Page 65

She spat blood onto the carpet. “I’m not wearing that shit.”

The guards looked at each other, then one shrugged. “We can strip you and put it on you ourselves. Your call. The boss said dinner. Didn’t say you had to be conscious to eat it.”

She glared at them, her jaw throbbing. She was outnumbered and they were both armed. She could take one, maybe, if she got lucky.

The problem was ‘lucky’ had fucked off ages ago.

“Fine,” she said, pushing to her feet and heading for the bathroom.

“Door stays open,” one of them called.

“Yeah, yeah. Perverts.”

The bathroom was all white tile and expensive-looking fixtures. She went in, leaving the door cracked wide, then crouched beside the toilet where the wall blocked the guards’ view. Holding the ridiculous dress tight against her chest, she started stripping out of her coveralls and yanked it on.

It stuck to her skin in all the wrong places. Too tight across her chest, too loose at the waist, slit clear up one thigh. She kept her boots on. They hadn’t told her to remove them, and she wasn’t walking around this bloody place in bare feet.

One of the guards laughed when she came out. “Pretty.”

“Fuck off and die,” she snarled, trying to back away as he approached.

“Now, now, play nice,” he said as he grabbed her elbow and shoved her toward the door. “And maybe you’ll make it to dinner without any new bruises.”

It didn’t take them long to reach Joe’s suite and she gaped as she was pushed through the door. It looked like someone had crapped gold in here.

At least her room had looked almost tasteful if you squinted and looked sideways. This did not. It was an all-out assault good taste. Gold-edged furniture and thick red rugs. There was a huge painting of some naked woman draped over a rock while three moons hung behind her. Sculptures sat on plinths around the walls too. Twisted metal things that looked suspiciously like somebody had melted engine parts, spray-painted them gold, and then charged rich idiots a fortune for them.

Joe sat at the long dining table in a dark shirt, working his way through a plate of roasted meat and vegetables. A bottle of amber liquor stood beside his glass.

The place setting next to him held an empty plate and an empty glass.

Well. That was subtle.

“Sit,” Joe said, motioning to the seat.

She sat because the guard’s hand was already pressing down on her shoulder. The chair was soft and expensive. Comfortable. She didn’t want it to be comfortable, but her body relaxed a little anyway, grabbing onto whatever comfort it could while it could.

Joe cut another piece of meat, chewed it slowly, then looked at her. “So. Maxim Martel.”

She shrugged. “What about him?

Joe looked at her over the rim of his glass. Her stomach rumbled at the rich smell of the food. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. “Why would he want to buy you? At a markup, I might add.”

She gave him a blank stare back. “No idea.”

“So you don’t know him?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t know him.”

“No? You sure?”

“Absolutely.” Blythe folded her hands in her lap, keeping them still by force. “I’ve heard of him. Everyone’s heard of him. That’s all.”

Joe drank, studying her over the rim of his glass. “Your fiancé sold you.”

“Apparently.”

“And you never asked why?”