He stops at a large round table set on one end of the room, apart from the others. Mark has his back to me, but as we arrive, he glances over his shoulder. It’s clear the other men there are aware of me. He runs his eyes from my head to my toes and then back again. He licks his lips. And now I feel like I need a hot shower.
“Andrea,” he says, rising smoothly and reaching for my hand. He raises it and kisses the back of my fingers. I feel myself cringe.
“Mark.” I smile. He turns to the others at the table. Half a dozen Chinese men in dark suits are seated there. Mark, too, is in a beautifully fitted black suit, over a crisp white shirt that’s unbuttoned at the throat. Tall, powerfully built, his sandy blond hair expensively cut, I imagine many women would find him attractive. The sight of him fills me with rage. I hide it.
“Gentlemen,” Mark says. “My companion. Andrea Carter.” He gestures to me. “Daughter of Broderick Carter.” I hear a faint rustle as several of them shift in their seats. Eyes rove over me. Some awkwardly. I feel half-dressed all of a sudden. Probably because I am. One or two nod in acknowledgment. Nobody speaks to me, though.
Mark glances at a chair that’s set close beside his own and the maître d’ pulls it out, waiting for me to sit down. I sink onto the seat, feeling my mood sink with me. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get at Mark in here. The blades in my hair will have to stay there until we get someplace else.
“Champagne for the lady,” Mark says and the man who brought me to the table nods, then turns to go. I try not to flinch. The thought of alcohol makes my stomach clench, but I plaster a smile on.
“Thank you,” I murmur. Then I fold my hands demurely on my lap. Moments later, a waiter returns with an ice bucket and a bottle, pouring me a glass of champagne. The conversation continues as if I never arrived. Though I occasionally sense eyes sliding in my direction. The swell of my breasts are evident each time I reach for my champagne flute to take a tiny sip.
And then Mark sets his hand on my leg, and I feel his fingers slide along my bare flesh.
Fuck no…
I try not to leap out of my seat and bolt for the exit. He keeps talking, not missing a beat as he curls his fingers toward the flesh of my inner thigh. I set my glass down sharply and shift in my seat, moving away slightly. His fingers bite down sharply, and I freeze. They inch further up until I feel him brush against my bare mound.
Fuck. Please, please, please don’t…
A rough pressure against my slit has those fingers pushing into me. I grab my glass and take a deep gulp. Maybe not a great idea, since I might just throw it up. He keeps talking as if nothing’s happening and I force myself to ignore the invasion of my body and focus on the conversation. It’s unlikely but maybe something will come up. Something about Kyle. Why he murdered him. Of course, it’s a distant hope, but I have to keep reminding myself that I’m doing all of this for him.
“Hungry?” Mark says, suddenly addressing me. “I know I could eat,” he adds, then lifts his hand and puts his fingers into his mouth. Oh, God…he disgusts me. I swallow hard, forcing a tight smile.
“Excellent idea, Mr. Whitlock,” a man across the table says, gesturing for a waiter. Menus are brought to the table, and for several minutes, I feel relief surge as Mark’s attention is drawn to the pages. Not surprisingly, he orders for both of us. His thigh presses up against mine as he leans toward me, supposedly to discuss the various options.
“Your cunt tastes like it needs my cock in it,” he whispers into my ear.
“Hmm,” I try to respond, though my breath has hitched in my throat.
“The Peking Duck is excellent, Miss Carter,” one of the men says. “I have had it several times.”
“It sounds good,” I agree, nodding.
“Peking Fuck, more like. Which is what I plan to do to you,” Mark murmurs into my ear, then gives an oily chuckle.
Jesus…he’s like a teenage boy.
“I’ll go with whatever Mark suggests,” I glance at him.
“Duckit is.” He closes the menu and winks at me.
“It is an honor for us to have you join us, Miss Carter,” the same man continues. “Mr. Whitlock did not inform us that we would be having an extra guest.” As polite as he is, when he glances at Mark, I assume he has breached some aspect of decorum.
“Andrea has been preoccupied until recently,” Mark says. His hand is back on my thigh, though thankfully it hasn’t slid under the satin again. “A little brush with the law, it would seem.” The smile he aims at me is edged with ice.
“Ah. I understand,” the man says, inclining his head. Several others exchange glances. “I trust that all was resolved to your satisfaction?”
“I, uh—” I begin.
“Oh, I doubt that,” Mark interrupts me. “Unless you were…satisfied, Andrea?” His fingers bite cruelly into the soft flesh of my thigh. I say nothing. Instead, I force a light laugh and shake my head. He turns to the others. “Andrea had some issues with the FBI, I’m afraid. A certain Mateo Ricci.”
I hear a slight clatter as someone sets their glass down abruptly. The man across the table narrows his eyes on me.
“Yes, Ricci.” He says the word like a curse. “Very unpleasant.” The other men mutter among themselves.
“I know,” I respond. “But you know how this business can be. The police are always on your ass.”
