“He knows,” he said, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “But you might have some damage control ahead. Rhys may have mastered that stiff upper lip growing up in England, but he’s still a man and a dominant. The ego bruise is real. And paybacks can sting like hell.”
“You mean—” For an instant, she forgot how to breathe. “He wouldn’t. Would he?”
“To convince Álvarez you belong to him. Absolutely. Your lives may depend on your performance.”
Worried she didn’t have the acting skills to pull it off, her stomach fluttered nervously.
“Rhys wouldn’t ever hurt you,” he added, tone firm. “He’s got control wired into his bones.”
Some of the tension drained from her shoulders.
“Setting your ass on fire, though…” Callan grinned. “After that near-mortal blow to his ego? I’d count on it.”
“Great,” she drawled, then gathered her files and headed for the door before he could read the truth. She wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea.“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Anytime,” he called after her.
From the amused chuckle that followed her into the hall, he was more like Rhys than she realized and hadn’t missed a thing.
Chapter 11
Of all the places she expected the Álvarez mission to take her, the front steps of Devil’s Pointe hadn’t made the list.
She’d changed twice. All right… four times. And she still wasn’t sure she’d chosen correctly.
Rhys had said onlypractice,which was spectacularly unhelpful when the club’s fashion ranged from elegant to sheer lingerie to things she couldn’t think about without blushing. Eventually, she settled on a simple black slip dress—clingy, low-back, mid-thigh hem—and heels that made her long legs seem even longer.
On the drive over, her thoughts kept circling back to the team meeting earlier.
They’d hammered out the details, including aliases. He, of course, was Lucien Blackwood, international art collector and dealer, known for his rare taste and even rarer indulgences. She was Camille Hart, his obedient and well-trained “muse.”
Wardrobe would be handled for her, revealing but classy, and always to her owner’s taste. She and Rhys had backstories to memorize and protocols to rehearse. Leland and Mateo were cast as Blackwood’s private security. Their assignment: to be quietly observant, intimidating, and lethal if needed.
A message from Álvarez’s assistant had arrived mid-planning:
The arrangements for your stay are complete. A private villa with Pacific and rainforest views, Mr. Álvarez thinks you will enjoy. Discretion is assured. A driver will be waiting for you at the airstrip. Safe travels.
Gaby could still feel the flutter in her stomach. A villa. With Rhys. Alone. The ocean, the humidity, the heat between them.
Her thoughts drifted where they shouldn’t. To Rhys’s voice when it dropped low and discreet, to the way he’d taken command of her body and her focus, shutting out everything else. To the memory of him inside her, lingering like an indelible mark she couldn’t erase.
Stop, Gaby. Focus. Remember your priorities.
A couple entered the club ahead of her, letting out a blast of cool air. Goose bumps prickled along her arms. She’d arrived early, but if she didn’t rein in her wayward thoughts and go inside, she’d be late.
“You can do this,” she whispered, smoothing her damp palms on her dress. She inhaled once and stepped through the doors.
The club’s atmosphere hit instantly. Sultry music rolled through the space, underscored by voices dipping low and intimate. From deeper inside came the steady rhythm of a flogger. Frenetic, forbidden energy crackled in the air. She felt alive and suspected it wasn’t the club at all.
“Gaby.”
She jumped and turned.
Rhys leaned against the archway leading to the back of the house. In his usual black-on-black, arms crossed, one ankle braced over the other, he looked relaxed, self-assured, entirely in his element.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said quietly. “I called your name twice.”
“My mind was elsewhere. Sorry.”
