My cover.
The irony isn’t lost on me. For my entire life, my sister Emma has been my protector. A brilliant, strong, vengeful angel standing between me and the dangers of the world. Didn’t matter if it was mean teachers, street thugs, or our own monstrous prick of a father, she was always right there, doing whatever she had to in order to keep me safe.
And now here I am, stuck in the middle of a situation I don’t fully understand as I pretend to be my sister. Or, more accurately, as I pretend to be my sister pretending to be a call girl.
Thank goodness I’ve spent over a decade working as a semi-struggling actress. Sliding in and out of roles. Commercials, community theater, the occasional bit on a soap opera, and a few small parts in films shot in New York.
I’ve never tried to land a recurring television role or a long-contract run on or off Broadway. It just doesn’t appeal. I want success, sure. It’s just that there’s something compelling about variety. After all, the more I can get lost in someone else’s life, the less I have to examine my own.
All of which makes me an excellent chameleon. Which is probably the only reason that no one is pointing a finger at me à la Invasion of the Body Snatchers and screaming that I’m a fraud who doesn’t belong here.
Because I don’t. I really don’t.
And when Emma finds out that I’m not only impersonating her but that I’m putting myself in danger, she’s going to be royally pissed. But that’s okay. Pissed means she’s alive. And all things considered, I want her ranting and raving and furious. Because the alternative is too horrible to even contemplate.
I draw a deep breath. My worries about Emma have been a constant for a full twenty-four hours, ever since I realized she was missing. But I need to push them down, because I have more immediate problems. Like how I’m going to extricate myself from this perv who’s decided that I belong to him tonight. Because every minute I’m trapped with Scott Lassiter is another minute I don’t have answers.
I shift slightly and glance around the room, wondering who my contact is supposed to be. According to Emma’s partner, a few days before she disappeared, an anonymous source had reached out to Emma. He called himself Mr. X and promised her information about a case she was working. All she had to do was meet him at this party.
“They couldn’t grab a booth at McDonalds?” I’d asked.
A wide grin had split Lorenzo’s ruddy face. He’d run a hand over his head, pushing a tuft of hair to one side to reveal his growing bald spot. “Pretty sure that wasn’t on the table, baby girl.”
I crossed my arms and cocked my head in response to the endearment, but he brushed me off. I’ve known Lorenzo since I was nine and he was a beat cop in Venice Beach who’d looked the other way when he caught Emma and me sleeping in an abandoned car.
All Lorenzo knew was that Emma had been working on one of her pro bono cases. After over a decade working for the government, she’d gone out as a full-time private investigator a few years ago. Her passion is helping runaways and other endangered kids, and Lorenzo told me that she’d stumbled across some sort of exploitation conspiracy that was organized in forums hosted on the dark web.
“I’m guessing Mr. X is in deep, but wants out,” Lorenzo had said.
“So he contacted Emma and set a meet,” I guessed. “But before it could happen, the real baddies also realized she was poking around in the forum. Somehow they figured out her identity and grabbed her.”
“That’s what it looks like to me.”
My chest tightened as I forced out the next words. “Did they—do you think they killed her?”
“I hope not,” he’d said, his basset hound eyes profoundly sad.
“I have to go to the police.”
“And what would they do? For starters, they’d tell you to wait. Her apartment is relatively neat—”
“Someone was in it.” I was sure about that.
“You say. But it’s not ransacked. You say things are out of place, but that doesn’t necessarily mean foul play. All you know is that she’s gone and you don’t know where. But she’s a grown woman. She could have left on a whim. Gone off with a man. Decided to take up fly-fishing.”
“She always tells me where she’s going. We don’t keep secrets.” I think of the things she’s told me that she should have held close. Dangerous things if anyone found out.
No. She wouldn’t keep something important from me.
“Last I heard, you were supposed to be on some cruise ship,” Lorenzo says when I point that out. “She said you’d told her not to bother calling, but that you’d check in from various ports.”
