Page 15 of The Client
Would she break easily, or would she fight me to keep control of herself?
Huffing a breath through my nose, I look back at her. She’s the one watching me now, quietly assessing, measuring me up. Wouldn’t she love to know what I’m like deep inside? The part of me no one sees unless I unleash it?
“Did my father use you and drop you off here like trash?” I ask dispassionately.
Her eyes widen but she quickly schools them.
“Answer me. He fucked you in the back of his car on the way over here, didn’t he? Picked you up on a street corner, probably.”
I’m not trying to be cruel; I’m trying to get a rise out of her. Insult her enough that she’ll let some information slip. If she’s an accomplice to his games, I’m not playing. I just want to tip the board over.
Gripping her chin, I turn her face from side to side. “Nah. You’re too classy for a street corner. You’re a high-class whore then, aren’t you? Let me guess; you’re an aspiring model.”
She blinks but doesn’t respond, betraying no emotion. It surprises me, this stoicism. She’s tougher than I would have guessed. And I’m too tired to sit here grilling her all night.
“I don’t fuck gold-diggers. So whatever scheme you’re involved in, it won’t work.”
Her scent fills my nose and does something to the rage trying to unfurl like a fucking hurricane. Coconuts. It’s the light, fluffy scent of tropical coconut. Her lips are stained as if her lipstick has been kissed off. My father? Or another man?
Releasing her, I notice red imprints from my fingertips on her skin. I could mark her entire body, inch by inch, but I’d only be enjoying my father’s leftovers. Hard pass.
Beautiful or not, I’m sending her back.
“I’m calling you a ride,” I say, pulling out my phone. “You can tell my driver where to drop you off. Go downstairs and wait on the steps. We’re done here.”
I start composing a text, telling my driver to pull the car around front, when a light flutter lands on my wrist. Looking up, I see the girl’s face inches from mine, her eyes pleading.
“Please don’t send me back,” she says, her voice just barely tinged with an Eastern European accent. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
6
IZABELA
It’sthe man from the news. The hot one from the billion-dollar merger I watched yesterday.
He’s an asshole.
Yet here I am, begging him to let me stay. It’s surreal to realize this is the same man I saw on the television and had a small fantasy about. My perfect American dream man. Handsome, wealthy, ambitious. But he’s cold as ice, indifferent, and dismissive of me like I’m garbage and not a living, breathing person.
A socialite whore. Isn’t that what he called me? The insult stung, even if it’s not far from the truth. That’s what I’m here to become after all; it’s what Konstantine Zoric is trying to make me. And I’m failing. Miserably.
If I don’t make good on the expectation, though, there’s no telling what he might do to my family. This man could say I didn’t follow through, that I refused, or denied him. He could say any lie he wanted about me, and I’ll be screwed.
I need to see this through. Make sure my client gets his money’s worth. Or…I guess it’s his dad’s money’s worth.
I wonder if this is an American thing, rich men buying sex for their sons.
Desperation makes me curl my fingers more insistently around his wrist. Lifting my chin, I say, “I’m not a gold-digger. This is a business transaction. I was paid for a service. I will provide that service.”
He must be stunned by my forwardness, because he nearly drops his phone.
Then a flash of anger blazes in his eyes.
Pulling away from me, he gives me a scathing look, as if I’m a misbehaving servant. I think of the maid from earlier. No wonder she’s timid.
“Donottouch me,” he says coldly.
I’m so startled by the bitterness in his voice that I stumble back a step. He comes toward me and I step back again, and again, my breath hitching, pulse racing, until I hit the wall.
