Vicious: Steel Jockeys MC

by Claire St. Rose

  “We’ll make a lap first,” Cresimir instructed. “Get the eyes on you, strut your stuff. Then we’ll see who might want to spend a little time with you.” He lifted a brow as they crossed the threshold into the sprawling dining room. Wood floors stretched from bay window to bay window. Servers flitted between mingling guests, carrying platters with champagne flutes. The only attendees here were rich men leering at scantily clad women, and a small jazz trio. This was misogyny at its peak. Worst party ever.

  “Go on.” He pushed at her hips, wetting his bottom lip as his gaze traveled up and down her figure. “Make a lap then come back here.”

  She did as she was told, starting off unsteadily in the sky-high heels, but regaining her strut after a few steps. She held an innocent gaze as she walked the perimeter of the room, trying to size up the men around her as much as possible. Looking first to see if she recognized anyone, then to see if there were any men she might try to stay away from.

  The majority were a turn off, and not only because they were registered guests on this sex cruise. Slimy stares followed her, unnerving sneers, hooded eyes that made a distinct trail from her face to her breasts. She shuddered as she walked, trying not to snag anyone’s gaze for too long. Please have no one bid on me. Please let there be a raid before anything happens.

  Toward the far end of the room, she met the eyes of a man lingering near the bar, his broad shoulders and the angle of his jaw snagging her attention as she sauntered by. He turned as she passed, gray-blue eyes scorching over her.

  She yanked her gaze away, cheeks heating up. That wasn’t cool—she couldn’t be physically attracted to someone on this floating slave jail. She looked over at him again. He was handsome. In a way that she couldn’t really articulate. His lips were plump, slightly parted as he watched her go. He looked sturdy beneath the suit coat and dark slacks, like he might be made of pure muscle.

  She swallowed and click-click-clicked her way forward. There was one handsome man aboard the ship. So what? She fought the urge to turn and look at him again. He was sexy in a way that made her think of the glossy pages of celebrity magazines. He had a hairline that most men would die for. Eyes that could render a woman immobile.

  Cresimir stood up ahead, watching her with satisfaction, like the twisted version of a proud parent. He was old enough to be her dad. Maybe he’d done this same thing with his own daughters. Ugh.

  As she approached Cresimir, an idea sparked to life. What if Mr. Sexy Man could be the guy she tried to woo before the auction?

  He was no better than the rest of him—but something in his eyes told her she might have a shot at the best outcome if she set her sights on him. Or maybe she was just desperate, imagining that he might be the one with a conscience onboard.

  Coming up to Cresimir, she said in a low voice, “Do you see that man across the room, by the bar? He’s wearing the white striped tie.”

  Cresimir nodded. “He’s rich. You like what you see?”

  Her heart kicked into high gear. “Yeah. I want to get to know him. What do you think?”

  Cresimir narrowed his eyes as he studied the room again, like he was calculating the cost-benefit analysis before giving his consent. “Start with him. We’ll see how it goes from there, but find out what he does and where a starting bid might begin.”

  “How much is in it for me?” She raised a brow.

  “Plenty.” He pushed at her hips, his thin lips turning into a sick smile. “Now have at it, sweet thing.”

  Chapter Two

  Boris sipped at the tumbler of whiskey, studying the far side of the room, trying to look bored. There was a certain type of etiquette in these parties, a protocol he wasn’t quite comfortable with. As another prospective buyer—trying to act as corrupt as the rest of them—he had to ogle women and even bid on one by the end of the night. Not his regular preferences, but the job demanded he fake it, and fake it well.

  Men gathered in pockets of conversation around him, while lithe girls, most of legal age he hoped, sauntered around with fuck-me eyes and too-tight dresses. These sex auctions weren’t his thing, and the whole air on board the ship was taut with deviance. Like he had to stick his head out of the window every so often to clear his mind, so the weird norms didn’t sink into him and stain.

  “Another drink?” The bartender was a young man, which surprised him. Apparently the only role women were allowed on this cruise was eye candy and cash cow.

  “No, I’m fine.” The ice rattled as he took the final draw from the glass and he set the tumbler down, enjoying the warm lick of alcohol through his body. He couldn’t get too toasted today—there was some delicate negotiation ahead, and he needed a clear head.

  He straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his suit coat. The click-click of heels made him look up, and a lady strutted past him, snagging him with bright green eyes that might as well have been a whip. His breath shriveled in his throat and he stared, unable to look away, as she walked past.

  Holy hell. He cleared his throat, fishing his phone out of his coat pocket. That was her—Claudia Zvonimira, precisely the girl he’d come to hunt down. He allowed himself another look, gaze tripping over sexy curves and a silvery dress so tight it might as well be painted on. He swallowed hard, yanking his eyes off her.

  But he had to be sure. He scrolled to an encrypted email, reviewing the details of the profile he’d drawn up. Claudia Zvonimira. 23 years old. Blonde hair, green eyes, about 5’7”. A photo of her face, yanked from her Facebook profile or Twitter, showed a much more innocent looking Claudia, nowhere near as sultry as the woman who just strutted past like a sex kitten.

