8
“Married?” I repeated, stunned. I turned to Clark. “Is she serious? You’re married?”
The woman gave a tinkling laugh that grated on my nerves, right along with her thigh gap. She was lithe and tall, with thick, straight mahogany hair that fell past her shoulders. Her hair was shiny, her eyes were a chocolate brown with thick lashes, and with her sculpted cheekbones and full lips, she looked as if she could be Charlize Theron’s brunette twin.
I clenched my jaw, waiting for Clark’s answer. He rolled his eyes at me.
“Fuck, no,” he said. “It’s a fun little game she likes to play.” His gaze narrowed as he turned back to the woman. “She thinks it’s funny.”
“It is funny,” she said. “One of these days someone’s going to slap you. That will be hilarious.”
“China, this is Gabby,” Clark said. “Gabby, meet China.”
“It’s Gabriella,” she corrected him, her gaze chilly.
“Whatever.” He shrugged. “What the fuck do you want?”
“I have a job opportunity for you. What luck that you’re in town.”
“Do I want to know how you found me?” Clark asked.
She smiled, but it was thin-lipped and cold. “We have eyes everywhere. Or have you forgotten?”
Reaching out, she picked up his glass and took a sip of his drink. My eyes narrowed and I suddenly knew what the expression “the green-eyed monster” meant. I certainly felt as though I had a monster inside wanting to get out and begin plucking out the woman’s perfectly arched eyebrows.
“I’m not taking jobs right now,” he said, taking his drink from her. “Find someone else.”
“But it’s an old friend of yours,” she wheedled, tracing the exposed skin of his neck and clavicle with one sharply manicured nail. “Remember Wirecutter?”
Clark stiffened ever so slightly. “What about him?”
I watched with satisfaction as he picked up her hand with two fingers—as though she were contagious—and removed it from his body.
“He’s made an enemy. One who wants him dead.” She shrugged one shoulder, as if speaking about another person’s demise was akin to talking about the weather. “You were specifically requested.”
“And he’s here?”
She gave him a withering look. “I wouldn’t be here, wasting my time, if he wasn’t.”
Clark glanced away and I could tell he was thinking. Gabriella reached into her designer handbag and produced a manila file folder. She handed it to him.
“Information is inside. It’s likely to be out-of-date within twenty-four hours. Payment is five hundred thousand now, another five hundred once it’s done. I’m assuming your account is still open?”
Clark’s gaze swung back to her, and he gave a curt nod. She smiled.
“Excellent.”
She stood and blew Clark a kiss before heading for the stairs and exit. I turned to Clark.
“Please tell me you’re not serious,” I said. “You really just took a contract?”
His gripped my arm. “Will you keep your voice down?” he growled. “I’m not sure the bouncer heard you.”
His sarcasm was hard to miss, but I lowered my voice. “Answer the question,” I demanded. “Are you really going to kill this guy?”
“This guy deserves to die.”
“Who are you to say that?” I was angry, not just at his attempt to justify murder, but that he’d think he was qualified to make that judgment on someone.
Clark loomed over me, his eyes a cold, blue fire. “I’m qualified to say that because I know what he’s done.” He stood, took some bills from his wallet, and tossed them on the table. Grabbing my hand and the folder, he pulled me along behind him up the stairs and outside.
I hurried to keep up with his long strides that were eating up the pavement. “Tell me, then,” I said. “The least you could do is tell me what he’s done.”
“So you can judge for yourself?” he asked. “How about you just trust me?” He stopped and spun me around so my back was to the brick wall. His body pressed against mine, his hands locked around my wrists, holding me in place. “Or don’t you think I’m capable of seeing the difference between right and wrong?”
His warm breath touched my cheek, and my heart skipped a beat. What had he said again? Oh yeah.
“Of course you know right from wrong,” I said. “That’s why I was shocked to see you accept the contract.”
His eyes bore into mine and I saw nothing except him. The naked cowboy could’ve pranced right up and started singing “Rhinestone Cowboy,” and I wouldn’t have noticed. His hands clasped my arms in a firm hold that didn’t hurt, but I knew I couldn’t get away. His gaze dropped to my mouth, and I had the nearly irresistible urge to lick my lips. Scraps of memory, like photographs flipping through my mind’s eye, hit me.
Clark with his head between my legs. His body on top of mine, moving inside me. My gasps and cries of pleasure. The sound of our bodies coming together, slowly at first, then faster and harder. How he looked at me when he was about to come.
