad studies and I’m doing my post
grad now. That long in one job?” He shrugged. “You become a sort of people
watcher when you spend so long in one place. It helps to alleviate the boredom.
So I’ve been watching you since you came in and I got it immediately.”

“What
did you get?”

“You’re
here to pick someone up, but not the men who have tried to pick
you
up. It’s someone else.”

Lyra
smiled. Mitch was perceptive, but she had been silly not to consider the fact
that he might be. Had she not done enough menial, mind numbingly boring jobs to
remember how she’d kept herself entertained? Like Mitch, people watching was
one of the possibilities and—she paused, shooting him a look—it was something
she could use to her advantage if she played the situation right.

“Okay
let’s say you’re right. I could ask you a few questions, then.”

“Shoot.”

“Andros
Casstellini.” Two words and the reaction from the man behind the bar was
exactly as she suspected. He whistled low under his breath, and shook his head.

“You’re
not serious?”

“Sweetie,
I always am.”

“That
is
one big fish you’re trying to
catch.”

Lyra
grinned. “Always go for the biggest is my motto. That way at least you might
end up with something in the middle.”

 
“My mom used to say something like that. Reach
for the stars and at the least you’ll hit the moon.”

“Exactly.”

Mitch
placed the sparkling glass next to all the other sparkling glasses, and picked
up a frosted tumbler. “So does he know you’re trying to catch him?”

Lyra
tilted her head, considering Mitch’s phrase. She wasn’t trying to catch Andros
in
that
sense, because she was so not
stupid enough to think a man like him would allow a woman like her to do so.
She’d more than done her homework on Andros Casstellini, the sisters had all
thoroughly researched their marks, and the woman who eventually caught the
brooding Sicilian would be a dark haired heiress, or an icy blonde socialite.
She would
not
be a redheaded girl
from the wrong side of the tracks.

No…she
wasn’t looking to catch, just to bait him. To put him in the position where she
could get what she wanted. Lyra could hardly explain that to the bartender
though, so instead she smiled, and shook her head. “Not yet.”

“You
won’t be the first or even the only one right now.”

“I
know that.”

“Coming
here, though…” Mitch grinned. “Gotta give it to you, it’s a good idea. Most of
the others chasing him never set foot through these doors. I’ve heard some
stories, though. I keep track of our big clients, you know for future jobs and
such. He has women practically throwing themselves at him. I heard that one
even sent herself to his office, wrapped up like a present. She was inside.
Naked.”

“A
ballsy girl.”

“This
move is just as ballsy.”

Lyra
shrugged. “What can I say? I like to think outside the box, and I’ve never been
afraid of a challenge.”

 
“Can I ask you a question?”
 

“Ask
away.”

“How
did you even manage to get membership? Someone has to recommend you.”

Lyra
took a long swallow of her water, careful to ensure it didn’t rub her lip-gloss
off.
 
“I have my ways.”

“And
those ways are?”

“Secret
ways,” she said, the image of Little Micky—a hacker she’d known since she was a
teenager—dancing through her mind. Micky had hit the membership database up
only yesterday, and Lyra’s details would stay in there for at least seventy-two
hours. That was how long it took Club Belmont to update their database from the
main server, a ridiculously outmoded way of keeping their data secure, but then
that was the old style gentleman clubs. Stuck way behind the times. Shitty
security and worse, shitty policies.

Little
Micky had—on her request—put her down as being recommended by Andros
Casstellini himself, and yet even with that recommendation from one of the
richest men in the country, she would only be allowed to visit for the next
week. Not that she needed the full week. Andros had a meeting in—Lyra cast the
rich oak clock over the bar a covert glance—a few minutes.

It
was almost show time.

Mitch
rolled his eyes at her words. “Secret, huh?”

“Yep.”

“So,”
he asked, grinning. “What’s the plan? Are you’re just going to pounce the
moment he arrives?”

Lyra
laughed again, this time in genuine amusement. “Sweetie, you clearly don’t
people watch properly.”

