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 in the 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.
Acknowledgments
A million and a half (that half is because you wouldn’t answer my text at 3 a.m.) thank yous to my PA, alpha reader, plot bunny wrangler, therapist, and all-around cheerleader, Crystal Unger. Without you, I’d be perpetually late for everything.
Thank you to Dani Rene for including me in your project and for putting up with all my messages at all hours of the night because I can never remember you live in South Africa.
Lexi, you saved my sanity. I still think we should start the Long-winded and Lonely Hearts Club. Membership starts at 90k words.
As always, mad love to my wonder-editor, Gillian Leonard. #teamkumquat.
A huge thank you to my amazing beta readers: Crystal, Diane, Melissa, Renee, Tami, Amy, Kailee, and Tiffany. I love that y’all give it to me straight. It’s why I pay you the big bucks—and by big bucks I mean random messages at 3 a.m. (Just ask Crystal. She loves them.)
Obviously, Russian is not my first language. Therefore, a big shout out goes to Alina Kirshner for checking over my translations and making sure I didn’t Google something really horrific and print it. You’re the best!
Lots of love to my awesome street team, Cora’s Dark Angels, and the best reader group out there, Cora’s Twisted Alpha Addicts. Y’all keep me laughing every day.
Many thanks to all the readers and bloggers for spending your time sharing and reading my work.
Lastly, thanks to Jane Anthony for screaming out “Sharknado!” every time I decided the plotline needed tweaking. It’s probably the only reason this book got finished.
About the Author
International bestselling author Cora Kenborn writes twisted romances about damaged bad boys and feisty heroines. From her sexy dark romances to her laugh out loud romcoms, Cora promises her readers a happily ever after, although she'll take them on an emotional roller coaster before handing it over.
A Southern girl from North Carolina, Cora says "y'all" way too much and has a lifelong addiction to sweet tea. She refuses to "adult" without coffee, thinks pajamas are acceptable daywear, and considers note-taking during true crime shows to be perfectly normal. Cora spends any free time she has avoiding laundry and convincing her family that microwaving Hot Pockets counts as cooking dinner.
Oh, and autocorrect thinks she's obsessed with ducks.
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Also By Cora Kenborn
Carrera Cartel Trilogy
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Faded Gray Lines
Drawn Blue Lines – Coming Soon
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Fame and Secrets
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Hookups and Hang-ups
Blue Lights and Boatmen
Pink Lines and Panic
Divorce and Denial
Warrants and Onesies
Standalones
Shallow (Enemies to Lovers Romance)
Unsupervised (Fake Fiancée Romcom)
Blacklisted (Craving: Bad Anthology)
Cursed In Love (Dark Paranormal Romance)
> Kenborn, Cora, Darkest Deeds: Cavalieri Della Morte
Darkest Deeds: Cavalieri Della Morte Page 23
