Bait: A dark erotic thriller (Hunter & Prey Book 2) (2 page)

Static sparked in my ear, followed by the cold, grating voice of my favorite agent. “Why aren’t you in position yet?”

True enough, the nine minutes should have been plenty of time to walk through the short connective hallway where my handlers were supposed to be waiting for me, pretending to be waiters and likely tipping everyone off who had ever donned a white jacket for work. Even if they started looking for me now, they wouldn’t find me before I’d accomplished what I’d come here for. Or so I thought. Provided they weren’t tracking me.

Standing up, I fished the earpiece out and dropped it into the toilet, quickly followed by the wire Agent Smith had plastered to my left tit and ribs, and, on second thought, I also tossed the other crappy pre-paid phone I’d been carrying in my purse. Flushing them all felt childish, but also oddly vindicating.

Stepping out of the stall, I calmly walked over to the sinks, washed my hands, and applied another layer of lipstick, careful not to smudge the perfectly drawn edges. The woman staring back at me in the mirror was unrecognizable, but she certainly meant business.

I was just about to put away my lipstick when another of the stall doors opened and spilled out a woman—a shock in the ladies’ restroom, I know. I was already mentally dismissing her, but as she turned on the sink next to me, my gaze was inadvertently drawn to her left hand—and the white-gold band on her ring finger.
 

I knew that ring. Intimately. I wore one—exactly the same, I was sure—on my right hand, on the one finger that was crooked now and looked almost untouched by plastic surgery. Like the veterinarian who had initially splintered my hand, the doctors had insisted on removing the ring and straightening the crookedly healed joints. Just the same, I had vetoed them, and it had taken me threatening to walk out on Agent Smith to let me have my way. She, at least, had seen my point—he’d made damn sure that I would never be able to slip the ring off. Having my finger straightened would send a message—a message I hadn’t been ready to send. Not yet.

I told myself that if not for my addled thoughts and racing heart, I should have recognized the woman—girl, really—at first sight, but I had been too caught up in congratulating myself on my first step to regaining my freedom, so I had ignored her. Even now, with my mind screaming at me to stop staring and get my shit together, it was hard to force my thoughts along the lines they belonged. I likely ended up staring way too long, but then she looked rather busy working up a good lather. She would—as a nursing student, it made sense that hygiene wasn’t just a token thing for her. And her profession was only one of way too many things I knew about her—and so many more that I suspected, haunting my every waking second when I tossed and turned at night.

How he was touching her. Smiling at her. Kissing her. Blowing her away with the exact same moves that thirteen other women—among others—had taught him, turning him into the perfect lover. That she had fallen for him was obvious. I’d seen the pictures, and Agent Smith had been diligent with heaping the entire lot of them on me, forcing me to read and memorize every fucking detail. Daliah, her name was. And he was calling her “his little flower” in interviews, different spelling notwithstanding. The cuteness of it was giving me cavities, but the anger rising from the pit of my stomach swept away any disdain of another kind.

She caught me staring—I was sure that I hadn’t been that obvious, but maybe my inactivity had given me away—a hesitant smile coming to her face, making her green eyes sparkle.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” she asked, her nose scrunching up in that cute way no woman past her twenties could pull off anymore. Oh, how easy she made it for me to detest her.

“I don’t think so,” I replied, turning away to add another layer of lipstick.

“I’m sure I’ve seen your face somewhere,” she insisted as she cocked her head to the side. “Are you an actress? On a commercial maybe?”

For a second, I glared at my own reflection, wondering what about my “frumpy chic” style could have led her to that assumption—and then wondered if she’d just turned it into a slap in the face. Commercial, really? I was the first to admit that I was a very long shot from Hollywood standards still—even having lost some of my curves, all the wrong ones, of course—but that sounded kind of insulting.

It was all the easier to make my smile that very special blend of condescending and open that I’d perfected years ago.
 

“Oh, no, I work in human relations.”

