by Zara Cox
“No, Lucky. Breaking and entering isn’t my forte. What I mean is you’re not leaving the country, so you’re good.”
“But…won’t my name appear on some manifest of some sort?”
“What name?” she counters.
I fall silent.
“Exactly,” she murmurs.
“Are…are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
The knot in my stomach dissipates a little. I remind myself that a lot of time and work has gone into getting me here. That my choices are abysmally limited. I can’t trust anyone. But backing out is not an option right now.
“Okay. Can you at least tell me where I’m going?”
“That is not part of my brief. If the boss wants you to know, he’ll tell you himself.”
“Fionnella—”
“Piece of advice, Lucky. Don’t sweat the small stuff or the things that are out of your control. You chose to do this. Your reasons are your own, of course, but if the end game is important to you, learn to surrender to the journey. It’s the only way you’ll come out the other side intact. Have a safe trip. And try the grilled shrimp when you board the plane. They’re to die for.”
She hangs up, leaving me with even more questions than I started the conversation with. I don’t have time to dwell for long. The limo slowly weaves through an area peppered with private planes and pulls into a brightly lit hangar. It stops a dozen feet from a white and gold G650.
My jaw is too paralyzed to drop, and I stare at the aircraft as another boatload of WTF-are-you-doing punches me in the face.
“Miss? We’re here.”
I manage a nod, force my feet to move and step out. I look at the driver. His face is politely neutral and I know I won’t get any answers from him. Nor from the attendant and pilot waiting at the foot of the airplane steps.
I clutch my backpack and put one foot in front of the other.
“Welcome aboard, Miss.” The pilot doffs his hat.
“Thanks.”
“If it’s all right with you, we’ll be taking off in the next fifteen minutes.”
I swallow a snort. We’re taking off whether I freak out or not. We all know this. But it’s cute how they make me feel as if it’s up to me.
Silently, I climb up the steps and arrive in a different world. The Midtown apartment, the Hell’s Kitchen loft, the makeover have all been indicators that Q is extremely wealthy. But the undeniable luxury of the private jet finally drives home to me the potential scale of what I’m dealing with.
If a man like Q has the power to buy me without once meeting me in person, he has the power to do other things. Like make me disappear.
And really, aren’t those who fall through the cracks, or make an attempt to hide, easy prey to a ruthless predator?
My senses clang and I turn round. Before I can make a dash for the door, the steps lift and slide home, sealing me in the world’s most expensive tube.
Panic cloys through me.
“Wait!”
The pilot bolts the door and turns. “I’m sorry, Miss, but we have to take off now or we’ll miss our slot.”
I eye the shut door. “Open the door. Please, I have to get off.”
His eyes remain steady on mine. “I’m sorry. It’s too late.”
Although I hear the whine of an engine powering up, courtesy of the co-pilot, I know the pilot isn’t just talking about the door. My thudding heart echoes the message in his gaze.
Somewhere in the last twenty-four hours, I’ve crossed an invisible line into the point of no return. Q may have chosen me a week ago, but everything that has followed has been a further test.
A test which I’ve passed if the sudden ramp up of activity indicates. And now he’s decided, there’s no going back.
“Take a seat, Miss. The attendant will be along shortly with your pre-flight drink.”
He heads off to the cockpit, and I hear the definite click of the door.
I turn around. The attendant is pouring a glass of champagne, but I sense her attention on me. I have no doubt if I attempt anything foolish, like open the door to the airplane, she’ll be on me in a second. I can probably take her, but then what would that mean for me?
At least one thing is certain. If I don’t make it out of whatever this fucked up situation is that I’ve got myself into, Clayton won’t get his hands on the secret. My fingers tighten around the handle of my backpack.
As I release the lock on my legs and head for the cream leather sofa in the middle of the plane, I let my fingers drift over the secret compartment I sewed into the bottom of the backpack. Perhaps it’s foolish to carry the letter and document Ma gave to me with me. But it’s only one half of the puzzle. I memorized the other half before I burnt it in the hope that it’d buy me further time should Clayton catch up with me.
Thinking about him weirdly settles my panic. The fire I jumped into after escaping him hasn’t consumed me yet. So while I still have breath, I still have hope.
…surrender to the journey.
I set the backpack aside, buckle myself in and hold my breath for my first ever ride on a plane.
Soon after a slightly dizzying take off, I accept a glass of champagne and the offer of grilled shrimp.
True to Fionnella’s promise, the shrimp is divine. As is the paté served on crackers and the mini burgers and accompanying sweet potato fries. When I return from using the lavatory, I curl up on the sofa and stare outside the window.
Geography fails me again, and with the outside shrouded in night, I have no clue where we’re headed.
I try to blank my mind to what lays ahead so I accept another glass of champagne. A few sips in, I notice a subtle difference in taste, but really, what the fuck do I know about vintage champagne?
The bubbles are pleasantly tingly and the alcohol is easing the stranglehold fear has on me. I take a few more sips, and stare at the light blinking on the jet’s wing.
