It was all a dream come true. Like she had some crazy twenty-four-karat vajayjay that revirginized after each use.
Well, by now, that last part’s probably the case.
Getting on all fours for her new benefactor wasn’t just a natural assumption, but something Charity would want to do, over and over and over again, if for no other reason than to say thanks.
But strangely, nothing had happened between them. Nothing at all. In fact, she never really saw the man.
Besides, true revirginizing would take a year. I think.
And there had been someone in the last year. A brief, fleeting, incredible, mind-blowing someone who came and went so quickly, half of her wondered if it had really happened at all.
Only the upper half of her body wondered that. Charity’s lower half still reeled from the aftershocks of a very real quake that rocked every part of her needy and lonely world. For as fiery hot as the night was, the morning after had left her wanting. And alone.
Still, loneliness beat the alternative.
Avoiding no more than fleeting glances at the scars on the back of her right hand, she knew all too well the consequences of her actions and her profession. And forever carried the reminder of how she’d come to know Drake Global Industries and the reclusive billionaire Alex Drake.
3
Charity
Eighteen months ago
No problem.
Her blithely uttered words had haunted Charity weeks after she’d first uttered them to Stefano “Monty” Montgnaro. He was a regular client she saw a few times a month, whenever his traditional Italian wife and their three children went to visit her parents upstate.
Monty was rich and powerful, with looks that definitely screamed pays for sex. He had a proposition for her, and sure, it sounded cliché, but she couldn’t refuse.
He hadn’t threatened her to accept his “request” because he didn’t have to. His reputation preceded him in more ways than one. Long ago, she’d found ways to avoid his inclinations for painfully rough sex.
Fix a drink. Wind him down. Avoid questions like how was your day, and sure as hell don’t bring up the wife.
And if all else failed, a crushed-up Klonopin in a ready glass of cheap whiskey would at least make the two-hundred-pound gorilla manageable. But he paid well, and saying no came with consequences.
But fear wasn’t Charity’s motivator when she accepted his offer. Greed did all the talking. Double her rate wasn’t good enough. Triple was more like it. Triple! And cash up front—for a one-nighter. How could she say anything but no problem?
The photo he’d handed her didn’t mean anything, and the name that went with it meant even less.
Monty didn’t quite understand her indifference. “Don’t you know who he is?”
Her head shake and shrug was enough to earn her his hard grip on her jaw. “Learn fast. You’ve got one week.” Shoving her head free, he put a small case in her hand. “The guy has a different girl every night. You’ll need to be really close to his phone—right on top of it is best—then press the button.”
The only distinguishing thing about the clip-on device he gave her was a silver button at the top. Turning it to get a closer look, Charity thought the small gray box looked more like a garage door opener than anything else.
Half joking, she asked, “I’m not blowing something up, am I?”
He chuckled, his tone sarcastic. “Did I wipe my prints off it?”
“Then what is it?”
Monty’s stern glare was enough of a warning. Talk time was over.
Tearing her clothes off meant their business discussions were finished. He’d be moving on to the less pleasant parts of their evening, dragging her with him.
Getting close to a guy was sort of Charity’s thing. Soon enough, though, she learned that CEO Alex Drake was well protected and unapproachable.
With each passing day, her overinflated confidence shriveled to fear. The man was a fortress. Certainly, Monty would understand.
The week Monty had given her to accomplish her task came and went, and he returned despite her attempts to put him off.
“I need more time,” she said, her voice cracking from her anxiety. “Just a little more time.”
Monty’s normally dark eyes grew even blacker with each passing minute of her excuses, and he repeated those two overconfident words back to her. “No problem.”
The basic rule of business is no different from that on the street—under-promise and overdeliver. It should have been simple, but it wasn’t. Instead, her overpromising was a dangerous mistake.
For a low-end hooker barely making ends meet with nothing in the world but her looks to lead the way, Charity was more than frustrated that a guy like Alex Drake was untouchable. And her time was up.
So, what happens to a girl who is all talk and no results?
Nothing. At least, not at first.
But letting Monty take her for a drive to get some air was her second mistake. And her nervousness quickly led her to mistake number three.
Charity welcomed the drink he offered her in the car. A few minutes after a swig from his flask, her body grew warm and she slumped back, feeling sluggish and heavy.
Confused, she watched Monty, then the road ahead. It was dark, which made sense with it being night and all. But it was darker than usual. Are we leaving the city?
With a deep inhale, she closed her eyes for a moment until she realized the car was pulling over in the middle of nowhere. Monty maneuvered the car through a maze of shipping crates, where he parked. His smile set her at ease.
She must have nodded off again but cracked open her eyes at the familiar sound of a lighter striking. Blinking, she refocused.
After lighting a cigar, Monty began babbling on and on about things that didn’t make sense.
Is that Italian? And with every deep puff of that obnoxious stogie, annoying billows of smoke filled the luxury car. Can’t he at least crack open a window?
Coughing, Charity tried pressing the button to lower her window, but his hand swooped to her neck. His rough fingers smoothed over her skin as he whispered more Italian in her ear.
The strong scent made her dizzier by the second, her headache increasing to massive, relentless throbbing. Her head dropped forward but didn’t fall far. Something was wrapped around her neck, keeping her pinned to the headrest. It was tight, but loose enough she could wedge her fingers between it and her skin.
Getting free was a joke. Every move felt feeble and worthless.
Charity’s panic gave her just enough to tug, then claw, until her desperation caused her to dig into her own flesh. Terrified, she cried out loudly, then louder.
“Let me go. Get me out of this.” Her words were insistent and demanding before she softened her tone. If she said the right things, used the right tactic, Monty would be reasonable and sane. Wouldn’t he?
But deep down, she knew. He wasn’t releasing her. And the thought made her yank the binding harder.
The more she fought, the more amused Monty seemed as he watched her. His cold laugh didn’t last long, but a crooked smile stayed on his fat, hideous face the entire time.
He managed to pry one of her hands away from its desperate grasp, laying a long, unexpected kiss on the back of it before he pressed the glowing tip of his cigar to it.