"I don't want money," his voice was low and hoarse, with a magnetism that, like his presence, was filled with danger and recklessness.
Liang Anya's heart thudded violently; the man's Mandarin was somewhat nonstandard, as if Chinese wasn't his mother tongue. She glanced over and noticed his forearm encircling her body.
The man's muscled, slightly bulging forearm was tattooed with a writhing azure dragon, which stood out conspicuously against his sun-bronzed skin.
Following the dragon tattoo were the rolled-up cuffs of the man's shirt, the gilded edges and patterns indicating that his attire was far from ordinary.
Is—Is this man really a robber?
Do modern robbers dress in expensive custom-made clothes for work?
Liang Anya swallowed hard and said, "You could go to prostitutes—there are all kinds of them, the innocent schoolgirls, charming flirtatious wives, any flavor you desire, everything's available, guaranteed to satisfy, and they won't resist."
