Burned
Emma Roberts
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Introduction
I know who you are.
The note is untraceable, the directions clear, the message chilling. I have two months to ruin him…whoever he is. Once the mark has been identified, I’m to seduce him, take six million dollars from him, and deliver it to a bank in the Caymans. If I don’t, one of my girls will be killed for each month I delay.
I’ve worked hard to build my business, the Hacienda Hustlers, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it, and the girls I employ, safe. Failure is not an option.
Then I meet the mark.
Logan Farraday. Muscular, devastatingly handsome, and my sworn enemy. My stepbrother’s best friend, he’d been my first crush, the best sex I’d ever had, and the man who’d singlehandedly ruined my life six years ago. My only chance is to con the one man who I hate more than anyone, and who still sets my senses on fire. He says he’ll protect me. But the sparks between us are incendiary, and it’s only a matter of time before someone gets burned.
Chapter One
Mina
“So, I’m a hooker if I take this job?”
I uncrossed my legs and kept my gaze on the beautiful, dark-skinned interviewee sitting across from me.
Very carefully, I set the glass of expensive port onto the toffee-brown inlaid Francesco Molon coffee table that my assistant had found at an estate sale. On par with the expensive decor I’d grown accustomed to in Hacienda Heights, it suited the muted style of my office well when I entertained new clients or prospective hires.
Bella Newman was one such prospective hire. The chair she perched on nearly engulfed the woman—petite had no doubt been a strike against her in the acting industry. Hollywood directors didn’t generally cast short, opinionated women in leading roles. It remained an unfortunate reality that Hollywood was a cesspool of all kinds of bigotry. A girl like Bella would be hard-pressed to land the action lead in a blockbuster, and she most likely wouldn’t get a supporting role either, unless she sold away her integrity on the casting couch.
I leaned forward, making sure I had Bella’s complete attention for the most important lesson I could impart on my girls. It was what had kept me alive and mostly sane for the last six years. Kept me from losing all hope when my trust was severed and my stepfather blacklisted me from my chosen profession of acting forever.
“Words and expectations only have as much value as you place in them, Bella. Some will call you a hooker. Some of your clients might even ask you to behave in that capacity. But only you can give them that power over you. I urge you not to.”
My heart ached for her. She was so painfully young and had already been tossed around by the industry. For her to assume prostitution was par for the course in Hollywood made bile rise in the back of my throat.
She shouldn’t have to put up with that shit. None of us should.
Bella was remarkably talented, according to Heather’s background check. She’d graduated high school early with a stellar GPA and then breezed through college to become one of the youngest double majors I’d ever had pass through my door. Her resume made me feel a little slow, given that it had taken me almost five years to complete a degree, and even then, I only managed to scrape into graduating cum laude by the skin of my teeth.
“If I’m not going to be a hooker, then what? Heather told me I’d get a chance to land a lot of leading roles. So what? You point me in the direction of the guy I need to blow and then I’m the next Angelina Jolie?”
I held in a laugh, seized my glass and took a deep draft from it. I’d need to talk to Heather about initiating new recruits. Heather ran my hair and makeup department on a part-time basis, and had a job with a reputable Hollywood production team. She was habitually underpaid by her chauvinistic boss, and had started moonlighting for me six years ago, recently taking on the secretarial work too. The only reason she hadn’t quit her day job was to act as my recruitment agent.
When Heather spotted a hopeful woman with the right set of talents and a thirst to prove herself, who wasn’t having much luck, she’d send her my way. My vetting system was pretty vicious, and many women didn’t make it as far as Miss Newman had. When making an interview offer, I’d instructed Heather to simply refer to the interview process as an opportunity to seek unusual but lucrative acting roles. Clearly, this cloak and dagger routine wasn’t working any longer.
I ran my finger around the slick edge of the glass. “I’m sorry we had to keep things so close to the chest. But I’m sure you understand the need for confidentiality. We don’t just let every small-town girl with a dream into our organization. It’s in our best interest to be discreet, and if word got out, every starving actress would be trying to break down our door. You understand.”
Bella let out a rueful little laugh. “I’m afraid I don’t understand at all, Ms. Blakely. I’ve never heard of the Hacienda Heights Hustlers until now.”
The sound of the name on her lips made my own turn upward. “Hustlers” usually put one in mind of a prostitute, which wasn’t the service we offered. Clients who wanted call girls would have to phone Miss Ginger’s Escort Service. The Hustlers name might also suggest a swindle, a fraud. That was closer, but not quite it either. But the alliteration had been just too good to pass up, and sounded better than Blakely’s Alternative Acting Services.
I circled the rim of my glass again and it hummed a high, thoughtful note that punctuated my next words. “Heather was right. I’m offering you a chance to play many roles. They just won’t be on the silver screen.”
I reached behind me and retrieved an album from the shelf, offering the thickly bound book to her.