It grows strangely hypnotic. I’m not sure if we dip, or if the swaying is just in my head. I try to take another sip, but my limbs feel heavy, lethargic.
My eyelids droop of their own accord. Just before they shut, I see the attendant lunge toward me.
Oops. I just dropped the glass.
***
A dull headache throbs at my temple. It’s not bad, but it’s uncomfortable enough for me not to want to open my eyes in case there’s more pain lurking at my periphery.
Also, I sense sunshine. And wherever this headache stems from, I know it won’t be a fan of bright lights. So I keep my eyes shut, breathe through it and attempt to orient myself.
The limo. The airport. The plane. Champagne.
I’m hung over? From one glass of champagne? Or had it been two?
My mind gives up on unraveling the hazy memory and moves on.
I’m in bed. The scent of crisp sheets and sea air register through my slightly foggy senses.
But how did I get here? And where the hell is here?
I suck in a breath and crack my eyes open. Yep, wall to wall sunshine. A bed wide enough to sleep a football team and a room large enough to accommodate their fans.
I drag myself onto my elbows, kick away the comforter and glance down at myself.
The clothes I wore to the airport are gone. I’m wearing a crisp white T-shirt and my panties. No bra.
My heart lurches and I feel sick. I close my eyes and concentrate on the part of my body that would surely know if it has been violated. I feel nothing untoward. I don’t allow myself to be relieved just yet.
I shift to the side of the bed. Besides the need to ease my bladder, I’m hoping a self-examination will enlighten me as to whether I’ve slept molest-free.
I emerge from the jaw-droppingly stunning marble and slate bathroom five minutes later none the wiser. A quick search for my things leads me to a dressing room. All my clothes and shoes from the loft are hung and arranged in neat rows. My backpack is in a small closet and a dressing table is set out with make-up and new acce
ssories.
I grab a pair of lounge pants, slip them on and return to the bedroom. Heavy, half-closed curtains conceal floor to ceiling windows on both sides of the room. I push one side and peer outside.
Dark sand and pebble beach gives way to an unfettered view of water. Although the sun’s shining, the dark-colored water makes me think we’re still in the East. But the truth is I don’t know.
Dropping the curtain, I turn and examine the room. The cream and gold decor is studded with expensive art and chandelier lamps that reek of elegance and class. It’s everything an exclusive whore purchased for a million dollars would want.
Except this whore can’t shake the notion that she was drugged and brought here so she wouldn’t know where she is.
Insides beginning to quiver, I hurry across the room and throw the bedroom door open.
The soft exhalation that emits from a nearby speaker freezes me to a stop the moment I reach an arched hallway.
“Lucky. You’re awake. Welcome to my home.”
18
KANSAS, NOT KANSAS
My head jerks around, although I know it’s highly unlikely Q would reveal himself if he’s still choosing to talk to me through his speakers.
“Your home?”
“One of many, but yes.”
I continue down the hallway, noting that he has a serious love of art. Each of the three properties I’ve seen so far have had a masterpiece or ten dotted around the place. I reach the landing and stop. “Where exactly am I, Q?”
“You’re here, with me. At last.” His voice is low and throbs with enough anticipation for me to reach for the steadying support of the bannister. He may have possibly drugged me to stop me from finding out where he’s brought me, but his voice still does disgustingly filthy things to my insides.
“You know what I mean.”
“How would knowing where you are change anything? You’re not thinking of running, are you?”
I can’t deny that the thought didn’t cross my mind when I was in the bathroom. “I just want to know, that’s all.”
“All you need to know is that you’re safe and will be well cared for while you’re under my protection.”
“And does your protection include drugging me? Because that’s what you did to me on the plane, wasn’t it?”
“Lucky—”
“Please. Tell me the truth.”
Silence throbs for a minute. “You were given a light sedative to help you relax.”
My heart lurches. “Why?”
“To calm you. My pilot reported you were slightly…agitated.”
Anger ramps up my spine. “So your answer was to knock me out?”
“It wasn’t supposed to. But combined with the alcohol—”
“It still wasn’t okay.”
“You were never in danger.”
“That doesn’t matter.” My free hand slices into my hair in a futile effort to calm the soup of emotions bubbling through me “This situation isn’t a normal one for me. But as fucked up as it is, I want…I need to be able to trust you on some basic level.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Really? Somehow I find that hard to believe.”
“Why is that?”
“I can’t help thinking you’re the type of guy who just takes what he wants.”
“I am. But I never take by force. I haven’t harmed you in any way, have I?
I laugh. “So what was last night? A little harmless drugging between employer and employee? What happens the next time I have a complaint?”
“You will be reminded of what you agreed. Your body, your acquiescence in return for a million dollars.” There’s an edge to his voice, blades sliding into place.
But I can’t let this go. “That didn’t include being drugged. I’m most definitely not on board with that. And I want you to admit that it wasn’t okay.”
He remains silent for a long time. My gaze darts around the space, searching for where the speakers are hidden. I don’t find any. It’s like he lives within the walls.
