This is the first time that any man has requested me, and I never imagined it would be this man stepping through the door. I’m surprised. The entire time we were downstairs the only words he said to me was a polite “thank you” as I served him. He barely even looked at me. Why did he request a room with me?

If I’m honest with myself, I’m a little— a lot—relieved. He’s at least not old, fat, or a disgusting combination of the two. And I admit, begrudgingly, that he is sinfully attractive. The thought of this man touching, kissing, and penetrating me doesn’t make my skin crawl or my stomach bubble with acid. It scares me, but

maybe if I close my eyes, I can pretend we met during a night of clubbing and this is all my own choice. Or maybe not.

The overseer told me to wait in this room kneeling properly liked I’d been taught, and I was to do whatever the man told me to, or else I’d get another

— worse—beating. My sense of self-preservation is high, which is why I’ve done exactly what I was told—for now.

I figure the more I play along, the longer I survive and the greater chance I have of figuring out a way to escape. Fighting this man would only make things worse. It’s much harder to escape when you’re bruised and broken. I learned that the hard way.

From the way he’s looking at me there is no question what he wants. His eyes are sparkling with pleasure as they take in my scantily clad body. Definitely

not gay. The heat of his stare has my traitorous body reacting.

The man steps closer, invading my space, and his warm spicy cologne fills my senses, something I had not noticed downstairs. He reaches out and fists my hair tightly, forcing me to look up into his golden eyes.

“Your name?” His voice is deep and commanding.

“Lily,” I manage to answer, my voice quivering in fright.

“Lily what?” The man shakes my head slightly as if trying to knock the answer out it.

“MacKay, Lily MacKay,” I gasp out.

His grip on my hair loosens, and he takes a half a step backward. The man’s

gaze is transfixed on me, and what was once an emotionless expression morphs

into a tight scowl.

I have never noticed a man’s eyebrows before. His are dark, full, and expressive, telegraphing his every thought and emotion. Right now he is both angry and confused.

“Who are you?” I ask, mustering courage I don’t really possess.

“You can call me, Sir,” he states coolly. A ghost of a smile flits across his face and then it’s gone, replaced by his eyebrow-scrunching scowl—a scowl I’m trying my hardest not to find attractive.

4

LILY

“How’d you come to be here?” he asks with slow precision. The

frown lines on the man’s forehead deepen, and his fingers flex

in my hair, tightening his hold. I gasp as the pull of my hair

becomes painful.

Unsure how to handle the situation or the man, I decide to answer truthfully,

“I-I was kidnapped three weeks ago in Paris.”

Then with a wave of panic, I sputter out, “My family would pay a lot of money to know where I am.”

“Do I look like I’m in need of funds?” His voice is almost casual, conversational, lit with humor and the fingers in my hair relax, loosening the tug on my scalp. “What were you doing there?”

“I was studying abroad in London. I only went because, I-I wanted to see the

glass floor of the Eiffel Tower,” I ramble, my heart rate increasing and my breath catching as the horrible memories come flooding back to me.

Being dragged into the alley behind the nightclub.

Thrashing. Kicking. Pain. And then blackness.

Waking alone. Trapped.

Janice, one of my new friends I met in London convinced me that spending

part of our Easter holiday in Paris was just what we needed. The plan was that our days would be filled with sightseeing and gorging on pastries and cheese, while our nights would be a combination of dancing and booze; the perfect way

to break through the stress of the semester.

“Did you get to see it?” the man wonders aloud, letting go of my hair and placing his hand lightly on the nape my neck. For some crazy reason, the deep slow tenor of his voice calms me.

“No,” I answer softly.

The man takes several steps backward, and I quickly cross my arms in front

of my chest, creating more distance between us. Hugging, protecting myself—in vain.

I watch as he removes his suit jacket, tossing it onto the end of the bed as he speaks, “Someday you should. It’s spectacular.”

My eyes are transfixed on the man as he reaches up and begins to tug on the

tie around his neck, loosening it.

“How many lovers have you had?” With a final rough tug, the tie comes free.

The question startles me, and I take a shaky step backward as the man steps

toward me, shoving the tie into his pants pocket.

“What?” I ask softly, casting my eyes to the ground.

How do I answer that question?

Or more importantly, what answer does he want?