The Chase (3 page)

“Never said
I
was a good boy, kitten. Just that I thought you were a good girl. Though maybe I’m mistaken.” He ignores the question. Deliberately, his stare rakes over the exposed flesh of my legs, my bare arms, my breasts.

He’s doing it to upset me. To be
a jerk. There’s no other reason. And the fact that it works, that he’s churning me up inside, has me spitting fire.

“
Kitten
?”  That arrogant ass. How condescending is that? I brace my hands on the arms of the chair, trying to get a handle on the maelstrom of feelings whirling around inside of me.

I need to get a grip, or I won’t be able to handle what the rest of this night has in store. But Mr. Rock Star here has thrown me completely off my game.

I open my mouth—to say what, I’m not entirely sure—but Miss Black chooses that moment to re-enter the room.

“What’s going on here?” She looks from Adam to me, then back to Adam, pinching her
darkly painted lips together tightly.

Words stick in my throat. I don’t know
what
, exactly, is going on, other than the fact that one of the most famous musicians in the world just did his best to provoke me and I jumped to the bait... not a behaviour that will endear me to Miss Black.

After a long moment of tense silence, Adam speaks. “Nothing at all
, darling.” I’m pretty sure that he thickens that growl of his on purpose in an attempt to be charming, though I’m fairly certain that the effort is wasted on the madame. Still, it deflects her anger from me, and I’m quite certain that that’s deliberate, though I have no idea why.

Miss Black studies
each of us for a long moment, clearly not buying it, but, at the end, not really caring, either. Thrusting yet another folder at Adam, she turns to me and reaches impatiently for my hand.

“Ow.” She’s not gentle as she
grabs my wrist and clasps a bracelet around it. It’s a thin gold chain, set with a small black stone.

Stepping back, she surveys me up and down, and I feel rather like a side of beef that she’s inspecting in the supermarket. But this moo cow seems to satisfy her, so she brushes a piece of lint off my dress, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and nods.

“You’ll do this time, but only because I think the cheap attire will add to the illusion of the sweet young girl that Mr. Thomas wants. In future, you
will
shop at the stores that I have approved.”

Damn it. She noticed my desperately cobbled together outfit.

I wish she hadn’t commented on its quality though—for some reason, I don’t like it that Adam Kincaid has heard what she’s said to me, though why I care that he knows I don’t have any money, I don’t know.

Miss Black continues. “
If you get in trouble—and I mean, only life or death kind of trouble—crush the stone in that bracelet.” She gestures to the door. “Caleb is waiting downstairs for you. Hurry along, now. You’re late again.”

I want to snap back that the laten
ess isn’t my fault this time—that blame belongs to one Adam Kincaid. But the ghostly tendrils of fear freeze my words in my throat.

If you get in trouble... life or death kind of trouble...

The enormity of what I’m about to do doesn’t just sink in, it slams me over the head like an anvil. With every fiber of my being, I don’t want to do this, but I have absolutely no choice. Not if I want to get my mama some help, not if I want to eat for the next six months until I graduate and can (hopefully) get a good job.

Sucking in a deep breath, I make the mistake of looking past Miss Black, at Adam. His expression could have been carved from stone, but his eyes...

I’m pretty sure I can see some compassion in them. And I can’t handle that.

Hardening my heart, freezing out the fear that’s trying to dig its anchor in and weigh me down, I nod, first at Adam, then at Miss Black.

“Good night.”

Chapter Two

Caleb, my driver, isn’t much of a conversationalist.  I find my mind drifting as the limo weaves its way in and out of Manhattan traffic.

It’s surreal, the very fact that I’m here at all. Thanks to the fact that my mom always had a sugar daddy—if you can call a parade of men with jobs ranging from grave digger to unemployment insurance scammers sugar daddies—I’ve always had a roof of some kind over my head and at least some food in my belly—but there was never any long term security, let alone anything left over for luxuries.

I’ve
certainly never been in a limo before. I’ve absolutely never been in a limo wearing a silk dress and fancy underpants, never mind that neither is fancy enough for Miss Black’s tastes. It was chance, really, that I found anything suitable at all—just the luck of being in the right place at the right time.

The right place at the right time—like when I first found out about Miss Black. I’d been at the bank, waiting in line to check that my meagre monthly student loan allowance had been deposited. I’d been studying the girl in front of me in line with an intensity that had only bordered on slightly creepy.

She was about my height, had a similar build... okay, a similar build if I lost twenty pounds. And that’s where all similarities ended.

She was dressed simply, in jeans and a T-shirt. But you know when you look at clothes, and you just
know
that they’re quality? That they came from a high end boutique rather than Target?

Her clothes screamed
money
.  Her shoes were simple pumps, but again—these were no Walmart special. And her hair, makeup, jewelry—it was all simple, but flawless, speaking of money and class.

