Burn for You

by Jillian Leeson

  Ryder gets talking to some men in business suits and although he introduces me, the car and business talk soon eludes me. I drift away from them, trying to find a drink; anything else but champagne. Since we started this trip, I’ve been drinking glass after glass—in the plane, on arrival in the hotel, here at the show. I’d kill for a refreshing cold beer.

  I tap Ryder on the shoulder and point to the bar at the far side of the pavilion.

  “I’m getting a beer. Do you want anything?”

  He shakes his head. “No. Just come back soon.”

  After a quick kiss, I make my way through the masses. Thankfully the crowd is thinning as I come closer to the bar. I turn my head when I hear an announcement about a new car reveal, and I promptly bump into an outstretched arm. I am about to apologize when I discover the arm stays put, blocking my way. It belongs to an overweight Chinese guy wearing Gucci sunglasses, his hair slicked back and a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

  “Hey girl,” he says in Chinese. “I like your tattoo.”

  I ignore him and try to shove his arm aside, but he is stronger than he looks.

  “What’s a pretty girl like you doing here alone?”

  “I’m here with my boyfriend,” I say in my broken Chinese.

  “Ah, American? I should have known,” Slick Hair says in a perfect American accent. He looks over my shoulder. “Hmm. I don’t see a boyfriend around. Looks like it’s time for you to make new friends.”

  His hand reaches out to my face, and I barely manage to dodge it by stepping sideways.

  To hell with the beer. I need to get away.

  I spin around to return into the crowded hall, where the noise has reached record levels with trumpets and drum rolls announcing the car reveal. But I only manage to take a few steps before a thick sweaty hands grip my arms hard from behind.

  “Not so fast, tattoo girl.”

  Slick Hair appears in front of me, his sunglasses pushed up on his forehead, revealing the dilated pupils of his eyes. He blows smoke in my face, and I turn my head away. A glance behind me reveals who is holding my arms: a guy twice his size, sunglasses perched on his broad nose. Try as I might, I am incapable of moving.

  “Let me go.” I try keeping my voice low and steady, despite the tremors afflicting my legs.

  “I thought you wanted to be friends. But don’t you worry, it’s going to be worth your while.”

  Slick Hair reaches into his pocket, pulling out a wallet bulging with bills. “How much?”

  “I’m not for sale, asshole.” I cast him my most threatening glare.

  “Come on now. You sure don’t look like you belong here. Unless you’re here to make some cash.”

  “I’m here as a guest. With my boyfriend. Now fuck off.”

  I thrash and twist about, intending to stamp Sunglasses on his feet, but I feel myself lifted off the ground. Slick Hair takes a step closer to me until I smell his breath in my face—cigarette smoke and whisky. Mixed with the sour-smelling sweat emanating from his body, the stench makes me feel like throwing up.

  “I’m offering you hard cash. I’m sure you won’t say no to that.” He reaches behind me and grabs my butt.

  That’s when I lose it. I yell, “Help! Help me!” over and over again, but no one is paying any attention. The music is too loud, and all eyes are on the stage where the presentation of the new model McLaren has started. My stomach drops when I realize Ryder will be watching this intently; there is no way he’ll be looking for me now.

  An agonizing bolt of pain shoots through my arm. Slick Hair has moved beside me, digging his fingers into my flesh. His friend has taken hold of me on the other side. Tightly wedged between the two assholes I feel utterly helpless as they drag me away.

  My heart pounding in my ears, I continue to scream and struggle.

  What the hell are they going to do to me?

  Ryder

  The new McLaren P15 is spectacular.

  Her sleek, flowing lines sparkle in the spotlights, casting a spell over the audience. The most powerful hybrid engine in the world coupled with a super-light chassis made of carbon fiber and kevlar makes the P15 a veritable monster on the road. In race mode, the car lowers to the ground, its rear wing raising at an angle to optimize downforce, and thus, speed. It is not surprising that at 285mph it claims to be the fastest car in the world.