Some of what I was thinking must’ve shown in my eyes, because Clark suddenly muttered a curse and abruptly let me go.
“Come on,” he said. “My hotel’s around the corner.”
He wasn’t kidding. The place was about a two-minute walk, a boutique hotel with a suit-clad doorman who smiled and held the door for us. The elevator was empty and waiting on the ground floor.
Room 407 was at the end of the hall, and Clark slid the key card into the slot. Inside, it was a gorgeous room, and I took a moment to appreciate it. The decor was deep purple along with white and silver. The king-size bed took up a whole corner close to the windows, which had a great view of the Empire State Building. It was dark outside and the building was lit up.
Clark sat down at the desk and began going through the folder. I sidled up next to him and peered over his shoulder.
There was a photograph of a man—large and roughened by life—unsmiling and with eyes devoid of humanity. Just looking at him sent a shiver through me. I looked down at the dossier Clark was reading.
“. . . bodyguard . . . Stasi officer . . . Russian Mafia . . . drug cartel . . . human trafficking . . . child pornography . . .”
His real name was Andrei Alexeev, and he’d gone from bad to worse, in careers where humanity and a conscience were a liability. Now he was an oligarch with thousands of henchmen at his fingertips and a global network of drugs and humans from which he soaked his billions.
Clark kept flipping pages. There were photographs. Lots of them. Victims, some so young that it was all I could do not to be ill. While there were pictures of him on an enormous yacht, surrounded by pencil-thin anorexic women with long legs and flowing locks of hair.
Photos of dead people followed. Clark paused at a photo of a man, flat gaze staring straight ahead, with a bullet hole between his eyes.
“Did you know him?” I asked.
Clark’s fingers tightened on the photo. “Yeah.” His voice was low and rough. “He was undercover CIA. You’ve heard of Aldrich Ames?”
I remembered. Yes, the CIA agent who’d spied for the USSR and Russia. I nodded.
“This man trained me. He was my mentor. Andrei had him tortured and killed when Ames leaked his identity. They dumped his body in the gutter and sent his teeth to the CIA for identification. The teeth had been extracted while he was still alive.”
The look on Clark’s face was like a punch to the gut.
“And you think your pain gives you the right to be his executioner?” I asked.
“I think someone has to be. And he’s been gift wrapped for me and loaded with a pile of cash. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because it’s wrong.”
His lips twisted. “That’s the difference between you and me. My morals are flexible. He needs to die.”
“Someone else will just take his place,” I argued. “Maybe someone worse.”
“So I shouldn’t take him out because evil exists and will always exist?” Clark snorted in disgust. “Take your altruism to the nearest prison. Let me know how that works out for you.”
I’d never seen this side of Clark. Darkness, with eyes a bottomless pit of anger and hopelessness. He was the embodiment of the avenging, fallen angel, determined to atone for his sins by wiping out evil, no matter what it made him.
It made me unbearably sad.
“What do you need me to do?” I asked quietly.
There was a flash of relief in his eyes, and gratitude, then it was gone.
“I don’t know yet. Maybe nothing.”
“I’m not letting you do this alone,” I said. “We’re friends. Partners. Remember?”
A nearly imperceptible wince crossed his face, so quick I might have imagined it.
“You bet,” he said flatly. “Have a seat and give me a minute.”
I sank onto the edge of the bed and waited. My phone buzzed and I glanced at the screen. Jackson. I hesitated, then swiped and sent the autotext: Sorry, I can’t talk right now. There. He knew I was alive, but didn’t want to chat.
I waited—somewhat patiently—for Clark to finish reading. When he finally turned to me, I was more than ready to hear a plan. Anything to take my mind off my own issues.
“So he’s staying at the Ritz,” he said. “He’s in town for only tonight, and he has a habit of ordering . . . entertainment . . . when he’s in town.”
“Entertainment?” I echoed. “Like pay-per-view?” Was there a fight this weekend?
“No, China,” Clark said with exaggerated patience. “He orders a few high-class hookers.”
“Oh. Well. That has to be way pricier than pay-per-view.” I blinked twice and pushed my glasses up my nose.
Clark’s lips twitched. “I’m sure. The thing is, if we can get with the hookers, then we’ll get him when his security is the most lax and his guard is down. Men like him never expect a woman to be a threat.”
“Good idea,” I said, nodding. Then my brain caught up with The Plan. Wait a minute. “How are you planning to do that?” I had a really bad feeling about this.
“I’ll be their handler,” he said. “Get into the suite, take out some bodyguards, take him out.”
O. M. G. “No,” I said, instantly shaking my head. “You just showed me this guy’s file. He’s dangerous. If you get caught, he won’t just kill you. He’ll torture you.” Bile rose in my throat at the thought of Clark’s face in those pictures I’d seen.
“Then I won’t get caught,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Obviously.”
His blatant disregard for his own safety made me angry. I also knew I wouldn’t be able to stop him. He was already popping open a small laptop.
“Then I’m coming, too.”
“Nope.” He didn’t even glance at me as he logged in to his computer.
“I can be a hooker. I’ve seen Pretty Woman.”
His snort said it all.
“I know I’m not high-class hooker material. I’m not low-class hooker material. But I’ve cosplayed before. And you need backup.”
“Your self-image is massively distorted,” he said. “But regardless, you’re not coming along.” He reached for his cell and dialed.
“Who are you calling?”
“The only place in town who’ll have what he wants—Hey, Simone,” he said into the phone. “It’s Clark . . . yeah, it’s been a while. How’s Clint doing? Still getting straight As? Awesome. Hey, I hear you have a special request for tonight at the Ritz . . .”
He kept talking, arranging to be the handler. I didn’t know which was worse: that he knew a madam’s number, or that they were on a first-name basis.
“You know my plans for him.” He was still talking. “Somebody with a lot of cash contacted me.” He paused, listening. “Arrange to have your guy ambushed. I’ll fill in. Your hands are clean. Besides, no one’s going to look too hard for revenge. They’ll be too busy fighting to take his place.”
A few more words and plans exchanged—time and place—and he hung up.
“Good to go,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’m meeting them in ninety minutes.”
“Then I need to get ready.” I headed for the closet, hoping he’d have what I needed.
Clark muttered a curse. “I said, you’re not coming.”
“You can’t stop me,” I tossed over my shoulder. I spied what I needed and pulled it off the hanger. A man’s pristine white dress shirt. Perfect. I undid my thin red belt and set it aside.
“Your face is bruised,” he argued. “No one’s going to buy that you’re a hooker.”
“I had an unruly customer last night.” I presented my back to him. “Unzip me, please.”
I had to wait a moment, but he reached up to my zipper and slowly drew it down my back. A draft of air touched my waist, then the featherlight touch of his fingers in the small of my back. He drew a line down to the top edge of my panties and stopped.
“Looks like you had a helluva time last night.” His voice was thick, and I remembered the bruises decorating my back and torso.
Well, that was enough to break the mood. Here I’d been getting hot and bothered, while he’d been visualizing how I’d acquired my battle scars.
Clearing my throat, I moved away, pretending nothing was amiss. “I’m fine,” I said, stepping out of my dress. I was left in a matching set of bridal white-lace demi-push-up, teeny-tiny bikini underpants, and red heels.
“Damn, you look good,” he said, his hands on my waist turning me to face him. I swallowed at the blue fire in his eyes. “Though I prefer your skin the way it usually looks, like the color of the clouds at sunrise. The palest shade of pink that’s almost too perfect.” His fingers grazed my abdomen down to my hip bone.
The desire in his eyes was impossible not to see. And I could feel heat burning in my belly. It would be so easy to take one step forward, straddle his lap, put my arms around his neck, and kiss him.
But kissing would open the door to love, and offering something I wasn’t able to give. So I stepped back instead of forward.
I forced the fakest-sounding laugh ever as I turned toward the closet. “Wow, that’s really . . . poetic. So much nicer-sounding than pale.” I pulled on the dress shirt and began buttoning it. “Hope you don’t mind if I borrow this? It’s not really your style.”
“You never know when you’ll need to put on a suit.” His reply was nonchalant, but something sad flickered in his eyes before it was gone.
I left the top button undone, then wrapped the belt around my waist. I folded back the sleeves several times until they were nearly to my elbows. I checked myself in the mirror. Not bad for an impromptu prostitute costume. I struck my best come-hither pose, which probably looked ridiculous, but one worked with what one had.
“How much would you pay?” I asked, only half teasing.
He was sprawled in the chair, his knees far apart, one elbow on the armrest. His body looked relaxed, but I could tell that every muscle was taut. I tried valiantly to keep my eyes from staring at the obvious bulge in his jeans.
