by Quin Zayne
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
“No, you’re right on time.” He sounded gracious, though a trace of impatience came through his deep voice.
Damn, he had a let’s-fuck voice. Her panties were in danger.
He wasn't how she expected at all. He wasn't a prune man or disfigured. He was hot.
How the hell did a man like that need to hire a woman?
She swallowed. It must be a weird fetish, something extreme, something no one would do for love and maybe not for money, either.
He took a single long step to hold a chair for her, smoothly beating a waiter to it. So tall, the man had to be six-four, and well-built. He needed no special tailoring to look athletic. He had enough beard to look virile and beautiful, instead of scruffy like so many guys who thought unshaven was sexy.
His fingers brushed her neck as she sat.
Electricity shot through her.
No. No, this could not be happening. She could not be responding to, could not be attracted to, this man who might be able to give her a million dollars. Pay her a million dollars.
“For what, exactly?” she blurted as he resumed his seat, draped a napkin on his lap, and gave her a suave smile.
“Excuse me?”
She cleared her throat and ran her finger beside her nose. “I want to know what it is you want, what the offer requires. Exactly.” Her voice sounded sharper than she meant, but anger rushed through her like a dam breaking.
Taking a glance at the sailboats far below, she fought for composure. She resented him crazily for being so wealthy and privileged. His position put her one-down—so far down—by comparison. Damn him to hell for having so much power over her and having the gall to be beautiful and panties-creamingly hot on top of it.
“I see. You aren’t one for social banter. Right to the point.”
She blushed, realizing that in many places such forthright behavior was considered rude.
“I’m nervous,” she whispered. Her grandmother taught her to be honest. The effect was immediate.
He seemed to relax. Sitting back in his chair, he smoothed his mustache.
“That’s alright. In reversed positions, I wouldn’t want to wait to know the score, either.” He grinned. “You’re refreshing. I’ve never enjoyed having to guess what’s on someone else’s mind.”
She sat back as well. He may have given her a bigger clue to all this than he realized. A flash of game-playing women surrounding him went through her. Here was a man, she divined, who did not want to date.
With that thought, she gained a sense of affinity with him. A dating aversion made perfect sense to her. Being literally drooled upon during her early years put her off going out with anyone, too. Having money must be like wearing a bullseye.
His smile deepened. His teeth were even, the canines long.
The points pressed his full lower lip, making his mouth even more exquisitely sexy. With his thick waves of dark hair, masculine trimmed beard, and those killer gold irises, he kept her eyes on him. His heavy-lidded eyes struck her as seductive, and that mouth—so kissable. The eyes themselves, damned if he didn’t look wounded, yet with a tough edge. He had the edgy look of a man who could hurt you without trying.
She’d been hurt too much already. She should get the fuck out of here. Her legs trembled. Adrenaline poured through her as his eyes examined her.
Mandy wanted to leap out of the chair and sprint out of the carpeted lounge. She wouldn’t be able to stand the glass coffin elevators, she’d run down dozens of flights to escape. No looking back. She’d race along the Embarcadero, listen to the gulls and foghorns until she was safe from those ravaging eyes.
The Gothic hero wasn’t dead. He was sitting in one of the city’s most iconic bars, preparing to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.
The fucker.
“My name is Damon.” He lifted his chin. “Damon Karl.”
Her face flamed hotter. She swallowed, filled with the uncomfortable impression that he knew her thoughts, had picked up her name-calling, and was correcting her. It struck her she hadn’t sent him her name.
He waited for her response with his eyebrows raised.
“Oh, I’m Mandy. Mandy Stone.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Mandy. Is it short for Amanda?”
“No. It’s a nickname. My cousin couldn’t say Miranda, and Mandy stuck.” She blinked.
Now wasn’t a good time to think of Becky. She still pictured her in the lake, even though she knew the rescue divers got her body out of the deep waters.
They’d been raised as sisters. It seemed impossible they wouldn’t keep growing together. Sometimes at night, she still told Becky about her day. Weird, but it helped her. In this city, so far from home, talking to Becky helped her feel less alone.
“Let’s order, Mandy, and then I’ll tell you exactly what I want.”
She liked that he didn’t bother with the usual compliments about her name. That had always struck her as so phony from a guy trying to score. But this man, what was this man trying to do? Guys she’d met were no preparation for a man like Damon Karl.
He signaled a waiter and allowed her to order for herself, a welcome surprise. She requested mineral water with lime, to keep her head clear.
He ordered appetizers to share, and the waiter hustled away, leaving them alone with the panoramic view of the bay.
Beyond the glass, a living postcard: sailboats, a huge barge gliding along, and a scattering of seagulls so small they looked like shapes in a Van Gogh painting.
“So, Mandy, what I require exactly is a woman remade to my chosen specifications. The position on offer requires her to fulfill a specific image of face and body. That’s the body modification part.” His eyes assessed her from the crown of her head to her ribcage. “It will be a thorough transformation. Significant cosmetic surgery, everything from the shape of your eyes and nose to the size of your breasts, waist, and rear will be transformed by my staff surgeon. He’s a master of cutting-edge techniques, so there’s minimal down time and no scarring. His work is brilliant.”