“Meaning
what?”

She
twirled her tumbler around, watching as the frosted ring glinted from the
lights. They were scattered all over the club, twinkling, and filling the room
with warmth. Shitty policies or no, Club Belmont
did
have a certain charm, and it was a novelty for Lyra to be in
such a place without wearing a uniform, waiting tables, tending bar, or worse,
cleaning.

“I
won’t have to pounce,” she said softly. “Five minutes after he arrives Andros
will be coming over to me.”

“You
think?”

“I’m
willing to bet on it.”

Mitch
grinned, and gave her the eye. “Twenty quid?”

And
though she had no money to spare, Lyra patted him on the hand, allowing her
often restrained recklessness free reign, and nodded. “Mitch, you are so on.”

Chapter Two

Andros
disliked doing business at the club, not least because the atmosphere was one
he never felt comfortable with. Old money, old British charm and worse, the old
boys’ network. As a Sicilian he was not part of that network, was barely even
accepted on the fringes. He had not attended Eton or Oxford, or any of those
institutions the network demanded and so he was taken on sufferance.

No,
he thought as he passed his coat to the doorman, not sufferance, it was all a
question of money, and he had so much of it that they had no choice but to deal
with him. That amused him, was just one more sign of how far he had risen in
the world.

His
cell vibrated, and Andros pulled it from his pocket—eyes on the email that had
just arrived—as he was escorted into the dining hall. The email was a reminder
about a meeting he had in an hour’s time. No point thinking about it yet, he
decided, he had to get this one out the way first.

He
dismissed the email, looked up, and spotted Lord Carl Ainsley lounging in one
of the club’s leather chairs. Though Ainsley was an old boy through and
through, he was a cut above the rest of them, certainly more modern, and
someone that Andros respected, even liked. They’d known one another for a few
years, having worked on a project together. Both had been investors and the
project had been a success, adding several million to Andros’ bank accounts,
and another string to his ever-growing bow.

Carl
grinned as Andros approached, and gestured to his drink—whisky by the looks of
it. “You’ll join me?”

Andros
shook his head. “Just coffee for me. Espresso.”

With
a flick of his fingers, Carl sent the escort off to the bar. Andros didn’t
quite frown, but allowed his mouth to settle into a tight line. Like most rich
people, Carl saw no reason to actually speak to the staff. That was not a
position Andros approved of. He’d waited tables in his very young years,
cleaned out warehouses—hell, he’d done whatever it took to put a few American
dollars in his pocket. And as his own fortunes had grown, one thing he had
stuck with was an unflinching politeness to the people that worked for him. It
encouraged loyalty, and as a Sicilian by birth, loyalty was important to
Andros.

“How
long do I have you for today?” Carl asked, folding up his copy of the FT. “I
know you said on the phone that you were juggling other meetings. I appreciate
you fitting me in at all.”

“I
can spare but a half hour,” Andros replied.

Carl
laughed. “I should be grateful for even that should I not?”

Andros
shrugged, and leaned back as the escort approached with the drinks Carl had
ordered. He nodded his thanks to the staff member, noting, with another sting
of annoyance, that Carl did not.

“If
we’d met at my offices,” he said slowly. “I could have arranged a full hour to
discuss your venture.”

Carl
picked up his drink, the ice tinkling in the glass as he did so. “This is fine.
I know how busy you are, and as I said, I’ll be very brief.”

“Of
course.”

After
a swallow, Carl placed his glass back on the table and rubbed his hands together.
“So what we’re looking to do here is all about…”

Andros
leaned back in his chair as the other man spoke, though his attention was only
half on him. Carl had already sent him all the venture information by email.
He’d looked it all over, ordered some background checks and such. There was
nothing that Carl could tell him that he didn’t already know. This meeting was,
in Andros’ mind, just a chance to reconnect with Lord Ainsley. It was all about
seeing if he was as passionate about his venture as he’d seemed in his email,
and certainly, it looked that way. Carl spoke with gusto, gesturing to make his
point. Andros approved.