My tone had been a little too sharp, making her eyes widen just a fraction, but her cute smile took the hint of annoyance out of her gaze. For just a moment I wondered if there was more to her, but discarded the thought immediately. Sure, she was a bright little cookie—I couldn’t fathom how he’d stand someone truly insipid for just a day, let alone fuck her—but that was all there was to her.
 

“I hope I haven’t offended you somehow,” she went on, as if my dismissive looking away hadn’t been plain enough. “I’m just still so out of it. Do you ever feel like you’re losing your mind from how happy you are?”

Her words cut into me like a knife, but that only made it easier to continue smiling back at her. If she only knew…

“Let me guess. He proposed? In Paris?”

Her eyes widened further. “How did you—“ And then reality caught up with her, bringing her back down from her high, if onto the same soft cushions she still seemed to float on. “I forgot, you must have read it in the news. This is still all so new to me. That people recognize me, you know?”

I didn’t, but then I had made a point out of never being anywhere in the limelight.

“I wouldn’t know,” I admitted, and added—because I truly was a glutton for punishment—“Congratulations.”

That was about as far as the raging bitch inside of me would let me go. Then I had to turn away and make my exit. There was only so much lying and acting I could do before I would grab her head and smash her pretty face into the marble counter.

“Thank you!” she called after me, because really, Daliah Jones must have been the first, and only, nice woman that the bastard had managed to make fall for him. Exhaling slowly, I ignored her as I reached for the doorknob. The door swung inward before my fingers could close on it, making me sidestep. I found myself face to face with one of the last people I’d expected to meet tonight—but then the moment my eyes met with Nya’s, I chided myself for being so shortsighted.

It only took her a split second to take me in and I knew that her I wouldn’t be able to fool. One of Brigitte’s top earners—really, the only competition I’d had for years—she was flawless, as usual, from her black hair to the healthy glow of her dark skin, her sheath dress included, of course. Why seeing her here threw me off-balance for a moment, I couldn’t say, but it made things easier in many ways. I was sure that, five minutes from now, my former madam would be well-informed of my return. As much as surprising Brigitte had been something I’d been looking forward to, in the end, this would likely further my cause.

I gave Nya the barest of nods—that she returned, just as subtle—and walked around her through the door, not lingering anymore. She was clearly here to work, and it would have been highly unprofessional of me to chat with her—maybe even reveal who and what she was—and while I might be a little rusty, I wasn’t that far off my game. But meeting her here forced me to face again how far off my game I was. Suddenly, those endless seven weeks seemed rushed, barely enough to prepare myself mentally, let alone physically. But therein lay the crux of my dilemma—until I kicked loose the pebble that might very well become the avalanche that would bury me, I couldn’t access all the means needed to pull off my plan.

And even I could admit that my moment of hesitation was borne of fear and apprehension, not necessarily a real need to prepare better.

Staying close to the walls, I exited the hallway and ducked around the corner and into the great ballroom where the event was held. I couldn’t even remember what it was about—some fundraiser or other, I was sure. Something I knew he’d attend—and Little Miss Daliah’s presence confirmed that. I grabbed a champagne flute from a waiter’s tray and downed it, forcing my mind to quit fretting.

The task ahead of me was easy, really, if not quite what Agent Smith had had in mind. It would only take me a few minutes, five at tops. I likely wouldn’t even have to talk much. So why was my hand shaking around the stem of the flute, my throat dry despite the liquid having just run past it?

Exhaling slowly, I forced my mind to quiet down further. Scanning the people mingling all over the room, I realized that my time for stalling was over. It was only a matter of time until my security detail would find me—after all, what I had chosen to stand out would make me stick out like a sore thumb, too—and I needed to wrap this up before they got a chance to track me down.

A dream in peach skipped by in my peripheral vision, alerting me to the fact that I didn’t even have to track down my objective—I could just follow Daliah’s path through the mostly dark-clad masses. And, true enough, when she was only about halfway through the room, it was easy to extrapolate her path and find the cluster of people she was aiming for.

My breath caught in my throat and I felt myself go cold, quickly averting my gaze.
 

So this was it. The moment of truth. Agreeing to help Agent Smith accomplish her goal was one thing; actually being able to do so was quite another.

