Slayn.
The man was dressed to match the setting, in a black tie and tux, his dark hair swept back and pomaded above his immaculately tanned face. The bastard even had a little pair of old-fashioned opera glasses so he could get a better view of the show.
Fairchild’s blood ran simultaneously hot and cold at the sight of him. It was the first time she’d seen him since the restaurant, and now as then, she felt an impulse to rush him. If she sprinted, she could make it across the stage in less than a second, and she would have no problem making the twenty-foot leap to the balcony. She didn’t need weapons; she was one. Her bare fingers would be more than enough to rip out the bastard’s throat.
But Slayn was not alone. Fairchild could see the dark shapes of his bodyguards lurking in the shadows behind him, and the woman—the big blonde—was sitting right beside him in a blueevening gown that looked slightly incongruous on her muscular frame. None of them were Mercs, of course. They wouldn’t be quick enough to stop Fairchild from killing their boss. But they would most certainly gun her down as soon as she’d done the deed.
She didn’t particularly care about that. What she did care about, however, were her teammates—Reece and Dutton and even Nash’s stupid ass. She wasn’t going to put them in danger by going rogue. No. She was going to do this by the book.
Like Dane used to say, a thing worth doing was worth doing right.
Andrevengewas definitely worth it.
Fairchild stepped away from the curtain and shifted her attention to the scene backstage. All around her, other teams were bustling in preparation for the competition, clad in skimpy costumes that accentuated more than they concealed. Leather straps and buckles. Sequins and feathers. Body paint. Piercings. Some of the outfits looked like they must have cost a small fortune.
“I’m feeling a bit underdressed,” Fairchild whispered.
Within the luggage she had brought with her from the ship, Fairchild had packed several sets of lingerie. For the competition tonight, she had gone for a balance of luxury and comfort. A sheer, black number comprising a lace-up bustier, thong panties, and spidersilk stockings held in place by garters. A pair of black stiletto shoes completed the look.
Okay, maybe comfort wasn’t the right word for it, but at least it afforded her some amount of mobility, which was more than she could say for some of the outfits in her new wardrobe.
“You look amazing,” Reece told her.
He swept his fingers up the curve of her spine, raising goosebumps all over her bared skin. She turned to look at him, and smiled.
“So do you,” she said.
He and the other two members of their team were dressed in matching outfits—skin-tight vinyl booty shorts with a zipper running up the front for easy access when the time came. A bit cheesy, perhaps, but Fairchild couldn’t deny how well the three of them wore it. They had the muscles for it. And the bulges.
She brushed her fingertips down the front of Reece’s body, over the taut ripples of his abdomen and down to the top of his shorts. She was tempted to grab his zipper and pull—real tempted—but she knew if she did that, she wouldn’t be able to stop. They’d been practicing for their performance all morning long, but somehow the dozens of orgasms she’d experienced, and the dozens of loads all three men had spent inside her, had not been enough to quench the flames of her desire.
“What number are we?” she asked.
“We’re last in the lineup,” Reece answered. “Lucky number seven.”
Fairchild sighed. She wished she didn’t have to wait that long. It wasn’t just her desire that was making her impatient. She was nervous about performing for such a large crowd, and she was eager to get it over with.
Still, it was good that they would be able to watch their competitors first. They were up against six other teams of exhibitionists, and she had a feeling they’d all done this sort of thing before. She and her three guys were the rookies on the block.
Reece must have sensed her apprehension because he placed a knuckle under her chin and tilted her face up toward his own. A couple weeks ago, she wouldn’t have liked that reminder of how much taller he was, but now, as his clear gray eyes stared deep into her own, she felt a sexy tingle race up her spine.
“Remember,” he said in a voice like smoke. “It’s not about winning. It’s about Slayn.”
The tingle was replaced by a shiver. She remembered. How could she forget? The idea that Victor Slayn had taken a liking to her was infinitely repulsive, but it was necessary if she wanted to get the bastard alone.
And Reece was right, of course—they didn’t need to win—but a woman didn’t make it in the Mercs Guild by not being competitive. Reece must have read some of that in her look, because his lips curved into a smirk, and he leaned down to kiss her mouth.
“Come on,” he said. “The show’s about to start.”
***
It didn’t take long for Fairchild to realize that her fears had not been unfounded. The first team wasn’t just good; they wereelite. The woman must have been a sword-swallower in another life, because her gag reflex was completely nonexistent, and her men certainly had the length to test it. And the positions! Fairchilddidn’t even know bodies could bend like that. They seemed to defy the very laws of physics as they writhed and cavorted on the stage.
What Fairchild and her teammates were to killing, these guys were to sex—stone cold professionals.
“This doesn’t look good,” Fairchild murmured.
She and her team were watching from the wings, hidden by the backstage shadows. Even from that angle, the performance was incredible. Fairchild could only imagine how it must look to the audience members who were watching it head-on.