Clark rose, taking his time about doing it, until all six feet, two inches of him stood a mere breath from me. I tipped my head back, watching his face as he concentrated on his shirt draped on my skin. He reached forward and I stopped breathing. He undid three more buttons on the shirt, excruciatingly slow, opening the V down to low between my cleavage. The soft brush of his fingers against my skin made goose bumps erupt on my arms, and my nipples puckered.
He slid the elastic band down my ponytail until it came off. My hair fell in a heavy mass. I watched his face as he worked his fingers into the strands, all the way to my scalp, gently drawing the strands to splay across my shoulders and back. His gaze seemed mesmerized by the thick, soft mass of my hair.
“There,” he said quietly, seemingly oblivious to the sexual tension choking me.
The shirt came down to midthigh. The belt accentuated the narrowness of my waist while the low-cut neckline showcased my ample cleavage, courtesy of Victoria.
“One last thing,” he said, reaching up and sliding my glasses off. Now I could only see him, nothing else. “Other than the shiner, you’re perfect.”
The air was thick in my lungs, making my chest heave in a way that drew his attention to my breasts, his gaze flicking downward. His hands settled on my shoulders, his thumb lightly stroking the exposed skin of my neck and clavicle.
I swallowed hard. “Are you sure that whole not-kissing thing is still in effect, right? Because it’s not included in the Friends with Benefits package?” I asked, my voice breathless and probably not fooling anyone. I wanted to kiss him so badly, it was a physical ache.
“You’re with him,” Clark murmured, his fingers moving to caress my jaw while his gaze memorized my face. “And you should be. I was an idiot to think you could feel more for me. Look at what I’ve done, what I’m doing tonight. You should ditch me, baby. Go back to Coop, have a wedding that costs millions, and invite everyone who has ever been a shit to you.”
I was barely breathing, but I didn’t mind. I was painfully aware that I might not ever see Clark again. Funny how a brush with death makes you reevaluate your priorities.
I wish I knew what I wanted. Being with Jackson was comfortable and safe. Clark was right about that. We were perfect for each other, and the chemistry was fantastic.
But Clark . . . it felt as though I’d stuck my finger in an electrical socket and been shocked into life. It was addictive . . . and terrifying. The Friend Zone was the only safe place I could put him, but it also killed me that that’s where he thought he deserved to be.
His blue-eyed gaze penetrated mine, and I couldn’t look away. There was more to Clark than what he let on, and I didn’t want him to slide back into the dark shell he’d been in when I’d first met him.
“Please don’t say that,” I whispered. “You’ve saved my life. More than once. You’re not evil, just . . . misguided on occasion.” Understatement, what?
“You believe that because you want to, but that doesn’t make it true.”
“Let’s not go tonight,” I tried again. “Take me somewhere else instead. I’ve never been to New York before. Show me something I’ll never forget.”
His fingers traced the outline of my face from my temple to my jaw. “Aw, baby. I wish I could,” he murmured.
“Please, Clark. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Killing people isn’t who you are.”
His lips twisted. “You give me too much credit. You think it’ll cause me even a twinge of conscience to put a bullet in this asshole’s head?” He leaned even closer and enunciated each word. “I’d do it for free.”
I watched him and he watched me.
“Still think I’m not evil?” he asked.
“Would you care if I didn’t?” I replied.
A glint of appreciation shone in his eyes. His lips brushed my ear. “Anything,” he whispered. “I’d pay any price you named.”
My eyes drifted closed at the touch. I wanted him. Our chemistry when we were together was overwhelming. It clouded my thoughts and judgment. And it made me not care about losing either of those things.
He abruptly stepped away and I could breathe again, but the disappointment was acute. His words were still echoing inside my head.
“Here’s the rules,” he said. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t speak unless spoken to. You’ll probably be shorter than the other girls, so use them as camouflage.”
As he said all this, he was checking his handgun’s magazine and slapping it back into place. It went in the back waist of his jeans, and he tugged his T-shirt down to cover it.
He crouched down and lifted one pant leg, sliding a lethal-looking knife into a holster and attaching it to his calf. “Do not try to get involved in what I’m doing, even if you’re trying to help. You’ll just get in the way.” He tugged his pant leg down and lifted the other. A smaller pistol went into an ankle holster.
I’d never seen Clark get this armed before, and my face flushed when I realized it was . . . pretty darn hot. I had four degrees, a well-above-genius-level IQ, could pay my own bills and afford (mostly) anything I wanted to buy, within reason. Yet here I was, a throwback cliché, who thought a man—who already was hotter than sin—looked even more tempting when armed to the teeth. The phrase “panty-dropping” was a crude, though apt, way to describe how I felt watching him.