  A curvaceous girl in a matching yellow bikini and with glossy hair cascading down her back opens the car’s scissor doors. The guys next to me who I broke off a long discussion with to watch this presentation, are engrossed in her curves rather than the vehicle. But I don’t have a problem keeping my eyes on the car—I’ve had countless girls just like her, in a variety of skin tones and hair colors. They have never held any interest to me beyond my physical release. I’ve only met one woman who I can never get enough of: Elle. The thought alone makes my pulse skip a little faster.

  On stage, the presenter lists the technical details of the car. And for some reason, they don’t hold my attention as they usually do. A strange feeling builds in the pit of my stomach and travels up, swirling around my chest.

  Where the hell is she?

  Surely it wouldn’t take that long to grab a beer from the bar. I look around me, but I am surrounded by a sea of black; no long, dark-brown hair in sight, and certainly no back tattoo or face piercings.

  I sigh. I realize Elle has been bored here at the show—unlike most women, she is not easily enticed by luxury goods. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t have taken her here. But events like this attract the perfect investors for my business. Now I regret not dropping her off at the hotel earlier.

  Turning away from the McLaren presentation, I make my way through the crowd, scanning it while I do and pulling my cell out of my pocket to call her. It rings, but she doesn’t pick up, so I bark into her voice mail and follow it up with a text message. The discomfort in my chest is building, and I’m starting to lose my cool, even though I know it is completely irrational. She’s fine. She’s probably lining up at the bar, chatting with someone, or most likely, she’s gone to the restroom.

  I reach the bar, which is practically deserted while the presentation is still in full force behind me, and wave the bartender over. Confident he will recognize the picture of Elle on my cell, I hand it over with a smile, but when he shakes his head, my face drops.

  I stare into Elle’s beautiful eyes on the screen and think back to one of our first dates, when we attended a charity function together. What I thought was a restroom break, turned out to be her plan of escape. I found her lingering near the front door, and she would have left if I hadn’t intercepted her. But I’m quite sure we are way past that now. We promised that we would be open with each other, and I’m positive she would have let me know before making her exit out of the show.

  Of course—the hotel. That’s the one place she is most likely to be.

  I immediately press the screen to make a call to our room. No answer, so my call gets redirected to reception, and I manage to get someone to personally check the room and call me back. I venture back into the crowd, which is now starting to disperse. To everyone around me, I flash Elle’s picture, but to no avail. No one has seen her.

  I almost jump—my cell phone vibrates. A shred of hope flares in my chest, but it’s not Elle. The hotel reception calls me to say she is definitely not in our room, but they promise to call me the moment she walks into the hotel. The moment I hang up, I try calling her number again, but now it doesn’t even ring; it goes straight to voice mail.

  I rub my face in my hands. What the hell has happened to her? What if I never see her again? Pushing the thought from my mind, I ball my fists and resume my search within the pavilion. I must find her.

  The only place I haven’t looked yet are the restrooms, so I step into the hallway that leads to them. I knock on the women’s and slowly open the door.

  “Elle? You’re here?” I shout.

  I gingerly step into the restroom, ready for the wo
men to give me an earful, but my presence doesn’t seem to bother them at all: after a swift glance, they continue doing their hair, touching up their make-up, and snorting lines with rolled-up bills. When I pull up Elle’s photo, several of them even cluster around me, asking questions and pressing their bodies up against me. But it is clear they haven’t seen her, so I make a quick exit, waves of panic overtaking me.

  Time to call the police.

  I start heading back toward the car show area when I hear Chinese male voices in a loud, heated argument. It is coming from somewhere behind me so I turn on my heel and stride down the hall all the way to the end. I turn right into a narrow, dim lit hallway.

  And there I find the source of the racket: a man in a white suit who has his back to me. It is so narrow that I can’t see who is behind him. The argument is still going strong, with him gesturing wildly and raising his voice even more. Suddenly I feel like I’m intruding, so I make a move to turn back around. And then I see it on the floor.

  A silver high-heeled shoe.

  I am frozen to the spot for a moment, but recover quickly.

  “Elle!”