I’d stood behind her, smelling the delicate floral musk of her perfume, growing more and more insecure by the minute.

I’d never look like that. I didn’t think I was hideous, or anything, but I just didn’t have the kind of cash to put myself together like that. And right now it felt like I probably never would, since I couldn’t get my head above water long enough to see past paying my next bill.

When the girl concluded her business and stepped away, I breathed a sigh of relief, though truthfully the air seemed a little less exciting with
the scent of her perfume gone.

“I’d just like to check the balance on my account, please.” This woman, too, was dressed better than I was... and she wasn’t wearing designer gear, so that wasn’t saying much. I avoided her eyes as she tapped away on her computer, printed a sheet, then handed it to me.

“Thanks.” I glanced idly at the total, started to walk away, then jerked my gaze back to the sheet as what I’d just read sank in.

“Excuse me.” My voice sounded high, shrill, even to my own ears. “I’m sorry, but I think there’s been a mistake. Could you please make sure you printed this out for the right account?”

The woman frowned a bit as I thrust the sheet in front of her face. She tapped away on her keyboard, studied the screen, then flashed me a slightly condescending smile.

“No, that’s correct.” Leaning forward, she beckoned me closer. “And I don’t want to embarrass you, but unless you can bring your balance up above zero, your account will be closed.”

I don’t remember how I got out of the bank, but I do remember collapsing on the stone bench outside. The cold of the rock seeped through the thin weave of my worn jeans as I struggled to catch my breath, my gut twisted into a knot that I didn’t think I could ever undo.

There was no money in my account. At all. And there should have been, even without the scholarship deposit... not much, but some.

Only one other person had access to my account, and that was my mother—I’d just never gotten around to taking her name off the account that I’d had since I was a minor. Which, knowing as I did about how much she loved to play the slots, was so incredibly stupid I couldn’t even believe it.

She’d withdrawn money from it before. Just a twenty here and there. I’d noticed, but had assumed she’d needed to buy groceries. And she hadn’t done it often.

I wasn’t going to make a fuss over such a small amount from the woman who raised me, no matter how she’d managed to do that. But as I thought it through now, I realized that those small withdrawals had become more and more frequent of late.

I bet anything that her love of those slot machines had escalated. The withdrawals were a warning sign that I should have caught.

Shit, shit, shit!

With shaking fingers, I’d pulled up my mom in the contacts on my cell phone, had listened to it ringing. Listened to her answer, her voice barely audible over the clinks and rings and other vibrant sounds that could only be found at a casino.

I remember slowly hanging up the phone without speaking, despair washing over me like sleet.

There was no doubt in my mind—my mom had used my savings, and the scholarship money that I desperately needed
, to fund her gambling habit.

And even if she won with it, she’d shove it right back into the slot machines.

She had no money.
I
had no money.

She needed to go to rehab. I couldn’t even afford a kiddie meal at Wendy’s.

“Excuse me.” The voice was melodious, and was accompanied by the scent of the floral perfume that I’d inhaled while waiting in line inside the bank.

Cold, stiff, frozen I looked up to find the well put together blonde that I’d been so envious
of standing in front of me. And even all of her expensive clothes couldn’t hide the hint of uncertainty that I could see on her face.

“I apologize if I’m reading this wrong, but... here.” She thrust a simple business card in my face. One side was stark black, one white, and the white had a name and phone number in elegant, simple script.

Miss Black

“What’s this?” My voice was harsh, but the woman just smiled, and unless I was reading her entirely wrong, the expression was tinged with sadness.

“Just... if you need to make some good money fast, call her. Tell her Annabelle recommended you.” Her smile tightened. “And hear her out. You’ve got a good look. You’d do really well there.”

I had a good look?
I was attractive enough, but I was no model. Which left me with no clue about what this job could be.

But... I did need good money. Fast.
And so I’d called. And I’d listened to what would be expected of me, working for the mysterious Miss Black.

To say I’d been shocked was an understatement. I’d told Miss Black to take her offer and go to hell, that that same hell would freeze over before I’d sell my body like a whore.

But at the end of the day... it wasn’t easy money, oh hell no. But it was a lot of money. And I could have that money, fast. Just like I needed.

Since I owned exactly two more cups of ramen noodles, and had no idea what my mom was eating,
if she bothered with things like hunger while around the bright lights of the casino, it couldn’t come fast enough.

And so here I am, dressed like exactly what I am—a
call girl. And strangely, I can feel myself start to slip into the role that Miss Black has given me as Caleb stops the limo. We’re in front of a hotel that I’ve heard of but certainly have never had the money to stay at, a towering confection of marble and light. He opens the door for me, and I slide across the leather seat, clinging to the sense of false confidence.