I grimaced. All true. Except that I never even had the chance to set sail.
I’d landed a role in a shipboard musical. Three full months at sea visiting a variety of ports. Three months of one and two week excursions, a different set of passengers on every journey. Ninety full days with no one from my past, and no one who would be part of my future. The job had sounded like heaven, and I’d jumped all over it.
But then the cruise line cancelled the show entirely, replacing the large-cast musical with a single stand-up comedian. Budget cuts. Which left me not only out of work, but at loose ends.
Which was why I’d decided to fly to LA to visit my sister.
Emma, however, was gone.
“She would have sent an email if she decided to take a last minute vacation,” I told Lorenzo. “You know she would.” Emma and I are more than just sisters. She practically raised me. And it had been the two of us against the world ever since that horrible day when she’d pulled me from the house that was never, ever a home.
Lorenzo had nodded sagely. “I know it. You know it. The cops don’t. You need more if you want help. We need more. You think I’m not worried? This is Emma we’re talking about. She’s like a daughter to me. You both are.”
“You really think this Mr. X knows something?”
“I think he’s the only lead we have. I’d go if I could, but I don’t think I can pull off a low-cut evening gown.”
He was right. I knew it. And not just about how he’d look in drag.
I either went to the meeting or I let time slip away until the cops might legitimately get interested.
Put it that way, and there was no question. Emma was in trouble, and that was all that mattered to me. Because at the end of the day, she’s all that matters to me. Well, her and Lorenzo. They’re all I have. All I’ve ever had.
Once upon a time, I thought there might be someone else. Dark and edgy, sweet and sensual, Quincy Radcliffe had an intensity that had drawn me to him and a strength that had held me close. In his arms, I’d felt safer than I had since I’d left Emma and Los Angeles. I’d opened the steel cage around my heart and invited him inside.
We were together for almost three months, and in that time I let my guard down completely. I let myself love him, and I thought he loved me, too.
I’ll never make that mistake again.
He ripped me apart. Shattered my soul from the inside out.
He’d made me love him. And I can’t forgive him for that.
But I have to thank him, too. Because I learned my lesson that spring in London. I’d thought that maybe I could change. That perhaps the wall I’d built and the masks I put on didn’t have to be permanent. That I could chip away at those barriers and try to let someone else inside.
Quince made me want to try. He made me hope.
And when he betrayed me … well, he taught me that I needed those walls. They were what kept me safe.
Now Emma lives inside the walls. Lorenzo, too.
Just them. Only them.
They’re all I have, and that’s why I’m here in the Art Deco elegance of the Hollywood Terrace penthouse ballroom.
It’s why I followed Mr. X’s detailed instructions for the meet. Why I’m pretending to be one of the many call girls hired for the evening. And why in addition to my slinky black dress, I’m wearing a red ribbon as a bracelet, just as instr
ucted. The point is to signal to Mr. X that I’m the anonymous BAB, the alias Emma was using in the forum.
It stands for Bad Ass Bitch, though I’m probably the only one in the world who knows that. Right now, I don’t feel particularly bad ass. I wish I did. Because a bad ass bitch could probably figure out a way to disengage herself from the man who seems determined to keep me at his side.
Then again, I’m supposed to be in character. A call girl named Bunny. And girls like Bunny aren’t bad asses. On the contrary, girls like Bunny drop to their knees or spread their legs on command. I understand Bunnies, so I’m not exactly stretching my acting chops tonight.
Maybe if my name for the night was Amber or Domino or Serena. If I had a riding crop instead of a red ribbon. Maybe then I could put on a show. Really step out of myself and pull on the BAB persona.
But I don’t. I can’t.
Just as well, I think. Because from what I can tell, this is a party full of Bunnies. Not Serenas.
In other words, I’ve stepped into a world that is run entirely and completely by men. Rich, powerful, controlling men. With dark and dangerous appetites.
