A Chance in the Night (2 page)

She’d been broken inside and he’d capitalized on it. Before she knew it, she’d been snared by a net of her own making.

Dreams were a dangerous thing in New York, Manhattan specifically. The glitz could blind you. She should know. She resisted the urge to massage the phantom ache in her knee that always bloomed when she thought of her own hopes and dreams. The injury had healed but her career as a professional dancer had not.

She resigned herself to an evening that by the end, she knew she’d want to forget.

She tried to find that place inside of herself that enabled her to forget what she was about to do and pretend to be the gracious, accommodating escort to whomever had paid the exorbitant price Belleni required for her services, but tonight it eluded her. Her fingers shook as she clasped her beaded clutch, swallowing as she squeezed her eyes shut for a brief second, reaching desperately for that inner strength but her conversation with Belleni only an hour earlier kept coming back to her, shattering her calm.

He was never going to let her go. Not while she remained his Number One girl. Belleni’s hold on her was resolute. He held her most precious possession as collateral.

Nico.

Their four-year-old son.

Skye exhaled softly as the maddening ache of despair arced through her and she knew she had to put that aside for the moment. Her date—Carlton Essex III—wanted Skye D’Lane, gorgeous, sophisticated, with a willing disposition, on his arm and likely, in his bed by the end of the evening if the price was right. The thought caused bile to sear her throat but she gave no indication of her true feelings.

“You do not disappoint, Miss D’Lane,” Carlton murmured into her ear as the car pulled away, his hand resting a bit too closely to her inner thigh. The eagerness in his voice was downright disgusting. His gaze drifted over her silver metallic sheath and his breathing quickened.

“Neither do you,” she lied easily, hoping the evening ended soon. The client had booked her for a charity event at the Four Seasons where he would be donating a large sum to a center for rehabilitated prostitutes. Skye found the irony sickening, though she supposed in her own small way she was helping, too.

“Your skin is like smooth silk,” he said, his tongue sliding along his lower lip as if he were already tasting her. She withheld a shudder. This one would likely leave marks on her tender breasts. In a perverse way, she hoped he would. Belleni didn’t take it lightly when a client left marks on his girls; healing time caused downtime and downtime cost Belleni money. He began running his hand up her thigh, slowly lifting the hem of her dress. “So perfect…”

She wanted to scream
Don’t touch me, you filthy pig,
but instead she simply laughed and gave his hand a gentle nudge with a smile she didn’t feel and reminded him of the rules. “I’m sure Belleni explained our arrangement, yes?”

Carlton narrowed his already beady eyes and drew back with a displeased grunt. “No touching in public,” he answered. He paused a minute to adjust his girth in the well-tailored suit but his gaze skewed back to her with a glint that she didn’t trust as he said, “But we’re not in public and I want a preview of what I paid for.”

So crass.
It was no wonder the man—as wealthy as he was—had to pay someone for company let alone sex. She managed a light laugh. “So impatient. The anticipation will sweeten the experience. We wouldn’t want to be late to your event.”

“They’ll wait. I want to see why you’re Belleni’s most expensive whore.”

She didn’t like the hard light in his eyes. Malice rolled off him in waves. Her pulse quickened as she considered her options. She chose her words carefully. “There are rules to follow if you don’t wish to find yourself on Belleni’s bad side,” she warned him, hoping it was enough to cool the hot lust in his stare.

But Carlton didn’t heed her warning. Hell, the subtle threat seemed to incite him further. He jerked her to him in a swift movement that Skye would’ve thought impossible given his size, squeezing a pained gasp from her even as she pushed against him. “What are you doing?” she tried demanding with some sort of authority, but in truth, fear had replaced her calm bravado. “This isn’t the way Belleni does business. You’re risking more than you know if you don’t follow the rules.”

He ignored her and directed his driver to pull around to the back of the bar, out of sight, tucked into the dark alley. His grip tightened on her flesh as her sheath rode up, exposing her rear. He tossed her to the seat and wasted little time in covering her body with his considerable girth. Oh, God, he was going to crush her. She pushed against him, panic fighting with her need to remain in control of the situation for her own sake.

“Please don’t…” she gasped.

