A man approached, tall and regal, his accent thick and foreign. “You are exquisite,” he said. “Your hair is the finest silk.” He reached out and stroked it without asking. “You must wear it down always!” he insisted.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, smiling tightly. “Champagne?”
“Only if you join me,” he said smoothly, taking two glasses.
“I couldn’t. I’m sorry. My boss would combust, but I appreciate the invitation.” She stepped away before he could say—or touch—more.
She suppressed a shudder, though just barely. His touch made her skin crawl.
Emily searched the room for Jace and found him near the back, dressed like money, lounging with calculated ease. Only she knew he was alert, watching her and everyone else as he talked to a server. She wore the same skimpy black outfit as her, but Emily didn’t recognize her as part of Regina’s staff. Something about her seemed familiar, though.
“You, girl!” someone nearby barked.
She turned instinctively, knowing he meant her. A man she didn’t know was bearing down on her. He seemed out of place among the guests, who oozed wealth as easily as they breathed. His tux was over the top, his jet-blackhair with way too much gel, and an enormous diamond stud in one ear. But he spoke and moved with authority.
“I have VIPs in a private room. They need attention. Follow me.”
Emily hesitated. Then her feet moved before her brain could protest.
The private room was much smaller, intimate. The air was thick with a heavy, cloying cologne and cigar smoke dense enough to choke. Six velvet chairs were arranged in a half circle. The five men seated in them locked eyes on her, expressions calculating. What was the going rate for a sex slave? She didn’t even know.
What she did know was this: she was alone, outnumbered, vulnerable—prey dropped into a den of salivating wolves.
“Circulate,” Slick ordered. “Serve them champagne. Smile, be polite, and answer any questions they may have.” He shoved her forward. “Gentlemen. A preview.”
Laughter erupted aa Emily stumbled, fighting to keep from spilling champagne on their heads—Regina’s threat the last of her worries.
Two of the men stood, circling her with slow, hungry interest.
She looked for an escape, but guards lingered at the doorways, silent, watchful, and from the bulge ruining the line of one’s dark jacket, armed.
“She’s got good bone structure,” one murmured.
“Shapely legs,” said another. “Nice symmetry.”
“A little older than I prefer,” a third said dismissively.
“How old are you, girl?” a big man asked. He was about sixty, his belly protruding over his garish diamond belt buckle, with a pronounced Southern drawl and a wide-brimmed Stetson.
She didn’t want to answer. She wanted to slap his disgusting face. She hated this, how they saw her not as human but as a commodity.
But she stuck with her role. She had to.
“I’m twenty, sir.”
“Perfect. Count me in on the bidding, Mr. Denali.”
Her eyes shot to Slick. Correction—Enzo Denali. How had she missed the lisp?
The wordbiddingrattled around in Emily’s head; her stomach lurched. Mateo had been right. This was more than a party. But she stuck to her role—a young woman dazzled by wealth and power, here under an NDA to earn a quick $500—and pretend she had no idea what they meant.
One man reached out and tipped her chin up. She jerked it away, instinct overriding her training.
The bolero-tie-sporting cowboy chuckled. “She’s got fire. I do enjoy a filly that needs breaking.”
“What was that, sir?” she asked. Even an airhead would think twice about that.
“Nothing. Just serve the champagne,” Enzo snapped. To the billionaire, he smiled—as greasy as his hair. “You’ll get your chance if the price is right, Tex. The bidding starts soon.”
