Her pulse raced. Time for damage control, Ursula. “I’m very sorry about the fire. It was a complete accident.”
Just as Muppet put the cell phone to his ear, another man stepped forward—someone she hadn’t even noticed before, though she had no idea how she’d missed him.
At the sight of him, a shiver crawled up her spine. If she’d thought Muppet looked aggressive, this guy screamed pure malice. It wasn’t his appearance: rich chestnut hair, sharp cheekbones, and perfect lips that could charm the knickers off a nun. No, it was the feral way he moved, and his piercing green eyes that bored right into her soul when he slid a glance her way.
His gaze flicked to Muppet. “I don’t really think that’s necessary.” He spoke in a commanding voice, his accent posh as hell. “Give me your phone, and take your friend to another bar.”
Wordlessly, the Muppet handed over his phone, and the green-eyed stranger pocketed it. Muppet and Stubby grasped each other’s arms, staggering toward the exit.
A small crowd still stood, gaping at the stranger as he closed his eyes, muttering. As he spoke, goose bumps rose on Ursula’s flesh, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. What the hell is he doing?
Whatever it was, the crowd seemed to lose interest, and when he opened his eyes again, the onlookers had drifted back to their tables.
Ursula stared at him, stunned. In the past few months, there had been rumors about witches in London, but… No, that’s insane.
Whatever this stranger’s secret was, his stunning physique now drew her eyes. A bespoke suit accentuated an athletic body, and a gold watch flashed on his wrist. Definitely rich. The way he had spoken wasn’t just confident; he was entitled, too. Probably a total knob.
Still, he’d helped her out, so it wasn’t like she was going to complain.
He turned to her, green eyes lingering on her drenched T-shirt. “You work here?”
“Yes.” Despite her fever, she shivered again. There really was something lethal in those eyes.
“I’ll have two fingers of the Glenlivet 21. Neat. A glass of water on the side.”
Irritation simmered. Apparently, no one had ever taught him to say please. But it was more than just annoyance that unnerved her. There was something strange about him. Am I losing my mind, or do his movements seem… otherwordly?
She was losing her mind. That was the only explanation. She had a fever, and she was rattled by… whatever the hell had just happened.
She cocked her hip. “Well, since you just bailed me out, I guess I won’t insist that you say please.”
He stared at her, his lips a thin line.
Heading back to the bar, she cringed. She shouldn’t have said that, but something about him really irked her—probably the rich-boy attitude that reminded her of Rufus.
This club was just one of the ways her ex invested his father’s money. He was studying business at University College London, planning to build himself some kind of financial empire—a testament to his genius, of course. Frankly, she was getting a little sick of rich people thinking they were better than everyone else just because they’d been born lucky.
Ursula slipped behind the bar, reaching up for the Glenlivet. When she turned to pour the drink, he’d taken a seat.
She filled the tumbler with two fingers of Scotch and slid it over, glancing at the fifty-pound note he’d left on the bar. She didn’t often see fifty-pound notes, but this guy probably had plenty. In fact, she could imagine him lighting them on fire in front of a homeless person for a laugh.
Then again, maybe she wasn’t in any position to accuse others of pyromania. The bar smelled of burnt Muppet, and her stomach was still turning flips from the whole debacle. What in God’s name happened? Hell of a birthday.
“What’s your name?” the stranger asked, his deep voice resonating.
His intent gaze made her pulse race, but she needed to get a grip and focus on trying to salvage her job. “Ursula.”
He unnerved her, and she could feel her chest flushing.
She turned, catching a brief glance of herself in the mirror with a shiver of distaste. Even on a shoestring budget, Ursula normally prided herself on her sense of style. Tonight, she’d chosen a white shirt with tight maroon trousers that could almost pass for leather. She’d accessorized with her favorite boots and a chunky black bracelet. But the look wasn’t working out so well right now. Her ginger hair was a mess, and her soaked shirt clung to her body, showing off the pink bra underneath. Only her black eyeliner remained in place.
With any luck, she’d get the chance to clean herself up before Rufus saw her again. Otherwise, it would only confirm every terrible thing he’d said about her when he’d dumped her.
From behind, the stranger said, “Miss?”
She spun around. “Yes?”
“Pour yourself a drink, on me. It is, after all, your first night at the legal drinking age.”