The women who preferred only social activities wore a special collar.
Amara Rose, my target, wasn’t wearing such a collar.
Which meant I could proposition her. In any way I desired.
Such a devious woman. She’d used the funds she’d stolen from her jilted fiancé to finance this little venture—to provide herself with a new background. To qualify for employment.
That was how I finally found her.
By following the money.
“Your drink, Mr. Bedivere,” a sultry voice murmured, handing me the top-shelf scotch I’d ordered. The brunette’s tits practically poured out of her translucent top, leaving everything on display for my perusal.
Yet it was the auburn-haired woman tending to tables across the room who held my interest.
I’d been watching her all night, captivated by her confidence and poise. The female had conned a US senator, one many dubbed to be the future president of the United States. And she clearly did not give a flying fuck.
So damn intriguing.
And colorful. Those tattoos dancing up her left arm were the kinds of patterns meant to entice a man’s tongue.
Maybe later.
I accepted my glass with a smile for the flirty waitress, saying nothing in reply. Her round eyes crinkled at the sides, her anticipation tangible as she slowly turned to present me with her delectable backside.
Cute, but not really my type.
My interests ran darker, more sinister in nature. An urge I rarely satisfied because so few met my requirements.
Although, my gorgeous mark might fit the bill.
It really was a shame that I had to kidnap her or kill her.
I sipped my scotch, enjoying the view of Amara’s shapely ass as she bent to hand someone a drink in one of the corner booths.
The main area of the club resembled a standard bar, with a few opulent enhancements—crystal glassware, imported leather seating, and high-tech tabletops. The lighting offered a sexy vibe as well, casting the room in purples and shadows that set the mood.
Yet, it was the upstairs and downstairs levels that were special, each equipped with a variety of rooms and spaces set up to handle an array of kink and deviant preferences.
Amara seemed to be avoiding those, electing to serve in the safe zone, where couples chose to warm up rather than play.
I traced the device in the center of my table with my thumb, considering my mark. Several patrons had submitted bids for Amara’s services throughout the evening, something I knew because each one caused the bracelet around her wrist to light up. Her staying on this floor meant she’d turned down every single one. That was part of the club’s rules—the female assets controlled their fates. Hence, my brunette waitress’s eagerness. She wanted me to make her an offer.
Alas, no.
My proposal would be to the alluring redhead wearing the sexy-as-fuck lace stockings and silky black teddy.
And it would be one she couldn’t refuse.
I pulled out my phone to review all the other bids Amara had received tonight, thankful for my contact who had provided me with backdoor access to the club’s systems. It served as potential blackmail against enemies, and in this case, access into Amara’s thought process.
She had a few hard limits—something her profile indicated.
What wasn’t listed was her desired price. But I had an idea of what she needed, given how much she stole from Senator Jenkins, how much she spent on this new identity of Scarlet Rosalind.
I flicked through the proposals she’d acquired over the last several nights. She’d declined all of them.
Difficult and confident, I mused, grinning. My kind of woman. Let’s play.
I keyed in an amount ten times as much as her highest submission, requesting only a dance in one of the exclusive rooms downstairs. Then I checked the box for Additional Service Negotiations Accepted. Which meant, if things went well, we could discuss prolonging our time together and doing other, more expensive activities. In private.
My name—my real name—was displayed on the sender line, the terms all laid out.
She’d be able to see my history from other Diavolo Rojo clubs, including the ratings her overseas colleagues had left for me. All excellent scores because they were my informants, not my conquests.
I avoided mixing business with pleasure because I was one of the villains who used those interludes to my advantage. Powerful people had a tendency to discuss private matters when in the company of beautiful women, and my contacts were brilliant at exploiting those moments. I also paid them handsomely for it. Attending the club was just a cover, an easy way to hold a covert meeting with some trusted informants.
Not that Amara would be able to review that part of the equation. She would only see I typically requested dances and rarely anything more. And I always behaved. At least on the surface.
Selecting Send, I set the device on the table and lifted my scotch.
Her wrist lit up seconds later, indicating she’d just received another request—my request.
Amara’s slender shoulders tightened just enough to show her discomfort, but when she read through the offer on the wristwatch face of her bracelet, her lips actually parted.
Such a beautiful, fuckable mouth.
I could see why the senator actually desired her alive. Putting this woman in the ground would be a crime against humanity. Not that she didn’t deserve it. She’d ditched the man at the altar and ran off with half of his bank account. A con woman with expert skill.
Mmm, perfection, really. How I adored vindictive women.
She nibbled her plump lower lip, her gaze scanning the room. As if I would make this easy on her. Someone like Amara required the mystery to accept such a fate.
All she could see of me was a silhouette—my all-black suit blending into the dark edges surrounding me. I’d chosen this spot because it provided me with me a full view of the room and placed a solid wall to my back.
And it shadowed my face from most of the room.
The ideal vantage point for an assassin.
Me.
Indecision warred across her features, her confidence finally wavering. Fascinating. It seemed my little vixen didn’t want to be alone with male customers. Did she prefer women? Was that why she left the senator so easily?
