Darby called it a “warm handoff” but, alone in the executive suite with the man I knew only as “Mister Beckett,” I felt cold.
The bulk of the chill came from Beck himself. Buttoned up in a suit that even smelled expensive, he was just the right side of imposing. Taller than me and broader, with dark hair and yellow eyes that alternated between sharp and shrewd and faintly, maybe, soft when his gaze rested on me.
I’d hurried off the stage after my act, then passed through the dressing room to spritz on cologne and wipe the sweat off my face. I probably took some makeup with it, but I told myself the flush of exertion was better than artificial blush.
I doubted that while Beck studied me now, his expression not half as admiring as I needed it to be. When I’d come in earlier, I tasted his lust. It had a unique flavor, different from the humans who flocked through theDollhouse’s doors. He was a demon; I could tell. A powerful one wearing an equally powerful glamor. Maslow wore a glamor too, but his human façade wasn’t nearly as appealing as Beck’s.
I felt awkward standing there, unsure what to do with my hands or, really, any of me. Settling at last on linking my fingers at my waist, I peered up at Beck and hoped my smile didn’t falter.
“You, uh, liked my routine?”
He gave a crisp nod. “I did. You’re talented. If a bit of a showoff.”
The compliment struck me backhanded, and it took a moment for my thoughts to fall into line. What he said and what I sensed were vastly different. Not to mention his haste to shoo the other man out of here had been possessive. Protective. But now, he seemed ready to shoo me out too.
“It’s what the people pay for,” I said with a shrug.
Beck scoffed. “Not people like Ewing Livingston. He wanted to buy you by the pound.”
I’d sensed that too. Livingston’s touches had been like Maslow’s, and his looks equally leering. It was something I was supposed to get used to, the way men placed hands and weighty glances on things they wanted. They staked claims on me as if I were a property they could possess. But I was already owned by the wraith who ran this club, so their bids were for rental, not residence. Short-term use.
“Did you enthrall him?”
Beck’s voice roused me from thought. I studied his face. His strong jaw was lightly stubbled and flecked with gray. Hard the way I imagined his body could be. Certain parts of it, anyway.
“Did I what?” I asked.
His dark brows drew a stern line across his forehead. “Bewitch. Charm. Livingston. Or me.”
Could I do that? To another demon?
The accusation in his glare made me doubt, and it also made me sad in a way I didn’t fully understand.
“I didn’t.” I shook my head before adding more definitively, “No.”
Beck nodded. “Well, I’m sorry for sending him away. I didn’t consider that he could have been a meal for you.”
He could have been. That was what Maslow wanted. Not at some offsite hotel suite, though. In the room down the hall where the event could be captured on film and then sold for profit. The idea made my skin itch.
“I thought it was nice,” I mumbled.
I thought you were nice too.
The music outside changed to the first song from Oz’s act, and a shrill chorus of female cheers rang out.
I pressed closer to Beck, untangling my hands and reaching out. I slid them into the warmth of his suit jacket and hooked my fingers onto the smooth leather line of his belt. This was what men did when they wanted something, and I needed to show him I wanted him. Make him believe it.
“I’d, um…” I swallowed. “I could thank you.”
His amber eyes angled downward as though he could see where I gripped him. “You really don’t need to.”
I crowded him while my heart pumped faster, and my breath puffed short and shallow. “But I’d like to… show my appreciation.”
When I fumbled toward his belt buckle, I expected him to pull away. Instead, he grabbed my wrist and stopped me mid-motion. I waited, frozen by the severity in his glare.
“What is this?” he growled. “Is Maslow expanding into prostitution now?”
It was direct, but he’d been that way from the start. About everything.
