I watch from between the slats of my blinds as a black car pulls up in front of my apartment building at nine o’clock exactly. I’m torn between wishing he was late, and knowing I don’t need any more time to contemplate what the outcome of tonight might be.

Do I go out? Wait for the driver to come up? It’s not like I have experience with this type of situation. No protocol from Emily Post applies here.

I already know they can get into my apartment, so why make it easy for him? I wait inside like a girl whose date just honked the horn, urging her to come out so he doesn’t have to come to the door. That happened only once to me, and my father wouldn’t let me set foot outside the house. No, instead he went outside to scare the hell out of the boy and school him in proper manners. Needless to say, I didn’t get asked out a lot after that.

The clock on my microwave ticks over to 9:01, and still the door to the car hasn’t opened. In fact, it doesn’t open until 9:03 and an expressionless man in a well-fitting suit unfolds himself from the front seat.

He doesn’t lock what has to be an exorbitantly expensive car, especially in my questionable neighborhood. For a moment, I assume he’s an idiot, and then it occurs to me that I’m the idiot. If Mount is everything people say he is, then no one in their right mind would dare steal his car.

I wait another minute until there’s a knock on the door to my apartment. I tighten the belt on my lightweight black London Fog trench coat, a bargain I snagged at Costco for under forty bucks. It’s probably a mockery of all the expensive couture Mount sent me, but I don’t give a damn.

With a steadying breath, I flip the locks and open the door.

The man gives me a quick survey from head to toe, and then jerks his head to the side. He says nothing at all, just turns and stalks down the hallway to the stairs.

I squeeze my eyes shut and step one stiletto-clad foot into the hallway, knowing that when I return, if I return, I will not be the same woman I am right now. This experience will change me irrevocably, and I already hate Mount for that.

Although my sense of safety in my apartment is nonexistent, I take my time locking both dead bolts before following the silent man to the stairs. He walks down them slowly, as though he knows I’m not used to wearing heels this tall. The harsh fluorescent light on the ceiling highlights the jagged scar on the left side of his face. It’s old, clearly, but it didn’t heal well.

Did Mount do that to him?

When we reach the ground floor, he opens the front door and once again jerks his head, as if he wants me to go first.

Responding to his silent command, I pick my way down the cracked sidewalk in the skyscraper heels as Scar walks silently behind me. I don’t need to hear his footsteps to know he’s there. I can feel him.

When I reach the curb, I freeze as some statistic runs through my head about how unlikely you are to survive an abduction once the kidnapper gets you in the car.

The thought of running bursts into my mind again, this time lit up in flashing neon lights.

But every reason that stopped me from packing that bag for the airport follows, along with the more practical reason. There’s no way I’ll get far in these heels if I try to run.

What would be the consequence for that act of cowardice? I don’t want to know.

Scar opens the back door for me, not even gesturing for me to get inside. It’s a fait accompli. No one disobeys his boss, and he knows it.

I duck my head and slide inside the most luxurious vehicle I’ve ever seen. The plush tan leather seat hugs my body as he shuts the door.

This is it. My mouth goes dry at the realization.

I’m nothing more than the trade Mount demanded being delivered. I’m not even worth a single word from my driver as he folds himself into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.

Based on the thundering beat in my chest, I’m certain I’m going to die of a heart attack before the car moves an inch. I swallow, but my dry mouth makes it nearly impossible.

I look down to the cupholder discreetly tucked into the interior. In it is a bottle of Bling H2O. I’ve never seen one in person, but I remember reading an article online about how an enterprising entrepreneur turned Tennessee spring water into a $40 per bottle product by putting it in a frosted bottle with Swarovski crystals.

Bling seems to be the theme of the night, like the water was picked to match the shoes and lingerie. Or maybe Mount is just that rich that he doesn’t care about throwing money away on ridiculous extravagances.

Leery of what may be in the water, I skip the bottle and notice Scar holding something out to me from between the seats.

A black cloth hood. It looks like something put on a terrorist before the CIA drags him off to be waterboarded.

Jesus. Effing. Christ.

If I thought a heart attack was imminent before, the likelihood just increased a dozen times over.

Scar holds it out and says nothing.

Do I rebel or do I comply? That’s the question I’ll likely be asking myself all night.

I answer the question quickly in my head. I’m going to save my rebellion for the man who deserves it. That is, if I can summon the courage when the time comes.

“Fine,” I snap, and yank the hood out of his hand and pull it over my head.

It’s not like I spent an hour doing my hair. I refused to give Mount that much consideration. My red mane was wild from me running my fingers through it all day as I freaked out about the night to come, and now it’ll be even more of a mess.

I tell myself I don’t care.

Once my vision descends into blackness, Scar starts the engine and silently maneuvers the car onto the street. I listen to the outside noises, all my other senses heightened as I try to figure out where he’s taking me.

Traffic seems to get heavier as horns blare, and I can hear music in the distance.

The French Quarter? Is he taking me to the bar Magnolia told me about? The one with the code word? I have no way of knowing unless I yank this hood off, and I have a feeling that won’t end well for me.

Twenty minutes later, there’s a scraping noise and the car turns before slowly moving forward again.

A garage? A warehouse? I have no idea.

Scar kills the engine, and his door opens. A moment later, a brush of cool breeze hits my legs and I tighten the belt on my trench coat.

When a hand lands on my arm, I practically jump out of my plush leather seat. “Give a girl warning next time, okay? Do you want me to die of a heart attack before we get to wherever the hell we’re going?”

He doesn’t answer, just helps me out of the car while I remain blind. I expect him to pull me behind him slowly so I don’t trip, but instead he lifts me into his arms like a groom on a wedding night.

The thought twists in my stomach as I remember Brett carrying me over the threshold of my townhouse after we eloped.

That lying, cheating piece of shit.

Rage roars into my veins again, stiffening my spine with the steel I’ll need to face the scariest man in New Orleans.

I try to keep track of the twists and turns and going up and down, and the sounds of doors opening and things sliding, but I’m completely discombobulated by the time Scar lowers me to my feet again.

The first scent to hit my nose is a faint mixture of cigar smoke, leather, and old books. Footsteps recede, and there’s another, almost silent, sliding sound. If I hadn’t been blind, I might not have heard it.

I yank the hood from my head, my eyes adjusting to the dim light as adrenaline dumps into my bloodstream.

Fight or flight.

I’m ready.

I expect to see a smug man waiting for me, the one who sat at my desk like he owned it, but there’s no one.

I spin in a circle, barely keeping myself upright on the tall heels. I’m completely alone.

My first thought—did Scar bring me to the wrong place? I expected a bedroom fit for a bordello with a massive bed where Mount would force me to do whatever sick things his twisted mind desired.

But there isn’t a bed in sight. In fact, the only furniture in the room is heavy bookcases lining every wall, two large leather chairs perfectly suited for the frame of a big man, a few lamps on the tables, and a sideboard with crystal decanters. My eyes scan the room from wall to wall, looking for the door.

Another shot of fear courses through me when I realize there isn’t one.

I swallow again, my mouth even drier than in the car, and focus on my breathing. This is New Orleans. Hidden rooms and secret passageways are run of the mill. It’s no big deal.

Except when the man you’re meeting has a history of making his mistresses disappear.

But that’s not what I am. I’m just the piece of ass he’s taking in lieu of payment for a debt. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I stand in the center of the room, waiting, and I see a dark glass bulb tucked into one corner of the ceiling.

A camera.

Is he watching me?

A shaft of courage, bolstered by my rage, straightens my spine once more.

For the first time in my life, I sure as hell hope Lachlan Mount is watching. I untie the belt of my trench coat and let it fall to the floor.