His breath hot on her face, his thick hands groping under her dress, bruising the flesh as he sought the tender folds, caused her to react in pure instinct as she raked her fingers down his face hard enough to draw blood. He grunted in shocked pain, drawing away a fraction, giving her more room to breathe and wiggle away from him but while the Town Car was roomier than the standard sedan, Carlton’s bulk made it difficult to maneuver far. She reached for the door but before her hand could touch the handle, he hauled her back with his fist tangled in her long hair.

“You bitch,” he growled in her ear, his grip tight at her scalp. She twisted against his hold, blinking back tears of pain, refusing to give him what the sadistic bastard wanted. His lips stretched in an ugly knowing smile as he held her captive, helpless and scared. “You’ve been a bad girl. I like that. But you’ve made a mark on my face. Only I’m allowed to leave marks.” He drove his fist into her belly, the shock and agony of it causing her to suck air. Heaven help her, he was going to beat her, maybe even kill her. He didn’t care about the consequences.

“B-belleni will have your balls,” she managed to choke out but Carlton just laughed.

“You’re a whore. Easily bought and easily replaced,” he responded with a shrug, shredding her designer sheath to expose her breasts.

“S-stop,” she shrieked, true fear blotting out rational thought as she frantically tried to cover herself. She’d never been in such a situation before. Belleni only allowed select clientele to book his girls. Never before had she been paired with such a monster. She knew how to deal with overeager clients, not ones with a sadistic streak. Her phone and pepper spray were in her clutch, which had fallen to the floor when he’d thrown her. She twisted and reached desperately for her clutch but a lightning-fast crack across her jaw caused stars to fly around her head and black dots to pulse before her eyes.

“You’re a feisty one,” she heard him murmur, the appreciative tone sickening her. “Let’s see if you’re worth what I paid.”

Blood filled her mouth from her busted lip but she opened her mouth and screamed for all she was worth. Someone, oh, God, please help her.

The driver gave a short nod as the fat man lumbered to his feet, wiping at the blood flowing from his nose. “Take the bitch. I’m through with her,” he said, his voice nasal and wet sounding. His lip curled in disgust. “Tell Belleni I want my money back. His whore wasn’t worth the asking price,” he said, mistaking Christian for someone affiliated with the woman and her business. That alone made him want to further rearrange the asshole’s face but he settled for a hard-edged glare at the man as he edged past him to gingerly pull the woman from the vehicle, cradling her against his chest.

With a curt nod to his driver, the fat man disappeared into the Town Car and slammed the door behind him as the car melted into the night.

He glanced down at the woman in his arms. She was badly beaten. Blood dribbled from her nose and swollen lip, smearing the honey-hued locks he’d noticed at the bar. She was a far cry from the sophisticated trophy that’d been perched on the stool earlier. He couldn’t take her into the bar like this. She opened one eye and he could see the glaze of pain. “I need to take you to the hospital,” he told her. He wasn’t surprised by the weak shake of her head as she moaned.

“No hospital, p-please,” she said, laboring for each word. “I’ll be…punished.” The last part came out with a low sob as she huddled against him and his resolve broke.

Ah, hell. It was his mother all over again. She could be suffering internal injuries and there’d be no way for him to know until it was too late but he knew why she’d rather die than step foot in a hospital because the care came with a price. Hospital staff were required to report if they suspected a patient had been the victim of a violent crime. And if he dragged a broken woman into the E.R., they’d certainly start asking questions. He’d learned that the first time a john had nearly killed his mother. He’d been six and scared. The hospital staff had saved his mother but they’d had to sneak out when the questions had started.

He rolled his eyes to the midnight sky and cursed his own damn luck for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong and landing himself a problem he didn’t want. Lucky for her, he lived in a loft above the bar. He supposed he could take her there for the time being until he figured out what else to do. He fished his phone from his pocket and dialed his friend Gage Stratham, who was also on the floor that night, telling him that he had an emergency and he needed coverage at the bar. Gage told him he’d take care of it and Christian carried the woman up to his loft.

He managed to open his front door and then close it with a nudge of his foot. The loft was a convenient pad and he’d turned the run-down space into something he didn’t mind people seeing but he doubted the woman in his arms cared much about the blond hardwood floors he’d installed himself or the four-poster California King bed with its goose down comforter that he was laying her gently on. After spending eleven years of his childhood in sleazy motels, sleeping on threadbare, worn and often dirty linens, Christian had a taste—no requirement—for fine bedding. He winced at the thought of blood staining the white duvet but he didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t like she could manage to wash up on her own right now. He averted his eyes as the ruined dress hung on her slender frame, ripped down the center so that she had little covering her lithe body. Even as he looked away, he’d caught an unfortunate glimpse of creamy, well-toned thighs and near perfect rose-tipped breasts.