Oh, Emma. What did you stumble into?
I’ve been asking myself that question ever since Lassiter zeroed in on me, which happened the moment I’d entered the penthouse. At first, I’d thought it was because he saw through my cover. Later, when he commented on my unusual bracelet, I breathed a sigh of relief, assuming that he was Mr. X. Soon enough, though, I realized that he just wanted me naked.
Now, I’m stuck with him when I need to be mingling. I need to be reaching for drinks on waiters’ trays, making sure I flash the red ribbon enough that Mr. X can’t miss it. At the same time, it’s very clear that female autonomy is not the buzzword for the day, and that if Lassiter wants me at his side, then I’m stuck there until he deigns to set me free.
Fuck.
“Actually, I’m already in progress on similar remodels in Chicago, Houston, and Manhattan,” Lassiter is saying to some billionaire mucky-muck with a thick Italian accent who’d asked if Lassiter was planning to expand his “business model.” Since I’m disgusted by the whole scenario, I tune him out, only to jump when I hear my name. Or, rather, when I hear my hooker name.
“—like Bunny here.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Lassiter smiles indulgently, then squeezes my ass. I refrain from slapping him, since that would definitely be out of character. “I was telling Mr. Scutari that all of the women at my soirées are delightful, but there are a few who have a rare quality. A stunning allure.” He brushes my hair behind my ear, and I have to force myself to smile instead of flinch. Not that I’m a shiny, pure little angel. Far, far from it. But there are men who can have me in their bed and men who can’t.
Lassiter lives deep in can’t territory. And right now I’m praying that Mr. X finds me soon. I’d even be okay with a massive earthquake hitting LA. Anything to keep Lassiter from presenting me with his key and aiming me toward his room. Because I’m pretty sure that the only reason he hasn’t keyed me yet is that he’s the host, and he has to wait until all his guests have selected their girls.
I expect him to continue waxing poetic about the quality of the merchandise, but instead the conversation shifts to international finance. As if this is an average cocktail party and I’m his dutiful, doting girlfriend.
The whole thing is very surreal, and with every moment that passes, I’m afraid that coming here was a mistake. I’m not any closer to finding Emma, and as the night drags on the chances of ending up in Lassiter’s bed are increasing. I’d known that was a risk, of course. But I’d assumed that Mr. X would find me, then we’d go to his room, purportedly for sexy shenanigans, but really for an intensive, clandestine discussion of what happened to my sister and how we can help her.
So where the hell is he?
I punctuate the thought by twisting around to survey the room. Lassiter’s hand stays possessively on my back, and I force myself not to grimace. I’m so focused on not jerking my body out from under his touch that I can barely take in the room around me.
Which explains why I don’t immediately register the man stalking toward us, his long stride eating up the ground as he crosses the length of the ballroom.
Quincy Radcliffe.
The man who left me. Who broke my heart.
My mouth goes dry, my blood running hot through my body.
My palm tingles with the desire to slap him. And when I see those deep gray eyes lock onto mine, I silently scream out a warning begging him not to say my name.
That’s when it hits me.
That’s when the pieces fall together.
Quincy Radcliffe is the reason I’m here. My Quincy is Mr. X.
So what the hell am I going to do now?
3
I watch his face as he approaches, searching for some hint of pain. Some shadow of regret.
There’s nothing, though. His face might as well be carved out of stone, his gray eyes forged in steel. He doesn’t waver. His expression is carefully blank. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he didn’t recognize me at all.
But he does, of course.
For three glorious months, Quincy Radcliffe had been my everything. My champion. My knight. He’d stood at my side and battled my demons, and I’d surrendered to him completely, shedding my fears and, yes, even nurturing my hopes.
He was my love. My heart.
The man whose smile had teased me and whose body aroused me. The man with whom I’d shared my secrets and my tears.
He knew me better than any man ever had, and he cut me more deeply than any man ever could.