“So I won’t end up looking like Frankenstein’s monster?”
He laughed, a full, genuine laugh. “Not at all. You’ll be exquisite.” He gazed at her with frank admiration. The heat in her face traveled to her breasts.
“Your project sounds like a lot of surgery. There are always risks with surgery. Sometimes people go under anesthesia and never come back. They die on the operating table.”
“That’s true. I assure you, every safety precaution will be taken. Dr. Laszlo works with the safest form of anesthesia. It’s so ahead of its time it’s not on the market yet.”
“So I’m to be an experimental subject, a guinea pig.” Her voice faltered, and she fingered her braid.
He shook his head, still smiling. “It isn’t like that. My in-house clinic is at the forefront of medical science. There’s nothing experimental about the procedures Dr. Laszlo performs. They’re simply better than what’s available to the general public. My facilities and resources are far more advanced.”
He didn’t have to say ‘because massive wealth makes it so.’
Mandy grimaced, thinking of all the poor people who didn’t have access to the most basic medical services. Many residents starved in the land of plenty. This whole proposal was decadent. Indecent.
She tugged at her hair. What was she selling here? It seemed like it might be her soul. Such massive alterations had to affect more than the body.
All she had to do to stop the turmoil swelling through her was rise from the table and walk away.
She stayed put, bouncing one leg and soundlessly shuffling her best shoes against the two-tone magic carpet. When she shut her eyes half-way, she was floating across the bay with Damon Karl, like something out of a picture book her mom used to read to her.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, sure. Continue. You were telling me how I’m going to b
e surgically remade in your image.”
He cocked a brow. “You’re spirited. I like that.” He drew a breath and rubbed his nose. “Alright, yes. Beyond the physical aspects, which also involve posture training, corset training, collar training—chin up and in.” He grinned as she sat up straighter. “That’s it, much more beautiful than the head jutting forward. Excellent.” He coached her as though she were already his student. “You’ll undergo lessons in everything from speech to etiquette. How you eat, how you laugh, your topics of conversation, how you breathe—all will be to my specifications.”
Okay, the guy was a megalomaniac. A total control freak, case closed, no more mystery—she solved it, time to get the fuck out of here before he got to regulating her bodily functions. Fuck.
She didn’t budge, except for her leg bobbing up and down like a tethered boat.
She wanted out, yes, but he had what she needed. That million dollars, and so much more. The carpet shimmied, giving way beneath her. Her vision darkened and she lurched, the table catching her in the ribs.
“Take a deep breath. Are you alright?”
“Oh. Oh fine.” She pulled herself up, shocked to find herself slumping with the mystery billionaire next to her, leaning over and patting her face. He stood so close she got a scent of his skin beneath a light, desert scent.
The man’s eyes unnerved her. They looked brown at first, but near his large pupils, they shaded to gold.
She’d never seen such captivating eyes. They should belong to a lion. Dilated pupils were a sign of attraction. She suspected hers had become enormous.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes, certain. I’m sorry. I’m—excited.” The truth again, minus the fear.
He returned to his seat, his head angled slightly, those feral eyes studying her.
“Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”
“Thank you.”
He was perhaps the first guy she’d met who wasn’t try to rush her into anything. At least, he gave a good impression of patience.
Forcing her mouth to soften, she parted her lips and slid the tip of her tongue over them, as though unconsciously. A seasoned model explained to her that she needed to project an ‘I might let you fuck me’ vibe, with jolts of the cold-faced, ‘maybe never.’ Her runway walk and her photos became more fierce overnight, and soon, she was booked solid. If the life hadn’t been destroying her, she’d be making incredible money by now. Her shelf-life would be limited, though. It was a cult of youth and beauty. By eighteen, she knew she might have ten years left, likely fewer.
After the first couple times she cut herself, she stopped returning calls. Right then, she couldn’t come out and say, ‘no, I’m not doing this any more, I hate it, I don’t want to feel eyes and hands crawling all over me.’ Instead, she spiraled down into the dark.
Finally, impending financial crisis pierced her cocoon of numbness. She went out and put in applications every place she could find that might be hiring. It sucked, and her landlord was kind to her. It was to fulfill her obligation to him that she took the barista job.
On a full moon night, she taped the razor blades into a box like a mummy and dropped it from the fire escape into the garbage bin.
Keeping her gaze on a cruise ship, she crossed her arms over herself. The marks below her inner elbows didn’t show unless you looked for them. She didn’t want him to notice any imperfection. Hate if they disqualified her. She had to maintain the facade of virgin perfection.
Those disturbing gold eyes remained fixed on her. At least he didn’t drool.
“I’m fine now, honestly.”
“Good. Do something for me.”
“What?” She sounded more defensive than she intended. The odd circumstances and the high-toned setting threw her off. Taking a slow breath, she reminded herself that this man had the power to give her a million bucks. A million bucks. Her breath caught in her chest and she choked. Brilliant. She knew how to make an impression.
He waited.
She nodded for him to continue.
“Walk through the room.”