She took it and cracked it open, gazing wide-eyed at the dozens of glossy photos, all taken at high-society functions, red-carpet events, and swanky eateries. Each one of them appeared to depict a different couple.
“What do you see that’s similar in each photo?”
Bella scrutinized every photo, trying to find the commonality, then frowned. “They’re all rich couples, I suppose. What’s that got to do with anything?”
I tapped the closest with a manicured fingernail. “This photo is of me.” I tapped the next one. “And this one is me as well. All of them are.”
Bella peered closer at the photos. “No, it can’t be. You’re...”
She glanced up, her eyes sweeping over all five-foot-nine inches of me, draped over the forest green couch like a piece of art. I strove to be inviting and welcoming to my girls, and usually dressed more casually than in today’s outfit of a pencil skirt and blouse. But the client I’d be meeting in forty minutes was a fan of the business-casual look. The occasion was a downplay from the usual bucketload of Cartier jewelry I would don for a client.
I was almost self-conscious with my hair uncovered, as I usually opted for a wig to go along with extravagant outfits. My natural strands were an unusual, indecisive shade of red. Too dark to be considered ginger, but without the deep tints of brown needed to be classified as auburn. The same shade as my mother’s, my hair was too distinctive to flaunt openly during a job.
I laughed. “I’
m an actress, Bella. Same as you. Once I’ve adopted a role, hair and makeup do their magic.”
Bella’s knuckles grew paler as she gripped the book, staring in awe at the photos. I had been blonde and brunette, tall and taller––skinny and curvy. I’d spanned the gamut from frumpy to fabulous. Loud and flashy to a quiet wallflower. It was all about what the client desired and what the job demanded.
“These are all you?”
I nodded and gestured at the shelf behind me, to the dozen bound albums just like the one she was holding. One for each of my girls. If I brought Bella into the fold, there would be thirteen. None of the albums were as thick and prolific as mine, but they would get there in time. My girls were good, and none of them had been outed yet.
“We take a photo to commemorate each job. It’s a part of the agreement all my clients sign when they use our services. You come to my house, you abide by my rules. Which brings me to the fine print.” I steepled my fingers and stared at her again.
She dragged her eyes unwillingly from the book to my face.
“My house rules are simple. You will sign a non-compete and non-disclosure agreement. You will pass a drug screening. I do not allow drugs in my house under any circumstances. You are never to get drunk during an engagement, no matter how much alcohol the client plies you with. And you are not to sleep with a client on the job. If you want to do so on your own time, after the engagement is over, that’s your business.”
Bella’s brows knitted together. “So, if we’re not selling sex, what are we selling?”
“Our help. You are going to be whatever the client needs. The jobs are diverse. One day you’ll act as someone’s fiancée. Another time you may be his business partner. His secretary, his sister, his cousin, his lover, what have you. There isn’t a job too trivial for a paying client. And if an engagement makes you uncomfortable, we will, of course, offer it to someone else. No one in the Hustler organization does anything against her will.”
Bella’s hazel eyes glowed with anticipation, and I knew I’d snared another one. Being a Hacienda Hustler really was a dream job, and I wished that I could expand the business to include every struggling actress with talent and a good work ethic. But the success of the business hinged on secrecy. I needed to be able to trust every woman I brought into the fold.
“Where do I sign?”
I smiled tightly. “Heather will be waiting in the lobby with the paperwork. Provided you manage to pass your tests, I’ll see you soon to introduce you to your first client.”
Bella stood, and I expected her to run to the door. She was vibrating with nervous energy, and a distant, cynical part of me hated her for it. She had the shine and optimism of someone who was looked after. I’d bet that Mrs. Newman showered her daughter with love and affection. That she’d encouraged her dreams and nourished the girl’s spirit on a diet of affirmation. I’d bet it had been wonderful.
I wouldn’t know. I’d never experienced that type of family support.
Bella leaned across the corner of the coffee table and draped herself over me, winding her arms around my neck in an impromptu hug. My hands fluttered around her shoulders for a bewildered second before she pulled away, beaming.
“Thank you, Ms. Blakely. You won’t regret this, I swear.”
She bolted out of the room, steady even in six-inch heels. I smiled a little to myself. She was going to be a pro at this. I could tell.
My phone chirped and I seized it from the table. It was a text from Heather.
Your Friday, eight o’clock is here early. He’s waiting outside.
I smoothed my hands over my blouse and took in a deep, bracing breath. He was a few minutes early, but it didn’t matter. I never kept a client waiting.
Outside, there was a sedan parked in the paved drive, but it was empty. But the breeze was wonderful, adding the perfect stir of air for a balmy June day. I wandered a little, enjoying the weather and looking for my eight o’clock.
