“You’re young,” I say carefully. “Forgive me for asking, but, how young, exactly?”
“Twenty,” she says quietly. “I’ll be twenty one in a couple months.”
There’s another long pause and she’s clearly uncomfortable, eyes darting self-consciously around the room as she shifts in her seat. She notices me watching her and sighs. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t really--I’m just new to this. Is the waiter going to want my I.D.?”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Princess,” I say, smirking.
Her eyes flick up to mine and her cheeks flush the most perfect shade of scarlet at the pet name.
“It’s simple, really,” I say, thanking the waiter as he uncorks the wine, lets me smell the cork to make sure it’s fresh, and pours us two glasses, leaving the bottle. “You sign over absolute control to me. Your desires, thoughts, and body become mine for the duration of the contract.” I watch her closely as I say the words. I can see her pulse pounding in the shallow of her neck, and it quickens at my words. I sip the wine to hide the smile threatening to play across my lips. “You would be mine. And I would be yours.”
Why do I feel like I’m luring this sweet, innocent young girl into a trap? And damn, I wish that thought didn’t turn me on so much.
“So…” she starts slowly. “Hypothetically, what would happen if I signed this contract and then decided to back out?”
“Then you walk away. No strings. But you don’t get the money.”
“Right…” she says. I can practically see the thoughts churning in that pretty head of hers. There’s something in her eyes I can’t quite place. A distance, maybe, like she’s not all here.
“What’s your real name, Princess?” I ask.
“My name? My name is Claire. She pauses, eyes moving to the far end of the restaurant. “Claire Tarragon,” she says in a tone that almost sounds like it’s a question.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
She laughs, making a face like I’m being ridiculous before sipping her wine. She takes too big of a sip and coughs, spilling some on the table cloth.
I stand quickly to help her clean it. I dab at the spill, eyes wandering to her lap where a small speck of wine is staining her dress.
“Oh,” she says, following my eyes. “I can get it--”
“It’s no trouble,” I say, casually resting one hand on the smooth, exposed skin of her knee while I press a clean spot on the napkin to the stain. “I heard ice helps get stains out,” I say, grabbing a cube from her glass and lifting the napkin to hold the ice to the spot.
When I look up again at her, I notice she’s stiff as a board, eyes slightly wide and lips parted. I chuckle, leaning a little closer and lowering my voice. “It’s also good for sharpening the senses. The warmth of a tongue, for example, can be shocking if it follows the path of an ice cube.”
She takes in a quick breath, chest rising and falling quickly, pulse pounding in the major vein of her neck. She’s completely enthralled. Trapped. Completely mine already. It’s almost too easy.
“Sorry to waste your time,” she says quickly, pushing away from me and standing. “I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have come here. This was a mistake.”
I watch her leave hastily, heels thumping into the carpet as she rushes out the door.
I smirk, still standing as I drain the last of my glass of wine, savoring the bitterness. Maybe I’ve lost my touch while I’ve been off the market this past year, I think ruefully. Maybe I came on too strong and too fast. It has been a long time since I’ve had a virgin, and it’s easy to forget how even the most innocent of touches can be frightening when it’s all new. Either way, I can’t think back to a woman who walked away from me. No one walks away from me. But she did. Claire Tarragon, I think, smirking as I look to where her eyes went when I asked her name. There’s a decorative spice rack behind our table full of oversized containers of spice. Oregano, basil, thyme, and tarragon.
I chuckle out loud, drawing a few curious looks. All I have is an online profile, a face, and a body to identify her. In a city this size, the chances I’ll ever see her again are almost nonexistent. Then again, what’s the point of having all this money if I can’t pull some strings from time to time.
The smell of saltwater is heavy in my nose. I look out over the railing of my yacht, squinting against the setting sun while a heavy beat thumps through the open air, pounding in my chest and ears. The party is technically a business event. You wouldn’t guess it from the half-naked women and drunken CEOs stumbling around the deck. I grimace.
Maybe ten years ago I would’ve enjoyed myself. When I was younger, dumber, and still thought there was nothing to life but money and women. I was running so hard and fast from my past that I couldn’t afford to slow down or look back. If I did, I knew I could end up like Sarah, and I can’t afford to retreat from reality. Who would look after Sarah if I did? That thought is enough of a reason to keep it together.
“I knew I’d find you brooding,” says a familiar voice.
Hunter takes a spot beside me on the railing, looking out over the water with me.
“Creature of habit, I guess,” I say.
“You are that,” agrees Hunter. “You look moodier than usual. What’s up?”
I briefly try to decide if I want to tell Hunter about the man with the gun in the lobby and the paranoia I’ve felt sense. In the end, he always manages to guess what I’m thinking anyway, so I take a few minutes filling him in.
His face darkens as I talk and he shakes his head, looking out over the water. “Shit, man,” he says when I’ve finished. “I started hearing rumors a few days ago. I didn’t think there was anything to it, but after what you told me… Shit.”
“Mind spitting it out?” I ask irritably. If he knows something about what’s going on, he had better tell me.
“You remember when we were in the Dominican Republic a few months back? October I think?”
I shrug. “Vaguely. Yeah.”
“Do you remember the night we went to El Loco and got hammered? You had just closed some big deal and we were celebrating.”
I quickly search my memory and come up blank. “No,” I say.
“Well, I remember enough to know that you were giving drunken investment advice to some powerful Dominican businessmen we were hanging out with. You told them to ‘put it all on oil’ or some shit.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, starting to piece together the problem.
“Turns out they were dumb enough to take your advice. The guys were basically just mafioso with dirty money and they knew nothing about investing. They thought you were giving them insider information and they bet tens of millions on your advice.”
I blow out a long breath, leaning against the railing. “Then they lost tens of millions,” I say.
“Yeah.”
I scratch at the stubble on my chin, feeling a bad taste rise in my mouth. “Well, what do they expect me to do, write them a check? Fuck them. It’s not my problem if they were dumb enough to take my drunken advice.”