I may have never imagined that I’d wind up here, on my way to a meeting with a man who will more than likely demand sex of me. But if I can sell this, if I can be who Henry Thomas wants me to be, then I’ll make enough money tonight alone to get myself back on my feet. If he wants to see me again, I might even be able to check my mom into a rehab facility.

I might lose my soul in the process, but at the end of the day, I really don’t see another way.

The interior of the hotel is just as impressive as the outside. The walls are a mosaic of glittery gold tiles, the floor a darkly panelled wood. The centre of the lobby boasts a round stage with a pure white grand piano that’s currently in use. Cozy leather loveseats and recliners surround the stage, and a smattering of people relax in them, listening to music, crystal flutes of champagne or snifters of whiskey in their hands.

Trees placed in a geometric design break up the sleek flooring, and as I gaze up into the branches of one, I note the red fruit hiding in the dark leaves.

Apple trees, for a hotel in the Big Apple. Cute.

Weaving among the greenery, I follow gilt signs that point me toward the small, classy lounge that is our rendezvous point. There’s a sheet of glass with water rushing down over it just outside the door, and I inhale deeply, trying to let the sound of the liquid soothe my nerves before squaring my shoulders and pressing on.

I easily spot Henry Thomas. He is seated on a leather loveseat in front of a roaring fireplace that I could easily stand inside. He’s recognizable from his picture, mostly because of his glasses and his expectant expression.

Get it together, Carly.

This man is my ticket out of disaster. And so I strangle the voice chanting
whore whore whore
in my head and try to emulate that blonde girl from the bank, the one who saved my ass.

I smile sweetly—
Miss Black made it clear that he likes good girls—and swing my ass just a bit as I make my way across the room, trying not to trip in the high heels that I’m not used to wearing.

He looks up expectantly when I stop in front of him. The signal of a Miss Black’s girl is the touch of a finger to a plate; since there’s no plate in front of him here in the lounge, I bend and press my finger to the center of an empty marble coaster.

Standing, he extends a hand to me, a smile of appreciation curving his lips as he looks me up and down.

“
Claire Daniels?” He lifts my hand to his lips, presses a soft kiss to it. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit dazzled by it.

“Mr. Thomas. It’s lovely to meet you.”
I remind myself that Claire is my name for the evening. I force what I hope is a natural smile to my lips, doing my own assessment as he helps me to sit beside him on the small sofa. There’s no denying that he’s a good looking man, with light hair, stormy grey eyes and a lean runner’s build. He’s a bit on the nerdy side, but more Sherlock than Big Bang.

He’s older than anyone I’ve ever been with... not that there have been very many. One high school boyfriend, one lapse in judgment right after I’d started college. He’s likely to be far more experienced than I am... good thing his file says he’s into that.

Good looking or not, I can’t stop myself from stiffening a bit when I sit beside him and he immediately rests his fingertips on my knee. It’s not an offensive gesture, and really, not nearly as blatant of a touch as I’d anticipated from a client to a call girl. But I’m not expecting it, and the small press of his fingers against my bare skin makes me jolt. My knee whacks into the small, ornately carved wooden coffee table in front of us. It shakes, and most of the contents of his glass of whiskey and ice slop over the edge... and right onto his nice, tailored pants.

“Oh, shit!” The words blurt right out of my mouth before I can think them through, and I grab a
stiff cocktail napkin and start dabbing at the wet spot on his pristine black trousers. “I’m so sorry.”

I
still as I realize how very badly I’ve screwed this up... spilling on a client, swearing, trying to wipe his pants—not things a classy escort would do. Frozen in place, I stare up at him with wide eyes, my pulse hammering against the thin skin at the base of my throat, certain he’s going to call Miss Black and tell her what a complete and utter fuck up I am.

Instead he laughs—not
at
me, but as though I’m a cute little kitten who’s done something especially amusing. His lips twist into a sexy little grin.

“I’m thinking you haven’t done this before?” His tone is teasing, but his words
cement me in place, even as his slight English accent distracts me.

“I...” Shit. What’s he getting at? Is he going to tell Miss Black?

I may be projecting a sweet girl image, but growing up in Green Acres has given me a keen instinct for survival.

I need this to go right.

What does he want from me
... well, besides the obvious?

Henry Thomas is in his mid-thirties, is good looking, brilliant and successful. And though I initially wondered why he contracted a call girl, as I kneel there, looking up at him, watching his pupils dilate a bit, it hits me.

He’s a man who is used to being in control. With a call girl, he controls the date, the situation. He knows how it ends.

That means he wants to control
me
. Wants to feel like he’s in charge. And the tone that he just asked me that question in makes me think that he wants a sweet young thing who looks up at him with adoring eyes and lets him lead the way.

While seducing the brains out of him, of course.

“You’re right.” Swallowing thickly, I try to slip into my role, to own it. “I... I’m sorry. I’m just so nervous.”