Hmm, no, because she’d also received several offers from couples looking to add a third.
She clearly had trust issues. Something I could hardly fault her for, given her chosen profession as a scam artist.
I swirled the contents in my glass, waiting.
Watching.
Grinning.
She lowered her arm, neither accepting nor declining, and proceeded to assist another table. And then another. Every few steps, pausing to glance at her wrist as if it held all the answers.
Come on, princess. Dance for me. I wanted her alone. Not necessarily a requirement, as I’d have her in my hands soon enough, but I loved a good game of cat and mouse. And this little mouse tickled my fancy.
Almost thirty minutes passed before she touched her bracelet again.
That only served to intrigue me even more. She’d nearly given up an annual salary, out of fear? Or something more?
For someone so driven by money, I’d expected this to be an easy acceptance. But her hesitation was palpable even from across the room.
I caught the exact moment she caved. It was written in the determined set of her jaw, yet undermined by the inward curve of her shoulders.
My device hummed, her acceptance flashing across the screen. Room 47. The space would be mine for as long as I desired it.
Instant regret colored her face as she pressed the back of her hands to her cheeks. She blew out a breath, then lowered her head with a subtle shake that piqued my interest all the more.
This would be fun.
I closed out my bill, leaving the waitress a generous tip for her valiant efforts of seduction, and slid out of the booth. Fastening the button on
my jacket, I started toward the private section underground.
While every club maintained a similar layout, each location had its quirks. This was my first visit to the Amsterdam location, which boasted a much narrower design compared to the New York City and San Francisco sites.
This venue also appeared to have a much more intense dungeon scene, creating a masterful playground for voyeurs and exhibitionists. I meandered along the outskirts, careful not to disturb those around me, and found the section I desired.
Quiet hallways, soundproof rooms, minimal surveillance.
Excellent.
I pressed my thumb to the screen outside room 47 and waited for the system to register my identity. The door slid open, revealing an interior painted in a deep red with black adornments. More leather seating, a private bar stocked with crystal glasses and top-shelf liquors, warm lighting, a stereo playing soft tones, and a small coat closet. No coffee table, only a corner side table for drinks.
Perfect arrangements for a dance and other, more intimate activities.
Slipping the jacket from my shoulders, I hung it just inside the door and removed my cuff links to roll my black dress shirt to the elbows. I wanted to feel Amara’s hands on me, to test her nerves. Would her palms be clammy, or would her touch be sure? Would she try to steal from me as she did from her ex-fiancé?
So many potential scenarios, each one equally enticing.
I studied the room, specifically the areas near the couch, noting each panic button situated throughout. Every club came equipped with them, all meant to alert security of a customer taking the game a little too far. Pressing one would trigger the camera in the corner to flicker on and capture the scene, for potential legal ramifications.
Unfortunately for Amara, I had a mechanism in my pocket that short-circuited the radio frequency tied to the club’s alarms. She could press those buttons all night long with me in this room, and no one would come for her.
Poor darling.
How would she react? Would she scream? Would she fight?
Goose bumps danced over my arms in anticipation.
She’d played below her league for far too long. I was here to provide her with a real match, to show her how true predators dominated this game.
A light rap against the door signaled her arrival.
I leaned against the bar, waiting as she disengaged the lock outside, feigning a bored expression as the entryway slid open to reveal the scantily clad female beyond.
That teddy looked even better close-up, the black silk an alluring contrast against her pale skin and the tattoos decorating her left arm.
She stepped inside, her stiletto heels clicking over the marble floor. And sealed her fate by allowing the door to close behind her.
I smiled. You’re mine now, princess.
Amara Rose was worth more alive than dead.
A gentleman would allow her to choose her fate.
But I wasn’t a gentleman. Just an assassin, hired to find a mark.
And I’d just acquired my target.
About the Author
USA Today Bestselling Author Lexi C. Foss is a writer lost in the IT world. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and their furry children. When not writing, she’s busy crossing items off her travel bucket list. Many of the places she’s visited can be seen in her writing, including the mythical world of Hydria, which is based on Hydra in the Greek islands. She’s quirky, consumes way too much coffee, and loves to swim.
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Also by Lexi C. Foss
Blood Alliance Series - Dystopian Paranormal
Chastely Bitten
Royally Bitten
Dark Provenance Series - Paranormal Romance
Heiress of Bael (FREE!)
Daughter of Death
Son of Chaos
Elemental Fae Academy - Reverse Harem
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Immortal Curse Series - Paranormal Romance
Book One: Blood Laws
Book Two: Forbidden Bonds
Book Three: Blood Heart
Book Four: Elder Bonds
Book Five: Blood Bonds
Book Six: Angel Bonds
Mershano Empire Series - Contemporary Romance
Book One: The Prince’s Game
Book Two: The Charmer’s Gambit
Book Three: The Rebel’s Redemption
Other Books
Scarlet Mark - Standalone Romantic Suspense
The Rebel’s Redemption: Mershano Empire Series Page 23