  He pocketed the phone again, his mind racing. Though he’d never betray anything to the outside world; his bored, unaffected expression was perfected, something of his specialty. He could be doing differential equations and still look like he was about to fall asleep. It was an asset in his line of work.

  As a hitman for the FSB—the successor of the old Soviet KGB—it was important he never get ruffled.

  But then again, it wasn’t every day he was in the presence of an actual Princess.

  And the fact that she managed to send his pulse racing was a little unnerving. He turned to the bartender, waving him down. “I’ll take another whiskey now.”

  The barkeep nodded and poured another whiskey on the rocks. Boris fished out a twenty-dollar bill for the tip jar—all the drinks on board were free, included in the hefty admission price—and when he turned, Claudia was in front of him. Smiling up at him with a look that made his knees weak.

  “Hello.” He moved his tumbler in a tight circle, watching the amber liquid swirl around. “Can I help you?”

  “I think you can help me.” She lifted a brow, and when he didn’t respond immediately, she softened. “You’re standing in front of the bar. I want a drink.”

  “Well why don’t you tell me what you’d like, since I’m first in line?” He cocked a grin, taking in the pleasant contours of her face, the straight, tiny nose, her heavy dark eyelashes. “On me, of course.”

  She leaned against the bar beside him. “I’ll take a dirty martini.”

  Boris held her gaze while the bartender got to work behind them. “What’s your name?”

  “Cait.” She held out her hand. “And yours?”

  “Nicolas.” He took her hand in his and brought the back of it to his lips. Without breaking her gaze, he smoothed his lips over the soft skin there. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Her use of a fake name didn’t throw him, not even for a second. This girl had to be Claudia. Those eyes were too unique to be a coincidence. “Nicolas and Cait. That has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  A grin blossomed on his face. Maybe she was privately enjoying the irony of it as much as he was, since they were both lying. “It’s practically a song.”

  She received her martini glass with a blush, the hint of color sending desire streaking through his veins. His gaze wandered over the shimmery fabric of her dress,
over the ridge of her collarbone. Her creamy skin paired nicely with the dress. He and every other man on board was sure to take note of it, too.

  “So what sort of empire do you run, Nicolas?” She sipped at her martini, her lush red lips puckering nicely.

  “I’m in the trade ministry,” he said, defecting to his go-to cover story. “Imports and exports, mostly.”

  She nodded appreciatively. “Sounds important.”

  “Terribly.” He lifted a brow, swirling the whiskey in his tumbler. He caught himself before he asked her what she did—it seemed awkward, since it was painfully obvious why she was on this ship. And what he knew of her through the perfunctory internet search yesterday, she was a recent college grad, majoring in international politics or something like that. Not bad for a Princess.

  “So you know how to manipulate numbers.” A sly smile crossed her face. “Any impending economic crashes I should be aware of? While I’ve got you at my disposal.”

  “None as of yet.” He leaned closer, examining the back of his hand. “But I’ll let you know if anything crops up.”

  “Oh, you’ll be able to find me? How’s that?”

  This was the part that made him feel queasy. “We’re playing a numbers game on this ship, aren’t we? I’ll just have to make sure my number is the highest.”

  A tiny smile quirked her lips. “You would do that?”

  “You’re the only one I want to look at,” he said. “Though I suppose I should ask if the feeling is mutual.”

  A strange expression crossed over her face. “Does that matter here?”

  “It does to me.” She was hotter than hell...but more than the visual appeal, he needed her to be on his side. Because at the end of this, she had to lead him to her father. The next item on his to-do list, after Steal Claudia off the cruise ship, was for her to navigate them to her father. Since Claudia’s kidnapping, the King’s security had tightened. Reaching him was nearly impossible. Since Boris’s higher-ups in the FSB wanted him taken out by next week, kidnapping the Princess was the surest way to break through the extra layers of security.

  Claudia didn’t need to know quite yet that she would be kidnapped for a second time in just a handful of days. He’d ride this pleasant fantasy as long as he could.

  She eyed him, the corner of her mouth turned up. “Well yeah. It’s mutual. You got a wife and kids or anything out there in the real world?” She jerked her head toward the windows, which overlooked the sea. The coastline of western Croatia glittered on the horizon.

  “No. Don’t have time for stuff like that.”

  “Right, with all those trends to analyze. All those numbers to crunch.” She dragged a finger over his sleeve, a feathery light touch. “You dress nice.”

  “So do you.” That was an understatement. She could give a man a heart attack with those curves. “Are you a model out there in the real world?”

  A blush graced her cheek. “No. Jeez. You flatter me. I could never handle the catwalks.”

  “But this place is easier than the catwalks?”

  Silence stretched between them. Fuck. Maybe he’d been too honest.

  “It has its merits,” she said at last, but her smile looked forced.

