Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Joss trailed a dispassionate gaze over the woman, assessing her like goods rather than a person. “How about her?”
“The only thing she’ll do for money is read your palm.”
“You misunderstood. I meant something more permanent than renting.”
“She’s not for sale.”
“Everything has a price,” Joss said, not taking his eyes off the woman.
Doumar turned to the female and patted his knee. “Come here, baby.” When she’d obliged, he reached across and opened the flap of her jacket. Underneath, she wore a leather corset. A black arum lily was tattooed on the upper curve of her breast. He brushed his thumb over the flower. “She’s property.”
Joss returned his attention to the man and got to his feet. “Then we’ll stick to the art of divining the future.”
“Why her?” the Dutchman asked, not thrown off his game. “I’ve got plenty of prettier girls for a permanent deal, if you know what I mean. You’re not the first man who wants to go home with a new possession.”
“It’s not for me.” Joss cocked his head at Bono. “It’s for my friend. She’s exactly his type.”
The woman regarded Bono with scorn that would have any honest man cower, but he held the sizzling look meant to reduce him to a worm at her feet.
Doumar twisted her hair around his fist, coiling it tightly. “Sorry to disappoint you, but she’s not on the menu.”
“In that case,” Joss said, “we’ll stick to what we paid for.”
Doumar pulled her to her feet by her hair. “A word of warning—she’s never wrong.”
Joss gave him a humorless smile. “That’s the reputation that brought us here.”
Doumar released her hair and swatted her ass. “Do your thing, baby.” He cast a warning look at Bono. “Try anything you’re not paying for, and I’ll cut off your hand.”
Before Bono could conjure a reply, the woman was already on her way to the door, swaying a tight ass hugged by leather pants. Her gait wasn’t as provocative as it was cat-like, much like a small feline on the prowl. She led them to a room next door that was draped with red and gold curtains and sat down behind a round table with a velvet tablecloth and a crystal ball. A ribbon of smoke rose from a stick of incense, its musky scent not succeeding in masking the smell of disinfectant that clung to the polished floor and patterned wallpaper.
“You’re kidding, right?” Joss said, taking in the surroundings.
“Most clients prefer the theatrics. Look at it as my personal stage.” She stretched out her arms and turned her palms up. “Give me your hands.”
They took the stuffed chairs facing her and held out their hands. She gripped Joss’s palm in her left and Bono’s in her right. Her skin was cool and soft.
“What’s your name?” Bono asked.
She gave him a hard look. “Do you ask the name of every whore you fuck in a place like this?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say he’d never fucked a whore, but that might blow their cover. “I’m asking for yours.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He wanted to hear what it sounded like on her lips. “It matters to me.”
She glanced at the corner of the ceiling where a camera was no doubt concealed. “You can call me Miss Val.”
Sky Val.
The pretty girl with the beautiful name who failed miserably at hiding a shitload of sadness under a smokescreen of bravado was Joss’s target.
Sky.
Like the color of her eyes.
The name suited her perfectly.
The brush of her thumb over his palm drew Bono back to the moment.
The touch was gentle and her eyes probing as she searched his. “You sure about this?”
He wasn’t sure about anything, not while her soft hand cushioned his and her eyes consumed him with a cold, blue fire he didn’t understand. He was only a pilot, not a team member, but Joss needed him to stay close in case they needed a hasty liftoff.
“Are you?” she prompted.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Don’t hold back.”
Her lips curved slightly, forming a half-smile. Pale lip-gloss accentuated their fullness and set them off against the heavy black eyeliner and mascara. “As you wish.”
Her gaze flickered to Joss, and then she gave their hands her full attention, tracing the lines that cut across their palms.
Bono watched her closely. He prayed she was a fake. If not, her fate was sealed.
Her voice was clear and musical, her Dutch accent barely audible. “You’re a pilot.”
That didn’t mean anything. In public records, he was registered as a commercial pilot and Joss as a French businessman with a title and castle. Doumar could’ve researched them and given her the information. If Doumar was the kind of sex dealer he was said to be, he would’ve pulled up every piece of information on them before giving them access to his club.
She turned to Joss. “You’re the fighter. The leader.”