Clark stood, glanced at me, and froze. His eyes darkened. “If you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’m going to take you to bed. Consequences be damned.”
A shiver went through me at the way he growled those words, and I hastily looked away.
He held his leather jacket for me to put on, and I obediently slid my arms into the sleeves. It was wreathed in his scent, and I felt safer just wrapping it around me.
“Are you sure I can’t wear my glasses?” I asked. “I’m no good after about four feet without them.”
“We’ll take them with us,” he said, snagging them with his finger. He opened the jacket I was wearing, his eyes meeting mine, and slid them into the inside pocket. The back of his hand touched my breast, and I sucked in a breath.
“If you’re insisting on doing this, you need to channel your inner Pretty Woman,” he said. “You’re not there to make friends, so no need to smile.”
That was good, because my strained, polite smile wasn’t believable under the best of circumstances. I doubted it would hold up to the I’m-really-a-hooker-I-promise scenario.
“Let’s go.” He took my hand and led me to the door.
A limousine was waiting for us downstairs, and when the driver opened the door, I was hit by a flood of female voices. I stopped in my tracks, anxiety hitting me hard. New people, and women at that. Women were usually colder to me than men, and I wasn’t good at chattering small talk. I’d thought we’d meet them there or something, not that I’d have to share a ride with them.
Clark was talking to the driver, who rounded the car to get in the driver’s seat. He looked at me standing immobile on the sidewalk.
“Wanna back out?” he asked.
Yes. “No.”
“Then get in.” He said it with the exasperation of a parent with a five-year-old wasting his precious time because I was too scared to go into the haunted house at the mall.
I took a breath and climbed into the car.
The back seat was empty, so I sat there, scooting over to make room for Clark. Four other women sat in the long side seat, and they all looked curiously at me. I looked back.
Clark climbed in and closed the door. “Hello, ladies.”
“You’re an asshole,” the woman sitting closest to me snapped.
My jaw dropped and I looked at Clark. “She knows you?”
That got a massive eye roll. “Hell, no. And I find it insulting that you think she would just because she called me an asshole.”
I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. “Really?”
“Point taken,” he muttered.
“Simone said you were going to protect us,” the second woman said. “If what you’ve done to that little thing’s face is any indication, I don’t want your kind of protection.”
All four of the women were staring daggers at Clark, and I got it.
“Oh no, he didn’t do this to me,” I hurriedly said. “It was someone else. He’s dead now.”
“He’s dead now?” This was from a striking black woman seated toward the front.
“Yeah. I, um, killed him.”
There was a low whistle. “Holy shit, girl. Don’t piss you off, amirite?”
They all laughed and the woman nearest me introduced herself. “I’m Celine. This is Rosie, Jen, and Arya.”
“I’m Ch . . . erry,” I said, thinking I shouldn’t give my real name after just confessing to killing someone. “It’s nice to meet you.” I turned toward Clark, but he had his phone to his ear.
“You can leave me out of the female bonding,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Be my guest.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’ll have to excuse him,” I said to the women. “He’s a smart-ass.”
“He can be as much of a smart-ass as he wants, Cherry,” Rosie said. “So long as he can keep us alive.”
She sounded serious, taking me off guard. “Is that a real danger in this . . . line of work?” I was proud of that euphemism.
“Always,” Celine said. “Especially these kinds of customers. But the money is really good, and we watch each other’s backs.”
Celine scrutinized my face. “Do you have any makeup on at all?” I shook my head. “Jen, do you have some concealer on you? Your skin tone is fair enough to match hers.”
Jen dug in her purse, produced the concealer, and passed it to Celine.
“Close your eyes and hold still,” she said. She was gentle with the makeup, and it didn’t take long. “There you go. Much better.”
They were all very pretty women. Celine was a blonde while Rosie was a redhead. Jen was a light brunette with ash blonde highlights. And they were all wearing beautiful cocktail dresses.
I turned to Clark in dismay. He was just sliding his phone into his pocket. “Why didn’t you tell me to leave my dress on? That would’ve looked better than this.” I motioned to my outfit.
His lips twisted, a wicked glint in his eyes. “And miss the show I got? I don’t think so.”
Sheesh. I didn’t know if I should feel like an idiot, or if it was supposed to be a compliment. I decided both were valid.
“You look fine,” Rosie said. “The clothes won’t be on long anyway.”
I swallowed hard. Clark’s hand found mine on the seat between us, squeezing reassurance into me.