He swallowed and then cursed softly. He needed to assess her injuries. He went to his bathroom and pulled out hydrogen peroxide, a clean washcloth, cotton balls and antiseptic cream. He sighed, hating that he even had the knowledge required. After that first episode with his mother, he’d taken over bandaging and administering first aid when johns got a little rough.

He dropped the supplies on his bed beside her and after rummaging through his dresser drawers, he found an old T-shirt he didn’t mind parting with and some old sweats she could wear. Her eyes slid open and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she understood his intention.

“Thank you,” she said in a low voice choked with pain.

“Save the thank-yous for later. This is likely going to hurt like a son of a bitch,” he muttered in warning. He wasn’t her prince charming coming to rescue her from her life but human decency demanded that he do what he could to help. “Can you sit up?” he asked. She struggled, blanching with the pain as she tried. He gently stopped her. “You might have a broken rib. You really should see a doctor,” he admonished but he knew it fell on deaf ears. “I’ll do what I can but you’re pretty messed up.” She gave a subtle nod to indicate she understood but otherwise remained silent. He swabbed the crusting blood from her jaw-line and wiped the matted strands of her hair. “Did you know him?” he asked, telling himself he wasn’t interested in the answer, he was just filling the space between them with words, perhaps to distract her from the pain. His mother had never known a single man who’d paid for her services. The only man she’d bedded and known was his father and it wasn’t as though he’d been a catch. He’d died in prison, serving time for aggravated assault. His biological family tree wasn’t anything to write home about. “You ought to file charges,” he suggested, dabbing her lip with antibiotic cream. She winced and he gentled his touch, a familiar well of frustration lacing his tone as he added, “If you don’t, at least tell the authorities. He might do this to someone else. Maybe a friend of yours or something.”

“I don’t have any friends,” she responded, in a voice so scratchy he barely made out the words.

Then he saw the finger bruises along her throat. That man had nearly killed her, not figuratively, but literally. Another occupational hazard, he thought bitterly. He couldn’t understand her choice to lower herself in such a way. “You’re a beautiful woman. There are other choices out there. Hell, find yourself some sugar daddy and become his arm candy but at least get the ring on your finger so you have some kind of security if he ditches you for another.” He threw the soiled cotton swabs in the bedside trash and steeled himself for what came next. “Listen, I promise to do this quick,” he said, lifting the shirt in his hand. “But we gotta get you into some real clothes. Okay?” She nodded and he tried to gently pull off the remains of her dress without hurting her. “Here,” he said gruffly, sliding the T over her head as carefully as possible. He made quick work of tugging his faded sweats up her legs. They hung on her slight frame but at least they covered her. He released a short breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and rose, saying, “I’ll get you some Tylenol. I’m not big on meds so it’s the best I can do.”

He didn’t wait for her acknowledgment or, frankly, for anything, he simply bolted for the bathroom. He needed a minute to collect himself. His mother had been a street prostitute. She hadn’t slept on five hundred thread count sheets or enjoyed caviar and champagne. Not like the woman on his bed. She had the look of someone who knew all about fine living. Everything about her seemed delicate and fragile, refined and expensive. Yet, just like his mother, she sold herself for cold, hard cash.

In that they were the same. And for that reason, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow any kind of deep connection to take root.

When he finally left the bathroom, a few Tylenol tablets in his hand and a glass of water, he’d managed to put his emotions back in order.

He helped her with the painkillers and covered her with a blanket. “Is there someone I should call?” he asked, not quite able to bring himself to say the word
pimp.
Her bruised throat worked as she swallowed and he knew it must hurt like hell. That fat bastard had really done a number on her. She shook her head and he sighed. “Well—” he gestured to the bed “—you’re welcome to stay the night. I’ll take the couch.”

“Thank you,” she said again, and he was no more ready to accept her gratitude now than he was the first go-round but Mama Jo, his foster mother, had drilled manners into his head since the day he’d shown up on her doorstep, courtesy of the Bridgeport, West Virginia foster system so many years ago.

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered, taking his pillow and blanket to the couch. “Don’t mention it. Get some rest.”

Something told him sleep would find her sooner than it would him.