  “Can I get you anything?” Changing the subject would be best. Another girl sauntered by, beautiful but vacant. Half the girls he’d seen looked drugged or absent. Claudia—or Cait—and her sharpness was a relief he hadn’t expected.

  “I’m good. I just want to make sure I’ll be seeing you later.” She winked.

  A microphone came to life at the podium. The auction would begin soon, which meant bidding was near. Claudia’s gaze switched to something across the room, then she turned to him with an apologetic look.

  “I need to get going. I’ll see you later, Nicolas.”

  He caught her hand before she walked away, searching out her gaze. “You will.” He squeezed her hand and they shared a small smile, then she disappeared into the growing crowd of men gathering near the podium.

  He finished his whiskey and set down the glass, nearing the podium, searching out the auctioneer. A stout, bald man held some papers in one hand and the microphone in another, helping the ladies get into line off to the side of the podium.

  Claudia was there, somewhere near the middle, one more gorgeous face in the line-up of women. He tensed as the auctioneer strolled down the line, adjusting some women, turning others around to peer at their asses, treating them all like pieces of meat. This shit is disgusting.

  But eager eyes and excited conversation around him proved that he was the minority here. Clearly, all these men made shit like this a popular and lucrative business. No wonder the ship had to be so many miles out to sea—probably to avoid penalties and incarceration.

  Yet another example of the seedy dealings of the upper ranks of society. He was plenty familiar with it. Hell, he moved in that circle almost every day of his life. The organization he worked for was one of the most powerful and most secretive groups out there, comprised of criminals and politicians alike, though to him those definitions were the same.

  The speakers crackled to life and the jazz trio quieted. “Welcome, gentlemen, to the best day of your lives!”

  Clapping erupted, a few wolf whistles. When it was quiet, the auctioneer’s steady tenor continued. “We’ve got the best line-up you could ever dream of. These girls are young, they’re beautiful, they’re firm, and they’re tight.” A murmur went through the crowd. “Some are even virgins, but we’ll be sure to point that out where appropriate.”

  Boris sighed tersely, fighting the urge to order another whiskey. This would be a long evening if he had to listen to shit like this.

  Who knew—maybe some of the girls here made their living like this. Skimming the sex cruises, raking in $20k for just a few days’ time with an oligarch. But he guessed the majority probably didn’t—either were forced or stolen into it, like Claudia was. The thought angered him, but he swallowed the surge, kept his face neutral despite the heat licking through him.

  He had no right to be angry, anyway. He dealt in the same world as the rest of them. He’d become good at it. He was one of the most reliable hitmen the FSB had in its deep arsenal of hired killers. It was a job you don’t turn away from. Unless he wanted to end up dead with two bullet holes in the back of his head while some coroner in the basement of Lubyanka ruled it as an accidental ‘suicide’.

  The auctioneer slammed a gavel and the bidding began on the first girl, a doe-eyed Asian girl who smiled briefly before swaying. Bids piled up quickly, and then she was sold for nine thousand. The next girl shuffled up—and then another, and another—each sale blurring into the next as he awaited the bright green eyes to hit the stand.

  These girls fetched prices anywhere from five to forty thousand. He had a suitcase full of cash in his bedroom, but the plan was to escape before he even needed to use it. He’d brought sixty-thousand, just in case. Enough to bid safely and win.

  Soon enough, Claudia stepped up to plate. She cocked a pose, hand on her hip, surveying the crowd with hard eyes. He cleared his throat to hide the grin that threatened to blossom on his face. Something about her just spoke to him. If this were any other place, any other day, maybe he’d be talking to her anyway.

  “And here we have the lovely Cait O’Shea. Irish American. Slim, tight, and a virgin. Gentlemen, take a good look. Those eyes will steal your soul, and bidding starts at one thousand.” The auctioneer slammed the gavel and hands flew up into the air all around him. Most everyone saw that special something about her, sparking a fear deep inside him.

  The price climbed from one to five to ten thousand in seconds. The auctioneer called on one man—fifteen thousand—and another—twenty thousand. When the bidding slowed slightly, Boris raised his hand.

  “You, sir?”

  “Twenty five thousand.” Boris clenched his jaw, surveying the crowd. Another hand shot up.

  “Thirty five thousand,” the man countered.

&
nbsp; “Thirty five thousand, going once,” said the auctioneer.

  Boris raised his hand again. “Forty thousand.”

  The other man raised his hand before the auctioneer could interject. “Fifty thousand.”

  An appreciative murmur spread through the crowd. Anxiety prickled Boris’s chest. Jesus Christ. He raised his hand. “Fifty five thousand.”

  The old man across the room raised his hand again. “Sixty thousand.”

  Fuck. Boris raised his hand; he couldn’t lose this. Even if he didn’t have the cash to back it up. “Sixty five thousand.”

  A fraction of a second passed without contest and the auctioneer nodded, looking out of the sea of heads. “Sixty five thousand, going once. Going twice.” He paused. “And sold, to the man in the white-striped tie!”