  I surge forward, reaching out with my arm to shove the man in front of me away, but before I do, he steps aside. My heart lurches at the sight before me: it’s Elle, standing at the far end of the hall, pale and panic-stricken. Her hair is disheveled, her make-up smudged, her dress crumpled. She dashes straight into my open arms, and I let out a deep sigh of relief while I crush her body to mine.

  Damn, that was close.

  Holding Elle tight, I feel a myriad of gut-wrenching emotions whirl through me. What the hell just happened? Did someone try to hurt her? She should never have gone off on her own—no, I should never have kept her out of my sight. I press her even tighter to me, and she burrows her head in my chest. “Ryder.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She nods, but her trembling body betrays her true feelings.

  I kiss the top of her head. “I thought I lost you. I didn’t know where you were. I couldn’t find you. What happened?”

  “They—they tried to take me.”

  A flame of anger flares up in my chest. “Take you? Who?”

  “Those two assholes.” She cocks her head to the two men behind her who are still arguing with the white suit.

  I try to release Elle to confront them, but she keeps her hold on me. “Ryder, no. I’m okay. Don’t worry about it. Let’s just go, all right?”

  Taking in a deep breath, she tries to steer me back to the main hall, but I refuse to budge. “I can’t just let this go.”

  “You can. It’s not worth your time.”

  Her pleading eyes makes something melt inside me, and a wave of regret replaces my anger. I drop my head. “I’m so, so sorry, beautiful. This is all my fault. I should’ve gone with you.”

  Elle rests her hand on my chest, her gorgeous eyes brimming with concern. “Hey, it isn’t your fault. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

  That is so typical of Elle: thinking of me before herself, even in a situation like this. My heart swells—I don’t think I could love her more.

  I stroke her velvety cheek. “Did they hurt you at all?”

  “No. But if it weren’t for that guy, they might have.”

  She cocks her head to the white suit behind her.

  Just then, the two jerks who tried taking her push past him, and my fury returns. I manage to release Elle from my arms, hell bent on beating the living daylights out of them, but she clutches onto me.

  “No. Don’t.”

  Her arms grip around my waist, so all I can do is glower at them and spit, “You bastards! Don’t think you’ll get away with this.”

  Elle shakes her head furiously. “Come on, it’s not worth it. Let’s just put this behind us.”

  I am about to disagree when her white-suited savior turns to us. He’s around my age, mid to late twenties, and unlike most of the guests here at the show, he’s not a walking display of designer labels. Yet in one glance I can tell his suit is perfectly tailored, and his shoes look suspiciously like they’ve been hand-made by Stefano Bemer in Florence. I know because I have a similar pair.

  The white suits steps towards us, his fingers holding Elle’s silver shoes by their straps. “How are you feeling, miss?” he says with a clipped British accent, handing her the shoes. Elle nods at him. “I’m okay. Thanks for helping me back there.”

  I extend my hand to him. “Ryder De Luca. I don’t know how to thank you. I owe you one.”

  He shakes my outstretched hand. “Cecil Fong. Pleased to meet you.”

  “So, who were those guys?”

  “Just some young spoiled punks who’ve never heard of the word ‘no’.”

  A red-hot anger flares inside me. “I can’t let them get away with this. I’m gonna make them pay for what they’ve done.”

  “Ryder, no.” Elle puts her hand on my chest. “Nothing happened.”

  “But they can’t just escape scot-free. I won’t allow it.”

  Cecil shakes his head. “This is not America. You can’t simply go to the authorities. This is China. There’s absolutely nothing you can do. Some of those jokers are sons of government officials. They can get out of anything, and they know it.”

  He pats my shoulder reassuringly. “But trust me, Mr De Luca, I’ll take care of them. They won’t bother your girlfriend any more, I promise.”

  “Call me Ryder. And I’d appreciate that. It looks like I owe you big time.”