The Ritz-Carlton was only a couple of miles away, but it took twenty minutes to get there. The leather seat was cold against the backs of my thighs. I sat still, deliberately keeping myself from fidgeting. I could do this. It was just like a cosplay, except instead of Princess Leia or Harley Quinn, I was Vivian from Pretty Woman. And I would hardly need to do anything . . . except somehow stop Clark from killing a man in cold blood.
I kept my knees together when swinging my legs from the car onto the asphalt. Clark took my elbow to help me from the seat, then assisted the other women as well. They all towered over me, statuesque and wearing sky-high heels.
Clark kept hold of me as we walked into the building, where a doorman even more fancily dressed opened the door for us. I was twisted around looking at the fancy man, so when I glanced back, I stumbled.
“Wow.”
I’d never seen a hotel like this before. Elaborate and luxurious only scratched the surface. Marble floors, polished wood, overflowing bouquets of flowers everywhere. Everyone I saw was dressed to the hilt, and I wanted to cower in a corner to hide my bare legs. The jacket was long enough to make it appear I had nothing on underneath. I saw more than one judgy glance come my way, though nothing but admiring looks were directed at Celine, Rosie, Jen, and Arya.
“Chin up,” Clark muttered, guiding me toward the elevator, which had an actual person inside operating the controls.
“Floor, sir?” the elevator operator asked Clark.
“Twenty-second.”
The elevator ride was too short but felt like an eternity. I was starting to sweat underneath the leather jacket. Clark caught my eye. He gave me a small nod and squeezed my elbow in reassurance. The other women seemed to be a little tense as well, no one speaking on the way up.
The top floor was quiet, the heavy carpet swallowing our footsteps as the elevator doors slid closed. Four men were clustered around a double door about thirty feet away.
The men saw us approaching and squared off against us. Each of them was twice the size of me and were toting the kinds of weapons that were illegal to carry in Manhattan.
One stepped forward to meet us. He looked us over, then addressed Clark in a thick Russian accent.
“You are late.”
Clark shrugged. “Traffic.”
The man grunted. “Follow me.”
He led us past the other guards and into the suite. Clark was in the lead, and I brought up the rear. I kept my eyes straight ahead as we passed the men with guns. One of them had a severe body-odor problem.
Inside, the suite was palatial and luxurious, with panoramic views of the city. I barely glanced at the windows though, my attention drawn to two more guards in the room along with two suit-clad men, relaxing on opposite sofas. One I recognized as Alexeev. The other was a stranger.
“Finally,” Andrei said, getting to his feet. He wasn’t very tall, perhaps about five foot ten, but he was stocky and muscular. “We’ve been kept waiting a long time.” His criticism was directed at Clark, whose face was a blank, cold mask.
“It’s a good thing my ladies are worth waiting for,” Clark said, smiling thinly.
Andrei turned to the other man. “Thomas, you are my guest. Please. Take first pick. However many you would like.”
Thomas was taller than Andrei, and considerably younger. I pegged him for early forties. His suit was expensive and tailored, his hair dark with just a touch of silver at his temples. He reminded me of Pierce Brosnan in his Thomas Crown days.
He looked over the women one by one. They each looked completely at ease, giving him seductive smiles and posing. My palms were sweating and my heart was racing. When his eyes landed on me, I dropped my gaze to the floor. I desperately wanted to fidget but was too terrified.
It’ll be okay. Clark’s here. It’ll be okay . . . I kept repeating inside my head.
I heard him walking toward us, and my heart leaped into my throat when he paused in front of me.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Ch-Cherry,” I stammered, still looking at the floor. I could barely hear over the pounding of my heart in my ears.
He put a finger underneath my chin, tipping my head up until I had to look him in the eyes. They were the gray of a stormy sky. He tipped his head to the side, considering, then one corner of his mouth lifted.
“I’ll have this one,” he said to Andrei.
“Just one?” Andrei sounded surprised.
Thomas looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Our tastes run differently, my friend.”
Andrei laughed heartily. “The more for me. Come, ladies. Join me.”
Rosie, Arya, Celine, and Jen all followed Andrei to a door that I knew led to a bedroom. Celine cast me a sympathetic look over her shoulder. Then the door closed.
Clark still stood in the center of the room, his hands in fists at his sides. The two guards remained as well.
“This way, please,” Thomas said, ever so politely. He put his hand on the small of my back and led me into another bedroom. The door closed behind me and we were alone.