Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
As she moved around the room dusting chairs, tables and picture frames, Damon shadowed her. How she despised him. She stumbled several times, trying to stay upright on the stiletto heels of the too-big shoes. She felt weak and dizzy, faint with hunger.
Just get through this stupid little game and maybe he’ll give you something to eat, she encouraged herself. If only she could figure out what the hell he wanted from her.
Chuckling and making stupid remarks about the shy little French maid, he slapped her ass, cupped her sex and tweaked her nipples. While it was annoying as hell, at least he wasn’t hurting her. She tried to ignore him as she focused on not tripping or passing out as they moved around the room.
As she was dusting one of the night tables, her attention was drawn to what she was pretty sure was a handgun lockbox on the lower shelf beneath the drawer. There was no key in the lock. Her mind flashed to the keys on the chain around his neck. She tried to remember what they’d looked like. There had been three keys, each a different shape and size. The smallest had opened the padlock to the cage. The largest had looked like a standard deadbolt house key. Did the third key open the gun box?
If that was even what was inside. At the very least, she had to find out. Somehow, she had to get hold of the key.
In order to have the slightest chance of doing that, she had to convince Damon she had given up. He had to believe she had been brainwashed into his willing, obedient slave girl. And she had to get him to take off that chain so she could get her hands on it.
While it all seemed impossible at that moment, she was quietly, fiercely determined to find a way. The risk, of course, was huge. If he caught her trying to get the gun, he might well use it on her. But that was a risk she had to take.
She’d read enough kidnap novels to know if the captor showed his face, he planned to either kill or dispose of his victim in one way or another. Had he done this before? Were there other missing women, their families frantic with worry or destroyed by grief?
How often had he done this? And what became of the women after he tired of them? Despite everything that had happened so far, he didn’t strike her as the murdering type. So what did that leave?
Horrifying visions of forcibly drug-addicted sex workers leaped into her mind. Was that what awaited her, once he tired of her? It was a fate truly worse than death.
Come hell or high water, she would find a way out of this nightmare, or die trying.
Chapter 11
Callie looked so fucking hot in her French maid getup. Damon liked the look of the big satin bow looped around her slender waist above her cute little ass, and her welted tits looked sexy in their lacy harness. He’d gotten the idea for the whole maid thing when he’d been back at his parents’ place the past Christmas. They had hired a new live-in maid—a young Latino woman with big dark eyes and heavy breasts.
Her name was Mariela and he’d seen her giving him the once-over while serving his breakfast that first morning he’d been home. Even the hideous gray uniform his mother made all the female help wear couldn’t hide the voluptuous body beneath. He’d tried to catch her eye, silently signaling that he, too, was interested, but she’d looked quickly away.
It was several hours before he’d been able to get her alone. He’d found her in his dad’s study, bent over the huge mahogany desk, a polishing rag in her hand. He’d come up stealthily behind her and pressed his rising erection against her ample ass.
She’d gasped and whirled around, her face flushing a brick red. A flash of anger had flickered through those big, dark eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. It was replaced by a cow-like passivity that made it clear she was used to this sort of thing, no doubt by his father, a notorious womanizer.
Maids, babysitters, his wife’s best friend—no one was off limits to Bradley Franklin Carlisle III. Damon had often wondered, once he was old enough to understand, why his mother put up with it. Her fifty-thousand dollar per month allowance might explain it.
“Hey there, señorita,” Damon had said smoothly to the timid maid, pretending nothing had happened. “I just wanted to compliment you on the excellent job you’re doing for the family.” In point of fact, he had no idea what kind of job she was doing, nor did he particularly care.
“Thank you, Señor,” she’d replied in a soft, deferential voice that made his dick even harder. But then, to his annoyance, she turned and fled past him, leaving him and his throbbing hard-on all alone. What a pity it was no longer considered PC to fuck the help, and then send them packing if they made a fuss about it.