The Hustler’s building was in a small residential area of the Heights, a three-story affair with powder-blue siding. A large bay window on the east side overlooked the rolling landscape of the Heights, allowing a breathtaking view of the sunrise. Water burbled in the small water fountain built into the side of the hill, adding ambiance to the place. Tucked into a shady grove of palms, it didn’t stand out from the other turnkey homes selling all around it. This house was different in only one respect—it was home to some of California’s most revered actresses to have stepped onto the scene in the last ten years.
Inside, Hustler headquarters sometimes looked a lot like a bachelorette pad, instead of the bastion of professionalism that it was supposed to be. Dirty laundry had to be hastily stuffed into cabinets when clients arrived. Passing through a moment ago, the sitting room had smelled like burnt coffee, and trashy romance novels and popcorn kernels abounded.
The blame for it could be placed at the feet of my new hire, Aurora, and my first hire, Luciana, the only Hustlers now staying at headquarters. It was generally my policy to allow my new girls six to eight months to get on their feet before moving to other accommodations. Luciana had been thrown out of her apartment and I’d let her stay until she found a new place. But my patience was wearing thin.
I scanned the horizon. The sun was sinking in the west. Navy shadows crept out of the tree line and pooled in the valley below. It was going to be dark soon, and it was past eight now.
I frowned. Heather had only been acting as secretary for a few weeks after my PA had quit for unspecified reasons, and routinely had mix-ups with the software. Perhaps that was what had happened here.
But I didn’t think that was the case. Heather may have been inept with the software but she took her responsibilities to the Hustlers seriously. She wasn’t about to screw up a client meeting and lose the organization potential revenue.
I snaked one manicured hand into my bag, groping for the familiar shape of my pepper spray. Call me paranoid, but finding myself alone in the growing dark was putting me on edge, especially as the client was now officially late.
The ping of my cellphone was loud enough in the relative quiet that I jerked in surprise. I skittered back a step, whipping the pepper spray out in a wild arc.
Then my brain caught up to my body and heat crept up the back of my neck. Good grief. I needed to get a grip before I hurt someone. Heather had probably been right when she’d told me I needed to get laid and work some of the unbridled hostility out before I popped like an overfilled balloon.
I shoved the pepper spray back into the Gucci bag and withdrew my cell phone instead. The screen displayed a bright red email notification that read:
Urgent: For the eyes of Carmina Blakely only.
My scalp prickled as my anxiety doubled.
Carmina Blakely. Someone was using my real name. No one had called me Carmina since I’d left the Senator’s house six years ago. Whatever was inside this email, it couldn’t bode well.
My finger hovered over the delete button. It would be a simple matter to get rid of the offending material. Just press a button and let the worry drain away like yesterday’s bathwater.
But even I knew that was a load. There was no way I’d be able to rest until I knew who was trying to contact me. My stepfather, maybe?
I sucked in a breath through my teeth and opened the file. What I read brought my carefully constructed world crashing down.
I know who you are. I know what you do and I know where you live. And since you whores like to con and swindle people, here’s a little assignment for you. I want six million dollars by August 16th, delivered to my account in the Cayman Islands. You’ll find your mark at the Ritz-Carlton, June 17th, at 8:00 p.m. after you receive a second message. Be ready.
My heart began to gallop, throwing itself at my ribcage with such force my breath stuttered. A mark? What mark? That sounded ominous. Surely the sender didn’t want me to kill someone? I may not have been pure as the driven snow. My ethical standards had been dinged and
tarnished a little over the years. But I wasn’t a killer.
It was an effort to refocus my eyes and read the rest of the message, but somehow I managed.
You excel at being a little tease, so here’s the terms: When you meet your mark, you will seduce him and take the six mil from him. Leave him ruined. I will know if you make an effort to raise the money on your own. I will kill one Hustler for every month you delay. Do not be late. Do not call the police. I am watching you and any betrayal will cost your staff dearly. Do not disappoint me, Carmina Blakely.
There was no signature included. No tagline or clue to give a hint to the identity of the sender.
Instead, there were ten attachments, all of them of photos of homes. The penthouse apartment I shared with Heather. The pretty yellow ranch house that Carla Müller shared with her son. The brownstone that Everly Rose had moved into two months ago.
But most chilling of all was a candid shot of Bella Newman on the paved drive, taken with a telephoto lens. The photo had been taken today, on her way to her meeting with me.
Oh, God. Someone was watching us. All of us. And I’d never even noticed.
My knees went weak and I had to brace a hand against the side of the house to keep myself from sinking to the ground. An incoherent screech of anxiety started in the back of my mind, filling my brain with a clawing sense of panic.
I couldn’t go to pieces like this. I had to call someone, even if it wasn’t the police. But who?
The clearing of a throat pulled me from my horrified reverie. On one heel, I spun to face the newcomer and clutched at my purse, as though to swing it up to bludgeon the person over the head with it.
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