Chapter 3
She was back within a few minutes, her face a little more flushed than it was before. Clint scooted over and patted the space on the seat beside him.
"Why don’t you sit next to me, Rosie?" he invited, his free hand still wrapped around the beer glass. It seemed like she wasn’t expecting that and couldn’t quite hide her double take at this turn of events but went with it anyway.
"Don’t mind if I do, " Rosie grinned and parked herself on the battered leather seat working that pretty smile and those wayward curls. Clint caught a hint of perfume - a light, citrussy scent that threatened to distract him.
"You didn’t drink all your beer, " she observed, disappointment creasing her forehead.
"Is that a problem?"
She gave him an odd look and her hand slipped beneath the table. Clint moved fast and caught her wrist in a tight grip, yanking her up close to him.
"What’s in your pocket, Rosie?"
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Did you spike my drink, Rosie, hmm?" he rasped in her ear. "Who are you, where are you from?"
"Spike your drink? Nooo..." she squeaked in bewilderment as she tried to wriggle away from him. "Why do you think I’d do that? "
"You didn’t drink yours."
"I don’t like beer..."
"Then why’d you buy it...?"
"I heard it makes people like you, if you drink what they drink. I’ll drink the bloody beer if you want ...I’ll drink your beer if you want, I tell you I didn’t spike it. I’d never do that..."
That made him pause. Her green eyes were staring up at him in what seemed like genuine shock
"What about the interrogation technique? Pretty slick..."
"...what? Please let me go..." she struggled harder against his grip.
"Where’d you learn to fish for information like that?"
"I told you, I work in customer service, the public are idiots, we have to be good at communication what is wrong with you? If you don’t let me go, I’m going to start yelling."
Her initial shock was hardening into an escape strategy and he could see her working out just how likely he was to really do her some damage but he couldn’t shake the instinct that she had a hidden agenda somehow.
"What are you up to?" he insisted.
"I’m not up to anything. You’re nuts. Let me go."
"I know there’s something going on - tell me what it is."
"Alright - alright...my friend is getting married, we’re on a hen night - a bachelorette party, " she corrected herself. "We set each other stupid tasks and you’re mine..."
"I’m what?"
"They asked the barman who the most miserable, grumpiest hardest to approach guy in here was and he said you," she scowled at him accusingly. "He said I’d never even get your name and we’d get a free bottle of champagne if I ... anyway. So my task was to flirt and get information out of you and what have you. That’s what the rosettes are for. "
He’d noticed she’d got another pinned to her shirt.
Dammit! Should’ve worked that out. This damn job, it’s screwing with my head.
"What’s in your pocket?"
"Peanuts."
"Show me. Slowly."
He let her wrist go and watched her reach into her jeans to pull out a crumpled packet that she slapped on the table so hard the bag split and salted nuts rolled everywhere.
Clint sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.
"Okay. Sorry kid. Occupational hazard. " He had the grace to sound as apologetic as he looked.
"Occupational hazard? What the fuck do you do? Oh that’s right, you’re an assassin for a secret organisation." Rosie had exited the seat next to him pretty sharpish but didn’t leave. She stood at the end of the table rubbing her wrist and frowning at him as if she were trying to decide whether to call the cops or not. He couldn’t blame her if she did.
"I said I’m sorry. You want me to look at that...?" He nodded towards her wrist which she then drew closer to her chest and well away from him.
"Are you trying to imply that you really are an assassin?"
He shrugged, realising he’d managed to manoeuvre himself into a conversational corner. ‘Tasha would despair at every move he’d made tonight. He made a mental note not to tell her. Though he knew she’d winkle it out of him eventually.
"Is Steve even your name?"
Clint shook his head.
"What is it then?"
"Clint."
Rosie perched on the edge of the opposite seat, her legs facing outwards.
Ready to run he noted.