She cocked her head. No wonder he called this an audition. It reminded her of showing up for modeling tryouts and being ordered to strip to her underwear or don a skimpy outfit. At least here, she got to choose the clothes.
Without wasting time replying—she’d caught the flash in his eyes—she stood and walked through the restaurant. She took her time, gazing out at the view, pretending indifference to the many people who stopped their conversations to watch. She pirouetted at the end of the room and headed back, deliberately passing his table and walking out the far exit to the ladies’ room. Let him wonder if she was coming back.
She freshened her lipstick and returned.
His eyes glinted, showing tiny lines, enough to make her wonder about his age. He applauded her silently and rose to seat her.
He was a bastard, an arrogant, over-privileged bastard, but he had manners.
Not wanting to seem as though she sought his approval, she avoided looking at him.
“There’s a contract. It spells the agreement out exactly.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what to do with her hands. Was he offering her the job?
The drinks arrived along with delicacies. Her eyes grew wide. She took a sip of water and sputtered. Yeah, proof that she needed training. If she’d been trying to flub the audition, she couldn’t have been more clumsy. She set down the glass. At least she walked well.
He gave her time to compose herself, then drew a tablet out of his inner breast pocket, turned it on, and handed it to her.
“Go ahead, read it.”
She examined him as he assessed her. There might be something wrong that wasn’t visible. Perhaps a fatal diagnosis of some kind. Perhaps an internal flaw. He might be a sociopath. So many people in this city ran around loose bat-shit crazy.
There might be a hidden problem, perhaps a genital deformity…or a transmissible disease. It wasn’t believable that a hot as sin man wanted to—essentially buy a woman, buy her, when he could have his pick for free. Even hideous billionaires, men who were ugly inside and out, had no problem getting dates.
This man, her gaze reached his strong hands, this man wore no ring and showed no sign of having worn one. This man was—she hated the old fashioned term and what it suggested about women and herself in particular: he was a catch.
What was she doing? How dangerous was this? How far would she go for a million bucks? She felt like she was looking down the barrel of a gun, but the honest answer was she'd go far.
“Take your time. Let’s enjoy the food.”
“Thank you.”
She picked at everything, trying it all without being able to focus on any of it.
At least he didn’t expect her to make small talk.
She'd lain awake envisioning boob jobs, pussy modifications, extensive tattoos, piercings all over her body. For a million bucks, it was all a sure yes. Facial changes were tougher, but she'd heard Marilyn Monroe had a chin implant, and lots of people had nose jobs.
The stuff that involved filing down bone scared her, and those huge plugs sticking through a hole in the nasal septum or earlobe were not her style. For that much money, she'd deal with it. She'd seen a guy with a huge ring through his nose like a bull. That would be hard to live with, but she could live with it, even if Damon Karl wanted to tether a leash through it and lead her around in public. A million bucks would buy a lot of comfort and ego salve to help her cope.
Hand trembling, she picked up the tablet again.
Her eyes refused to focus. She gazed at the document on the screen as though locked by the eyes of a coiled snake.
“This isn’t the best place to focus on business. I think it served its purpose. You’re enough at ease with me now to come and see my home, aren’t you?”
“Alright. I’ll be right back.” Let him think she was so nervous she needed the ladies room again. It was a pretense. Making a call wou
ld be a sensible precaution if she had anyone in the world looking out for her, anyone left alive.
She strode to the lobby with a fierce runway walk and pulled out her phone. Of course, she’d call Ken. He’d be amused.
“Hello darling,” she said breezily to his voice mail, watching Damon Karl sip his water at the table. The man was physically magnetic. Ken wouldn’t blame her for this at all. It was no wonder she preferred a gay boyfriend to girlfriends. “This is going to sound unreal, but I answered a classified ad for undergoing body modification and training to be a living doll. I met the guy, Damon Karl, at the Sky Lounge. Now I’m going to his place. A mansion, supposedly. It struck me I ought to tell someone where I’m going, so consider me a good… um, scout, or something. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything—rash. Nothing you wouldn’t do, so that’s lots of leeway!” She enjoyed ribbing him about his debauchery as much as he savored teasing her about her virginity. Ken was the only one she would have missed from modeling, so she stayed in touch. “Bye for now.” Dropping her phone in her purse, she took a long breath and put on her runway face.
Her heart thudded above her tapping heels as she walked to the lounge entry. The man same man as before nodded to her, his professional mask as unreadable as her own. A shadow in his eyes. Did he envy her or pity her?
Hips and braid swaying, she stalked back to Damon Karl.
He gazed at the other door where she’d made her exit. With his glowing eyes and parted lips, he looked like the Big Bad Wolf ready to take a bite.
Damon’s Lair
The carpet made her heels silent, and she veered to stay out of his peripheral view. She wanted to get close to him, to experience that small advantage. For a moment that stretched like a sleeper wave, she stood over Damon Karl.
Snapping to attention, he gave her a broad smile. He stood and offered his arm, having apparently paid the bill by magic. The staff practically saluted as he walked out of the lounge.
That was confidence-inspiring. Clearly, people knew him. Even a maniac was unlikely to parade a prospective murder victim in his familiar turf—unless he was super, super, whacked.
