Fuck!

I shake my head, still not believing what— whom—I see standing before me.

It cannot possibly be Peter’s cousin. I have seen plenty of pictures of her throughout the years, and her resemblance to my friend is undeniable. There have been no rumors of her missing, and my friend would have told me. Is it really Lily MacKay? I need to come up with a way to get this girl alone, to find out for sure.

“Sir?”

“A scotch, but only one ice cube.” I take a deep breath and suppress the building anger within. I would bet money, something I rarely do, that Lily is not here because she wants to be. Fuck, there is no way I can leave now! Peter knew I wouldn’t, couldn’t possibly, leave without her. This insane, whirlwind trip Peter coerced me into taking is starting to make perfect sense.

“I have never seen an American here before,” Robert says in perfect French,

surprising me. His serious scowl and switching to another language that presumably many around us don’t understand quickly tells me he also senses something is off.

“Don’t worry,” I reply in the same language. “I’ll make sure she is okay.”

He nods his head, seeming satisfied with my answer and is quickly distracted

by the woman on his lap who is kissing his neck and touching and stroking his chest. One of the other tarts moves to sit on my lap, but I gently push her off, crossing my legs to discourage any further attempts.

Lily soon reappears next to my chair holding a tumbler of my favorite amber

liquid.

“Thank you,” I say politely as Lily hands me the drink. When our fingertips

touch, a warm spark floods through me. I know it’s not the alcohol; I haven’t even taken a sip yet. When I look up, I catch her gazing down at my left hand as if looking for something. It is not the first time I have caught a woman checking to see if I am married.

From my vantage point, I can see a majority of the room. Pretending to be entranced by the performance on the stage, like the rest of the men, I let my gaze follow Lily around the room. She serves several men drinks, and they barely acknowledge her. The ones that do, she deftly sidesteps their wandering hands like a pro. Several of the men who casually attempt to molest her are the same fucking men I have done business with— not anymore.

I make a point of ignoring her. You never know with some of these competitive assholes, they might notice my interest and then automatically decide Lily must be worth having. Or worse, they could recognized her. Several of them have had dealings with her late father’s company. Hopefully, she hasn’t recognized any of them either.

It is safer for everyone if she is just another tart to them. Part of the exorbitant entrance fee went toward anonymity with the management. When Robert arranged our night out, he assured me that no one but those in attendance

—who I already knew—would know who I was.

Lily leaves the room for several minutes, and when she returns with a platter of crab cakes, I smile as I watch her quickly devour one. Having taken several myself, I know how delicious they are.

After spending entirely too long fending off the other women who are throwing themselves at me, their nauseating perfume making me dizzy as they invade my space and attempt to grope me repeatedly, I decide it is time to figure out a way to get Lily alone.

Rising, I walk over toward the man standing in the corner who is watching

everything. After a quick conversation and an exchange of even more money, my entrance fee didn’t include private entertainment, I walk back to finish my drink assured that Lily would be waiting for me in a room upstairs when I’m ready.

Picking up my glass, I take the final sip. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch

as the overseer roughly grabs Lily’s arm and pulls her aside. No doubt he’s telling her that she has a customer for the evening. He walks away from her, and Lily looks around the room seeming nervous before quickly leaving.

It is growing late and several of the men, Robert included, have started drifting away upstairs with the women. They say goodnight with overly aggressive handshakes and promises for future meetings. I sit and bide my time, not wanting to seem eager or complicit in their activities. Silently observing.

3

LILY

“Stand,” a steely American voice growls from the shadow of the

doorway; the sound is quickly followed by the finality of the door

banging closed.

I scamper off my knees to stand on the bearskin-inspired rug at the foot of the large metal bed frame. A mountain of a man steps forward into the dimly lit room. My heart pounds in a tattoo of fear as he comes forward, towering over me.

Instantly I recognize the sinfully good-looking man, with his shaggy jet-black hair, golden eyes, full lips, and scruffy eyebrows. The custom-made dark gray suit he’s wearing hugs his body perfectly and a blood-red tie offsets it with a similarly colored swatch of fabric in his breast pocket.

Downstairs with the other million and billionaires, he seemed so bored and disinterested. While the rest of the men were groping the other women, pulling them into their laps and demanding services; he sat there with a cold, indifferent stare. I watched as he brushed aside the advances of some of the more aggressive women. Pushing them off his lap, grabbing the wrists of wandering hands, and

ignoring their presence. The man fascinated me.

I have been held captive in this house for nineteen days and counting. During all that time, I have never seen a man come in and not partake of what was offered— what they had paid for. I have learned that the women get a bonus if one of the men requests a room with them.

The group this man was with had been relaxing in the large communal lounge downstairs. Whenever I enter that room its muted lighting, dark colors, and lingering stale odor make my stomach clench. Here they smoke cigars and

drink expensive top-shelf booze.

As usual, the men started out their evening by discussing business in small groups over hors-d'oeuvres and cocktails. Several days ago, one overindulgent sweaty man had complained angrily to the overseer about my serving them during their meeting. Because I understand English, unlike the other girls, he thought I could be a corporate spy. If only! Since then, I have, happily, been relegated to working behind the bar and in the kitchens during the first portion of the evening.

Once any backdoor corporate deals are made, the real entertainment begins,

and I am back serving drinks, food, and working hard to avoid being groped. I have tried my hardest to blend into the background. Even though I stand out dramatically from the other women, it’s surprisingly not too difficult. Despite my green eyes, wavy light-brown hair, and translucent Irish skin, along with my curves and five-foot-five-inch stature which sets me apart from the native population, most of the men ignore me. And I couldn’t be happier.

It was while I served this man that I took the opportunity to observe him, and against my better judgment, I found him attractive. For some unknown, insane, reason I felt an invisible pull toward him. I hate myself for it. I don’t want to feel drawn to a man who would spend the GDP of a tiny nation so he could visit a

Hong Kong brothel.

Plus, this man needing the house’s services makes no sense— like at all.

Unlike some of his companions, who clearly weren’t going to get a woman unless they paid for one, he could easily go to any bar or club and attract a willing woman.

During the several hours we were all downstairs, I found myself watching him closely and making a mental list of everything I learned. One discovery I made was that he likes his scotch with only one ice cube, not the three or four that usually fill a glass. He also seemed to enjoy the mini crab cakes, if the amount of them he ate was any indication. Having stolen several of them myself,

I would have to agree they were delicious. The house has an amazing restaurant-style kitchen and a chef that caters to any of the client’s tastes, no matter the time day or night.

The man also seemed to only be on friendly terms with the short, pudgy man

who had accompanied him. The rest of the gentlemen, like the girls, he mostly ignored, though several of the gentlemen clearly wanted to impress him. The man’s face had been a cold mask of indifference the entire evening.

I had briefly wondered if he was married, not that it stopped any of his companions from enjoying themselves. When I handed him his drink, I noticed a lack of a wedding band. This could mean nothing, since not all men wear bands, but if my husband looked like this man, he would be wearing a huge one—

telling the world he is taken. Maybe he’s gay?