  “It’s my pleasure. I’ll grasp any opportunity to set these bastards straight. I’m not sure if you are aware, but here in China we call them the Rich 2G. They are the sons and daughters of successful businesspeople who built their businesses from the ground up twenty, thirty years ago. Nothing wrong with having money, of course. But the way these 2G kids behave and throw their money around without any respect for others—frankly, it disgusts me.”

  I nod. “I can see why. But I’m glad there are decent people around here like you. Whenever you’re in New York, give me a call and I’ll look after you. If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.”

  I raise my hand, intending to say goodbye and take Elle back to the hotel as soon as possible, but Cecil’s intense gaze stops me in my tracks.

  “You love cars, correct?”

  I nod. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

  “Do you have any special-edition sports cars?”

  My brows shoot up at his strange question. “Several. My latest is a Maserati. A Quattroporte Zegna.”

  Cecil’s eyes grow wide. “You mean, the model designed together with Ermenegildo Zegna? Of which only a hundred were released?”

  “Yep, got it about a month ago.”

  Cecil grins and steps forward, shaking my hand between two of his. “My friend, I’m so glad I bumped into you. You’re going to be the latest member of our club.”

  My bewildered expression prompts him to explain. “The Platinum Sports Car Club. The Hainan show is our yearly get-together. Membership is by invitation only based on one’s ownership of sports cars. The minimum requirement is a Ferrari California or equivalent. So far, we have two hundred members, all based in Asia. You’ll be our first American member.”

  I look at Elle, and she flashes me an encouraging smile—she knows how much I love my sports cars.

  “I’d be honored. If there’s anything I can do to support the club, I’d be happy to. It’s the least I can do after what you’ve done for us.”

  “How long are you staying in Hainan Island?”

  “We’re leaving for Hong Kong tomorrow.”

  He smiles. “Perfect. We’ll be conducting an initiation for new members in Shenzhen, just across the border from Hong Kong, in a few days. You’ll be able to meet the other members and see their cars. And you might be interested to know that one of my best friends will bring his Lamborghini Sesto Elemento.”

  I can’t help but grin widely. I’ve alw
ays wanted to see the ultra-light super car that launches itself to sixty miles per hour in a mere two-and-a-half seconds.

  “In that case, we’ll definitely be there.”

  “Wonderful. Come on, I’ll help you get back to your hotel.” He turns and strides towards the main hall. I follow him, putting my arm around Elle’s waist and bending down to whisper in her ear. “You okay?”

  She nods. “I just want to go back to the hotel, forget about all this.”

  “I’ll make you forget.” I stroke my thumb on the satiny skin of her lower back, and she bites her lip, trying to suppress the shiver I feel running down her spine.

  “I can’t wait,” she breathes.

  We reach the front entrance of the show, where a row of limos is waiting. Cecil’s mere appearance and a wave of his hand cause a flurry of activity. One of the limos—a Rolls-Royce Phantom stretch—pulls out of the line and stops at the curb in front of us. A uniformed driver complete with black hat steps out, opening the car door for us.

  After we both get in, Cecil presses a name card in my hand.

  “Give me call when you’re in Hong Kong. I’m looking forward to seeing you there.”

  “Thanks, man. I’ll see you soon.”

  Cecil leans down, a wide grin on his face. “And Ryder? You better get ready. Our meeting’s going to blow your mind.”

  With that, the car door slams shut.

  Chapter 3

  Elle

  I thought it would feel awkward driving around in a bright-red Ferrari to explore the bustling city of Hong Kong. But contrary to New York’s Harlem, where I live, the locals don’t even blink an eye when we whizz past them in our flashy sports car. It’s not surprising—we’re just one of the many luxury cars on the road. We overtake and are overtaken by BMWs, Rolls-Royces, and Porsches while we drive past famous international designer stores.

  If I had any inkling of what we’re going to do today, I would have feigned illness. At least I would have felt better than I do right now. Ryder drags me from luxury boutique to luxury boutique, and it feels like a form of torture. My sister would kill for a shopping trip like this, but honestly, these upmarket brands—Dior, Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Gucci—all look the same to me. I have no clue why anyone would pay these absurd prices to own their little name tags.