And as I started weaving my way through the mass of people—spine straight, shoulders pushed back, hips swaying lightly—I felt my confidence return. Suddenly, making eye contact with that man who was eyeing me wasn’t hard anymore. On the contrary, it gave me a little boost. The irritation in that woman’s eyes was a compliment, not a reason to fidget self-consciously. With every step I took, I felt a little more of my former self return, shaking off months of hiding and pretending.

Ray Moss was the first who noticed me, but then he would. He hadn’t changed at all—but then why should he have? Still the same slightly sleazy smile and superficial demeanor that hid what I gathered was a bright mind that got off on others falling for his pretense. He only looked startled for a second before he beamed that signature grin of his at me that, even months later, still made me want to wash myself repeatedly. But of the people gathered in that cluster, he was the only one I could—maybe—count as my unlikely ally, so it wasn’t hard to give him the smallest, intimate smirk back.

When you’ve been a whore for long enough, you learn that you don’t just sell your body, but also your soul. And he definitely was buying.

His wife Alison was next. Unlike her husband, she hadn’t been busy ogling random women’s tits and asses, but his sudden focused attention drew her interest. Her eyes went wide as she recognized me, followed by a muscle jumping in her temple. Was that irritation I saw in her gaze? But it was gone before I could categorize it, replaced by a typical lawyer look of neutrality.
 

Daliah I ignored, although I noticed that her eyes briefly flitted to me as well, but then to her I was just the woman she’d just met in the bathroom.
 

No, it was the tall, handsome man who was currently talking animatedly above her head who drew my focus. He must have missed Alison’s brief non-reaction because he hadn’t turned to fully face me yet, letting me get a good, long look at him in profile.

Unlike his companions, he had changed, but almost bleeding out after being stabbed in the side of the neck would do that to anyone. He looked gaunter, harder somehow, the line of his jaw more pronounced than before.
 

But after drinking in his features, I felt my mind focus on how he acted around Daliah. That she was only a tool was obvious—she was bait to lure me back to him, or at least out into the open where he could finish what he had started. I knew that he was a good actor—phenomenal even, considering how long he had managed to fool me—but I knew that he had his limits when he wasn’t a hundred percent behind something. I’d exploited that very fact, else I wouldn’t have been here, able to walk toward him, with my heart hammering in my throat. Yet, there was no tension in the lines of his body, and, while somewhat subdued, his smile was a real one, also reaching his eyes. Could it be—actually be—that he had fallen in love with this… this… child?

I was sure that my mind would have come up with a slew of much less favorable designations for the poor girl if given a chance, but just then his head turned and our gazes connected, wiping my mental slate clean. I barely noticed that my body kept walking, my gait still secure, no stumble or hesitation, but I couldn’t exactly claim responsibility for that—although I was insanely glad that I didn’t fall flat on my face.

It wasn’t just me who was affected like that, no. Clearly, my efforts—hampered by my limited budget as they had been—were paying off. Subtlety had never been my thing, and the bright red fuck-me heels and matching lipstick screamed for attention. Besides that, I’d kept my appearance simple; just black, winged eyeliner, and a white dress that left my shoulders and arms bare and hit my thighs midway. It was sleek and screaming sex, but it was still a white dress—and he’d never seen me in white before. It definitely served its purpose.

From one second to the next, the civil mask he wore around—day in, day out—dropped away, letting me see what lurked underneath. I’d become very familiar with that during the last days of our acquaintance, and seeing that same hard, intense look in his eyes gave me the creeps—

And, at the same time, I felt like part of me that had lain dormant, submerged, inactive for all those months since then, finally broke the surface again and drew her first deep, real breath.
 

Standing before him, seeing him watch me like that, made me feel alive again.

Our connection lasted for only a moment, because I forced myself to break contact as I rocked to a halt in front of the cluster of people. Never minding the sudden positive energy coursing through my veins, the survival-instinct-driven part of me still wanted to run. It took the self-control learned from years of pretending to be someone else to keep me rooted in my spot, smiling at the power couple as if I meant it—because when my eyes flitted to him again, I didn’t need to force myself.