I want to rip my arm away from Lassiter. I want to sprint out of this room on these nail-point heels. I want to forget everything—Quincy, Emma, Mr. X.
Most of all, I want to escape myself and my memories.
But I can’t. And as I stand there gawping at the gorgeous bastard who is advancing toward me, the floor opens up, and suddenly I’m hurtling more than four years into the past … and into the memories of the man who destroyed me.
It was my last full day in the UK, and despite the September chill and the light drizzle, I walked the short distance from my tiny, eclectic flat in Soho to the Waterstones bookstore at Picadilly Circus. I wanted to buy a novel. Something uniquely British that wouldn’t be published in the States for at least a few more months. And I wanted to go upstairs and enjoy afternoon tea by the window while I savored the first chapter. Then I’d silently close the book and tuck it away to finish on my flight back to Manhattan.
To be honest, I couldn’t wait to get on that plane and escape this cramped island, so small that my memories had no place to go, and so they clung to me. Weighing me down.
Back home, I’d be able to shake them off. Banish them. Go west, damn memories! But here…
Here in this ancient city, it felt like he was everywhere. And all I wanted to do was escape the foolish, horrible pull that Quincy Radcliffe still had over me.
How quickly things change, right? Because when I’d arrived six months prior, I’d been giddy at the thought of living in the UK for half a year. I’d come to London to join the cast of a unique improv company that performed modern riffs on favorite Shakespeare plays. The thought of playing a different role each night had made my heart soar and my creativity sing. The run was supposed to be five months, and afterwards, I’d spend a month sightseeing before heading back to Manhattan where I’d already lined up a small role as a murder victim in the upcoming season of a popular television show.
But that’s not how things panned out. The show closed after one week, which meant I was in a foreign country with no income. I considered going home—I didn’t have immediate work lined up there, either, but auditioning in New York was at least a familiar process. Plus, I knew all the best temp agencies.
Emma had come to my rescue, as usual. She reminded me that I’d flat-swapped. Which meant that I didn’t have a home to return to,
since a British author was currently in my apartment, using the time to finish his latest project. “You’ve already got the flat in London,” she’d said. “All you need is spending money.”
Since she knew I wouldn’t take her cash as sisterly charity, she offered me the long-distance job of organizing her and Lorenzo’s online files. It was a little bit of a gimme, but not entirely. Both Emma and Lorenzo lacked the organizational gene. They could scan, download, or type information into a computer, but then it just stayed there like a dead fish stinking up their hard drive. My job was to shove all those rotten fish heads into tidy little digital folders. Hard for them, easy for me.
Which meant that I was gainfully employed in London with a job that took very little effort and left me with all the time in the world to explore the city, pretending I was a Londoner. Or maybe a runaway heiress. Or a travel photographer. God knew I took enough shots with my ancient Canon.
And, in fact, it was the camera that introduced me to Quincy.
It was an unusually warm day in March, my tenth day in London, and my twenty-fourth birthday. Since I had no one in town to celebrate with, I spent the day wandering London with my camera. Around lunchtime, I was taking photos of the ducks in Hyde Park—because you can’t have too many cute duck photos—and I’d been backing up slowly as I tried to adjust the composition. At the same time, Quincy had been walking down the path toward me, sipping a coffee and talking into his phone. He looked down as I stepped back, and boom, his white-starched shirt was drenched in black coffee.
“Bloody buggering hell,” he snapped, then went immediately contrite as I turned around, completely and totally mortified. “Oh, bloody fuck, I’m sorry.”
“No, no. It was my fault. I was … well, actually, I blame the ducks.“
“Ah, I thought they might be up to something. They look a bit shady around the eyes.”
I nodded sagely, ridiculously pleased that such a ruggedly handsome man shared my sense of humor. “And you see how they’re just meandering around now, pretending to be all innocent? But we know. We can see their devious little duck natures hiding right beneath the soft, feathery surface.”
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 203
