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.