His soft inhalation drifts out before he speaks. “That was not okay. You were only meant to sleep for the duration of the journey, not pass out for eight hours. Accept my apology.”
My breath expels the relief locked in my chest, although there’s a lingering sense of incompleteness in the apology. “Thank you. I accept.”
He exhales. “I will resume full ownership now, Lucky.”
My heart begins to race for another reason. “Okay.”
“Good. Go downstairs. The kitchen is to your left. Your breakfast is ready.”
Releasing the bannister, I walk down a sweeping grand staircase carved out of solid light oak.
When I reach the bottom, I look around me.
The place is grand, the type of houses you see in dynastic sagas on TV. Only with a contemporary decor and high tech touches. For instance, there’s a camera built into the chandelier that hangs in the magnificent foyer. And the same tablet-like panel set into the wall upstairs is fixed next to the double doors leading outside.
I take the left hallway and arrive in a chef’s dream of a kitchen, complete with a double pantry.
On the breakfast island, fresh coffee, five types of juices and smoothies, bagels and condiments in all flavors are laid out. Domed dishes reveal fluffy scrambled eggs, Eggs Benedict and sliced sausages.
My stomach somersaults with pleasure but I pause in the act of reaching for a warm plate.
“Are you here, in the house with me?”
“Not yet, but I’m on my way.”
My heart joins in the circus trapeze act. While it tussles with my stomach, I grip the plate and contemplate another quandary.
“Eat, Lucky.”
My gaze roams the kitchen until I spot a blinking light above the fridge. “You can see me.”
“Yes. Something else is worrying you?”
I nod. “If you’re not here, then who put me to bed last night?”
“Someone I trust.”
That holds no reassurance value for me whatsoever, but I nod again and pick up a warm bagel. Spreading it with thick cream cheese I bite self-consciously into it, stop myself from wolfing it down like a rabid animal. Orange juice washes it down and I clear my throat.
“Will you be staying here, in this house, with me?”
“In another wing, yes. But we’ll only see each other when we fuck.”
My breath stalls. I’m reminded that I’m not wearing a bra when my sensitive nipples form pellets against my T-shirt. I casually cross one arm across my breasts and lean my elbow on the island.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“You’re going to a lot of trouble to remain anonymous. So does that mean this…production isn’t for your exclusive use?”
“Will it matter to you one way or the other?”
My head drops a little. I’ve sold my body for the better part of five years, not just to put a roof over my head or food in my stomach, but because I had no choice. From the moment I was born, Clayton Getty laid claim on me and there was no way I could’ve escaped Getty Falls if fate and felony hadn’t greased my way out. But performing sexual acts was done in private, my humiliation saved for the depraved eyes of the paying client. The thought of performing in front of a camera, the act immortalized in a digital time capsule threatens to send my breakfast back up.
“It…it shouldn’t matter, but it’s hard not to think about it.”
“I can’t help you with that. The very nature of what you’re doing should prepare you for what you think is the worst case scenario.”
My breath shudders out and I nod.
I carry my plate to the sink and reach for the tap.
“I have people to take care of that, Lucky.”
“Yeah, but they’re not here, are they?” I yank at the tap and a torrent of water hits the center of the plate, sending it out in a drenching fountain. My front is soaked and heat rushes into my face. “D
ammit,” I mutter.
“I need you to stop being agitated.”
“And I need to do one little thing for myself.” I grab a rinse cloth and mop the counter top.
“You’re not in control here.”
Plate abandoned, I turn and glare at the camera. “You think I don’t know that?”
“You need to accept it.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to spend valuable time breaking you in.”
My mouth drops open for a fistful of heartbeats before I clench my teeth. “I’m not a fucking dog.”
“No. You’re not. What you are, is wet.”
A soft, deadly purr of sexual anticipation, his voice acts as an electrical conduit, charging straight through the camera to my body.
I knew my T-shirt was wet, but while I was arguing with him, it was a distant awareness. Now, I look down and nearly groan at the clear outline of my breasts, nipples and stomach in the transparent cloth. My arms rush to cover myself.
“Stay.” The command is low-voiced. Irrefutable. Exactly like a man to his pet dog.
I should call him out on it.
Instead my arms drop like leaden weights to my side. My nipples furl harder, the knowledge that they are under zoomed-in scrutiny charging them to painful, engorged points.
“Put your hands behind your back, Lucky.”
My fingers find and interlink behind my back without more than a fleeting thought from me. His commands minutes ago were offensive, even though a part of me thrilled a little in anticipation of seeing him try to break me.
But right now, caught in the tense, explosive silence, I’m his to do with as he pleases. Because the sheer headiness of what is happening here is indescribable.
My breaths emerge in shallow pants. I can barely hear him over the racing of my heart.
“Are you turned on?”
“Yes.”
“You see how satisfying it can be for you to let me have my way?”
My fingers twitch, but not with the need to cover myself. On the contrary I want to cup my breasts, relish the pleasure surging through me.
When I don’t respond, he continues. “You have beautiful tits, Lucky.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
