Then he turned, as if he felt the weight of my stare. Our eyes locked for a brief second before I hastily lowered my gaze.
Everything spun. The room was hazy. My heart beat in a staccato rhythm, hard and fast, as I struggled to process the fact that the man who had provided me with my first and only pleasurable sexual encounter was here at Madame Lorraine’s in order to purchase a slave.
There were no coincidences. There were never any coincidences. Two years ago, I’d run into a bar and I’d sat next to Marc. We’d fallen into conversation and then into his bed. But he was here in Bangkok, at this exclusive auction that only the wealthiest men and women in the world attended. Suddenly, Marc last-name-unknown was a player in this game and I needed to understand where and how he fit into the whole story.
But while my mind raced, my body reacted to his presence. My nipples hardened and my * grew damp. Sparkles of remembered pleasure ran through my body, like the memory of fireworks on a starry summer night.
He had been the only man I had truly wanted. The only man who had made me feel cherished and desired. But his presence here told me that everything I had felt had been based on a lie.
I surreptitiously wiped my palms against the gown, wishing once again for the cold security of my Bowie knife.
Had he recognized me? If he had, my cover was blown sky-high. But I doubted it. There hadn’t been any sign of awareness in his brief glance. That night, two years ago, my hair had been red and curly and my body had been curvier. Now I was a skinny brunette with pin-straight hair. I didn’t even recognize myself in the mirror.
It had been just one night a long time ago. There had undoubtedly been many women in his bed since our Parisian interlude. No. I was confident he didn’t recognize me. Why would he? We had just been two ships that passed in the night.
He’s not important. You are just feeling peculiar because he was the first man you gave yourself to willingly, I told myself firmly. But the twinge in my heart told me I was lying.
***
“Hello,” his voice spoke. My body remembered those whiskey-smooth tones. Underneath my thin robe, my nipples engorged painfully. A heavy ache pooled in my *. Goose bumps covered my skin and I shivered slightly, unable to forget how good this man had made me feel.
Act. Act now. You’ve never met him before. Your name is Jenny Fullerton. Your twin-sister is dying of leukemia, and you are here to sell yourself so you can save her life. Act.
“Hello Sir,” I replied, my eyes fixed on the floor. My voice came out shaky and breathy. Though I hated how vulnerable I sounded, I was also grateful. I sounded nothing like the way I’d sounded in Paris that night.
He didn’t demand that I make eye-contact, the way Anton had. He took a seat in front of me and leaned back on the couch. “Jenny, right?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Tell me about yourself, Jenny.”
Fuck. Open-ended questions. I hated those. “What would you like to know, Sir?” I asked.
“I’d like to know everything,” he replied. There was a trace of dark heat in his voice. Once again, I was almost overwhelmed by memories of him touching me and whispering words of passion in my ear. His body poised over mine as he brought me to repeated pleasure. His fingers, which had danced surely over my skin, until every bit of me was filled with a trembling need that I’d never before experienced. “Where you are from, Jenny?”
Lucien and I had decided to keep most of my backstory close to the truth. “Cleveland, Sir,” I responded.
“And Lori tells me it’s your first time outside the States,” he smiled. I sneaked a peek at him from beneath my lashes. He was so good-looking, Marc. I’d forgotten how absolutely beautiful this man was.
He’s in Bangkok. He’s at Madame Lorraine’s. You know nothing about this man.
“It is, Sir.”
“Alexander,” a voice purred, and I stiffened, every inch of my body recoiling in horror as two realizations swept over me like a tidal wave.
One, the man in front of me, the man who had given me my most cherished sexual memory, was Alexander Hamilton. The man who we suspected of being Dylan McAllister’s money manager. The man who most likely managed the finances of many men in the tightly controlled and vastly profitable industry of human trafficking.
Two, the woman who had purred his name was Sylvia. The same tall, blond, Swiss woman who had been at Dylan’s estate six years ago, who had goaded Dylan until his anger had broken in an icy wave over me and who had watched my subsequent, bloody caning with lust-filled eyes.
I should have been busy making myself irresistible so that this man would bid on me. Our entire plan to infiltrate Dylan’s Hanoi estate depended on it. But all I could feel was shock. It took all of the painful training I’d received at Dylan’s hands to force myself to remain still.
Chapter 8
Ellie / Jenny: